I don't mean to stick a flower in the rifle of rock'n'roll, but there's nothing like a few gunshots to focus the mind on good cheer, particularly when the dust clears from the martini glass through which we view it. It's 1968, and the youthful future constituents of Ross Perot are attempting to melt their parents' Wallace buttons into roach clips, but they're also overturning Esso pumps and dropping pigs on the New York Stock Exchange. In Paris, the kids are storming streets, fists in air, baguettes glistening in the sun, copy of Althusser in their back pockets—Your brother may die in Vietnam, Capitalism is a monster, but this is fun! Below the equator, Ché's by this point useless in Bolivia, but his poster's still sweating pheromones. And Costa e Silva is kicking the ass of the Brazilian congress.... More >>>