The door sidled open, and an aging hippie of medium height and weight ambled in, grinning. He had a silver-gray goatee, and long silver-gray hair tied back in a pony tail. He stood still for only a second, his blue eyes reconnoitering the interior of the Mudcat Tavern, then nodded his head, saying in an almost whisper) "farrrr-out." Several heads turned as the stranger moved to the bar and hoisted himself on to a stool.

"Isn't that..?"

"Sure looks like him!"

And he grinned at the bartender who said "well. At last a Real Folksinger."

The long-haired fellow said "well, I reckon I am. At least my Daddy was a sure-fire one, so maybe I'm a Son of a Real Folksinger."

"Do me a favor?" said the barkeep. "Just say 'The New York Through-way's closed, man!'"

The Son of a Real Folksinger kept grinning but his eyes and voice didn't when he said "just bring me a vodka and 7UP", which the bartender did, saying "it's on the house."

"That's damn nice of ya" said SRF.

"No problem," said the Bartender," it's all on the house today."

"Good policy. How do you come up with such a clever promotional concept?" said SRF.

"Easy. I just ask myself 'what would Woody do?'"

"Far out."