Posts Tagged ‘JFK’

During World War II, American industry joined in the war efforts by adjusting the products coming down the assembly line: automotive companies began churning out tank widgets and cowboy boot cobblers began cobbling combat boots. With the close of the hot war (and the rise of the cold one), it was clear the United States military could not continue to rely on peacetime industries to always support wartime production needs. What was born was a Military Industrial Complex – a new market burgeoning out of the demand for more weapons. Weapons were stockpiled against perceived threats and as long as there was a constant threat of something Out There (or hiding under the bed, for that matter) there would be a demand for more: more devastating bombs, shinier bombs, smarter bombs, etcetera, etc., et al.

In his grand exit from the White House, President and General Dwight D Eisenhower, warned the American citizenry of this Military Industrial Complex…

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.

During the Cuban Missile Crisis, war seemed inevitable between the United States and Revolutionary Cuba’s financier, the Soviet Union. John F Kennedy was in the White House and through diplomacy there was a peace to be found. Kennedy also sought to pull troops out of Vietnam. This was not what the Military Industrial Complex had in mind. The Gods of War found an ally in the mob. While Joe Kennedy’s ties to the mafia helped secure the union vote in favor of his son’s presidency, JFK and RFK turned against their father’s criminal chums and began a campaign against the mob. Surrounded by enemies, conspiracy began to brew… In November of 1963, there was an assassination plot uncovered in Chicago where a lone-nut sniper was to fire upon the presidential motorcade. Days later on 11/18/63, JFK was in Tampa where Jackie Kennedy refused to ride in the motorcade because of the perceived danger. Secret Service security was heightened and the Tampa threat was never realized. Four days later in Dallas, no threat was perceived, but that does not explain the sudden strategy change in Secret Service detail (no agents on the running boards, police escort leaving the flanks of the presidential limo vulnerable, a changed motorcade route). JFK was assassinated on November 22, 1963, in what was a political coup by the Military Industrial Complex who tagged LBJ as a more compliant successor.

Oh, God, can you ever imagine what would happen to the country if Lyndon were president?

– JFK to his wife, according to Jackie’s memoirs

LBJ and the Kennedy Brothers, RFK and JFK

LBJ and the Kennedy Brothers, RFK and JFK

President Lyndon B Johnson assigned the Warren Commission to “investigate” the assassination, but this investigation began with a conclusion: Lee Harvey Oswald was a lone nut who acted alone. Working from that conclusion, the Warren Commission Omission went backwards to prove its thesis with theories including magic bullets from an ineffective Italian rifle. Hours after the assassination, Oswald was confronted by police for sneaking into a movie theater without a ticket. When he was arrested, Lee Harvey Oswald thought it was for punching a police officer in the theater. Two days later, Jack Ruby approached the heavily guarded Oswald and murdered him, which conveniently kept the “lone nut” from getting his day in court. If Lee Harvey Oswald was ever tried in court for the assassination, there would have never been enough evidence to convict him beyond a reasonable doubt. There was a conspiracy to kill JFK and then there was a conspiracy to cover-up the assassination. It was an inside job, with participation of the new Commander-in-Chief, J Edgar Hoover’s FBI and other elements of American Intelligence. The Military Industrial Complex was the chief benefactor.

With the fall of the Soviet Union, the immediate military threat from Moscow was diminished. While modern Russia is no friend of peace or to the United States, the nuclear tension of the Cold War is no more what it once was. Cold War advisor, “the father of containment” (policy against the spread of communism), George Frost Kennan understood the impact on American Industry should the USSR no longer present a viable threat…

Were the Soviet Union to sink tomorrow under the waters of the ocean, the American military-industrial establishment would have to go on, substantially unchanged, until some other adversary could be invented. Anything else would be an unacceptable shock to the American economy.

With the Cold War over, where would the Military Industrial Complex turn for a new adversary? While I am confident the JFK Assassination was an inside job, I cannot suggest with as much confidence that the events of 9/11 were also orchestrated from within the American government. Regardless of the means of how 9/11 occurred, the ends represented a boon for the Military Industrial Complex: nearly endless war in Afghanistan and Iraq, the rise of drones and drone spending, the increased dependency on intelligence gathering.

Julian Assange, hiding out in Ecuadoran Embassy in London. Edward Snowden, granted temporary asylum in Russia.

Julian Assange, hiding out in Ecuadoran Embassy in London. Edward Snowden, granted temporary asylum in Russia.

With the sudden transparency of American duplicity gained through WikiLeaks and Snowden’s disclosures, many were shocked at the extent of intelligence gathering by the NSA and other alphabet agencies. Perhaps because I dawdle so much in the shadows, these were hardly revelations to me. I have always assumed my phone bugged, my emails hacked, my online activity monitored, my drinking water fluoridated, my brain scanned by airport security and my bath time observed through infrared by hovering spy blimps. So goes the life of Vic Neverman. So goes the Intelligence Machine of the Military Industrial Complex. The more it feeds, the greater the appetite grows. With the only oversight an oblivious congressional panel, the Intelligence Machine was bound to test the full extent of its reach, sticking its nose into the private parts of the American public like a pig snouting for truffle. Anyone who would expect the NSA to behave politely is naïve.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? (Latin, “who will guard the guards, themselves?”)

– Juvenal, Roman poet 2000 years ago

Which brings us to the crossroads… as deceptions are uncovered, where will the Intelligence Machine go from here? Julian Assange and Edward Snowden (quirky, smarmy, creepy fellows as fellows go) have haphazardly made our secrets public, which has pissed-off the targets of American spying (American public, countless American allies and… the Vatican!?), stunting American diplomacy and anti-terrorism collaboration into the unforeseeable future. Will their efforts rewrite the programming of the Intelligence Machine, scaling back its advances? Will Assange and Snowden be written about as heroes in tomorrow’s history books? Or will the transnational Military Industrial Complex whitewash the record of American trespasses, adapt to the transparent environment and overcome by innovating new methods of duplicity? My money is on the latter.

Who Watches the Watchmen?

Who Watches the Watchmen?


Life as a paranoid conspiracy theorist is not easy, especially when attempting to assimilate into a society repulsed by alternative thought. I’ve always tried to offer up advice to fellow paranoids on the subject of interacting with the mainstream populace, but I, Vic Neverman, am not always successful. Especially in the art of romance.

As a conspiracy theorist, where success is measured by how many alphabet groups are monitoring you (i.e. FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, DEA, FEMA, IRS, etc.), quality of life depends on how well you live off the grid. Living off the grid is more than paying in cash, unpredictable behavior, and learning how to trap, kill, gut, skin, and cook a squirrel. Living off the grid means you must be very selective in choosing those who remain close to you. The closer, the more selective you must be.

Last night, a moderately attractive bartender and I amused ourselves by discussing 3-leaf clovers in the head of the Guinness pints she served up and I threw back. She was practicing for the upcoming St Patrick’s Day traditions and I was endeared to her in the process. Yet, outside of my healthy gratuity, nothing will become of this frivolous flirtation because I cannot trust her. She has recognized me from earlier patronage which leaves her susceptible to outside corruption. Has she been employed by an antagonist agency looking to undermine me? Probably not. But since I have frequented this bar, there is a reasonable chance she has been. That is a chance I will not take.

As a conspiracy theorist who hides amongst the shadows in order to deliver the unfiltered light of truth, I cannot expect anyone from the local bar, gymnasium, library, burrito stand, or DMV to not be employed in some manner by an organization seeking my demise. Thus, being a paranoid romantic is not easy. The most common people in my life have to be suspected the most.

Which is why I strive to find romance in spontaneous encounters. In search of one such encounter, I accompanied a friend and his two young spawn to a children’s birthday pool party in the suburbs of Florida where there was the promise of attractive single moms. I arrived with my long time co-conspirator Tusk (learn more about him in the Cast of Characters page) and his mini-clones at the typical suburban compound equipped with a swimming pool. My primary duties were to attend to the children of my associate, but for the sake of secondary duty, I puffed out my chest in peacockian display to illustrate to any adequate female that my loins were ripe for the adjoining. I even had scripted dialogue at the ready.

The scene was a crazed playground of small people aged less than some of the half & half in my fridge. These little beings were all smiles and tears, subsisting, it seems, entirely off of highly sugared edibles. Tusk was recognized by the elders of the party and he formally introduced his non-sexual male companion, Vic Neverman, as a writer. The collective sum of the elders inquired what it was I might write, to which I responded…

“I am a blogger for Scientology, catering to the upper tiers of the membership. If I were to share any of the information from my blogs with you, your heads will simply and literally explode for lack of reasoning capacity.”

I smiled after this delivery. The response was stifled, at best. These party-goers soon turned towards each other and immediately resurrected their previous conversations, any small talk distraction to distance themselves from my announcement. I did clear my throat and assure them my statement was a joke, but by this time, they were fully entrenched in ignorance warfare. My humor went without laugh.

And so I was left alone with Tusk’s two small persons who were crawling around like sloths scavenging earthbound cookie crumbs. I took to my duty as caretaker and I took it rather seriously as it was the best way to further myself from the other adults I was surrounded by. Until… she walked in.

I appropriately say, ‘she walked in’ as her face and name were rather forgettable while her legs were absolutely not. She (name aforementioned was forgettable) did carry around a creature born of her womb, but she did seem relatively un-husbanded. I relished this chance to engage this bastardized child’s mother and Tusk was quick at the introduction, “This is Vic, my friend, the writer.”

She inquired into what sort of writing I pursued. While my writings cannot be bound by simple characterization, I can lean upon one aspect or another as needed. In this case, I harped upon a recent project I have taken up with the assistance of my ally Tusk: a children’s book.

She seemed delighted. She regularly read to her birthed person stories from such books. She inquired into what my book was about.

“Well…” I began, ever eager to impress. “The title is ‘Who Shot JFD’?”

Distracted by her progeny, she expressed some half-hearted confusion at the premise.

I continued, eager to expound upon my works. “It is a children’s conspiracy book, you see. The premise is ‘who shot John Fitzgerald Duck?’. JFD is the first web-toed elected president of the park and a very popular president at that. But he has his enemies… First of all, there are the squirrels who John F Duck announces can no longer eat from the bird feeders. Then there are the raccoons who John F Duck says can no longer eat from the garbage bins. Then there is the fact John F Duck doesn’t always sleep at home” At this point I wink at the mother corralling her spawn. “Because he happens to have a few ‘birds’ on the side, if you know what I mean. These birds happen to have their own mates who are jealous of John F Duck and thus wish him ill. In short, JFD had many enemies.”

By the wide-eyed, open-mouthed, expression on her face, I was able to gather that she was rather enthralled by my children’s book thriller.

“After the assassination of John Fitzgerald Duck, the park authorities quickly nab Harvey Lee Opossum for committing the dastardly crime. Harvey Lee Opossum, of course, admits that he is a patsy, which is believable because how can this lowly marsupial pull off the murder of the century? But before Harvey Lee Opossum’s voice can be heard, he is in-turn gunned down by Jack Rooster! And Jack Rooster soon dies from cancer (perhaps a cancer delivered by the crazed scientist Mojo Monkey of New Orleans who had created such an evil disease made transitional via syringe). So who is really to blame?”

She, the one with the legs, was mostly speechless. Suddenly, there was the presence of a masculine figure hovering over my baited prey. He asked of her a status of goings on. She immediately introduced me, Vic Neverman – a writer – and quickly excused herself. The flee by which she made was expected as this man appeared to be the husband we did not account for. Shame. He stood defiant in her sudden absence, arms folded tightly over his chest. He was a meager man in the shadow of my form, but his standoffishness was to be respected out of my adherence to civil law (though I was tempted to box his ears). He, having not heard my long story, inquired upon what sort of writing I engaged in.

“I write a blog on Scientology.”