Kith & Kin

Dear Loyal Readers of Kith & Kin, As you know, we here at Kith & Kin Worldwide Publications Ltd., Inc., LLP, constantly and unflaggingly search for and reveal the truth, regardless of what intimidation tactics may come our way. Our large, loyal, underpaid staff has been assiduously (yes, assiduously ) combing through the 80,000 pages of documents on the JFK assassination that were recently released by the Trump administration. As we all know now, mainstream journalists found in the materials absolutely no evidence of a conspiracy, of a second shooter, or even of Oliver Stone. Disappointment among conspiracy-theory adherents (you may count us among that number!) rapidly turned to rage—true, in the past, the lack of any credible evidence was the best proof of a conspiracy and cover-up! But we had nonetheless hoped to find some crumb, some scrap, some nugget of proof of our predetermined conclusions somewhere within all those pages. Well! Apparently the mainstream media r...

My younger brother,* Eric, has always had a fascination with audio and video technology. I remember, when he was an RTV major in college, I played piano for a brief radio program he had put together for a class project. It had to contain certain elements, one of which was a musical number. He knew a college guy who played the accordion, and the guy agreed to play for the program. Eric made sure we all knew that this was to be done like live radio, so timings had to be perfect. And we would do it only once while his teacher, in the booth with him, looked on severely—just to screw the stress up one more little notch. (Come to think of it, most teachers looked severe back in the 1980s.) Then Eric gave us directions, and his speech went something like this: One of the first things to ensure a good performance is strict attention to the director. I’ll keep my directions simple…. If I make a slashing motion across my throat, it means “cut the scene short.” If I make a revolving motion wi...

Even AI can ’t  get my order right! “Welcome to [McRedacted]. Did you use your mobile app today?” “No.” “May I take your order please?” “Yes, good morning! I’d like—” “Good morning, hon.” (This is South Carolina.) “Yes, good morning. I’d like one sausage biscuit with egg, just the sandwich, and one sausage biscuit, plain, just the sandwich. And two milks.” “OK.” The screen looks like this. “Is your order correct on the screen?” “No, not exactly. I want one sausage biscuit with egg and one without egg. Plus the two milks.” “Oh, OK, one moment please.” New screen: “Is your order correct on the screen?” “Well, yes, but you’re charging me for two sausage biscuits with egg even though I’m only getting egg on one of them.” “That’s what you said, sir.” “I want one sausage biscuit with egg, which is number four on your menu. And I want a plain sausage biscuit, which is on your Value Menu and is only $2.19.” “The upcharge for the sausage biscuit with egg ...

The most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me in my whole, entire life happened in my own living room. It happened around 3 am. And it happened when I was completely alone. The early ’90s, of course, were the pre-cell-phone and pre-Internet era. And sometimes in that era, a TV network would broadcast a live show that viewers could call into and ask a question. On this night there was one such live, national show: Lt. Col. Oliver North was interviewing radio personality Rush Limbaugh . At that time, you could hardly have named two people who were more widely known than Oliver North and Rush Limbaugh. It’s not worth belaboring why—the point is that both were tremendously famous. Having come across the show, I thought, “What an opportunity!” I had often thought about calling in to Limbaugh’s daily AM radio program, but (1) I doubted I would actually get through and (2)   talking to him live while 15 million people listened in was a pretty daunting idea. But that n...

“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” The request came from aged Mrs. White, a tiny white-haired Southern belle. Cindy and I, early in our marriage, were working for her in exchange for free rent in the apartment above her garage. As the lazy afternoon Southern sun drifted through the gauzy windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air, Cindy and I were vacuuming the floors and wiping down her antiques—in a futile effort to conquer those same motes when they came to rest. Mrs. White was an easy person to work for. She wasn’t demanding or demeaning or unreasonable. Her wants were generally few. “Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” “Sure, Mrs. White. What kind of box did you say?” “Clinics. A clinics box.” She seemed a bit frustrated, which was unusual for her, so I didn’t press it any further. Clearly a clinics box must be some kind of first-aid kit, filled with items you might find at doctors’ ...

Baby Keith. Mom ’ s idea of putting the baby ’ s age right in the photo was a stroke of genius. My mother often told me the story of the day she and Dad brought Keith home from the hospital. They laid him on the couch, and I, two-and-a-half years old, looked at him and said, “Where’s his mommy?” At some point thereafter I comprehended the fact that my mommy and daddy were also Keith’s mommy and daddy, and that meant we were brothers. When we were still quite young, Keith and I had our own TV program. It was broadcast every evening immediately after supper. The two of us would go into the living room, stand in front of a large mirror, and put on a comedy show. Its high-brow humor consisted mostly of two little boys dancing around and acting silly, the larger one repeatedly hitting the smaller one on the head and pushing him off camera because he had made a comment that was, in the estimation of the larger one, stupid—while the smaller one gamely played along, always smiling, willingly...