I’ve mentioned before that I was an eyewitness to the 1968 Chicago convention riots. My late mother was a delegate and I was there with my parents. It is one of the things that soured me on the Democratic Party for many years to come. The folks had taken me along in the hope that I could see their party in all its populist glory and be converted from my budding interest in the GOP. What I got instead was Hubert Humphrey being muscled into the nomination by a corrupt establishment, and, on the streets, a riot by the police. I watched from our hotel balcony, since I was 19 at the time and didn’t dare show my face on the street. The Chicago cops went berserk, furiously beating anyone they could catch. The victims I saw were not throwing rocks and bottles of shit, they were running for their lives. It was the first time I had smelled tear gas, The cops had endured an incredible amount of provocation from leftist agitators, but the latter beat a hasty retreat when things turned ugly and the cops vented their rage on bystanders, hangers-on, and concerned if naive young people who had shown up to take part in a peaceful demonstration, a demonstration they had every reason to expect to proceed in peace.