29 years later and it's still news.
Next year is Lennon's 70th birthday. Well, we know what his old compatriots are up to these days--Mick is still preening on stage like a scrawny banty rooster, and Dylan's doing a demented Santa. (Paul and Ringo are off limits today.)
Pete Hamill, in his long article published in New York Magazine just weeks after Lennon's death, writes that Lennon imagined himself at 60 writing children's books. (Of course, he'd already written several books by the time he was 30.)
And, of course, if he'd lived on and was still walking the streets of New York today, there would be some snarking at his efforts. We are deprived of that privilege.