It is family legend, how my parents hauled me out of a honking car filled with friends in Providence on the way to a weekend rock concert. I was fourteen years old. ("You’re too young!") My friends were older. Probably stoned. And that is how I missed Woodstock. The year was 1969. Al Gore hadn’t even thought of the internet. We were all wrapped up in the blue ink of typewriter ribbons and carbon
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