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Cherubic little arms fluttered and the plasma screen as large as four San Anselmo baseball fields rippled slightly in the ascent. All the Little League champions and little friends held on tight, until they finally hovered in the sky where the screen was framed by Mt. Tamalpais to the west, Berkeley in the eastern distance, the unfortunate commercial corridor known as Corte Madera below, and the uncloudy sky above.
Then a boom jolted the Boomers out of their chatty memory pickle:
“A special broadcast of LIVE! WITH REGIS AND KELLY.”
The little bird that had so bedeviled JoJo was knocked a block off its flight pattern.
Granny Guss straightened up and ran for the first time in years, toward the sound.
The surfers mumbled their approbation of Kelly’s studiously distracted entrance, her pause, swish, and jostling brown hair.
Baby Drew jumped up and down as if he were in his crib and pointed at faces he knew so well.
The white-haired beauty and the proprietor of the Plip Plop Coffe Shop were glad everyone on Ross Valley’s lawn looked heavenward. They hadn’t been one hundred percent positive the patio’s buttercups and gladiola border was enough cover for their she-ing and he-ing, but the bare fact of sexuality made their concern, while sincere, slipshod.
“Hello, Ross Valley!” It was clear from her world-embracing tone Kelly meant the citizenry of the locale, not just one favored denizen in the higher reaches of Kent Woodlands.
“And a big New York hello to the little guy!” Reeg affirmed.
“And we do mean baby Drew!” The iconic duo neared ecstasy.
Studio applause from the plasma screen’s built-in speakers, giddy verging on foaming, washed over the tributary valleys and blotted out all other sounds, even a jet’s above the horizon.
Their grips were consistent with titanium. The Little Leaguers and little friends unanimously gave thumbs up with their wing hands, prudently quick so the screen didn’t free-fall with them more than sixty or seventy feet. It only added to the thrill of the special broadcast.


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