Besides being the month of Thanksgiving, November is the month of the Dead Kennedy. It's a time of remembering a day of blood and brains on a pink dress in Dallas, a portal into a black hole in the last half-century's history.
For those of us born in and after the 1960s, who can't literally recall the day of the assassination, the real figure from November 1963 haunting our childhood imaginations was a boy, our age, standing in short pants and saluting his father's coffin.
John Kennedy Jr., who would have turned 52 this week, was our Kennedy. The beautiful man known as John John, who grew up cavorting on the Cape and Skorpios with Jackie O, discoing in New York with Mick and Bianca and Andy, was a symbol of sex and privilege, his elitism so gracefully carried.
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