I remember reading somewhere or other that Paul McCartney never attended a Beatles concert. For that matter, neither did John Lennon, George Harrison, or Richard Starkey (aka you know who). It's impossible for us, you see, because we're the performers. Even if we watch the show on the telly or something, we can never experience the experience of experiencing a live Beatles concert. Boggles the mind, doesn't it?

So, I started wondering one day whether there was something I could do to personally experience the Beatle experience. I began by asking my family. They told me that I needed a holiday.

Didn't give up. I phoned Ringo. He told me to check the stuff that's growing in my garden - maybe it had weird side effects. Sir Paul suggested that I forget about Beatles and try to write an opera or something. Not exactly my style. Not exactly his style either, but he didn't ask my opinion. I even called Yoko. I figured that with all her cosmic awareness and everything, she ought to have some answers. She put me on hold for twenty minutes, then told me to breathe, and then she put me on hold again. Don't know why she needed to do that for a transatlantic telephone call. She must have sold a cow to the phone company or something.

Well unfortunately, this thing became an out and out obsession. I lost my focus and I couldn't meditate any more. For that matter, I stopped listening to music, gave up on the gardening, and even stopped tinkering with me motor cars.

In desperation, I rang up George Martin. He didn't seem too pleased to hear from me. "Really, Harrison, do you have to call me with all this at two o'clock in the morning? Anyway, I've got my own issues to think about. I'm heading to America tomorrow to speak at Beatlecon."

"Beatle what?"

"Beatlecon. It's where Beatle fans converge for three days to relive the Beatle experience."

Well, that did it. Woke up the wife and told her I was going to Beatlecon.

"You're certainly going somewhere," she agreed.

"Are you coming with me?"

"Ring me when you get there. And don't even think about asking your son to go along."

Don't know why the wife is being so funny about this. She knows how important it is to me. It's not fair you know, being the only person in the world who hasn't experienced the Beatles. Not counting the other three lads, of course.

So, I packed my bags and headed to America. Somewhere in New York City, I imagine. I don't know, when you've traveled the world as many times as I have, everything looks alike, especially the hotels and convention centers. It's a good thing I've got people who can make all the transport and hotel arrangements for me. I checked in under my own name, and the clerk didn't even blink. I can see why Lennon found New York appealing.

I thought about putting on a disguise, until I saw this Star Trek officer waiting by the lift. Figured if he could go as he pleased, so could I. "Where are you off to, then?" I asked him as we both stepped into the lift.

"Beatlecon."

"Beatlecon? I thought that was only for Beatle people."

"What planet are you from?" he asked me. "And while we're at it, why are you wearing a white, button-down shirt? Since when does George Harrison dress so average?"

Needless to say, I was a little put off by the conversation with this alien being. As the doors opened, I said, "I may not win the best-dressed award, but at least I've got both my ears on straight."

He grabbed his head and fell back into the lift. I headed off in search of a Beatle adventure.

Got stopped at the front entrance. "That will be forty dollars please."

"Forty dollars?" I asked the woman at the door. "You mean I have to pay to get into this thing?"

"Forty dollars for the whole shebang. Otherwise it's twenty dollars a day."

"And then I step inside and spend more money on other stuff, right?"

"Hey, that's great!" she smiled. "You're giving me the 'George is cheap' routine from Help, right?"

"No, I'm giving you the 'George needs help because he's feeling cheapened' routine. Forty dollars you say? Well, I suppose this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me."

"Really? I never would have guessed. You look like you've been George before." Then she eyed me up and down. "Well, maybe you would want to wear a more colorful shirt. And I'm not so sure about the sneakers."

"They're brand new," I protested.

"They're too white. Try dying them orange."

"Right. I'll remember that next time."

"Here's your ticket and a map of the con. You really ought to go sign up at booth number nine."

"Number nine?"

"Number nine. That's where they have the Beatles look alike contest."

"Look, I don't mean to be cheeky, but..."

"Don't laugh, I'm serious. I've seen at least twelve other Georges this morning, and you're easily the best."

"I'm the best?"

"Really, you shouldn't laugh. If you change your clothes, I'd bet you'd win the grand prize."

I winked at her. "Is the grand prize forty dollars?"

"You really are good, you know that? Personality counts in the contest, too."

"Okay. Well, thanks for the input."

"Good luck."

"You too. You going to get dressed as anybody?"

She frowned at me. "Come on. Isn't it obvious? I'm Yoko Ono."

Now I looked her up and down. "Well, the hot pants work, but I don't know about the blond hair and the round eyes."

"She could dye her hair if she wanted to. And surgery's always an option for her."

"Yeah, good point. Well, good luck to you."

"You too."

I don't know, I'm starting to have my doubts about Beatlecon, and I've barely made it through the front door.

"Hey, Hari, how are you, my man?"

"I can't believe it's you!" I shrieked. "How've ya been, you look great!"

"Get a grip, George! I screamed at myself. "This guy isn't Lennon!"

"You're looking good yourself," he beamed. "Have you met my girlfriend?"

"No, can't say that I have."

Well, out steps this really tall chick. She's dressed in leather straps and she's carrying a sword that's bigger than me favorite Rickenbacker. Says her name is Warrior Princess, or something like that.

I pointed to her sword. "They let you take that on an airplane?"

"Drove here all the way from Miami."

"Good thinking. Look, I'm rather new at this. Could you tell me what a Warrior Princess has to do with the Beatles?"

Didn't much like the way she kept fidgeting with that sword.

"I can't believe that George would ask such a narrow-minded and prejudicial question."

"Sorry about that. Let me put it another way. I have to go now."

And with that, I fled to the opposite end of the room. Found myself face to face with booth number nine. Stood in queue between one Ringo and two other Georges.

"Georges are more popular than Paul this year," the sign-up lady told me.

"I'm glad to hear that. How does this contest thing work, anyway?"

"It's easy. You just sign up with me, and I give you a nametag. Judges will be walking around all day long and making notes. The judges are in disguise, so you have to be careful what you say to people. Remember, personality counts as much as looks."

She eyed me up and down. "Your looks are good, but you need to gain a little weight."

"How do you recommend I do that in the next eight hours?"

"Sorry, can't give you any hints. They'll call all the winners at midnight tonight."

"All the winners?"

"Well, yes. We've got Beatle categories, Beatle women categories, Beatle family member categories, and characters from Beatle songs categories."

"How about Warrior Princess categories?"

She made a face at me. "Look," she whispered, "don't be making silly comments like that or you could lose points."

"Sorry," I whispered back.

"Okay," she said aloud. "Now I need to know your name."

"George Harrison."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Everybody is George Harrison. What's your real name?"

The words "Eric Clapton," flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. Stupid stupid stupid George!!!! God bless New York, the sign-up lady didn't miss a beat.

"Okay, Eric. Stick this tag on your chest and good luck to you."

"Ta."

I stepped to the side and took a look at the tag. "Hello, my name is George Harrison. My alias is Eric Clapton. George Look Alike Contestant #18."

Oh Livvy, I'm so glad you didn't come. And with that, I slapped the stupid thing on my chest.

At that point, some fellow over the loud speaker started calling everybody to the Beatle auction. I followed the crowd to a room that already overflowed with people. No more seats, so I opted to stand in the back between "Paul McCartney, alias John Lemon, if you can believe it, and...

"Pattie Harrison!" I exclaimed.

"Ooooo, hi George. Are we supposed to be talking or hating each other?"

"I think it's okay to talk."

"You make a very nice George," she said.

"Thanks. You look nice yourself."

She blushed a real deep red. Didn't have the heart to tell her that she looked more like Cynthia than Pattie.

"Ooooh, look. Beatle jeans."

"Lot number one," said the auctioneer. George Harrison's jeans."

"Hey!" I shouted. "HEY! Those were stolen from me last year!!!!"

Stupid stupid stupid! The whole room turned around to stare at me. "Well, it's true," I stammered. Felt my ears getting hot and everything.

The auctioneer started laughing. "Well, we know somebody who's trying awfully hard to win the George contest."

The whole room burst out laughing. Felt me collar getting hot now.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will someone give me twenty-five dollars for these jeans?"

"Thirty!" I yelled. I wanted them back!

"Thirty five!" Pattie yelled.

"Forty!"

"Forty-five!"

"A hundred and forty five!" I shouted. The crowd gasped, and Pattie slapped my arm. "I want them."

"Why? They won't fit you."

She squeezed my arm. "It's the closest I'll ever get to touching the real George."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"We have a bid of $200."

"Oh no," Pattie wailed. "I can't afford any more." Then she started to cry. That did it.

"Three hundred dollars!" I yelled.

"Sold, for three hundred dollars!" the auctioneer decreed. So I went to pick up me pants. Three hundred dollars. The stupid things only cost about.... no, they didn't cost anything. McCartney gave them to me. I remember that conversation.

"Stella said they didn't fit me properly."

"Really? You mean it's got nothing to do with all those cookies you've been sneaking?"

"Don't know what you're talking about. You could use a little extra weight yourself."

"Jealous coot!"

So there I was, reminiscing over my old clothes, when suddenly company arrived.

"Ooooh, can I pet them?"

"Sorry?"

"The jeans. Can I touch them?"

I couldn't believe how fast the tears came pouring down Pattie's face. I felt terrible.

"Here, take them."

"You mean I can actually hold them?"

"I mean you can actually keep them."

I saw her knees go wobbly, so I let her lean on me for a minute. "You have no idea what this means to me," she whispered. "I bet you're even nicer than the real George."

"And you have no idea what that means to me." I didn't know what else to say to her. So, I handed her the pants, patted her on the shoulder, and slipped out of the room.

Found myself in this place called "The Beatle Museum."

"No extra admission for this, is there?" I asked. I read his nametag. "Father McKenzie, is it?"

"Picking up the rice until Eleanor gets back from the loo," he smiled at me. "Please enter my son. There's no extra charge for the museum. It's a self-guided tour."

"That's good," I said. Because I still couldn't get over spending $340 in just 20 minutes. And that doesn't count the cost of flying over here and booking a room last minute. And paying the guy who got all that done for me. And the great big presents I'll have to find for the wife and son for tolerating my behavior during this whole Beatle crisis.

The first exhibit was called "Birth of the Beatles." It had four of those glass cake stand thingies with the glass lids. In the first was an old, beat up rattle. The sign read:

"Rattle: Circa July 7, 1940. This was undoubtedly the type of toy that inspired Ringo to start playing the drums."

Undoubtedly, I thought.

The next cake stand had this big ring of sorts. Couldn't tell what it was. The sign said:

"Teething Ring. Circa October 9, 1940. Undoubtedly similar to the teething ring that John Lennon cut his teeth on."

Johnny, wherever you are, I hope you're not watching this.

The third cake stand had a yellowing pair of nappies.

"Paul McCartney's first diaper. Certified by Nurse Agnes McBaine. June 18, 1942."

Krishna help me. If Paul's undies are exposed to the world, what have they got of mine?

Cake plate number 4 was empty! The sign read:

"George Harrison, born February 24 or February 25, 1943, depending on whose story you believe."

"What?" I shouted. "Where's my birth object?"

"SHHHHH."

"Oh, hi um..hi. Where's my birth object?" I whispered. I craned my neck to read her nametag.

"Maureen," she hissed. "Somebody stole George's birth object."

"Why? What was it, anyway?"

She pulled my ear down towards her mouth. "George's umbilical cord."

"WHAT? THEY HAD MY....."

"SHHHHH!!!!"

"Those lousy sons of...

"Calm down. Come on, we'll look at the next exhibit."

"Stupid gits using a personal item like that..."

"Stop muttering and look at the nice exhibit. See, it says Beatles in Hamburg."

I looked. "Looks like Beatles eating Hamburg. "What's that plate of chicken bones doing on display?"

"Don't you get it?" she asked me. "The bones are full of Beatle teeth marks."

"Oh, right. Teeth marks and chicken bones. Must be Ringo's old drumsticks."

Maureen glared at me. "How do you have the nerve to be George when you don't even recognize your own bite pattern?"

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

"Okay, I heard you. But you answer this for me. Do you think that the real George concerns himself with things like bite patterns?"

"Of course he does. He knows that every move he makes gets recorded by his fans."

"But bite marks?"

Maureen nodded.

I nodded back. "It's an awesome responsibility, being George, isn't it?"

"That's why there's only one of him."

The next exhibit was called Early Sixties. "Okay, Maureen. I don't mean to be a stick in the mud, but .."

"You're making fun again."

"I'm just asking a question."

"You're making fun of this exhibit."

"No, really I'm not. I'm just trying to understand what's so important about a ... a... what do you call a blob of mud anyway?"

"That mud is very important, Beatlewise."

"Guess I missed that history lesson."

She sighed. "Don't you see the footprint?"

"Right, I see it. One of George's?"

The lass rolled her eyes at me. "Ringo stepped in that piece of mud during the Beatle's first trip to America."

"How do you know it was Ringo? I mean, there's no sign or anything on this exhibit."

"You really are an amateur, aren't you? I guess that explains the white shirt."

"But not the mud."

"No, not the mud. Look at the size of the imprint. Obviously, the shoe belonged to Ringo."

"Right. It's obvious now that you point it out." Wasn't a bit obvious to me. Looked more like Cindy's foot, if you want to know the truth.

"Look, there's Paul's chewed chewing gum."

"And there's George's smoked ciggie." I sneered at it. "Nasty thing, caused me bunch of trouble, it did."

"Caused George a bunch of trouble, too, you know."

"I've heard."

"Hey, there's a Beatle movie exhibit. I love AHDN."

"AHDN. That some sort of medical disorder?"

"AHDN. A Hard Day's Night. Did you ever see the movie?"

"Dead grotty."

"Thank goodness, you're not completely hopeless."

"Not totally. That moth-eaten thing looks like Victor Spinetti's old sweater."

"Good for you!" She patted me on the back.

"Look," she squealed, "a genuine imitation of the imitation ring that Ringo wore in Help."

"Never got the point of that movie."

"Don't let me down, George! I was just starting to have a little bit of confidence in your Beatle abilities."

"Okay, how about this for Beatle trivia. Remember the scene in Help where Beatles have four separate entranceways but they all lived in one house?"

"Of course."

"Did you know that during the filming of that sequence, this little black and white doggie kept running into the picture and ruining all the shots?"

"You're making this up!"

"Am not. Well, they got so disgusted with all the interruptions that they finally wrote the little doggie into the script."

"I never heard about this."

"So they start filming again, and the director calls for the dog to enter the scene, and the little doggie just lays down and won't budge."

"I don't believe it."

"It really happened."

"Come on, Mr. Amateur. If I didn't hear a story then it didn't happen. I know EVERYTHING."

What do you say to a woman like that? Wasn't about to blow my cover, so I didn't see any other options than to distract her attention.

"How did you like Let it Be?"

"The most wonderfully depressing movie I've ever seen in my life."

I pointed to the next display. "Looks like the Beatles gave it the boot, too."

"You really don't know anything, do you? That's the original Old Brown Shoe."

"You what? There was no old brown shoe! The original was an old, tan slipper, you know, but who wants to sing about an old, tan slipper?"

"I don't understand you, George. You have no reverence for history, do you?"

"You really shouldn't twist your face up like that. Makes you look so sour. The real Maureen never did that."

"The real Maureen never had to deal with you and your ridiculous stories. If you come back next year, you ought to be a Blue Meanie."

"And you ought to come back as Sour Milk Sea."

Don't think she liked that very much, 'cause she spun on her heels and left me.

"Sourpuss. And you've got bad breath."

The last part of the museum was the solo stuff. Didn't want to see that. Didn't think I could handle the Lennon exhibit. Didn't think I could handle my own exhibit either.

"Right, George, where to now?" George, you're talking to yourself!

"You're not carrying any packages," a lady told me. "Time for you to see the vendor area."

"And who would you be?"

"Eleanor Rigby."

"Oh, back from the loo, are you?"

She glared at me and stormed off. Good job George, just piss off all your fans, why don't you? Vendor area it is then.

Or so I thought. Made a wrong turn somehow and found myself in the autograph signing room. A mob surrounded the first celebrity, so I couldn't see who it was. It's not my policy to be pushy, but, then, I've never been my own fan before. So, I joined the fray and shoved right up to the front. Saw this little old lady who looked a bit like my grandmother. 'Cept I don't remember ever seeing Granny in a plunging neckline. And I don't think she particularly liked that shade of red.

Anyway, the sign on the table identified her as Betty, Leo McKern's next door neighbor. Wracked my brain for a minute 'til I remembered that Leo had a rather important part in Help. Couldn't remember the name of his character to save my life. It didn't matter because I got distracted by Betty's yammering. Don't know how anybody can possibly find so much to say about absolutely nothing.

"He came over all the time," she was saying. "Always needed to borrow some eggs." Lucky lady, knowing somebody who almost meant something to a Beatle 30 years later. Well, at least it got her a free trip to Beatlecon.

"Oh, you're such a nice looking George."

"Thank you, Betty."

"No, not you. The one behind you who looks like George 1965."

Can't say he impressed me very much. "George didn't have green hair in 1965."

"And he didn’t' have wrinkles either."

"Oh. Can't compete with that, can I?"

I handed her my convention book to sign. Didn't really want her signature, but it seemed like the thing to do.

A sheepdog guarded the fellow at the next table. I didn't recognize that celebrity at all.

Wait a minute. I had it wrong way 'round. The man was doing the guarding, and the sheepdog was doing the celebrity thing. The sign identified her as Macca, third cousin twice removed from Paul's dog, Martha. Look at her going to town with her own inkwell. She's stomping all over everybody's White Albums. Sorry, Macca, you're not getting your dirty paws on my white shirt!

I thought that the next celebrity was out to lunch, because there was just this fellow in a waiter's uniform standing there.

Wrong again. The fans were queuing up for his autograph. I took my place behind Paul 1967. Don't think the nose ring suited him much.

"Who's this we're waiting on?" I asked Paul.

"John's waiter from The Russian Tea Room."

"John went all the way to Russia for his tea?"

"It's a famous New York restaurant. John and Yoko used to sit in the booth at the back. Next to the bathroom."

"They chose this seat on purpose?"

"More privacy."

"More privacy with people running by to do their business? During a meal, yet?"

"I can tell you're not from New York."

"Neither were John and Yoko."

Paul snorted, and his mustache flapped in the breeze. I wondered if it ever got stuck in his nose ring. Not a pretty picture.

"And Lennon ate his first whole lobster at The Russian Tea Room," the waiter was saying.

"Next to the bathroom," I thought. "With Yoko. I can't picture anything more romantic than that."

"You still employed at The Russian Tea Room?" I asked him.

"Yes sir." Then he winked at me! "If you slip me a few, I'll let you sit at John's table."

"I'll keep that in mind," I winked. "And I'll slip you something alright. I'll not sit by any bathroom!"

I had to wait the longest at the next table. Nearly ran off when the crowd cleared and I saw who it was. But then I thought about all those years that I spent preaching peace. And all those Hindu texts that talked about the power of forgiveness. It's been about 40 years, time to get past all the hard feelings.

"Hello, Pete Best."

"Hello, George Harrison."

"Been a long time."

"Yeah. I've been sitting here for three hours already. Starting to get cramps."

"I meant it's been a long time since I've seen you."

"Yeah. Had to miss the last three Beatlecons."

"Pete, don't you know me?"

"Sorry mate, I've been doing this for 25 years. All Georges look alike to me now."

"But I'm the original."

"Yeah, read about him. Started a trend, he did. First fellow to come as George to a Beatle convention. This an anniversary year for you?"

I motioned for him to lean forward so I could whisper. "Pete, it really is me. I really was a Beatle."

He sat back in his chair. "So was I. So were a lot of people for five minutes or so."

"But..."

"Look mate, there's a lot of fans waiting. So pay your ten dollars and I'll give you an autographed photo."

"Ten dollars?"

"Okay, make it fifteen, and I'll personalize it to Eric Clapton."

"I'm George."

"Look, give me twenty, and I'll call you Winston Churchill. Just hurry up about it, 'cause there's a mess of people waiting for my autograph and my bum hurts!!"

I could feel trouble coming with the way he was raising his voice and all. Plus I could hear some mutterings from the people behind me in the queue.

"Here, Pete. Here's fifty dollars."

"Fifty dollars? What have I got to do for fifty dollars?"

"Just sign it 'To my good friend, George. I forgive you for giving me the boot.'"

"Done."

"Luck to you, mate."

"You too, George. And if you should ever meet the real thing, tell him to get stuffed."

"Krishna bless you, Pete."

Pete stood up and knocked over his chair. "Mach Shau, mach Shau, pass die Cornflakes, und ein Bier, bitte!"

"Ringo never, Pete forever!" somebody shouted.

"Let's give George a black eye!"

Right. Let's see how fast George can bolt out of the autograph room. Pretty good for an old man, I must say. I took a minute to get my bearings. Maybe I shouldn't have. Look at me, will you? I've spent nearly $400 today, and all I've got to show is a signed photo of Pete Best. You watching all this, Lennon? Having a good laugh up there?

Well, maybe I can find some bargains in this room. Finally made it into the vendor area. I never saw such a big room in all me life, and that counts all the huge stadiums we played in. The whole idea of the vendor area rather fascinated me. I mean, all we did was write a bunch of songs. We didn't leave a trail of plastic gadgets and collectibles behind us.

First thing that caught my eye was a booth called Close Encounters, Liverpool Branch. And there was Mr. Star Trek with the uneven ears, chatting up one of the booth sponsors. Guess he had his own interpretation of a close encounter. I figured that the booth had something to do with the old Richard Dreyfus movie. I like a good science fiction picture now and then, but I can't really make a connection between aliens and Beatles. Unless they're talking about the time that John saw a flying saucer over New York. If you ask me, I'd say that John himself was doing the flying because he was probably a bit sauced that night.

The lady dressed in a Winnie the Pooh jumper looked friendly enough. "Hello there. What's a Close Encounters booth?"

She seemed quite happy to see me. "We are Liverpool residents who met the Beatles. We're here to share our stories with you."

I looked at the other woman and the two men who sat with her. "Can't say I recognize any of you."

She laughed. "You do have a decent George personality. But, you're a bit on the skinny side."

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind. So what's your story then?"

She gave me a huge smile. "I owned a little toy shop near Menlove Avenue. And one day John and his Uncle Charlie came walking in."

"John came with Uncle Charlie? How old was he then?"

"Oh, about two or three years old. But it didn't matter. I could tell right away that John was destined for greatness."

"Really? How did you figure that?"

"Simple. It was the way that he toddled around the whole place in search of the perfect toy."

"And what was this famous toy?"

"He fell for the biggest, shiniest fire truck in the shop."

"And that's a sign of greatness?"

"Oh, it didn't end there. You see, while Uncle Charlie was getting out his wallet, I told him the price. And Uncle Charlie said, 'You what? That's robbery what you're charging for one toy.'"

"Oh, I'm not just charging you for one item, I says. I'm also charging you for the ducky pull toy that's following little Johnny out of the shop right now."

She stopped her tale and smiled at me, 'til it started getting awkward. I think she wanted me to say something special, but I didn't know what. So, I said something stupid instead.

"And that's it?" I asked her. "That's the end of the story?"

It was like one of those Stephen King moments. You've got this smiling lady in a Winnie the Pooh jumper, and suddenly you realize it isn't a smile at all. She's baring her teeth.

"And that's it! You stupid git! It's a closer close encounter than you'll ever have!"

"Are you sure about that?" Shut up, George!

"Am I sure? Listen to him, am I sure? No respectable Beatle would come near you, what, with that fake accent and everything!"

Run away, run away! "Fake accent?"

"I can hear a Liverpud undertone, but you don't have the true bite."

"Of course me accent's changed. Haven't lived in Liverpool for years."

"Oh, come on now. You've never been to Liverpool in your life."

Don't lose it, George. "Hang on a minute!" Quit encouraging her!

"Stop wasting my time, you nit. I've got real fans that want to talk to me."

Sound the retreat! "Well, then, Hare Krishna to you." Good boy!

"Yes, yes, all the Georges say that. Good Day and Happy Krimble to you."

I think that was too close of an encounter experience. No wonder John ran off with her duck!

The next booth was called Beatles after Dark. The whole thing was covered up in a black sheet or something, and Madam Warrior Princess was guarding the door. I gave her a wink, but I didn't stop. Didn't feel qualified to look in there.

(Note from Lisha: It's possible that George is stretching the truth here. In his original text, he scribbled a note that said: "Ask Paul if he remembers what happened to the lady with the red stockings.")

Didn't expect to see a real estate booth at Beatlecon. Worth a minute to see if they had any little places where the family could go on holiday.

For sale: Bill's Bungalow. Room in basement can be used to hang your hunting trophies or could easily be converted into an apartment for Mum.

Boat for sale. Located on a river. Next door to park with tangerine trees. Walking distance to taxis on shore.

Rent to own a junior farm. Great place to go if you want to lay low. Everybody's welcome to tag along to the open house next week.

Don't think the wife would agree to any of these. Still, I took a business card anyway.

Saw this booth that was mobbed by fans. Could hardly make the sign out. Magic something or other, I think it said. I figured that all those people couldn't be wrong, so I went to the back of the queue. Stood there for a good twenty minutes or so. That wasn't too bad because it gave me a chance to people watch. Had to smile at all the Georges passing by. Saw myself as a teenager and an old, old man with a walking stick. Got a laugh out of the George who looked like he belonged on a professional basketball team.

Drat! Kicked myself for not bringing a camera. Would have loved a pic of Paul the Sumo Wrestler! And there's Ringo parading about with my wife. Here comes John and Yoko with two arms intertwined about each other and two cell phones stuck on their ears. If they're true to form, they must be phoning each other.

Here we go. Head of the queue. "What type of magic are you going to show me today?"

The lady behind the counter gave me a warm smile and held up a copy of a book. "Writing magic. I own a Beatles fiction web site, and these ladies and gentleman are some of my authors. This is a collection of our favorite stories."

"Oh, right." Gave her a nod and a wink. "I've heard of your site, you know."

"Then you must check out our book." She handed me a copy, and I thumbed through it. "Beatles get cloned. Beatles magically turn young and get to repeat everything. Beatles fall in love with beautiful women and their wives don't mind a bit. Hey, I wish my own life were this exciting."

"Wanna buy a copy?"

"Yes I would, please. Do I get an autograph as well?"

"Sure." She pulled out a rubber stamper and started inking it up.

"What's that?"

"I get tired of signing my name. Clever, isn't it?"

"Look, I get sick of it, too, but I still do it proper. Come on missy, use a pen."

She grimaced, but she obliged me.

"Just your name? Aren't you going to personalize it?"

She groaned. "Look, I only used a real pen because you're a pretty good George. If you want me to personalize it, you have to return as a flawless John."

"Gottcha. Thanks for the signature."

"You're welcome. Don't forget the other authors."

So, I moved down one spot. It was like being on an assembly line. The next author had a pen at the ready.

"Which is your story?" I asked her.

"I write the Shelly series."

"Don't remember a Beatle named Shelly."

She laughed. "Shelly is Paul's new romantic interest."

"It always comes down to Paul, doesn't it?"

She wagged her pen at me. "He's still the cute one."

"Must be awfully hard for George, always one step behind his Paulness."

She shrugged. "Do you want me to personalize this to Eric?"

"Eric who?" I looked around. Stupid twit, you're Eric!

"Uh, no, actually, could you make it out to George?"

"Okay." She signed the book and handed it back to me.

"Thanks much."

"Welcome.

Move on down the assembly line.

"What's it like being the only manly type author here?"

The writer nudged the woman sitting next to him. "Got the wife here to protect me."

"Smart fellow! What types of stories do you write?"

"Mostly the historical 'What If" scenarios. What if Kennedy had lived and the Beatles had met him. What if John had lived and continued performing. That sort of stuff."

"Did you ever try a 'what if the real George had shown up at a Beatle convention and no one recognized him' angle?"

The writer thought for a minute. "Nah. First off, that's impossible. Everybody would recognize him. And second, where's the story? George goes to Beatlecon, and no one notices. George looks around at Beatle stuff and leaves. It's a yawner."

Had to laugh. "Okay, well, would you make your autograph out to George, please, and then I'll greet the wife."

"Sure thing."

One more step and slide to the left. New version of the Wilbury Twist?

"Hi George. I didn't write any stories in this book, but I did edit all of them."

"Busy lady, you are."

"That's true. Beatling takes up a lot of time."

"Beatling? Is it proper to say Beatling?"

She smiled. "When it comes to Beatle fiction, you can Beatle it any way you please."

"Well, thanks Madam Editor, I'll keep it in mind."

"Oh, does that mean you're going to write a story for us? We're looking for new authors."

"Me? You want me to write a Beatle fiction story?"

"Why not?"

"Uh, never thought about it, really."

"Well, think about it quick. We've got a shortage of Ringo stories right now."

"Bet you're overwhelmed with George tales," I winked.

"Actually, Paul is Mr. Popular."

"That so? Let me guess. Takes Paul five minutes to save the world, get all the girls, and tell George to bug off."

"Basically."

"Maybe I will write a George story or two. Tell that Macca boy to take a flying...."

"Be nice!!!!"

"Right, right, peace, love and harmony."

"That's better."

"Hey, who took all the great Ringo pictures behind you?"

"Cheryl did. Isn't she talented? She's another author, but she couldn't be here today. You can meet her at Beatlecon L.A."

"So there's another Beatlecon coming up?"

"In three months. Maybe you'll be a published author by then?"

"Stranger things have happened. Nice speaking with you."

"Bye, George."

Onwards down the assembly line.

"Hi George Eric."

"Hi author lady. What's your game?"

"I write all the futuristic stories."

"You mean you write about me when I turn 110 years old? People still trying to get me and Macca together for one more tour?"

"I mean I write about all of John's great-great-grandchildren."

"How about my future then?"

"Sorry, George."

"You mean I'm not around any more? That's a bit disconcerting, you know. Can't I return as a wise old spirit or something?"

She shook her head.

"A gnome?"

"Nope."

"A CD in a cut-out bin?"

She shrugged. "Maybe in my next series."

"I'll hold you to it. Sign away then."

Phew. This is quite the process. Thank goodness there's only one more author to go!

"Hi G.... OH NOOOOOO!!"

"Hey, it's the Dear Sir or Madam lady. Fancy seeing you here! Did you like the tea I sent you? You're not cooking it up in the microwave are you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Experiencing myself experiencing the Beatle experience. And you? Why you looking so upset? Aren't you glad to see a familiar face?"

"Does anybody know you're here?"

"I know I'm here."

"Does anybody recognize you?"

"Yeah, everybody's saying 'Hi George.' Got a headache, do you, miss? What are you staring at?"

"You're wearing a contestant badge."

"Guess who I'm going as."

"You're calling yourself Eric Clapton?!"

"A bit of a mistake, I'll admit."

"I'm one of the judges for that contest."

"Thought you were supposed to be anonymous."

"Thought you were supposed to be in hiding. What am I supposed to do - vote for you or vote against you?"

"Dare you to find a better George than me anywhere in this room!"

"Oh my God. I'll bet you gave them your room number when you signed up!"

"Not one of my smarter moves."

"Oh my God. You've got to get out of here."

"Not before I've experienced the entire experience."

"But..."

"Give me your room number, missy, and I'll phone you this evening."

"But..."

"And sign my book while you're at it."

"I don't believe this. You're not going to get up and make a speech or sing a song or..."

"Don't panic, don't panic. This is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."

"What?"

"Come on. I can be as outrageously George as I please and nobody cares. Hell, half of them think I'm not George enough anyway."

"Alright, okay, here's what we're gonna do. Here is my room number, my cell phone number, and my pager number. You call me if there's any trouble."

"Thank you, Dear Madam or Sir authoress. And what exactly are you going to do if I need assistance?"

"Oh my God."

"Are you expert in riot control?"

"Stop it."

"Do you know all the secret exits in this place?"

"Leave me alone."

"Have you got a car with the motor running in a back alley next to the water pipe?"

"Don't do anything to embarrass me...beyond what you've already done."

"Got it."

"Do you hear me?"

"I'm trying to hear the announcement."

"It's probably something about the surprise celebrity."

"Surprise celebrity? Maybe I know him or her."

"George..."

"Might see an old friend."

"Might start a stampede."

"Might have to dial your cell phone number."

"You promised to behave yourself."

"You promised I would behave myself. I only said 'got it.' Headache getting worse, luv?"

"Alright, go ahead. Cause a scene. Embarrass yourself."

"Thank you teacher. Call you later."

Took my book and followed the crowd to the celebrity room. Yet another mob scene, and I had to stand in the back again. Hung out with the Ringo clan. Dad, Mom, and toddler, all wearing collarless suits and moptop hairstyles. Baby Ringo wore a bib with Beatle faces on it.

"Nice bib," I complimented the family.

"The baby spit up on Paul," Mum frowned.

"Your son's got good aim then."

"Daughter."

"Oh, sorry about that. What's her name?"

"Ringo."

"Yeah, I meant her birth name."

"Ringo."

"Very clever."

Dad had a look at my badge. "Eric Clapton. Brave of you to show up here. Don't know why you would come as George, though. You should come as yourself. Crowd would go crazy."

"Well, I don't know. I mean, Clapton helped out now and then, but he wasn't really a Beatle."

"No," said the wife, "but he was a Wilbury."

"Was he? That's news to me."

"Didn't you ever hear Traveling Wilburys Volume 2?"

"We never did a Volume 2!"

"I think you should go stand somewhere else," the wife said.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend anybody."

"We only speak to hard core fans," the husband explained. "Never speak to anybody else."

"And you're obviously not a hard core fan," the wife added. "Or you'd know about Volume 2."

"You don't speak to anybody else?"

The couple shook their heads.

"Never?"

They kept right on shaking.

"Must be difficult if you need to ask directions to the loo, or complain about a bill, or..."

The husband sternly pointed to the other side of the room. I got the message. Found myself next to a familiar face. A friendly one too, thank heavens.

"Oooo, George. Look, I'm wearing your jeans."

"Hey Pattie, they fit you nicely. Didn't expect that to happen."

"Well, I had to alter them a little. See, I cut them here, and then I patched them up with the jeans I was wearing before."

"You're very talented, Pattie." Must see Macca about getting a new pair!!!!!!

"Oooo, look. There's George Martin up at the podium!"

"Hello everyone," Martin said.

"Hi George," the entire audience shouted as one.

"Is everybody enjoying Beatlecon? Just tell me if there's something here that you don't like."

"Well, for starters, I don't like your tie!" shouted the crowd.

"I like his tie," I said.

"Ooooo, George, don't let anybody else hear you say that."

"But I do like it."

"Shhhh."

(Note from Lisha: George Martin presented a multi-media extravaganza about the making of Sgt. Pepper. Since the thing was a PowerPoint presentation, there was no way George H. could have added it to this document. Anyway, Harrison got a little miffed that Martin only included one Harrison quote in the entire program. And the quote was: "Paul knows more about it than I do.")

After Martin's speech, I headed back to the vendor room. Saw this sign that said, "Penny Nichol's Pictures." This could be interesting. Millions of professionals have photographed us, but I almost never get to see any of the photos that fans take.

I have to give Penny credit; she had it nicely organized by category, and each photo was clearly labeled.

For some strange reason, I felt like viewing the George photos first. Hmmm. Photo of George's rubbish bins. Photo of the gates at Henley. Photo of the forehead of a Harrison family member. I squinted. That wasn't a Harrison forehead. It looked more like the gardener I sacked after he set my favorite fir tree on fire.

"Had to get rid of the bees, Georgie."

"Yeah? Well, there's no more tree for you to mind, so you best find employment elsewhere!"

Then I went through the Lennon bin. Found something that looked familiar. It was a close up of an embroidered denim skirt, plus a couple of fingers. The label said, "Cynthia and Julian." I don't think so. I remembered when my wife embroidered the thing. Made us all crazy because she kept losing the needle every five minutes. Recognized the fingers, too, because one of them wore Dhani's ring. Bought that one, just so nobody else would mistake my family for Lennon's. And cause I wanted to tease the wife a bit.

Penny had loads of pictures of Paul in concert. Most were very dark, with a huge flash going off next to Paul's head. But there was one great photo of Paul and Linda in a limo. Linda was sitting by the window, and Paul was clearly crushing her in his efforts to reach through the window and wave to fans. Linda had a grimace on her face and one hand around Paul's throat. Had to buy that one. Can't wait to show it to him.

Took a break to get a bite to eat, and to take care of some other business. Lots of veggie options, and Indian ones, too. Had myself something called a Big Macca. I quite enjoyed chewing that to pieces. Downed it with a Strawberry Fields Shake. And, in deference to everybody who told me I was too skinny to be George, I treated myself to two pieces of Honey Pie. Saw sourpuss Maureen looking 'round for a place to eat. I waved to her and pointed to the extra chair at my table. She just made a face I can't forget. She said she's not the girl for me and she doesn't want all the world to see we've met. Well, la de da da da da to you too.

Couldn't wait for the concert to begin. That was my original reason for going to Beatlecon. The real Beatle experience. Except we had to get through a warm up band first. Wonder who that would be. Some local act probably.

Or probably not. Direct from London, everybody. Please welcome Rutlemania, a tribute band to the Rutles. Who thought that one up? You should hear the girls screaming. You should hear the guys screaming. You should hear the lead singer screaming, and he's got a microphone. I'd scream too if I thought it would help the situation any. Maybe I am just an old stick in the mud. Maybe I'll just stand here and meditate 'til the Beatles tribute comes on.

(Note from Lisha: Or maybe you'll just grab hold of sourpuss Maureen, spin her around a few times, and shove her up on stage. Check out the George footage in the Beatlecon 2001 video.)

Finally, the big moment arrives. Ed Sullivan gets up on stage and says simply, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the ..."

Never did get to hear the name of the band. Too much screaming and crying and fainting.

Even though I had just spent the whole day immersed in Beatle lookalikes, it was still unnerving to see four "wigtops" onstage. 'Til they started to play. This may sound a bit daft, you see, but the tribute band was too good for its own good. They worked so hard to capture every sound, every gesture, and every wisecrack, that they forgot that we did all that stuff spontaneously. We didn't know what we were going to do next, so how could the audience know? That was half the fun. But this Beatlecon audience knows exactly what to expect, and they'll kick you in the you-know-whats if you miss a trick. Glad we never had to live up to those standards.

Still, the music's great, and there's Pattie tapping her toe....

After the concert, I headed back towards the vendor room. I was feeling a bit winded, but I was determined to find some treasures to bring home. Didn't even make it to one booth. Got interrupted when two guys appeared on either side of me and clamped down on my arms.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Is this him?" asked the shorter fellow to my right.

"Yes, it's him," said the taller one on the left.

"Are you sure?" asked righty.

"Will you stop worrying?" said lefty. "It's him. I think."

"Look, I don't want to make a mistake again," said righty.

"Trust me, it's him. We've got it right this time," said lefty.

"Excuse me," I said. "Am I being kidnapped? Cause if I am, I'll not go quietly. I'm a martial arts expert, you know."

"It's him," they both said.

I stared at righty. "Ringo? Ringo, is that you underneath that fake nose?"

"Shut up you idiot."

"It is you! Hey Ringo, you look great as a red head."

"Make him shut up!" hissed lefty.

"Hey, blondie McCartney! You're mustache is on upside down, can't you tell?"

"Shut up!"

"Your family know you hang out at Beatle conventions?"

"Will you shut your gob! If this mob finds out we're here, they'll go bonkers."

"Oh yeah, Paulie, good point. Thanks for reminding me."

"Oooo George. Whatcha up to?"

"Hey Pattie. I'm being kidnapped by Paul and Ringo!"

"Oooo, gear costumes! Two guys disguised as Paul and Ringo disguised as not Paul and Ringo!"

"Dig it, Paul, Pattie's wearing the jeans you gave me."

"Can't you be quiet just for one minute?"

"Hey Pattie, come closer and I'll introduce you to my friends."

"Sorry, George, gotta run. I'm trying to win a date with George from Rutlemania!"

"Good luck to you!"

"See ya!"

"Hari what is wrong with you?" Ringo hissed.

"Don't you get it guys? It's all go here. Nobody will notice us."

"Everybody will notice us."

"Come off it, Paranoid Paulie, nobody's noticed me all day."

"Yeah? Why's that woman staring at you?"

"Got a horrible look on her face," Ringo added.

"She's trying to fight off a headache," I answered.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, may I borrow George for one minute?"

"Okay, but we're not letting go of him," Paul said.

"Good. That will make my job easier."

"Hello again, Dear Sir or Madam. Have you met....OW! What did ya do that for?"

"Didn't I tell you to behave?"

"Didn't I tell you I wouldn't?"

"Didn't I tell you it's dangerous here? And now you're putting your friends in danger as well."

"You're the only one who's attacked me so far."

"With a Beatle pillow! I'm sure it hurt a lot."

"Bruised my ego!"

"Bruise him some more, lady," Ringo urged.

"This is your fault, isn't it, author lady? You told them to come get me."

(Note from Lisha: No, I do not have Paul and Ringo's phone numbers. I have no idea where George got that idea.)

"No, she didn't, you nit, your wife told us you needed rescuing."

"I don't."

"You do," all three declared. And with that, the two fellows started pulling on me arms while Dear Madam lady got behind and shoved.

"Beatle fans, Help! I'm being kidnapped!"

Look who's here to not rescue me. Sourpuss Maureen. "Can't you get anything right? Ringo gets kidnapped, not you."

"Don't leave me, Maureen."

She left me.

"Come on gang, you can't do this. I haven't seen everything yet. Hardly bought anything either. Did spend a great deal of money, though."

"You got a fever or something?" Ringo asked.

"You can't make me leave until they announce the George lookalike winner."

"You lose, Mr. Clapton."

"Get off it, blondie Paul. You can't win every time."

"I'm winning this one," Paul hissed.

"Don't you want to cheer me on in the Karaoke contest?"

"I'm taking you to see a doctor," said Paul.

"I've already signed up to perform."

"He needs a specialist," Ringo said.

"Think how disappointed people will be when they find out Eric Clapton's a no-show."

"He needs an entire hospital," author lady said.

"For senior citizens," Paul added.

"You're the old poop, all three of you."

"Are we anywhere near the exit?" author lady asked.

"Keep your chin up," Paul encouraged.

"I'm keeping all of George up," she answered. "He's awfully wiggly."

"I'd stop squirming if you'd let me be."

"You wouldn't pull this rubbish if John were here," Paul informed me.

"If John were here he'd be fighting for my freedom."

"John wouldn't be caught dead here," Ringo snapped.

"I don't know about that. Saw a Channeling John booth a ways back."

"Pull harder," author lady commanded.

"Nearly there," said Ringo.

"Aren't you even a bit curious? Don't you want to know how the fans see us?"

"I know how the fans see me," Macca answered. "They see me by sneaking into my car, sneaking into my bath, and sneaking under my bed."

"That's not what I meant."

"Look, your wife told us to get you out of here, and that's what we're gonna do."

"Aye aye, Captain Starkey."

All of a sudden, I just felt exhausted. After all, I'd been standing all day long and dancing for a couple of hours. My knees started getting shaky. Plus, I hate to admit it, but I do have trouble breathing sometimes, thanks to the cancer business. Not to mention what that other nasty incident did to my endurance. I decided to give in and follow them out. But then they made the announcement that it was time to name the look alike winners. Here comes my third wind!

"Come on fellas and lady. Just let me do this one thing. Let me go see who wins this contest."

"NO."

"Come on, I've waited all day for this."

"NOOOOO."

"Look, if you let me go to this one event, I promise I'll come quietly afterwards."

"Well...."

"I didn't fly all the way here from England not to go to the big event."

Ha! Wore them down. And just in time too, because they were already announcing the George winners.

"Third place goes to....Mr. Eric Clapton!"

"Hey, that's me! Hey lads, and lass, I won a prize!"

"Well don't stand around, go and claim it," Paul said.

"But don't try and sneak past us."

Stuck my tongue out at Ringo. Then I hopped up on stage and shook hands with George Martin.

"Hey George."

"Hey George. Congratulations....oh...my."

"You know it's me, don't you?"

"Oh my."

"You don't mind if I take the mike for a minute, do you?"

"Umm, bad idea, Hari."

Too late, Martin. I grabbed the mike anyway. "Hello everybody! Just wanted to say thank you, it's a real pleasure to receive third prize. Also wanted to thank a few friends of mine for letting me come here today. Hey, Paul and Ringo, wave to everybody."

"Oh my," whispered Martin.

The crowd loved it, you know. Of course, they didn’t' think it was the real thing. They thought that they were just pretending that they thought that it was the real thing.

"I've had a lovely time, here at Beatlecon. Met a lot of nice people, and got a lot of good tips on how to be a better George. So, here's the plan: I get a new shirt, dye my sneakers orange, and then pop on over to L.A. for the next Beatlecon. Maybe I can even convince a few friends of mine to show up on stage with me."

This is great! The crowd is going wild! Of course, so is Martin. He squeezed the back of my neck. "Get off the stage, George. NOW."

I kissed my trophy, waved to the crowd, and went off to meet my friends. Signed a couple of autographs along the way. Hope I spelled Clapton correctly.

(Note from Lisha: Paul and Ringo's reaction to all this? Sorry, Dear Sir or Madam, gotta keep this story clean in case Mom reads it.)

"So, Madam authoress, how come I didn't win the whole works? Didn't you vote for me?"

"Yes, yes, I voted for you. Problem is, we had a biased committee. They all liked the way George looked in 1965."

"I lost because I look too old?"

"Basically."

"I keep telling him he's an old poop."

"Macca, you're older than me!"

"Not in spirit."

"Let's keep the religion thing out of it."

"Let's get you guys out of here."

"She's right, you know."

"Oh Ringo, teacher's pet."

"Didn't somebody promise to leave after the awards?"

"Got you Macca. That was Eric who made that promise. I'm George."

"Got you George."

"And I got you, too."

"I'll take the caboose again."

"Let go of me! I'm leaving, I'm leaving."

Some fellow came over and waved. "Night guys."

Never saw Paul turn purple so quick. "That you, Sean?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

Paul puts on this stern parent look. "Your Mum know you're here?"

Sean pointed. "She got a seat up front."

"I don't want to know any more," said Paul. "Everybody assume positions and let's heave ho the Hari man."

"Can't we just stay for..."

"NO!"

"Well, I'm coming back tomorrow so I can see Beatle Movie Day, and take a Beatle tour of New York, and visit the rest of the vendor booths."

"George..."

"Shut up, Sir Nightmare. And I want to try my hand at Beatle trivia, and..."

"You're a loony, George."

"You're a swine, Starkface. And I want to enter the 'Guess how to pronounce Dhani's name’ contest. My guess is gonna be...."

I hate it when Paul shoves his hand over my mouth.

"Hey miss, can I borrow your Beatle pillow? I think I know where to stick it so you don't have to carry it around."

"Here you go, Paul."

"Eeech! He licked me!"

"Ha ha, Paul. Have it your way. But I'm coming back, you see. I'm going to Beatlecon L.A. in three months, and I'm taking Clapton with me. And the rest of you can take a flying..."

(Note from Lisha: Dear Sir or Madam Rooftops. Sorry, but I had to delete George's last remarks in deference to our more sensitive readers, and to my Mom. I can tell you that George continued to rage long after we deposited him back in his hotel room. I heard Ringo banging on the wall several times, but it wasn't until Paul threatened to lock George out on the balcony that he finally quieted down.

As of now, (one month later), I don't know how George feels about the other fellows. But he patched things up with me real fast after I sent him the Beatlecon New York video. I also enclosed complimentary tickets to Beatlecon LA for his entire family and for his friend, Eric.)

Love and peace to you all. See you at the LA Beatlecon, by George!

Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.