No Woodstock, no flower power, no assassinations, no Vietnam, just some memories of stickball, boxing, Cousin Brucie, Peabody & Sherman, Sonny Liston, Leslie Gore, diners, cafeterias, and a hundred other people and places, all while growing up near the last stop on the IRT line at the Bronx, Mount Vernon, New York city-line. My Sixties might have been a better title, but I pushed the Amazon Publish button too soon. It is a very short journey into the other side of a universe that I sometimes call the Black and White Sixties or theWoodstockless Sixties.
