Last night, in my dream, my friend Charlie and I were walking down the street when we came upon a long line of people waiting for something — a concert? At the front of the line was Paul McCartney, alone. (He didn’t have a date.) Charlie and I alternately spoke with him.
Paul was eager and friendly — nothing like a celebrity. Though this was 2011, he seemed totally youthful. But both of our conversations petered out rather quickly. Paul gives nothing of himself, when he speaks. He seems like a man with no stories. My guess is that he keeps the world at a slight distance, in order to free his mind to write his inane songs.
Though we didn’t see him smoke, I came away with the conviction that Paul smokes Chesterfields.