For all its damned “liberation,” sexual and otherwise, the era was woefully deficient in heart. Secret admirers were now stalkers. Romeo and Gatsby’s asses would’ve gotten restraining orders. Cyrano De Bergerac would’ve been diagnosed with some chickenshit, two-bit, tin-horn disorder and put on Prozac. Guys like Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash would’ve been ignored. Motown would have never been invented.
