Beautiful.
Manhattan's Palm Gardens ballroom was really turned on. The flowers, Tim, the flowers. They were in people's hair, on the floor, swarming over two huge screens from the color-slide projectors. Lights flashed everywhere, bounding off the Day-Glo lunarscapes along the wall. And when the phosphorescent beams caught the dancers, it turned the boys' white shirts purple, along with their teeth and eyeballs. The electronic band made the floor jump, and everybody was happy, sniffing the incense, smoking pot. It was a real love-in.
Then in came the beautiful people on four motorcycles, right into the ballroom, oozing with flower-power. It...
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