Yawn. Where am I. . . ?
All signs point to Mt. Auburn Street, where I've apparently been sitting in the high-rise, crosslegged, digging multiple sunsets from the aerie for. . . how many days?
(I. . . Me. . . Now. . . I. . . Me. . . Now. . . . )
Anyway, I'm ba-a-a-a-a-ack!
And tired. too. Paunch returning. Really, I should take up jogging again, become an aerobics champ like James Taylor wanted me to be. In the meantime, I think I'll spend this week among the humanoids of Harvard Square, describing what being a new human is all about.
Sunday
An intriquing proposal came into the office today, a personal note from the Govenor of Montserrat. They want to put my likeness on an official postage stamp. An expensive one, too--the $1.15 biggie. I shouldn't let myself be flattered; it's just marketing, just a ploy to harness my 60s notoriety to sell stamps to baby boomer collectors. But I'll be in good company. Jerry is on not one but several Montserrat stamps. Bob Marley, too.
Actually, the stamp should commemorate Applestock (duh!). But who am I to gum up the works? I 'm sending a picture. . . .
Actually, the stamp should commemorate Applestock (duh!). But who am I to gum up the works? I 'm sending a picture. . . .
Monday
Ever since Conan O'Brien gave out my personal email address on the air (oh, why not--it's BabaRay@excite.com) I've heard from whole new categories of people. First, there are the girls, mere teenagers, who send me very interesting graphic files of themselves. This is inexplicable. Do they realize I am 62? This is not the 28-year-old spirit of Applestock anymore. Maybe it's because Conan went to such great lengths to position me with his viewers as "hip," a walking chunk of sixties history on a par with Leary, Ram Dass, Ken Kesey, Jerry Garcia. Why? Baba I may be, but I never led a movement. I never wrote an anthem for a generation. Looking at it from Conan's point of view, I suppose he thought he needed "alternative" given his demographics-- He, of course, because he's so young, missed out on the meat and pith of Applestock in 1966. Bless him, he has no earthly idea how deliciously alternative it all was. . . . Well, anyway, he's tall, did you know that? Conan Obrien is 6 feet 4!
The other email I'm getting is, sadly, from humanoids. Humanoids are minor league humans. They can play, but they can't hit very hard or throw very fast, and that's why they are stuck down there in the existential minors. Humanoids claim to be sincere seekers of enlightenment, but what they are really seeking is today's TV schedule. If you're a humanoid you might burn and yearn and churn ("Cold feet about the cosmos?" says the old jingle, "Can't face the flux?") but you'll never find solace because your references are all TV-bound and there are no answers on TV.
Oh, well, anything good on tonight? Don't get me started.
The other email I'm getting is, sadly, from humanoids. Humanoids are minor league humans. They can play, but they can't hit very hard or throw very fast, and that's why they are stuck down there in the existential minors. Humanoids claim to be sincere seekers of enlightenment, but what they are really seeking is today's TV schedule. If you're a humanoid you might burn and yearn and churn ("Cold feet about the cosmos?" says the old jingle, "Can't face the flux?") but you'll never find solace because your references are all TV-bound and there are no answers on TV.
Oh, well, anything good on tonight? Don't get me started.
Sunday
Baba Ray Speaks. . . .
Ain't technology grand? Yes, being a 60s kind of guy, I resisted it at first, I admit. Yes, I clung to all those defensive Luddite notions of the superiority of the lead pencil and the IBM Selectric. But to hell with that. Once I realized what I really wanted--needed--HAD TO HAVE--was A WEB SITE, the walls came a-tumbling down. So: here we go. My soon-to-be pride & joy, ApplestockNation.com isn't quite up yet, but. . . stay tuned. When it goes live, it's going to be spectacular, and a powerful reminder of something the world has nearly forgotten: that the very first festival of rock 'n' roll was NOT Monterey Pop or Woodstock. . . but Applestock '66, and we should damn well know it and not forget it.
Not that I sit around all day thinking about Applestock. There's plenty else to occupy what remains of my mind. And anyway, I don't have to: there is a book now that promises to chronicle the whole thing. I say "promises"--actually, I shouldn't pretend that I haven't read it; I have, in manuscript. Author William McCranor Henderson has done the job. I can't really say that I come off looking all that good much of the time. No one can ever accuse me of commissioning a puff job. But it gets my blessing because it's basically honest, and vastly informative about what happened in Applestock, Maine, in 1966. Culturati take note: this is the one big story from the Sixties that has never been told before. Stand by. . . .
Ain't technology grand? Yes, being a 60s kind of guy, I resisted it at first, I admit. Yes, I clung to all those defensive Luddite notions of the superiority of the lead pencil and the IBM Selectric. But to hell with that. Once I realized what I really wanted--needed--HAD TO HAVE--was A WEB SITE, the walls came a-tumbling down. So: here we go. My soon-to-be pride & joy, ApplestockNation.com isn't quite up yet, but. . . stay tuned. When it goes live, it's going to be spectacular, and a powerful reminder of something the world has nearly forgotten: that the very first festival of rock 'n' roll was NOT Monterey Pop or Woodstock. . . but Applestock '66, and we should damn well know it and not forget it.
Not that I sit around all day thinking about Applestock. There's plenty else to occupy what remains of my mind. And anyway, I don't have to: there is a book now that promises to chronicle the whole thing. I say "promises"--actually, I shouldn't pretend that I haven't read it; I have, in manuscript. Author William McCranor Henderson has done the job. I can't really say that I come off looking all that good much of the time. No one can ever accuse me of commissioning a puff job. But it gets my blessing because it's basically honest, and vastly informative about what happened in Applestock, Maine, in 1966. Culturati take note: this is the one big story from the Sixties that has never been told before. Stand by. . . .
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