Many, many years ago, someone pulled down the American flag and stomped on it in front of the elementary school across the street from my apartment. It was the early seventies and anti-war protests were common. I was an undergrad and cooking some soup for lunch when three cops burst into my apartment, threw me in handcuffs and took me to jail. I had long hair at the time and fit the profile of the person who desecrated the flag. I kept asking them what I had done, but they told me to shut up, roughed me up and promised me that I was going to prison. After a couple of hours in jail the hall door opened and a woman appeared with two young students from the school. They walked over to my cell, looked at me and said, “that’s not the guy.” The cops sheepishly released me and offered me a ride h

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