85 Rock on, Shindiggers

“Everyone clap hands!” prompted the Sourpuss Ninja, with a hearty hiccup, part of her disguise as leader of a hillbilly clan. “C’mon, everybody! We’re all just folks here!” And struck up the band: “Good morrrrrrrrrrrr-nin’ Captain! Good mornin’ to you sir. Hey! Hey! . . . Yodel-ayeeeeeee!”
“I don’t think so,” the Frisco Ninja muttered perceptibly, but only as part of the disguise. In real life, honorable Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja, certainly was just folks, hailing from humble San Francisco gardening clan origins.
“Well, perhaps, after a fashion,” he added with the dreadful accent peculiar to graduate students on leave of absence. “Not.” A bit of retro-wit didn’t fail to gain further attention from the white-haired sensualist at his table. For the first time, she regarded him as perhaps less than worthy, an inveterate cynic too young to be so. Suddenly, she saw the dissheveled scholar-on-hold as not so much a potential joystick as an actual killjoy.
The reason: singing was a joy equivalent to sex, and it was something she did as proficiently as selecting colors amenable to her casual and slightly unconventional lifestyle, for example, bay leaf shade lipstick with a slight come-hither gloss hinting of perhaps the greater part, still with potential for lubrication.
“Gee haw!” responded this anti-aging wonder of San Anselmo. Pieces of ancient memories of “Wagon Train” were disinterred. She sprang from the chair clapping, with a shy glee of Sweet Sixteen enduring over the sixty-something span. She moved toward the Strollin’ Bluegrass Band as if they’d waved her over to sing a song.
“I want to be a muuuuuuuule skinner,” crooned the Sourpuss Ninja.
With the few live bicyclists at bay for a moment, baby Drew drew upon his wholly urbane exposure to dance. Perhaps the day would come for learning the ways of the Great Smokey Mountains – in just an hour he’d already ventured very far from his baby crib. Looking at Aunt Kar, seeking approval, receiving her eager nods, he did The Madison unheedful of synch with the Strollin’ Bluegrass Band, simply moved by the spirit of music. The suave steps of The Madison juxtaposed oddly with the high velocity picking which accompanied “Muleskinner Blues.” It was cognitive dissonance itself, made charming only by virtue of the toddler.


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