During the early part of the 1960s, there was a briefly introspective wind that swept through society. Some of the dust it stirred up took the form of alternative cafes and related gathering spots where the resident sage would recite obscure, dark poetry and generally make laconic social comments.
One such establishment in the big city was in the midst of its mid-day rush, when a casual passerby found his way in.
"Excuse me," the newcomer asked the sage, resting with his bongo drums near the edge of a small stage, "can you tell me what time it is?
"Twelve o'clock," the sage answered.
"Oh, really?" the fellow continued, "I'd have thought it was later than that."
"Man, you see, it never gets later than that around here. I mean, like when it gets to be twelve o'clock, we start over again ..."