Okay—how to say this: I've been advised by counsel to avoid going any further into the specifics of my English holiday. Thus spake Zarathustra, I guess. To those of you who were hanging on tenterhooks for the rest of it, mea culpa. I apologize. I guess I should have packed it all into the previous post anyway . (See the pitfalls of brevity, short-post people?) I bow to a greater power.

I don't think anything rules out a picture, however. Worth a thousand words, y'know. Patsy on the left, Eddie on the right. Go wild.

I'm ba-a-aack from a sudden & spontaneous winter vacation. Yes, the cliche envelope arrived (purple, scented) from London—a kind of fan note inside—exhortations from two mysterious "devotees of the Clover Way." Inside was a roundtrip plane ticket. I was to meet them at Heathrow, the note said, and be prepared to whizz off in a limo (honk-honk) to "a bloody castle" somewhere in Cornwall. The way I read it, there was an implicit dare attached to the invitation: how cool are you, Baba? Still cool enough to take a dive into the unknown? Prove it!

I was on the plane in a shot.

And yes, was met by two flamboyantly attractive English ladies, Edina (or "Eddie"), a publicist, kind of plump and flighty and narcissistic, and her statuesque friend Patsy, a stunningly bloodthirsty blonde of a certain age (she'd have scared me to death, thirty years ago, but nothing female scares me now).

A third gal piled into the limo for the ride, vaguely familiar looking, methought. To my amazement, she turned out to be none other than Marianne Faithfull, a woman whom I once adored, lusted after, pined for (all this as a mere fan)—a woman who gave me the thrill of my life by ringing up (in her cups) desperate to "make history" by opening the Festival on Friday night. I had to tell her we'd already committed to The Grateful Dead, which mortally offended her, I fear. Never heard from her again.

So I must say, it was a VERY interesting several days, as you can well imagine. I never saw Eddie and Patsy's TV show, "Absolutely Fabulous," (aka "Ab-Fab") but I gather these women are famous in the U.K. They all (even Marianne) seem to be seeking some kind of spiritual peace, and apparently one of them recalled me fondly as a '60s icon. Yes, I suppose I was—to some, Baba Ray was and is holy ground. In any case, it would take the gifts of a novelist, which I do not have, to convey even the smallest fraction of the steeplchase these outrageous girls put this old man through "on holiday" at the bloody castle. Heaven and hell!

However, I'll try--

But not now. Learned my lesson about "long posts," friends—this one's too long already, isn't it? So nya-nya-nya, you're just going to have to wait for the next installment . For now—just sod off, as they say over there.

But hey, watch this spot. . . .

You won't be sorry.

As my Buddhist friends say, we must rid ourselves of attachments.

I've been trying to unstick my attachments for thirty years—so, like, why didn't I know better than to be EMAILING the tricky little buggers?

But what's done is done, and can only be, uh, redone. So. Let's ba-a-a-ack it up . . . .


There. Redone! Happy New Year to all of you.