![]() ![]() They were wiretappers and soldiers of fortune and faggot lounge entertainers. They were rouge cops and shakedown artists. It's time to dislodge his urn and cast light on a few men who attended his ascent and facilitated his fall. ![]() Lies continue to swirl around his eternal flame. Jack got whacked at the optimum moment to assure his sainthood. He was Bill Clinton minus pervasive media scrutiny and a few rolls of flab. He called a slick line and wore a world-class haircut. Jack Kennedy was the mythological front man for a particularly juicy slice of our history. The real Trinity of Camelot was Look Good, Kick Ass, Get Laid. Only a reckless verisimilitude can set that line straight. Our continuing narrative line is blurred past truth and hindsight. Hagiography sanctifies shuck-and-jive politicians and reinvents their expedient gestures as moments of great moral weight. Mass-market nostalgia gets you hopped up for a past that never existed. You can't lose what you lacked at conception. You can't ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. ![]() We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. ![]()
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