The rest of the story

On the day President Kennedy was murdered, I was having lunch at a friend’s house in Merced, California. I was in the Air Force, and I was 19 years old.

JFK was very popular, of course, and I held a high opinion of him in spite of his being the cause of the demise of men’s hats in American society. Like all in my family, I was a Democrat though I still had never voted. At this point, I will reveal a secret:

I never voted until I was 40 years old.

In subsequent decades, my high opinion of him subsided a bit as I learned more about him, but he still seemed like a favorable chap and a reasonably good president. That has changed.

I just finished a book by the award-winning journalist Seymour Hersh, The Dark Side of Camelot which was published in 1997. How I had never read this book or even heard of it surprises me, but in the late 1990s I was dealing with divorce and related distractions.

Kennedy was a half-assed president at best and a whoremonger of epic proportions. Oh, we’ve all heard that he had a thing with Marilyn Monroe, but she was just one of an ongoing parade of women, many of whom were prostitutes, who visited the White House on a regular basis to cavort naked with Jack and his pals in the White House pool while beleaguered wife Jackie was out of town.

Let’s step back to his 1960 election, which was almost certainly stolen from Richard Nixon. I had previously thought last year’s election fraud was the first in a presidential contest since Andrew Jackson’s initial victory was stolen two centuries ago, but I was wrong.

In key states, Kennedy’s crew enlisted the Mafia and other seamy sorts to rig results. And that was hardly the end of Kennedy’s doings with the Mafia, which was enlisted to assist in JFK’s ongoing campaign to murder Fidel Castro after the Bay of Pigs fiasco.

In all of his doings, JFK sought the aid of his brother Bobby, a Svengali who was attorney general and likely a nastier character than Jack himself.

JFK was trying to have Castro murdered till that bloody day in Dallas. It was an obsession.

After the mob helped JFK get elected, Bobby, as attorney general, inexplicably went after organized crime in a hard way, which leads us to the assassination of Jack — and Bobby four years later. Whodunnit? Lots of suspicion has been directed at either Castro or the Mafia.

I vote for the Mafia for two reasons. Jack Ruby, who had mob connections, killed Lee Harvey Oswald. And Castro would have had little reason to knock off Bobby too, but the mob did. No way in the world did Oswald act on his own.

And how did the Kennedys get filthy rich in the first place? It came from daddy Joe who earned it via all manner of dishonest shenanigans, including bootlegging early in the 20th century.

Now I know the rest of the story. Maybe you do too. Excellent book. I recommend it.

The Kennedys were, of course, Democrats.

Barreling downhill

Debate done right in the Olden Days.

I did not see the presidential debate Tuesday night. Wednesday, however, I decided to watch it on YouTube. After about 10 minutes, I turned it off. It was just three guys talking over each other endlessly, making little sense. It was annoying. I probably would have continued had I not known the entire debate would continue in the same vein.

What is happening with the world? Where is decorum? Where is civilization? Where did it all go so completely wrong? We holler at one another. We curse one another. No one is allowed to have a different opinion. We firebomb businesses over stupidities.

Skim through the debate between Jack Kennedy and Richard Nixon, sensibly just one hour, not one-and-a-half to two. Then remember what happened on Tuesday night. The contrast is extreme. And the moderator for Kennedy-Nixon’s match in no way indicated his personal political leanings. He moderated.

A couple of years ago, I watched the presidential debates we held here in Mexico. They were far less unruly. And they are Latinos! Known for emotion.

I restate my long-held preference for enlightened monarchies.

The grass is greener

I CHANGED political affiliations in 2007. Blame Barry Obama and Rev. Jeremiah Wright. As some folks have said, I did not leave the Democrat Party. The Democrat Party left me.

I am ever amazed at the quantity of otherwise intelligent people who have not seen the light. Why, even blacks, that most-brainwashed of the U.S. citizenry, are coming to their senses and leaping the fence. Bless Candace Owens. I hope I live long enough to see her as the first real black president. First woman too.

As I’ve mentioned numerous times, I come from a sizable pack of Democrats. My last ex-wife, if memory serves, was a Bernie fan in 2016. She emailed me a few months ago asking what I saw in Trump. She seemed genuinely perplexed. I gave her a few reasons why and asked why she was not a Trump fan. Got no answer.

For her birthday last December, I sent her a MAGA cap. No reaction to that either. Maybe it was poached by porch pirates. I hear that happens above the border.

A friend sent the following visuals yesterday. Enjoy. And consider jumping the fence to the right side if you haven’t already done so. And don’t sit on the fence, which is just as bad, perhaps worse. This is no time for waffling. Be brave. We’d love to have you.

Screenshot

sjw

Penthouse playmate

Puerto

WITH ABOUT 85 percent of one’s life lived, it’s easy to focus more on the past than the future. I tend to do this especially at 5:30 in the morning.

Two periods in my life stand out as being particularly tasty. During both I was living in the Latin world, and during both I was living with Latin women. I married the second, but not the first though I considered it.

I drank a lot.

The second, of course, is my current, third and final wife who is Mexican and was a civil engineer. The first was Argentine and was a hooker. I rescued her from a life of sin. She found work as a legitimate waitress, and we cohabited in a penthouse atop a five-story apartment building overlooking the sea in Old San Juan in the early 1970s.

Readers who’ve hung around here for a spell have heard all this before — do forgive — but the focus today is the top photo, which I do not think I’ve posted previously. I could be mistaken, but no matter.

I have the memory of a tree trunk.

I do not recall who snapped the top photo. We rarely had visitors there on the roof. There was no elevator up the five floors and the stairwell risers were not uniform, making it an arduous ascent.

We tended to go out no more than twice a day. Once was to go to work — mine at the newspaper and hers at the restaurant, both night jobs — and then there was the second descent for whatever, groceries, lunch.

The likely photographer was Luis Muñoz Lee, a good friend and the son of Luis Muñoz Marín, the “George Washington” of modern Puerto Rico. Muñoz Lee was an artist and he also worked with me on the newspaper out on the John F. Kennedy Highway.

Luis, like me, was quite taken with the Argentine who was not your typical ex-hooker. She was very bright and incredibly rebellious.

She was just 20, and we fussed a lot.

In the top photo, the door to the left was the entrance from the stairwell. The door I’m leaning against, wearing my knockout bell bottoms, was the living room door. I was just inside that same door facing the opposite direction in daylight when I snapped the photo below.

Things come back to you at 5:30 a.m. If you’re lucky, you have photos.

And if you’re really lucky, you have people who will listen to you ramble on about them 40 years later.

silvina