Coming to Grips with White Knuckles

ell it's a sixties bar by the spiffy waiter recycling sheets for tablecloths. The sixties was "into," environment.
It's the eighties now as Heineken was unobtainable in 1969. Someone reminds me in order to run a tab a credit card is needed. This seems logical but very out of sorts with the people power complex I'm nurturing.
Even the jokes above the bar are old hat.
This confirms with certainty that Madcaps is Nostalgia.
It's too built up for Sha-Na-Na, fintails or Nancy Sinatra's, These Boots Are Made For Walking.
In my sensible decade that tune is considered sadistic. Obviously, the effect is too sophisticated to imagine I'm even a temporary time traveller. Still, poetry is a communicable disease
invented in the 1920's by a snooty degenerate named Pound.

I bide my time. It's an oasis for waiting. Old time experiences seem strangely current in this campy pub.
Occasionally, someone in a zoot suit comes in but realizes he's missed the last act of Grease.
Old Blue Eyes mig