PART 2 OF . . . 2?

No Tambourines in the Building

The Beatles on Saturday Night Live

Part One. In case you’re the chronological sort.

Not me though. (Drawn by ChatGPT)

You can get away anything when your name is John, Paul, George, or Ringo. It’s a free pass for monkey business, carte blanche for the mischief that incarcerates a Willie or a Carlos.

If a Carlos had waltzed into Rockefeller Center, demanding to be put on television, the safety patrol would use his head to test the emergency exits. But when you’re a Paul and a John, that same safety patrol takes your hat and holds the lift. They even put up with your considerably less than famous friend, so long as he’s the sort of nobody that won’t step on a somebody’s toes.

“My foot!” That was the first scream we heard when the lift opened into Studio 8H. It wasn’t my fault, thank God. It was Paul who tripped over Raquel Welch; stepped straight off the lift onto the prettiest ankle in all of Hollywood. Nearly twisted it into two pieces.

While Raquel was howling away, I started to feel the floor rumble. I turn about and see this monster in a leopard print dress galloping down the hall. It was as if a helicopter had plucked an ogress from the Amazon and dropped her down in the middle of Manhattan. She was Raquel’s assistant Yara — imagine Wonder…