Tuesday, April 4, 2017


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?

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