© 2020

JFK, Jonestown & Me

By Eric Anthony Kallins

The following stories are true; I could not make them up. The reason I use plural for “stories” is that I will take the liberty to divert to an unrelated story in order to paint a picture of undercover cops gone stupid/clueless, but both stories are true. There is nothing like seeing things with one’s own eyes & ears to write with veracity. But back to the main story: When I was going to the College of Marin, I saw a documentary called Rush To Judgment by Mark Lane, which challenged the single gunman theory put out by The Warren Commission on JFK’s assassination.  To my knowledge, Rush to Judgment has never been shown on broadcast television. Without going into the hundreds of details, the film is quite convincing showing unanswered discrepancies in the events of those days in Dallas and suspicious explanations given by the press and officials. From the dramatic 8mm footage of the Zapruder film to the innocuous umbrella opened by a man on a perfect, sunny day as the motorcade entered Daly Plaza. (This umbrella man was even mocked on a double episode of Seinfeld, which satirically used the narrative of the JFK investigation.) But all details aside, I was hooked on the assassination theories, so years later when living in LA, I caught wind of a meeting of like-minded people.

When I showed up to a small, apartment living room in Santa Monica, there were only 5 or 6 people, but sitting there was the one and only Mark Lane, the author of Rush To Judgment, and one other man who seemed woefully out of place. He had a military-style crew cut, and his “casual” apparel consisted of bright, madras Bermuda shorts and a golf shirt, complete with logo. He acted like Mark Lane’s assistant, but I was sure he was an FBI or CIA spy, both from his dress and demeanor. The oddity of how these cops throw together “casual” clothing to “fit in” and not “stand out” is so laughable that I must segue to my other story; please allow me to digress…

Another time, when living in LA, I lived as a roommate in a house in Encino, in the bland suburban San Fernando Valley; but this was no ordinary house. Its owner, a young CPA, decided the way out of his boring job was to set up a professional BDSM dungeon, which he built in his 2-car garage. It was quite beautiful, with hand-made bondage tables, a whipping horse & cross and other delightful furniture on which to play those games. Needless to say, our house became quite a party house, with professional Dommes (Dominatrix’s) & subs hanging out in our living room till all hours waiting for their clients and a shift in the dungeon.

One day an “undercover” cop showed up, to bust us. We knew he was a cop, of course he knew he was a cop, and he was trying to trick us into saying something (anything) in which we would negotiating money for a sexualized session with one of the girls. There were so many clues that, excuse the pun, it was painful. People who play in the scene like to carry their “toys” (whips, paddles, cuffs, etc.) in something stylish, like a leather satchel. This guy opened a briefcase, and inside were the type of toys one could buy on the cheap in an adult bookstore: his “whip” was a wooden dowel with a few pathetic strands of leather stapled at one end. Likewise his paddle (ping pong anyone?) and a few other cheap items one could pick up at said bookstore for five dollars.

That was an easy clue to see, but more than that, his body language and talk screamed cop, Cop, COP!! He thought he was pulling off some kind of a daring undercover role, but we knew from the beginning that he was a cop. So we played our role; he played his role, and every time he tried to entrap us, we backed off (pay to play). It went nowhere until we finally wore him out, and he left. The reason I segued to this story is that I always had the feeling the crew cut guy at the Mark Lane/JFK meetings was some kind of a spy, an undercover agent who, like the painfully obvious guy above, didn’t have a clue how to disguise himself. I could be wrong, and I’ll probably never know; Just an instinct.

But back to Mark Lane’s JFK meetings, on the last gathering, Mark announced that he, at least at this time, had to end them. Something urgent had come up: there was a nice group of people from SF who had moved to South America and set up a lovely, experimental commune there, but they were getting viciously harassed by the CIA. Mark Lane, being an attorney, was going to fly down there to defend them and represent their interests. Of course, this was Jonestown in Guyana. We didn’t know at the time, but the world would find out in a few days: this was the beginning of the worst mass suicides in history – 918 people drank the poisoned Kool-Aid (now in the vernacular) and died, along with Congressman Leo Ryan, who was shot while trying to investigate Jonestown.  That is the last time I got involved with the JFK affair, except to follow any information in the media. For this writing, I watched old clips on Jonestown, and it is apparent how Jim Jones bamboozled the media and the liberal politicians while in SF.

Like I said in the beginning of this testimonial, there’s nothing like being there, and seeing and hearing with my own eyes & ears, and instincts.