Billionaire Beatle can’t stop himself from trolling for the public’s affection.

Quoth the press release, which made the rounds last week: “On June 5, Starbucks (Nasdaq: SBUX) will make history by hosting an unprecedented Global Listening Event to celebrate the release of Paul McCartney’s Memory Almost Full, the first album ever released by Hear Music. More than 10,000 Starbucks stores in 29 countries and territories worldwide will participate in the event by playing the album in stores, all day, across all time zones.…In addition to the Global Listening Event, McCartney fans are also invited to make history by participating in a unique video tribute honouring McCartney’s 65th birthday. On June 5, film crews will disperse to 10 key Starbucks locations in cities and territories spanning the globe including London, New York, Berlin, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Seattle, Hong Kong, Tokyo and Miami. Fans can deliver a birthday message directly to McCartney at a designated store location in these markets. The video tribute will premiere on June 18, McCartney’s birthday, via a host of online outlets.”

Sweet caffeinated hell. At what point is it okay to call a moratorium on the cute Beatle?

Like nearly everyone I know, I love the Beatles. Play-’em-every-week, get-memorabilia-for-every-birthday kind of love ’em. But this unholy alliance between Starbucks and Macca may be the final cinnamon straw in my ongoing disenchantment with phony Beatlemania.

Let’s put aside for a moment the nonstop exploitation of affection for the Beatles—let’s be fair and assume that it’s a cottage industry that supports millions of degenerate music-industry types who’ve been feeding off the Beatles trough since the days of the Cavern. Yes, let’s put that aside and look squarely at McCartney.

Complaining that Ringo Starr is bereft of the dignity befitting a rock legend is like whispering at a party that Paris Hilton might be a bit of a harpy. George Harrison, though he too drank from the bottomless well of Beatles nostalgia, managed to maintain an air of respectability right up until the end and almost seemed embarrassed to coast on old glory. John Lennon? Well, we will never know if Mark David Chapman saved the world from The Beatles: Steel Wheels, but let’s imagine for the sake of our sanity that Lennon would’ve aged with grace.

But McCartney? Posing with baby seals. Sending flowers to an ex-wife who is one-legged-mamboing her way into the hearts of middle America. Letting Larry King fellate him on his eponymous talk show at regular intervals. Going on tour and charging obscene ticket prices that are higher than some people’s rent. Re-releasing all of Let It Be, remastered and rearranged to his original intent. Bickering with Yoko Ono about the order in which names should appear on Lennon-McCartney songs. Releasing album upon album of “new” Beatles material (the next reportedly due this summer) that turn out to be little more than the sound of Lennon vacuuming the house, set to the piano part from “A Day In The Life”. How much glory does the knighted billionaire Beatle have to win before he calls it a career?

That McCartney is still making records is a thrill. Sure, he hasn’t made a great one in years, but there will always be boomers who will listen to them in the SUV, and there’s no harm in that. No, it’s not that he keeps making music—countless icons still do. It’s that he can’t resist reminding us how fab he truly is.

After all these years, McCartney still desperately wants our love. He wants us to come into Starbucks, get a CD and a latte, and then wish him a happy birthday and tell him how great “Yesterday” was. What chance do we mortals have if one of rock music’s undisputed gods can’t get no satisfaction?

Apologists might say that Macca’s need for affirmation is his most endearing quality, but the more cynical among us might counter that every biscotti-crumb-laden overture for affection means the Beatles’ work gives joy to us in diminishing returns. Let it be, Paul. Our memories are almost full too.