Probably an unpopular bit of dialogue but you know how hippy kids were…

“The real HVB tourist is fat and ugly. He spends the money.”

“He’s seventy years old and drives a red Datsun rent-a-car. Look out for him. He won’t pick you up hitch hiking, he’ll run you down.”

“He’ll pick you up,” piped up a cute little blonde., “and if big fat mama wasn’t in the front seat with him we’d have to beat him off with a stick.”

“You’re all missing it,” drawled a tall slender girl, “the real HVB tourist is three fat haoles in glow-in-the-dark muus. I don’t know what’s worse, their saggy old arms or those atrociously phony Hawaiian prints.”

“I like the old guys that wear  black silk socks with garters and sandals.”

“I like the ones who find something to bitch about so they won’t have to leave a tip.”

“How about the ones who live on soda crackers they steal at Woolworth?”

I decided it was time to break this up. “Kids, you sound awful. Someday you’re going to get old and fat…”

“I will not get fat,” the little blonde said.

“You didn’t get old and fat, Mrs. Holt…”

I was indignant. “Well I’m not a hundred years old  either.”

“Neither are they. Ninety percent of those slovenly old bats are not any older than you,”  the tall girl answered.

“Someday you will learn,” I said, “that people age differently. But whether I’m old or fat is not the point. The point is it’s ugly for young people to say such cruel things about older people. If anything you should pity them and be kind to them. Weren’t you taught to respect your elders?”  The tall girl looked down her nose at me and said, as she strode off, “When my elders do something I can respect them for I’ll respect them. Not until.”

She had me there.

The kids continued to have fun picking on the tourist. It’s true, I’m afraid, we seem to be getting a sadder and shabbier lot every year. I continued reading. One rather notoriously odd-ball columnist picked up on David’s inventive genius, quoting, he said, a close friend. “David Holt…that mad genius…is as at home with his sinister mechanical tricks as he is with his somewhat weird assumption that the universe is shaped like a three-cornered hat…”

He was a three-dot man.

I didn’t think I would say anything about that to David.

I, he continued, on the other hand, was an outspoken pagan more at him in a Bullfinch that the Good book. “Karen Holt collects strays…both two-legged and four-legged…she calls herself a born again Druid…the last of the practicing Luddites…she and Holt make an unlikely pair.

She’s a kook who loves her horse more than her children…and it shows. A long-haired middle-age hippy with revolutionary overtone…if she dislike this country so much why doesn’t she move to Russia?”  This guy read my war record, anyway. I hope it was juicy.


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