Gail Burstyn's holocaust survivor faction would grit their teeth, shake their jowls, drool with hatred, laugh with mania, salivate with the tang of vengeance when they regarded the mentalism of the Beatles through the lens of the gimmick word:  Potlatch, seething with pain, fear, utopia, praising the lord for pain, as they omoja'd the latch on the door of the crematorium gas chambers, Jack Ruby's pistol, Holy Hitler, and the company kept by Lennon and Warhol at the Carousel Club burlesque, their tawdry sneering at Kennedy, and their wallet ties to those who shared their scorn for music.