“During one of America's periodic cocktail revivals, I peddled Connie Francis discs in the music section of a chain bookstore. For a while, the storewide promotion of non-raucous jazz, skinny cappuccinos, and other telltale tropes of now-sound bourgeois hep was funny and even engaging. But soon enough, the fixation on sparkly confetti, martini culture, and Miss Ann-Margret's "13 Men" inside a beige”
