I couldn’t care less for JFK, apart from the fact that he is now but an international airport. I only care to see how many died talking about his death, over 40 now at the last count, and I wonder, deep down, if I will be shot for writing this article. The powers that be certainly do not kid around when it comes to JFK, they kill you outright even today. Let’s test it then, I don’t care dying an accidental death.
It so happens, and I cannot describe this as anything else but a coincidence, or destiny, I don’t know, my best friend was the lover of Lee Harvey Oswald, the so-called killer of JFK. It didn’t matter to me, I didn’t know, what did that have to do with JFK? The man died way before I was even born, nearly 50 years ago, and this is all American stuff, I’m not American, I’m Canadian. Let the Americans sort themselves out, I thought. Not so easy when your best friend was right in the middle of it, and is about to publish the greatest bestseller ever on JFK’s death. Dear me, I thought, I will have to read the book and write an article about it. After all, this kind of journalism is rare these days when freedom of speech is all but nonexistent.