“Are you there?” I asked. “Oh, yes, I, er...I'm here.” she stammered. “Is anything wrong?” I asked her. “No, no, everything is FINE.” ...he said “but I need for you to do a favor for me.” “Um, ok...sure, what ever you need.” I said. “Great!” she almost shouted “I want you to go out for a little while tonight, ok honey?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “See, when I got to the table to get my autograph, I slipped “the Rod” my cell number with “call me” written above it, and he did! “ she said. Nevertheless, our discomfort was partly compensated by the attention lavished on us the following day by the other women at the festival. Never before—and probably never since—had I ever felt so privileged to be British. Not that I'd ever had a choice in the matter. This stemmed from the mysterious and persistent legacy of the Beatles' Invasion of the American music scene almost thirty years earlier. Whatever magic sparkle the lovable mop-tops possessed, Americans were convinced that it had. More

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