Strolling down 48th Street in Manhattan one afternoon last week, a visiting Frenchwoman felt a light tap on her arm. "Lady," said a frowzy, spiritless panhandler, "c'n ya lemmee have a quarter to buy my little boy some milk?" As the woman reached into her purse, the city's street sounds suddenly receded, and she heard the blare of a rock-'n'-roll tune. She glanced around, at length found the source of the music: the panhandler was carrying a small transistor radio. The Frenchwoman snapped shut her purse and marched on.
All over the U.S.,...
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