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That same year he rented the guest cottage on an estate owned by a family of pop singers ready to break into the big time. The Cowsills invited him to a gig at a bar in town and, surprising, every last one of his children, he not only went, he took them along, too. The kids drank soda while the Cowsills gushed in rock tempo, “I love the flower girl.” Did he believe in flower girls? Did he guess his daughter’s dreams of the cutest Cowsill boy possibly in some glorious eleventh hour tussling her to the ground in the sunlit fields beyond the guest cottage? The truth was, he predicted the Flower Girl song would be a hit. On other matters he kept his counsel. He rolled with the Rousseauism of the sixties, but did not wholly surrender to it. To the romantic notion that “man is born good,” he posed a counter theology. "Everyone is a son of a bitch," he told his daughter. "