I frequented a Charles Street Coffehouse in the sixties that opened around noon with a limited menu of well-prepared French cuisine. I could afford to order coffee there; lunch was beyond my means.
At some point, even dedicated city dwellers can get tired of the traffic, crowds, and noises of urban life.
The gallery was not the best. But they had offered an "opening." A little wine, sherry, cheese, and crackers.
Forbidden fruit has a reputation.
Ozzie and Cherie would walk the few blocks over to the Boston Common for Ozzie to play some terrible music while Cherie "danced." As soon as a small group of tourists formed, Ozzie would start his spiel asking for spare change to support their art. Being that Cherie could not dance, nor Ozzie Play guitar, it was the rudest form of chicanery. However, the lack of technique didn't matter, and coins and bills fell into the tin cup. The tourists seemed keen to be clipped.
As a folksinger, I had to perform some odd gigs. At the coffeehouses, you knew what to expect at two in the morning from the drunks.
Most evenings, the habitues of the Folkie Palace made a noisy march down Grove St. to the Harvard Gardens.
Pat Sky has died, and I'll miss him even though it's been over fifty years since I last saw him.
If you were me in the '60s and early '70s, you always walked with one shoulder higher than the other.
We had been better off before the Teahead of the August Moon decided to improve himself.