The barista plopped the iced americano onto the brass bar with a broad smile. On cue, I dropped some cash into the tip jar, which held a small sign reading, "We are not resistant to change."

Well, good. This is Penny Lane. It will soon be history.

I should probably pen a paean to this place. After all, it is quintessentially Boulder. Or so they say. Local newspapers, including this one, have churned out long rhapsodies in blue, implicitly lamenting the passing of this ever-so-hip coffee joint.

There's no doubt the perennial hippie haunt is a landmark. The late Allen Ginsberg read his poetry there. Anne Waldman still does. Nirvana and Jewel performed there.

But the place is much more. As Westword noted last month, Penny Lane "attracts not only the college kids and hippies found in the People's Republic, but a mix of outcasts including runaway teens, poker-faced lesbians, homeless crazies, anemic vegans, radical new-agers, Buddhists from breakaway sects, street performers, and random old guys who just want to talk."

That list of stereotypes may not be comprehensive, but it is a representative view of the Penny Lane clientele, which is generally allowed to dress, act and smell in widely, um, unconventional ways.

In addition to the social scene, there are the open-mike "So You're a Poet" readings, which give many anonymous, tortured-artist types the chance to shout their stuff.

As Westword noted, these nights were often eye-opening: "It wasn't unusual to see some dude whip it out on stage to symbolize the military-industrial complex." Those of us who missed that unheralded titan of the literary world can only bewail our bad luck. In any other context, he'd be tragically mistaken for a pervert and thrown in jail. Imagine the loss to society.

Of course, it's not entirely fair to blame Penny Lane for its clients' exhibitionism, of either the physical or linguistic variety. And it is good to see a local place flaunting its quirkiness in the age of the Starbucks juggernaut.

On Thursday morning, Penny Lane was indeed charming. There were hipsters about, of course. But there were also coffee-sippers and laptop-lovers who could not be easily pigeon-holed. A guy wearing a dress shirt and slacks walked in, followed by a man in fatigues. Meanwhile, a pleasant couple with two huge dogs cleared their table and strolled off.

Here and there, posters advertising the nearby Beat Book Store display the obligatory, smoldering photo of Jack Kerouac, open-collared and grim-faced and hair akimbo. (Apparently, this is the only shot the Beat poet ever posed for.) The poster's tag line says, "Dig?"

Yeah, man.

Thursday was scheduled to be the last open stage. The Penny Lane wake is supposed to continue through Sunday. On Monday, Waldman is slated to give her last reading there. (Westword characterizes these performances as "shrieking" and "wild-eyed.")

Waldman herself expresses the conventional wisdom about the passing of the coffeehouse. "It is a tragedy," she told Boulder Weekly. "When communities cease to have those kinds of zones, it's very sad for the health of the psyche as a whole. It's a comment on the way Boulder's headed."

Maybe she's right. Maybe it is a metaphor.

On the other hand, maybe she's wrong. Maybe it's just that the coffee shop bounced one too many rent checks, and the landlord seized the opportunity to get a better tenant, one who'd be willing to pay, say, 40 percent more.

That's business. It's carnivorous. Is it also a "tragedy"? Only, perhaps, to the "poets" who think their torrid logorrhea is high art.

And let's not forget that there is a market for all manner of things, including the offbeat atmosphere at Penny Lane. Eleven years ago, you may recall, Penny Lane was in similar straits. Penny Lane's former landlord, tired of the social accouterments of the neo-Beat scene, gave Penny Lane the heave-ho.

The place found a new home across the street. This was after Ginsberg issued a very public plea for Penny Lane's salvation. He wrote: "To close it down in favor of some yuppie ideal of quiescence and conformity to brainless lettuce and tomato lunch would be mistaken civics."

Dude. Deep. Dig?

Penny Lane is closing again. It would be polite, perhaps, to gravely lament its passing. Still, I cling to the fading hope that the intelligentsia will survive.

Reach Clint Talbott at (303) 473-1367 or talbottc@dailycamera.com.