84 I’m so glad

“It’s a happening!” bald baby boomers with pony tails cried. They dropped a few tears of their own, for the hip memories, just as Monsignor Quinn had puddled up when the Froggy Ninja appeared.
“Wow.” Now Generation slang rushed back.
There was music – what could be more perennially with-it than bluegrass? There was beauty – the six not-for-long-unlaid ladies of San Francisco, and the white-haired sensualist. There was art – Mikkim Ttommott drawing as wildly as Leonardo on the Daily Specials easel she’d commandeered. There were the scents – the scones warmed, the espresso hot. There were conventions turned on their head – a two year ten month old toddler fighting and winning a just war against bicycle riding adults vain about their calf muscles. There was the intellectualism – not quite Jean-Paul Sartre at the Cafe de Flore, but the Frisco Ninja’s disguise was simpatico with the old Sixties rebels now deep into hot chocolate.
The personae had a certain standard of carelessness in common: the graduate student’s on leave of absence, zipper unzipped, theirs by muffin crumbs in wet moustaches. The Cream was on the the Plip Plop Coffe Shop’s ambient soundtrack – a just-perceptible “I’m So Glad.”
“Far out.”
Everyone but the about-to-die was feeling groovy except Aunt Kar. She was two generations too young to relate to retired Sergeant Peppers. The only trip she could enjoy was the journey to lifeless prostration on the floor by the last standing bicyclists.


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