9354. DINNER WITH GEORGE

DINNER WITH GEORGE

I had dinner one night with one of

the Beatles. A gravy-train guy, the

one named George. He was OK, he 

knew a friend of a friend, he was 

slumming New York, living for the

end of those old hippy days wherein

he made all his loot. Pretty ordinary 

fellow, ate like a mouse, talked a

lot though. I didn't say much, just

listened and watched. And wondered.

'Baby you're a rich man,'  -  one of 

their songs  -  kept pounding through 

my head. I thought it was kind of smug 

and I hoped he'd pay. Someone did, I 

guess. I know it wasn't me. We all got 

up and left, people rolling over like 

he was a living God. He had this whole

spiritual thing he played off anyway; it

wasn't anything special, guru this and

guru that. It wasn't him at all, but who

cared. Mr. Episcopalian would have

made more sense. We walked then, 

Barrow Street, St. Luke's Place. Nice.

But what do you say, what do you do?

I was like twelve, to his twenty-two.

Well, at least it felt like that. None of

my stories made their way through.
Have you ever had that same
crowded feeling?