My Boobs are on File with the FBI
Here's a story from my hippie days that should brighten everyone's day. Somewhere deep in a storage room in Washington D.C. there may be a picture of my boobs. It was 1971 and the war in Vietnam was still going on. College campuses across this great land had protest rallies to shout and demand that we get our troops out of there. (Why don't we still do that? But I digress.) So I joined a large contingent of teenagers in a university courtyard to listen to folk singers and speakers filling our young, impressionable minds with anti-war sentiments. Then the rumor spread. Someone said that there were men in suits on top of the nearby building taking photographs. Word swept through the crowd that they were FBI agents and you would end up with a "file" <gasp!> if they could identify you. "Quick! Cover your faces!" shouted one of the speakers. Some were carrying protest signs, so they shielded themselves with their placards. A few gir