The Acid Camera and the Beatles’ Pleasuredome
Magic Alex in his laboratory.
With a lovely Bay Area summer in full flower, I am determined — determined, I tell you — to finally polish off Bob Spitz’s gigantic Beatles book, which has been languishing around my apartment with a slowly advancing bookmark in it for something like a year and a half.
It’s difficult, though, because periodically some little detail or reference will cause me to go rent a movie, or listen to one of the albums, or just drift off into a reverie that impedes my progress. Consider the following, which recounts events from 1967:
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