America Doesn’t Deserve Leaders Like This

When will regime change finally begin at home?

I can’t do False Flag Weekly News today because I’m at the one place in America where it’s always 1962 and JFK hasn’t been assassinated yet. Where is that, you ask? The TWA Hotel Lobby at JFK Airport! It takes you back to the days when air travel, like the president, was young, fun and stylish. If you ever have a 15-hour layover at JFK en route to Morocco, I highly recommend that you spend it here. It’s free and open to the public, no security screenings necessary. FFWN returns to the hideous post-JFK-assassination-era next week, so stay tuned. -KB

In ten hours I’ll be boarding a Royal Air Maroc jet for Casablanca. After sixteen days in the USA—four in New York City and twelve in western Montana—I am more convinced than ever that Americans don’t deserve leaders like this.

If you read Linh Dinh’s blog, like I do, you might get the impression that Americans are all fat, retarded perverts like their president. Sometimes Linh almost convinces me that it’s sad to waste a beautiful country on such creatures. Linh is much relieved to have gotten the hell out of what he regards as the Jew-S-S-A. I confess I sometimes think along those lines. And I don’t intend to permanently return to America any time soon.

But if there is one thing I’ve noticed during my sixteen-day sojourn in the land of the allegedly free and the home of the allegedly brave, it’s that most of the Americans I’ve encountered are decent people, while more than a few are a cut above baseline decency.

I started my “back to America” tour on the right foot by heading straight for the Turning the Tide Conference at Museo del Barrio in Manhattan, near the northeast corner of Central Park, where 9/11 truth advocates observed the 25th anniversary of the moment that wrecked—I mean, changed—everything. (It was actually the JFK assassination that wrecked everything; 9/11 just worsened the wreck.)

If you want to chill with good people, attend 9/11 truth events. When I took my wife to a 9/11 truth tour of northern California, we had such a blast that I joke about it saving our marriage. She had gotten the impression that 9/11 truthers were…well, maybe not the weird, unpleasant specimens the media imagines, but too paranoid and political for her taste. Worse, 9/11 truth had wrecked her husband’s career. Before going to California, her attitude was: “Sure, somebody’s got to do it, but why does it have to be you?” But after schmoozing with NorCal truthers, she discovered what extraordinary people they are, and grew to appreciate being married to a tenuously self-employed professional troublemaker.

9/11 revisionists are the self-selected few who do the right thing despite enormous pressure not to. And there is something peculiarly American about that. Thanks to cultural heritage that includes the First Amendment, there are more Americans who brazenly speak their minds about taboo topics than there are, say, Moroccans doing parallel things, such as demanding that their government break with the genocidal Zionist entity; or French or German people seeking a fair hearing for World War II revisionism; or British people supporting Palestine Action or better yet Hamas. (Actually, the thousands of Brits willing to go to jail for supporting Palestine Action may be even more courageous than American 9/11 truthers, so, fair play, mate!)

I can already hear the objections: “Wait a minute, Kevin, you’re defending average Americans by invoking 9/11 truth-seekers, who are a minuscule minority. The American majority let their demonic rulers get away with blowing 1) JFK’s brains out and 2) the World Trade Center to kingdom come. Useless sheeple!”

Indeed. But after talking to NYC and Montana cab drivers, Bitterroot Valley info-activists, random strangers at the Missoula farmers’ market and library and butterfly house and café and sports pub and airport, a nurse at an alternative health clinic, a schoolteacher and mother-of-eight, then more random strangers at the Salt Lake City airport—not to mention my barely-pink-pilled relatives, who looked wryly askance at some of the above-listed public interactions—I can’t honestly write off Americans as hopeless. Everybody I’ve talked to agrees that the Iran war is insane and evil. They’re open to the notion that America’s leadership has been Epsteined, and that Israel is behind it. Many are disgusted by the Gaza genocide. If some charismatic JFK-like figure tried to leverage their better instincts, he might have better luck than Trump is having leveraging their worser ones.

Many such conversations got off on the right foot when people heard I live in Morocco and thought that sounded cool. Americans may not know much about the world their leaders are bombing and sanctioning, but at least they’re occasionally curious about it.

Maybe I’m overestimating my compatriots. Maybe I’m giddy from the onrush of opportunities to talk to my countrymen face-to-face in American English. I hardly ever do that in Morocco. As far as I know, we’re the only American family, indeed the only fluent English speakers, in Saidia.

Still, even allowing for that, there’s a gaping incommensurable chasm between the American people, whether downright good or just not-so-bad, and their cartoonishly evil rulers. And speaking of cartoon villains: The ZiOccupied former USofA is getting dragged through the mud across town from me at the United Nations. (In case you forgot, I’m at JFK Airport’s TWA Hotel, where I just paid over 25 dollars for the same cheeseburger that went for 25 cents in 1962). The UN building was besmirched a few days ago when Trump once again bloviated about genocidally obliterating Iran, committing a tier-1 war crime right there on the podium in front of literally the entire world. Not to be outdone, Trump’s boss Netanyahu waltzed into town despite the ICC arrest warrant, and after 77 delegations walked out, ranted about “Judea and Samaria” and how genocide perpetrators were actually victims and vice-versa. “What the *$**&#@ is wrong with those delegates?” my wife yelled over WhatsApp from across the Atlantic. “They just walked out? That’s all?” I reminded her that it would have been hard to get the requisite weaponry past security. “But what about shoes,” she screamed. “Doesn’t anybody have shoes?” “Preferably with sharpened stiletto heels,” I added helpfully.

And why is “security” protecting genocide perps and quasi-reptilian pedophiles? I mean, seriously, how hard would it be for “security” to wake up and smell the proverbial coffee and just start executing these people? Anybody who executes a war criminal indicted for genocide is a hero fit to be immortalized in song and story, in thousands of statues and the naming of avenues. But hell, my wife and I would settle for just a shoe. It doesn’t even have to be a matching pair, like the great Muntadhar al-Zaidi’s. Just one single, solitary shoe! Is that too much to ask?

And that’s the bottom-line problem with Americans. It isn’t that they’re bad people. They just haven’t quite fully awakened from the spell cast by their mainstream institutions. The political pixie dust blurring their vision leaves them Hamlet-like, indecisive, unwilling to run the risk of doing the right thing in spades.

And part of the reason for that is that life in America is too damn comfortable…even with diesel almost doubling in one year to $6.50 per gallon.

But if it doubles again?

At some point, enough people won’t have enough left to lose. And if freedom means having nothing left to lose, as the sixties tune says, maybe Americans will soon be free enough to contemplate the popular regime-change operation their country so desperately needs.

Cheap energy and a dominant dollar produced the 1962 immortalized here at the TWA Hotel: big ol’ Cadillacs with tailfins, jetliner travel priced for the masses, luxury air terminals with gorgeous stewardesses adorned in outfits dreamed up by Jackie Kennedy’s fashion designer. Everyone could feel things getting better.

Today, as the Noose of Hormuz tightens, and another noose snares the Bab al-Mandeb, the petrodollar is feeling intimations of mortality, while Wall Street blithely chews its AI bubblegum and keeps right on blowing the biggest bright-pink bubble anybody’s ever seen. The feeling on the street that something is seriously wrong, that we’re heading in an ominous direction, maybe even off a cliff in a clown car driven by a madman, contrasts sharply, almost incandescently, with the truncated-visionary version of 1962 immortalized here at the TWA Hotel…a luminous but all-too-brief moment that ended forever when Kennedy’s brains were blown all over the seatback and trunk of that customized 1961 Lincoln Continental four-door convertible.

Oleg Cassini, Jackie Kennedy's fashion designer, among others, helped stewardesses stay fashionable during the dawn of air-travel-for-the-masses. In 1962, when Eero Saarinen and TWA built the snazziest air terminal anybody had ever seen, or ever would see, America was getting better, and air travel was fun. That upward trajectory ended forever when Kennedy’s brains were blown all over the seatback and trunk of that customized 1961 Lincoln Continental four-door convertible.