Seeking wisdom from Yoko? Really?

I’ve for better than three months been engaged in a tawdry process that always leaves me feeling small. Yet its pull is irresistible.

Yes, I’m trying to goad Yoko into saying something stupid.

This goes contrary to my every instinct to help and encourage people who are helping and encouraging people.

That’s what Yoko does. In fact, that’s all she does. One of the richest women in the world, she sits in her lavish Manhattan condo and issues ethereal pronouncements that would be New Agey if they hadn’t predated New Age by four decades.

Example: “You are water. I am water. We’re all water in different containers. That’s why it’s so easy to meet. Someday we’ll all evaporate together.”

Or, “You can assemble a painting with a person in the North Pole over the phone, like playing chess.”

It’s the kind of thing that inspired people to say WTF before anyone understood what WTF meant.

I became aware of this about four months ago when I wrote this post about the legacies of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, with me coming down firmly on Paul’s side.

I used as part of my argument that Paul was superior simply because he didn’t marry Yoko. In fact, like the rest of the world he disdained her. Disdained her art, her poetry, her unlistenable music and the fact that she’s based her entire life on being a martyred widow.

I’ve never had the visceral hatred for Yoko, 79, that others have. I had a friend when I lived in Nashville who hated her the way Rick Santorum hates things like condoms.

I asked him how he could hate someone so non-violent.

“Non-violent? She murdered The Beatles,” he countered.

He started a list the night Lennon was shot and called it, “People they should have shot instead of John Lennon.”

Through the years the list got sillier and sillier and included people no one would have dreamed of shooting like the guy who invented New Coke and a kicker for the Detroit Lions whose feckless right foot cost him a small fortune in wagers.

At the very top of the list was Yoko.

I abhor violence and the promotion of it, but remain friends with that guy because he’s just an awful lot of fun. And the historical what-if of my friend’s list does tantalize.

My fanciful speculation was John would have run straight into the arms of Adrienne Barbeau, The Beatles would have reunited and the scourge of hip hop would have been postponed for 20 years.

Still, I wouldn’t have engaged in my bitter little battle had I not begun plumbing the social media and discovered Yoko has more than 2 million followers on Facebook and Twitter.

Two million! It’s astounding.

Apparently, she’s becoming the Dr. Phil for balloon-headed whack jobs.

They seek her wisdoms and approval every Friday when she solicits questions that read like they could have come straight from the crayon-scrawled walls of the insane asylum.

Here are two examples:

Q: “What is the answer to this question I have asked myself daily: ‘Am I here?’”

Yoko: All of us are here as long as we can question it.

Q: “What do you do when you feel so sad that you just can’t stop tearing?”

Yoko: Tearing is an excellent way of bringing balance and health to your mind and body. Keep tearing!

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was restricted to that sort of silly hippie fluff. But, no, she gives serious advice on things like job searches, marital disputes and health. She advised a woman wrestling with anorexia to take up jogging.

It seemed so ripe for ridicule I felt compelled to engage. I began submitting questions to #askyokoQandA in the hopes she’ll respond and I can expose the fraud.

I submitted, among others, the following:

• “How can I learn to use air as my security blanket?”

• “Will heaven have vending machines and if, yes, what will they dispense?”

• And, “If our bodies are indeed temples, then how come everything that comes out of them is so disgusting?”

Now far be it for me, a rarely-sober slouch who resides in a make-believe world of blogger irrelevance, to admonish anyone about offering free advice to distressed strangers but it just galls me.

Yet, I can’t help myself. And with each petty tweet I feel myself increasingly diminished.

I’m adding soulless negativity to a woman whose very website, www.imaginepeace.com, conveys so much of what I believe.

Are my own personal and professional failings karmic comeuppance for my mean-spirited goading? Rather than taunt, should I embrace the wisdoms of Yoko for spiritual fulfillment?

And what about those heavenly vending machines? Do they require exact change?

Only Yoko knows.

Super Bowl recap

I woke up this morning feeling like I let Gisele down. I should have prayed harder for Tommi.

• My last sentence for my Saturday post was, “My prediction: Giants 27, Patriots 17. Wake me when it’s over.” What was I thinking? I guess I was fearful the game would be an overblown bore. Wrong. It was a classic.

• My score prediction, however, was closer than many of the best experts and only six points from perfection. Lot of good it did me. I haven’t made a wager in years. Not because I lack the nerve. Freelance writing for a living is a higher stakes gamble than any game of chance.

• The ads for movies next year promise another year of blockbusters stinkers. Special effects haven’t been special since “Jurassic Park.” The new Sacha Baron Cohen movie “The Dictator” looked funny.

• I would have loved a few more plays of watching the Giants try not to score. Why didn’t they just play stall ball? Manning could have taken the snap and just stood there for at least 10 seconds until the Pats had to act. Or he could have just run in reverse. It happens during hockey penalty kills all the time. I used to excel at the maneuver myself when I was an outstanding amateur hockey player. And it’s indicative of my humility that I don’t write about those days more often.

• Seeing Madonna performing with a microphone had me wondering about nipples. Not hers. Mine. Mine are about as unnecessary as her microphone. Why the charade? I was disappointed we didn’t see any nipples, but M.I.A. showed us her finger. I’m all for anything that’ll infuriate the family values crowd, but this was just lame. Of course, before I had no idea of her existence and now I'll never forget her and I guess that was the point.

• I was at a pre-concert press conference with Garth Brooks about 10 years ago. It was just after Madonna had released her dirty book, "Sex," with all those naked pictures of herself and various animals and, I think, Vanilla Ice. I asked with a straight-face if, given the ardent reaction of his female fans, if Brooks had ever considered doing a book like hers. I caught him mid-drink and so off guard he almost shot Pepsi through his nostrils. Had he, it would have been a high-light of my career.

• In four months, Boston fans have suffered two of the most crushing defeats I can recall. The Red Sox blew a 9 game lead with just three weeks left in the season and were knocked out in the last inning of the last game. Coupled with yesterday’s loss, the pall over New England must be impenetrable. I wish I could be there to rub it in. No region raced from lovable losers to obnoxious winners more quickly than New England. Plus, their baseball championships are tainted with performance enhancers, their football with Bill Belichick’s Spygate. Read Ed Bouchette’s great article in Sunday’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The scandal was worse than you thought.

• I thought most of the ads were great. I liked the Rocky-theme one, but wish for jingoistic reasons it had featured an American car company, rather than Hyundai. I liked the Elton John Pepsi one (I sense he enjoys playing dress-up), the Bud Light one about the dog named Weego, and the cat-killing dog. The Seinfeld commercial for Acura was decent, but will get worse and more boring with each viewing.

• Madonna didn’t do anything to disgrace herself -- well, no more than she’s done for the past 25 years. But I kept wondering why the NFL thinks its fans want to watch this kind of circus. In fact, I’d prefer the circus, i.e. Ringling Bros. The only part I enjoyed was the acrobat on the slack line. I’d like next year to see them bring the cat trainer I saw during Mallory Point sunset festivities at Key West.

• I loved the Clint Eastwood commercial celebrating Detroit’s resurgence -- thanks President Obama! I guess it was supposed to remind us of Eastwood’s iconic role in “Gran Torino.” Worked with me. I’d love a half-time show that featured just 30 minutes of clips of Eastwood in “The Outlaw Josie Wales,” “The Good, The Bad & The Ugly,” “In The Line of Fire,” etc.

• Four months ago Giant fans were calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities of Eli Manning. Eight months from today, bet on it, Giant fans will be calling for the firing of coach Tom Coughlin and questioning the leadership abilities Eli Manning. It’s because 20 percent of the American public are absolute idiots and 80 percent of them are rabid NFL fans.

• Another prediction of mine coming to pass: I said Gisele Bundchen was bound to become the Yoko Ono of the Patriots. It’s all over the news that she’s blaming Tommi’s teammates for the loss.

• Just 15 days until pitchers and catchers report!

Lennon vs. McCartney

People are so eager to argue these days it’s easy to find disharmony in topics renown for harmoniousness.

Like The Beatles.

Because of their partnership, their break-up and ensuing rivalry ending in tragedy, it’s impossible for some to discuss John Lennon and Paul McCartney without choosing sides.

I was recently between two Lennon fanatics who were trying to goad me into saying Lennon is superior.

Alas, even when it contributes to more shrill disharmony, I cannot tell a lie.

Wrong, I said. The people have spoken and they prefer Paul. If you constructed a mighty Beatles jukebox and gave everyone a dollar to pick two, the world would be dancing to all Paul’s tunes.

“Hey Jude,” “Let It Be,” “Yesterday,” “Penny Lane,” and “Eleanor Rigby,” are songs our descendants will still be enjoying 500 years from now.

Lennon songs (“I Am The Walrus,” “Strawberry Fields,” “Come Together”) great as they are don’t deliver the same melodic satisfaction.

These facts infuriate Lennon fans and turn them into Jam Band Guy.

Jam Band Guy thinks music needs to be complicated.

Jam Band Guy tells you you’re simpleminded for enjoying what gets your toes tapping. Jam Band Guy wants to torture people into listening to a 13 minute 29 second Phish song called “Time Turns Elastic,” never realizing most of us would rather spend the time hearing Tom Petty sing “American Girl” four times.

I resent such snobbiness so I decided to unleash the neutron bomb of the Lennon/McCartney argument.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, if your boy Lennon’s such a genius, then explain Yoko Ono.”

The name is a conversational stink bomb.

I’m not saying she’s the most evil woman in history. She’s never killed anybody (although she did kill The Beatles).

Her artistic contributions have inspired more people to say “WTF?” than anyone in recorded history. Her music is what Jam Band Guy would call “complicated.” It is unlistenable.

Her public pronouncements are routinely bizarre. Read just three of her recent tweets:

“If any of the streets need cleaning in your hometown, clean them in your mind.”

“Draw a window on the wall to remind you of the moonlight that soaks the walls while you are asleep.”

“A memory is a shadow of the past. Drink a glass of water to be back in the present.”

I mean, WTF?

And this is the woman to whom the genius Lennon devoted his life?

WTF!

Yet, here we are almost 31 years after his death and we’re still saddled with her channeling his spirit, divining his intentions and carping with McCartney over whose is the more deserving legacy.

I can’t enjoy much of Lennon’s post-Beatles work because it makes me think of Yoko. The song, “Woman,” is lovely, but whenever I hear it I see him in my mind singing it to her and, yeah, they’re both naked, and it’s ruined.

And she unwittingly conceded the whole tawdry argument in 2005 when she told a panel of music journalists that John used to lay awake at night and ask her, “You know they always cover Paul’s songs and never mine, and I don’t know why.”

“You’re a good songwriter,” she says she told him. “It’s not just ‘June and spoon’ that you write.”

Jam Band Guy strikes in the Ono memory bed.

In fact, the last song Lennon ever performed publicly was a cover of Paul’s “I Saw Her Standing There,” with Elton John in 1974.

It dismays me to have to disparage a man I really admire and love for all he did and all he represents.

It’s just more bitter residue from how it all so sadly ended.

Stephen King has a new book out about a time traveler who goes into the past to try and prevent the Kennedy assassination.

If I had access to the machine, I’d go back to outside The Dakota on December 8, 1980. I’d time my intervention so Lennon would see my heroics.

He’d owe me.

I’d use my new found celebrity to leverage dates with early ‘80s anti-Onos like Suzanne Somers and Adrienne Barbeau.

I’d work to re-construct a future John without Yoko.

Think of the catharsis if Lennon had lived and went on to divorce Yoko, date comely bimbos and felt free to admit that, yeah, once in a while he caught himself singing, “Ob-La-Di! Ob-La-Da!”

Think of reconciliations and an end to arguments about who’s better.

Imagine.