CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

THIRTY NINE
In 1968, hippie musicals were the rage. Or
rather, one hippie musical was the rage and everyone
who missed out on it tried to find an imitation
substitute. Hair was a huge sensation in its original
incarnation. It was revived of late but believe me when
I tell you that it was not the same thing at all. How
can you have a show about hippies, titled Hair, when
everyone in the cast – male and female – appears
nude on the stage and it is a blatant fact that every one
of them has had a full body waxing, the procedure
known in the contemporary vernacular as a Brazilian?

Anyway, I missed the boat on the original
production. Bertrand Castelli, a Frenchman who I
found delightful and counted among my human
friends in those days, was the executive producer of
the original production of Hair, and the person who
introduced nudity to the show, which made it the
sensation it became. He implored me to take a piece
of Hair, so to speak. However, when I met his partner,
Michael Butler, the scion of the polo-playing set of
Oak Ridge, Illinois, there was no chemistry between
us at all. So I passed. That happens sometimes in this
business.
In any case, I somehow fell prey to the copycat
syndrome that so often affects us showbiz types. Even
my existence as a vampire was not enough to save me from such foible. As a result, in 1969 I made my one trip across the Atlantic in all my thousands of years of existence. Getting a passport was the most difficult part. For my current and previous two incarnations, I have established a Social Security number for each of my selves and made appropriate contributions when filing tax returns, with the help of my accountants. I have often wished that a vampire would establish him or herself as an accountant and handle these matters for the rest of us. So far, no such luck. As Gus III, I did establish a not-for-profit foundation to avoid paying estate taxes yet again.
Granted, over the decades since the income tax began, I have been able to make a fair amount of money disappear off the books by charging off various items and expenses that would make sense for a human being – expensive daily business lunches that I did not have and so forth. Likewise, the few flops I produced allowed me to hide money. But I digress.
A Social Security number is not a birth certificate, and that’s what was required to get a passport. However, this is America and with enough money you can get anything done. Why would I need a passport? And why not fly over there by my own power?
It was a longer distance than I had ever flown before and the daunting logistics of making the journey, and possibly having to land on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic and re-launch myself, then arriving in London without luggage and the appropriate clothing and so forth was more than I cared to face. I went to London on a chartered jet.
I got a passport by expending some money with a forger I found through a marijuana dealer among my acquaintances. In those days everyone knew someone who dealt drugs; and drug dealers know all sorts of people, not surprisingly. I flew on a Boeing 727 alone but for the crew, who were given strict orders to let me sleep the entire journey undisturbed, and to keep the shades pulled over all the windows.
All of this effort was so that I could go to London and see a musical called Carnaby Street in anticipation of bringing it to Broadway. It was supposed to be the next Hair but with clothes. It wasn’t. Hair with clothes was a silly fashion show with singing and dancing. I passed on getting involved. Nonetheless, I was there and decided to spend a few nights and take in some West End shows.