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When I got to the door, the place was filled with people and the smell of Patchouli. Turbins, robes and suits mixed in a Western Costume Company nightmare of outfits. The sound of the Sitar came from a spot in front of Ruth's fireplace where a smiling Ravi Shankar
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rung wails and melody from it. There was a tabla player there as well. I had been accosted by a blond Valley Girl wearing a nose ring, a halter top and harem pants I was 20 something. It was the 60s and I was easy prey for that kind of thing. Ruth, thank
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God, found me and rescued me from her crimson nailed clutches before I ended up on a commune with five kids. "I want you to meet someone," she said, leading me to the secret room behind the fireplace. It was a small room where Ruth did her devotions. Seated on a cushion was a tall man with a beard and mustache, wearing an emerald green Nehru jacket.
"Ron," she said with a smile. "I would like you to meet my good friend, George. George," she smiled, "I would like you to meet my friend, Ron. I think you'll like each other. I would love to stay but I have to tend to the teaming masses." And with that she hustled away leaving me alone with, George Harrison. To say I was stunned would be a major understatement.
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As Karma would have it, we had actually met earlier that same day. He had given a press conference at the studio of his friend Ravi Shankar. Yes, the same Ravi Shankar who was now seated a wall away from me playing. Like all
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press conferences on this type, to say we had met was like saying you had an intimate relationship with a girl you had said hello to.
"We met earlier," I said, sticking out my trembling hand. "Earlier today that is."
"Really?" he said with a look that said he didn't remember. ...
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