125 Get over it

Ross Valley’s patio table was monopolized by ossifying temples of the flesh plunked in crosshatch armchairs. The color steeped into the tubular plastic was easy on tired old eyes, designer cushions on old bottoms. It was energy conserving courtesy purchased through a decorator. Let the sunrays bounce up from the swimming pool! All other vulnerabilities were countered by the setting, and the Boomers chattered like Monte Rock. Ironically, the Patron of the Arts and her roundtable coterie stood, in the fashion of patio parties, with no expectation of doing otherwise.
“I bet you was stoned,” a wizened sedentary said to his own as they competed about seeing famous rock stars pre-sellout. They gabbed about Jimi Hendrix at the Fillmore.
“Ho-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-hhhh,” came the affirmative.
One of the little baseball fans lately deputized by the Good Hustle Ninja meant to correct the former’s solecism – in the well-spoken, San Anselmo multitasking teen way – until she was informed by the Sourpuss Ninja the bad grammar was intentional, an affectation, a little dip in the mud, a fray cultivated on the collar, by a total L7 who late in life wished to be thought edgy, “. . . making up for the time lost between his first job out of college and retirement,” she explained gently, and pointed out the headband was new.
“Danger Man,” she added sourly and sarcastically, finally living up to her alias.
They listened while the Boomers were too wrapped up in their right-onness to notice.
“Why are they talking about birdies?” the little girl asked.
“They’re talking about The Byrds, actually. A Beatle-hair band. Rather excellent, in fact. Quite influential. Now I’m starting to sound like those old frumps. Sh – let’s eavesdrop . . .” She put her finger to her lips slowly, reassuming the state of beatitude, late of her matriarchial disguise at the Plip Plop Coffe Shop, a consideration for the wondering child.
“Whoa, ‘all the sights and sounds of senses can be found.'”
“Dig this . . .” Their enthusiasm shedded every caution and reserve. It was the Now Generation coming up for air in gulps.
“Dig this, man. ‘Must be the way she walks, a style made up to capture all she needs.’ Far out . . .”
The several Boomers nodded in conformity for the congenial flash of the past.
“Far out, man, like, where you get this stuff? ‘s a trip.”
The little girl and the Sourpuss Ninja rolled their eyes instantly.
Ross Valley noticed the other baby and little Drew were rotating toward the Boomers, and the near neighbor’s elderly Mrs. looked as if she was waiting to hand them a fresh rocket. Ross intercepted this bit of business.
The invitation to the Boomers came from the magnanimity in Ross Valley’s soul, and he decided they’d be on their way to kingdom come soon enough anyway. It was an opportunity to educate baby Drew about generosity of spirit.
“Why don’t you put down the bazooka and ask if they’d like more lemonade.”


One Response to “125 Get over it”

  1. A Boomer Says:

    Ok Ok, this has to be a book titled “Boomers”, back jacket the Bazooka/Lemonade comment,

    this book needed to be written, needs to be published, cries out like Hitchcockian Byrds on the Wire,

    A Fan

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