Sep 27, 2018
3 min read
A Cat, a Blanket & the Nazis
Back in ’69, I was a nineteen-year-old hippie living alternately in my car and at my parent’s apartment in Queens. On a chilly autumn night, taking advantage of my parent’s hospitality and in need of warmer clothes, I opened their storage closet, liberated the raunchiest old blanket I could find and turned it into a poncho.
That next night, when my father saw me wearing it, he calmly told me that it had been the…
