It was a few days before Christmas of 1985. I was 15 years old. Grandma Maria and I were sitting alone at the kitchen table eating pizzelles and honey cookies, and our conversations had turned, once again, to our family's Deep Throat past.
On December 1, 2012, I received my first communication from Edward Snowden, although I had no idea at the time that it was from him. The contact came in the form of an email from someone calling himself Cincinnatus.
I spent a lot of time interviewing ex-cons for my latest book, Miss Brenda and The Loveladies. These women -- former drug dealers, prostitutes, addicts and even an attempted murderers -- are people I would have run away from, if I had met them a few years earlier.
I knew that there were promising startups and growth companies all over the country that needed talent to expand and thrive. I knew firsthand that there was an army of talented, ambitious, somewhat directionless young people who'd love to work for a startup.
A cover-up to avoid culpability for missing signs of an impending assassination, or having worked with the assassin in some undercover capacity prior to November 22, is very different from the institutional orchestration of the murder of a U.S. president.
Kennedy's final days paint a picture of a man who craved excitement. Perhaps because two of his siblings, Joe and Kathleen, had died young and the president himself had repeatedly faced death, JFK seemed unusually conscious that his time on earth was fleeting.
There are many objects and concepts that require specific gods to oversee their life and use. But nothing has ever needed a god as badly as parking lots. At least, that is what the God of Parking Lots kept repeating to himself, to make up for a generally ignored existence.
They lived on the unnecessary planet doing unnecessary things and were generally unnecessary people. It happens like that some times, when the universe produces things both really great and little enough to be superfluous.