I'm going to tell you about a dream i had last night, but don't worry, it’s not the kind of telling where you nod in fake interest but inside your head you're stabbing your eyes out with a virtual fork, a dull one. The actual story of the dream is only incidental. I was bustling about my typical dream-y business, engaged in some mildly boring but distressing activity, pretty much the same as my waking life, which my subconscious apparently felt I hadn’t gotten enough of, when who should make a Special Guest Appearance but Sir Paul McCartney! And I say it that way because he was actually greeted with applause from the audience (there was suddenly an audience!) which he graciously acknowledged. Then he offered me a bit of advice which, sadly, I don't remember in detail--it was something along the lines of “why don’t you put on some pants?”-- and although it sounded kind of condescending, I said, "thank you, Paul McCartney!" to which he murmured "Don’t call me by my full name; it isn't done." That's what he said, "it isn't done." And that was it. My dream sort of fizzled after that, because how do you follow a walk-on appearance by a Beatle?
The irony is that Paul was my least favorite Beatle, by a mile. I always thought of him as simpering, and too eager to moon at the camera. I even preferred Ringo, especially after I later learned that he was a fantastic drummer, and he wasn't just hired because they felt sorry for him. I know I couldn’t have booked John, I’m not at that level, and I should be grateful it wasn’t, say, Stephen Tyler or Michael Martin Murphy, but couldn’t it have been Ringo? I should have confronted Paul about “The Long and Winding Road” or “Rocky Raccoon”, but I didn’t think fast enough. After all, I was SOUND ASLEEP, people! Jeez.