Who Killed the Kennedys?

The night Barack Obama was elected president, people danced in the streets of New York. Our man had beaten the GOP. I looked into the eyes of a man my age and we started crying, not out of joy, but in relief of having endured the lost years since November 22 1963.

Obama was one of us. He took office two months later. The presidential limousine drove him from the inauguration stage to a series of parties. Thousands of supporters glad-handed their president and at the end of the festivities Barack Obama found himself in the White House.

He had it all.

The Oval Office.

The Red Phone to Moscow.

The Briefcase.

They were his along with two wars and a shattered economy.

That evening he must have looked at his wife and said, “What now?”

If I was Michelle, I would have said, “What about the Kennedys?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who killed the Kennedys?”

“That’s a dangerous question.” And he dropped the subject.

The President has had eleven years of access to the deep, dark secrets buried by various agencies; Roswell, Martin Luther King, Pearl Harbor et al. We have too many questions, yet nothing new has come to light during his administration and considering the body count for asking the wrong questions, I can appreciate his patience.

It takes time to unbury the truth and even fifty years after the fact and it doesn’t look like Obama is going to get it for us either before his access is gone.

So who killed the Kennedys?

Someone knows, but they ain’t saying.

52 Years Later

Today no one in New York had mentioned JFK’s bad day in Dallas.

Neither the BBC, New York Times, nor Al-Jazeera wrote a single line about the November 22, 1963 tragedy, proving the old adage that as you get old you forget and as you get older you are forgotten.

51 years might be a long time for some people, but I can remember exactly what I was wearing, as Sister Mary Honore sobbingly announced over the intercom, “The president has been shot dead in Dallas.”

The standard uniform for St. Mary’s of the Hills was a blue tie, white shirt, and navy blue slacks, but people recover fast from tragedy, because on the bus ride home 5th Grade Paul O’Conner said, “Well, I guess that settles what the Kennedys are getting for Christmas. A Jack in the Box.”

The older boys beat him up for his bad taste, because even 8th Graders understood that America had been changed forever and not necessarily for the better. School was cancelled for the rest of that week and I hung my school uniform in the closet till that next Monday.

There was nothing on TV throughout the weekend.

No cartoons.

No movies.

Only the dead president’s funeral, although CBS showed NFL football on Sunday.

The upstart AFL cancelled their games, which was the turning point for their league.

In the months that followed the Warren Commission concluded that Lee Harvey acted alone. Conspiracy theorists have refuted this finding as well as the official Single Bullet Theory, attributing the assassination to the CIA, Castro, the Mafia, Cuban exile groups, and anti-communist Pentagon cliques.

Of course my theory runs counter to the mainstream in that I think RFK arranged his brother’s death for having ordered the murder of Marilyn Monroe by J. Edgar Hoover.

I wrote recently that I had only been in two movies; THE LAST SONG and a foot fetish short, however three years ago my friend Randy Koral came out from Paris to film a version of my short story THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH. We changed the setting to Thailand and the fat man was on the run to Cambodia. I played the lead and Nick Rieter starred as the black operative hitman.

My screenplay centered on a long monologue of my JFK assassination theory. The day of this scene I had a 103 fever. Every attempt to complete this three-minute piece ended in failure further proving the wisdom of my never having pursued an acting career.

Nick on the other hand was great.

Cockney accent and bad teeth.

The film was never edited to a rough cut. Randy was soon diagnosed with brain cancer. Two operations in France has him in remission. He is supposedly coming to New York next month. Maybe we can reshoot the flubbed scenes then.

I miss JFK, especially after seeing the film 13 DAYS, which shows how a real president should act in a crisis.

His last words in Dallas were in in response to Governor Connelly’s saying, “You can’t say the people of Dallas don’t love you.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Four shots proved them wrong.

Here’s to you John, We barely knew you.

Five Degrees of Hangover

It’s football season in the USA and this Sunday Americans are following their teams. I’m in good shape. The Patriots are undefeated and the rest of the schedule is easy, but even those fans with losing teams have beers in the fridge and burgers on the grill with tequila shots at half-time and whiskey for the winners. The losers finish with flat beer.

Every Monday America should be closed for business, since most men will be nursing catastrophic hang-overs, except the working man in this country have surrendered his bargaining rights with management in order to drive an SUV and watch porno on company time, plus it is late in the year and sick days are all gone, so if the Monday morning rolls around and a worker requires a little extra time before handling heavy machinery, just try calling in sick. Their bosses will love hearing the excuse, but here’s a list of hang-over ratings. They just might help to your boss decide that you do deserve a day in bed.

One Star Hangover (*)

No pain. No real feeling of illness. You’re able to function relatively well. However, you are still parched. You can drink 5 cokes and still feel this way. For some reason, you are craving a steak & fries.

Two Star Hangover (**)

No pain, but something is definitely amiss. You may look okay, but you have the mental capacity of a staple gun. The coffee you are chugging is only increasing your rumbling gut, which is still tossing around the fruity pancake from the 3:00 AM Waffle House excursion. There is some definite havoc being wreaked upon your bowels.

Three Star Hangover (***)

Slight headache. Stomach feels crappy. You are definitely not productive. Anytime a girl pass, you gag because her perfume reminds you of the flavored schnapps shots your alcoholic friends dared you to drink. Life would be better right now if you were home in your bed watching Lucy reruns. You’ve had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water, 3 iced teas and a diet Coke — yet you haven’t peed once.

Four Star Hangover (****)

Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can’t speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can’t hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face.

For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars. Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your sphincter is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Five Star Hangover (*****)

You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually annoying the employee who sits in the next cube. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pore and making you dizzy. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth in an attempt to get the remnants of the poop fairy out. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva so your tongue is suffocating you. You don’t have the foggiest idea who the hell the stranger was passed out in your bed this morning. Any attempt to defecate results in a fire hose discharge of alcohol-scented fluid with a rare ‘floater’ thrown in. The sole purpose of this ‘floater’ seems to be to splash the toilet water all over your ass. Death sounds pretty good about right now….

This rating system came thanks to an email from Bryan La Boeuf.

My favorite painter and a lover of fine things.

And coming from Louisiana, he knows a little about hangovers.

Go Packers.

Loy Krathong 2001

Loy Krathong 2001 I spent the festival of light with the worst girlfriend of Pattaya.

Maam was a real horror.

But we are still friends, because we both had more than a little fiend in us.

Opps. Ouch.

Last week a woman photographer shooting a furniture catalogue at the brownstone stepped off the steps and rolled her ankle.

Two snaps.

I comforted her while we waited for the ambulance and lied to her, saying, “It’s probably ligaments.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I played basketball for years and we were always getting injured.”

She asked more questions and I told her not to worry, but I knew it was a broken ankle.

I had heard those cracks before.

Not from me.

Ten minutes later the EMS crew arrived and strongly suggested her going to the nearest emergency ward, which was less than three blocks away from the Fort Greene Observatory. As they drove away, I thanked the heavens for my good health and thought about what my Irish Nana said in my distant childhood, “As long as you can put on your shoes in the morning than you have no reason to complain.”

I wasn’t trying to be a smart-aleck, but I asked, “But what if i want to wear sandals?”


Sometimes it’s better to not ask so many questions.

Especially when there’s nothing really wrong with you.