Mark and I were having a lovely dinner last night at a Peruvian restaurant. I had some kind of flattened steak on a plate of spaghetti covered with a sauce that resembled alfredo with pesto mixed in. It was very good. Mark had pulpo, better known in the English language as octopus. It also was very delicious. We finished off dinner with a shared dessert of butterscotch flavored mouse on top of a thin disk of chocolate cake. A very light and easy to eat, finish to the dinner. Like I said, dinner was lovely. The restaurant was pleasant, the staff very attentive and friendly. There was only one thing that I found disturbing. As Mark and I were picking away at our dessert, two men walked past our table on their way out. I gagged as memories my misspent youth flooded my senses. One of them, maybe both of them, was soaked in patchouli oil. That goddamned stink from back in the hippie days. Oh, I remember that smell very well from back then. It seemed like no matter what concert, what hippie get together that I found myself in, somebody had taken a bath in patchouli oil. Patchouli oil is disgusting. I could never figure out how those who wore that smell could think it was pleasant. It isn't, it's a horrible smell. Luckily, when the two guys wearing the offending aroma opened the door to leave the restaurant, most of the patchouli smell left with them. But that patchouli got me to remembering. I thought back forty five years ago to my long haired, pot smoking, LSD taking, hippie times, and I wondered why the hippie thing faded out so abruptly. Probably because of the patchouli oil.