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.