Ferfucksake let us, collective snarky Americans, stop being all tenderheaded about JFK, who had his rockstar brains exeunted by a sniper forty years ago, when Yours Truly was only just over a month old, en route to becoming already a brilliant yet sinister presence on the highways, biways, electronic forums, cafés and parties that this great land has to offer.
A quote from the Cleveland Plain Dealer today:
"We're not going to solve it," he says, "and that's what makes it a great conspiracy."
The end. What more else is there to say. Listening to Jesus and Mary Chain, the dark brothers of Scotland, for their wisdom on the matter (to paraphrase: I'd like to die just like JFK, I'd like to die on a sunny day) before I head out into this Middling City sunny day to create an ultra-fab image for a cover of a mag and then return to my frenetic smarty-pants grad student work before I get picked up in the middle of the night by Lead Boy Colleague to head out of town on an NFL junket sweet and short and full of breathtaking pixels, it is hoped, of overpaid and overgrown men bashing the crap out of each other. Hello gladiators.
Sportsy Love.