"You can't actually get to the window as such but the reason they did that of course, they didn't want thousands of American tourists getting there each year going, "No f*cking way! I can't even see the road. sh*t, they're lying to us. f*ck! There's no f*cking way."
— Bill Hicks
Anybody here, seen my old friend John? ...
I'll go outside and smoke a cigarette and look around. It's the best I can do. I'm here UFOs, abduct me.
Thursday night I met with the Dallas-Fort Worth 911 Truth group at Crystal's Pizza.
Daniel says it's closed now, but they used to hold hangings on the roof. He says former inmates of the jail and older jailers say it's haunted because of that.
Dale is big and bald and he'll be twenty-one soon. He's from Arizona and his dream would be to get onto the Dallas police force and then become a resource officer in the schools.
This morning I went to Mecca. I don't think being in Bethlehem could be any more awe inspiring than where I was today. Maybe a John Prine concert.
Dealey Plaza. 411 Elm Street.
The first day I walked into kindergarten at Lincoln School, Miss Steele had written all across the blackboard in big fluffy yellow teacher handwriting, President John F. Kennedy.
In third grade, just after lunch, Sister Ellen floated into the classroom on the invisible nun conveyer belt — you couldn't see their feet — and told us the President had been shot and that he was dead.
"Why?" I ask Mike Brown, who is standing on the Grassy Knoll, why he comes here.
"For the truth," says Mike. He is a big, black man wearing black work clothes. He's got a deep voice and he's giving folks the alternative view of history, the op-ed of what they have just heard nearby in the JFK Museum tour.
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