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It went barely noticed that yesterday was the 57th anniversary of the Kennedy assassination.
You know, the first one.
So maybe it's fitting that the day continued to pour out a "firehose" of new conspiracy theories about our new President's election, most coming from an attorney who's been so-craycray that former President Trump finally saw fit to disown her, both individually and in his soon to be unofficial official capacity. She has since announced that her "client" is now #WeThePeople. Fuckall, I ain't payin' her bill. Even Twitter put her on a temporary banhammer for some of the threats and general strangeness coming from her.
I've never believed in any of the wacky conspiracy theories about JFK's shooting, although I appreciate a fictional story well told about it, whether involving Stephen King or Bruce Campbell or, for that matter, Gerald Ford. Only yesterday, I discovered another loosely based on it, which I tried watching on Prime: Winter Kills, a black comedy from 1979 that chronicles the "President Kegen" assassination in 1960 and the subsequent murder of the suspected assassin by a "Joe Diamond." The former is played, uncredited and shown only from the wrists down, by then US Senator John and then-husband of briefly-seen co-star Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner; the latter, name obviously riffing on "Jack Ruby," is played by Eli Wallach. Others in the cast include a very young, pre-Dude Jeff Bridges; an older post-Norman Batesy Anthony Perkins; John Huston playing essentially the same role Burt Lancaster would take in Local Hero, but not nearly as well; Strangelove's Sterling Hayden as an almost as crazy rival of the Kegen family; and Jerry Mathers as the grassy knoll.
Okay, I made that last one up. But all the others were actually in it.
I lasted through about an hour of it. It had too many star-cooks spoiling the story, it was adapted from a novel by the author of Manchurian Candidate without nearly the suspense or working humor- and it lost me when the Dude, supposedly the surviving heir of a Kennedy-like fortune, drove onto a war-game battlefield with real tanks and live ammo to meet with Hayden's character. Not in a Lamborghini or even a Caddy, but a Ford Pinto.
And it didn't even blow up real good.
----
Making that image more real is that right at the time the Pinto's tendency toward immolation from rear-end collisions became known in the late 1970s, I briefly owned one. Totalled it, but from it being hit in the front, which was a much better plan for my continued living. My roommate of the next three years also bought one of that era, used, which he retrofitted so it wouldn't blow up and made it all the way back to Massachusetts in it after graduation.
This roommate:
To Jim's left, Sleepy Jean, who could somehow catch winks in Danish modern furniture, a skill that has escaped me all my life. Yes, I've found a trove of photos from Back Then, which I'll be bringing over here now. A couple more for now- one from that apartment-
(the gun was a toy, the cat was a stray, and those are hallmates of ours from the previous year along with our third roommate Jay, now a doctor in Ithaca)
- and this one from the following year-
The porn stache of Dave, aka Link (as in the Missing One), who got us this on-campus apartment for junior year in the housing lottery. We chronicled some of his finer moments a few months ago.
Alright, one more from that era:
The note in the album says "fell in the parking lot." That's all I remember of this particular injury of my sister back circa summer of 1979. The car to the left of the left crutch was her 1974 Mustang II, which I later inherited for my final five semesters of law school and into my first year of practice in Rochester. I remember it leaking oil like a sieve, it being of the only model year to ever mandate an interlock to start the car with both front seat belts on, but, most fondly, it never getting into any kind of accident in my years owning it. A good thing, since this was not your father's real pony-car Mustang but essentially a Mustang grille slapped onto what was essentially,...
what else?
... a Pinto.
----
Client due in Rochester shortly. More from me shortly about things wot I done while here today, kittens and puppies and films, oh my!
You know, the first one.
So maybe it's fitting that the day continued to pour out a "firehose" of new conspiracy theories about our new President's election, most coming from an attorney who's been so-craycray that former President Trump finally saw fit to disown her, both individually and in his soon to be unofficial official capacity. She has since announced that her "client" is now #WeThePeople. Fuckall, I ain't payin' her bill. Even Twitter put her on a temporary banhammer for some of the threats and general strangeness coming from her.
I've never believed in any of the wacky conspiracy theories about JFK's shooting, although I appreciate a fictional story well told about it, whether involving Stephen King or Bruce Campbell or, for that matter, Gerald Ford. Only yesterday, I discovered another loosely based on it, which I tried watching on Prime: Winter Kills, a black comedy from 1979 that chronicles the "President Kegen" assassination in 1960 and the subsequent murder of the suspected assassin by a "Joe Diamond." The former is played, uncredited and shown only from the wrists down, by then US Senator John and then-husband of briefly-seen co-star Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner; the latter, name obviously riffing on "Jack Ruby," is played by Eli Wallach. Others in the cast include a very young, pre-Dude Jeff Bridges; an older post-Norman Batesy Anthony Perkins; John Huston playing essentially the same role Burt Lancaster would take in Local Hero, but not nearly as well; Strangelove's Sterling Hayden as an almost as crazy rival of the Kegen family; and Jerry Mathers as the grassy knoll.
Okay, I made that last one up. But all the others were actually in it.
I lasted through about an hour of it. It had too many star-cooks spoiling the story, it was adapted from a novel by the author of Manchurian Candidate without nearly the suspense or working humor- and it lost me when the Dude, supposedly the surviving heir of a Kennedy-like fortune, drove onto a war-game battlefield with real tanks and live ammo to meet with Hayden's character. Not in a Lamborghini or even a Caddy, but a Ford Pinto.
And it didn't even blow up real good.
----
Making that image more real is that right at the time the Pinto's tendency toward immolation from rear-end collisions became known in the late 1970s, I briefly owned one. Totalled it, but from it being hit in the front, which was a much better plan for my continued living. My roommate of the next three years also bought one of that era, used, which he retrofitted so it wouldn't blow up and made it all the way back to Massachusetts in it after graduation.
This roommate:
To Jim's left, Sleepy Jean, who could somehow catch winks in Danish modern furniture, a skill that has escaped me all my life. Yes, I've found a trove of photos from Back Then, which I'll be bringing over here now. A couple more for now- one from that apartment-
(the gun was a toy, the cat was a stray, and those are hallmates of ours from the previous year along with our third roommate Jay, now a doctor in Ithaca)
- and this one from the following year-
The porn stache of Dave, aka Link (as in the Missing One), who got us this on-campus apartment for junior year in the housing lottery. We chronicled some of his finer moments a few months ago.
Alright, one more from that era:
The note in the album says "fell in the parking lot." That's all I remember of this particular injury of my sister back circa summer of 1979. The car to the left of the left crutch was her 1974 Mustang II, which I later inherited for my final five semesters of law school and into my first year of practice in Rochester. I remember it leaking oil like a sieve, it being of the only model year to ever mandate an interlock to start the car with both front seat belts on, but, most fondly, it never getting into any kind of accident in my years owning it. A good thing, since this was not your father's real pony-car Mustang but essentially a Mustang grille slapped onto what was essentially,...
what else?
... a Pinto.
----
Client due in Rochester shortly. More from me shortly about things wot I done while here today, kittens and puppies and films, oh my!