Remember the Sixties? I do. Or, at least, I think I do. All that patchwork and long, straight hair. My first taste of “tofurkey.” There are palpable images of women offering me food as we warmed ourselves around a bonfire in Washington D.C. I was nine years old and, beyond the flaming oil drum, a column of shivering marchers from the 1969 Anti-War Demonstration trudged by. The next year my parents threw their two kids, dog and meager stash of possessions into the back of a utility van and fled Detroit for the Promised Land: Berkeley, California. I still have my copy of Mao’s “Little Red Book,” given to me at the local film co-op by some creepy, stringy man who distributed them like candy to all the young girls.