“I do stand-up comedy, and one of my stories that I tell onstage is about this,” said Ron Maranian, who was 24 when it all went down. “People can’t believe it.”

A section of the District Code dating to 1892 made it illegal to fly a kite over “any street, avenue, alley, open space, public inclosure, or square within the limits of the cities of Washington and Georgetown.”

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Presumably intended to safeguard power and telephone lines, the law hadn’t been enforced in modern memory. But the late 1960s were a contentious time in America. A lot of people were itching for a fight.

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On May 30, 1969, an 18-year-old named Joseph Boyd flew a kite — red with a white tail — at P Street Beach “to the delight and applause of a large crowd of sunbathers,” according to the Evening Star.

P Street Beach — between Dupont Circle and Georgetown — was a hippie hangout. The kite law seemed to give police an excuse to haul in some longhairs.

What really irked authorities was when an alternative newspaper called the Quicksilver Times applied for permission for a kite fly-in on July 4. The permit was denied, drawing criticism from the Star’s editorial page: “While it is hard to imagine a less harmful activity of the longhair community than a scurrying around on the broad expanse of the Mall on the Fourth of July, kites in hand, that won’t be allowed.”

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With the ancient law suddenly revived, the Smithsonian had to move its annual kite festival from the Mall to Fort Washington.

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This, then, was the atmosphere on April 11, 1970, when about 30 young people gathered on the Washington Monument grounds.

“If you want to change the law bad enough, make them enforce it,” Maranian said. “That was the plan: Make them enforce it. We had a kite-in.”

As the protesters loosed their kites upon the breeze, and a crowd began singing “America the Beautiful,” the police moved in. One mounted officer told a teenager to reel in her kite “because this area is in the landing pattern for National Airport” and because the kite might strike high-tension lines (of which there were none).

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A young man was blackjacked and arrested for drinking in public. Four others, including Maranian, were charged with kite-flying.

Maranian and some friends decided to up the ante the following week by distributing fliers inviting more people to break the law.

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“We called ourselves the Hot Air Nine,” said Mack Emsellem, one of the participants. “Our slogan was, ‘They would tax the air if they could.’ ”

Mack’s younger brother, David, recalled the scene when he arrived on the Washington Monument grounds clutching a paper kite he’d bought at a Rexall drugstore: “It was absolutely amazing to see that many police, with the paddy wagons and patrol cars and motorcycles. And on horseback and on foot.”

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But this proved to be a calmer day than the previous week, the sort of wink-wink theater that cops and protesters in the District are used to performing.

Still, 11 people were arrested, including, for the second time, Maranian. He called Bill Danoff (later to become famous for the Starland Vocal Band and “Afternoon Delight”), who bailed him out.

The Post editorialized: “All this could be fine comic relief worthy of the kite trouble Charlie Brown has been enduring for years. But the park police and their superiors are solid serious, carrying on like classic letter-of-the-law men. The effect is that they are making fools of themselves in the public eye, chasing after spring-struck kite fliers while the town crawls with narcotic pushers, holdup men and other criminals.”

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A lawyer named Frederic Schwartz Jr. filed a lawsuit to rescind the law. Congress had the final say, and in May, the House and Senate struck down the statute.

To celebrate the law’s repeal, a legal kite-in was held on the Monument grounds on May 24, 1970. The National Park Service gave away 3,500 kites. Wrote The Post: “The crowd encompassed everything from hippies blowing bubbles and their minds, to Green Berets, to squealing children, and a stately St. Bernard puppy who got tangled up in kite string.”

When the Kennedy Center opened in 1971, one of the first comics to perform was Ron Maranian — “the Armenian Comedian.” As he was finishing his set with the story of the Great Kite Bust, two Park Police officers walked in from the wings.

“One gets on each side and escorts me off the stage,” Maranian said. “It was a surprise to me. They finally got it. They were smiling.”