I heard some punk has been saying that Tiana isn’t a princess???
TOP PHOTO: Syamsundara Das & Mukunda Goswami with George in Vrindavan, India in 1996 BOTTOM PHOTO: From left to right: Syamsundara Das, George with Dhani in front, Mukunda Goswami, Gurudas Prabhu and Derek Taylor pose during a visit at George’s home, Friar Park. PHOTO & ARTICLE SOURCE: Back To God-head
The article below is a tribute to George written by long time friend, Syamsundara Das, (I’ve included excerpts from it, not the entire article)
MY SWEET GEORGE
by Syamsundara Das
A tribute to George Harrison from an old friend.
Los Angeles, December 2, 2001.
THIS WAS THE FIRST thing you said to me, George, in that winter of ‘68: “I’ve been waiting to meet you where have you been?” Well, here I am again, George and there you are. And from that time till now there never was an edge between us, so closely have we traveled the same trails through time…
Late ’60s London, reclined at ease on your embroidered bolster, both legs stretched out straight, it’s times like this beyond all doubt I know there is a Perfect Person, and I am seeing you, and God knows why or how but somehow or other I’m explaining to you the American game of baseball or updating you on the price of gold or asking you to define “Being” or “Time” or introducing you yes, come in, come in to my new friend George Harrison, who approaches you now, bows down with his long hair sopping and with a grin as big as yours, says Hare Krsna! …….
“What’s the time now, Syamasundara?”
“It’s 1968, George, 1969, 1970, 71, 72 and 3.”
You’ve just phoned from Sicily to our freezing flat in Covent Garden, to sing me long-distance a little ditty you’d just cooked up, wondering if I thought anyone’d like it: “Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, ah say it’s all right now dah dah dah dah dah . . .”
“Yeah, George . . .”
Or walking down Regent Street, you look at me and say, “That’s a first more people are lookin’ at you than me!”
How about that time in Paris, at Maxim’s Restaurant, hounded by hordes of press-people, you and I sliding a hundred miles an hour down that laundry chute in our escape, to land in that huge pile of dirty sheets? And me slugging and dragging paparazzi off the cobble-stoned street in front of your get-away cab . . .
Or how about those early months at Friar Park, crashed out in our sleeping bags, a hundred rooms, no heat, no furniture. And those early mornings when you’d return from an all-night session, piling into the kitchen (the only warm room in the house) with your rock-n-roll side-men, alive with some new tune you’d hatched that night “What d’ya think of this one, Syamsundara we call it ‘My Sweet Lord’ Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna…”
Early days Friar Park when you sew the skull-and-crossbones: You and I strapping those silly same-throwers on our backs and attacking the ivy, brambles, Commies and Nazis with wild abandon . . .
Or a couple years back when you scared the holy bejesus out of Mukunda and me flying down that Oxfordshire country lane at 150 miles an hour in your latest wonder car “Use my body like a car, Taking me both near and far, met my friends all in the material world” this car’s body you had decorated at great cost with thousands and thousands of tiny Hare Krsna mantras . . .
And remember our days in India! How delicately you laid a tiny blossom at Lord Krsna’s feet in Vrindavan and then grabbed a stick to chase away the monkeys! How you looked into my camera on that rooftop with all the trees and parrots and bells and temples of Vrindavan spread out below you, and said: “Still Krsna after all these years…”
John Lennon smokes on a TV set.
Lennon was known to smoke and drop ash on the floor even in other people’s homes. He also burnt holes in pianos and equipment by placing burning cigarettes on them.
Abbey Road put up notices asking them not to, but it made it worse. He would go in to panic attacks that he would run out of cigarettes and wouldn’t start interviews unless he had a full packet in front of him. Even when famous he would ask people to buy him cigarettes and bring them over. It became something of a joke. He once visited a hypnotist to try and stop but it didn’t work.
This is my proudest achievement so far in tomodachi life