Rolling Stones: New York City

After having perhaps the weirdest and probably the worst Thanksgiving dinner I’ll ever have, I found myself on the “F” train headed towards midtown Manhattan to see the biggest thing since the Beatles at Shea — the Stones at the Garden. The night before I had gotten a ticket through a broker for ten dollars above cost. (Either you knew someone who knew someone, or you were on line in the first four hours of sales a month before, or you paid through the ass for it. A lot of people are walking around with bulging pockets and smiles on their faces because of that concert, and it isn’t down on paper.)