The Hate Machine

Probably just the Bogeyman. He’s under so many beds.

Right back at you, Judith. (Are you the same Judith, posting here several years ago as an actress who got cast in a big film then the lead was re-cast, and venue changed, or do we seek another? Spotty on my details.)

I would worry more about tall weeds if it weren’t for the fact that as I dig so many of my deep weed digs are proven right, time and time and again.

I didn’t do an exhaustive dig into David Kennedy’s whole deal, a bad one, he was Bobby’s favorite and they had been surfing in Malibu the day Bobby was shot. Then Pierre Salinger snapped out of it after the dark deed done, at Bobby’s side and remembered that they had just left David upstairs in the suite to watch it on TV. Pierre left the assassination scene and went racing to the elevator and threw open the door to find David nearly catatonic unmoving as he watched the screen, and the lovely touch that the networks put on the whole fiasco, training the cameras on Bobby as he bled out on the greasy pantry floor.

An amazing fun fact is that I served Pierre Salinger at a high brow embassy party in the Paris (très) 16èmé only 6 years later, offering a tray of the hostess’ vaunted Swedish meatballs. It was held at the apartement of William Tannen, head of USIS which became USIA (U.S. Information Services, then rebranded).

That had to be another brand of C👁️A, no two ways about it? Connected to Gladio no doubt. A dapper fellow introduced himself when I offered him hors d’oeuvres,as Giscard’s Press Secretary,l the Paris equivalent of Pierre, although Pierre was surely a frequent visitor, his flat where I delivered Dom Pérignon every Friday afternoon (2 cases from Fauchon’s!) was across the street, 50 yards tops, from the unimposing double door gate to Élysées Palace. Rue de Rivoli I think? Next to Place de la Concorde, where all The guillotines had been so busy two centuries before. I had just then overheard Salinger prognosticate, a few feet away, “It’s gotta be Frank Church or Fritz Mondale, I just can’t see any other real choice.” That was April ’74, so I guess the now nearly centenarian peanut farmer was not yet on his menu!

What was going on? They must have been trying to recruit me, I was the only waiter, holding a tray, and all the other servers were Parisian bar maids in those vintage b&w tutus, old school. I had arrived in Paris so broke just weeks before, and soon was given a hand me down job from an au pair girl going back stateside (so she said). Rebecca gave me a snip of paper with address, 8 Place Victor Hugo, a transgenerational American Embassy residence passed on age to age I soon discovered, swank as can be. I was hired then & there when I knocked on their massive door, then to look after the 5, ahem, WASP children, quite a gang.

I had zero credentials and connections, yet I was being connected all over Paris, broke as I was. I fell in with a champion fencer, Jean-Michel Lorin, who it later turned out was a baron. He took me under his wing now and then, often enough, showed me around. Meanwhile, I was befriended some weeks later by Richard Fitzbarron, if memory serves. I know he was the Baron of Burnchurch. He had recently returned from the French Foreign Legion, which he said he had escaped (from their prison in Madagascar. Some NASA employees had to rescued him to his everlasting veneration of Americans, perhaps explaining his fondness.)

Long story, if very colorful. His fiancee had sea-sickness, so he asked me if I could take over for him house-sitting Sterling Hayden’s barge on the Seine, just down a few ripples from Notre Dame. Years later, back in LA, I recognized it as the home away from home for Adrian Paul in his role as The Highlander immortal in the TV adaptation! He had a powwow with Rodger Daltrey of The Who, who is playing another immortal in one episode, and I recognized with great surprise the bookshelves and the decor which is very old. It was Shakespeare & Company, and George Whitman had let me and a number of other American expatriates sleep on the floors (or the couches upstairs) in exchange for sweeping them when we got up and some light chores!

That was where I’d met Richard and he buddied up with me .y first year or so. He had lucked out on the Sterling Hayden barge and I got as far as house sitting when he took me down into Sterling Hayden cabin and showed me what lookd like railroad ties that had turned green with age and had me guess what they were. I drew a blank and he said they were nails from the HMS Bounty.

Well I could go on and on, like having lunch downstairs in the Cave with the small cathedral staff, a few seats from Madam Romanoff, and finding out 25 years later that she was the dowager empress of Russia, or at least the chief pretender.

Where was I? O yes, Pierre Salinger finding a 12-year-old David nearly comatose watching the shooting of his father on the network feeds live from 100 yards or so down and away in the Ambassador.

The online reportage about his last month’s is like so many things like this that I see just shut up with red flags right left and every which Way but loose. For me the key is not getting Point by point through the omissions more than what is actually recounted. And it is also suspicious like the so-called evidence of kick Kennedy’s plane crash in southern France 1948 on her honeymoon. Both of those deaths and many others related just stink to highest heavens.

He was dating a famous actress I forget her name now but she was a big draw then and he seemed quite happy and outgoing and forward looking, and although there have been spotty reports over the years of his drug use, as far as I recall that really wasn’t a problem for him at the time and his supposed overdose is so rife with all sorts of pesky contradictions.

Having seen so much BS clogging cyberspace, I have learned pretty well to read between the lines. I came to the conclusion without more evidence that he was a likely homicide disguised as an accidental overdose. Or whatever.

I can see them all the time such as David Carradine whose family paid for a independent autopsy and the eminent me said that the details were not consistent with the suicide. You can find that recounted but like all the rest of us the big clue is that it was heavily muted, another way for Big Time deep State suppression of fact,

Cheers! I’ve carried on here long enough for the hour! 🤔😱🙏