It is the summer of 1970. The Beach Boys take the stage at The Schaeffer Music Festival in Central Park, NYC. A flower child, 18 years old, blond hair to her waist, rocks and rolls to cheerful melodies born in Southern California. There is a faint perfume of sweet cannabis and the crowd dances on chairs and in aisles. Fast forward to the summer of 2005. The flower child's tresses are barely shoulder length, with blond highlights straight from a bottle, and the surfing sounds of Brian Wilson and company come from a boom box CD in the cavernous swimming pool of a local YMCA. A determined group of aquatic calisthenics disciples includes silver haired gentlewomen, portly females, and otherwise weight sentient ladies. There is a faint perfume of chlorine and the crowd lifts Styrofoam barbells and consummates jumping jacks in rhythm with the music. Some things never change. Music is a universal balm that stills the restless spirit and kindles merriment.