The Scottish Connection

Or growing up Illuminati

They flew me back into New York yesterday, so I didn't have time to answer a friend of ours who had a question about where Scotland figures in all this. My connections with Scotland go back to my earliest childhood. My father, an Italian, was a gung-ho Screaming Eagle 101est airborne which I am now told handles the occult end of things for the military. He was stationed at Montauk during the Korean War "so he could shoot for them in military competitions."

He wasn't around when they killed JFK. Just like Guns and Roses “my earliest memory is when they shot Kennedy.” My mother was walking us down the street with my German Weimaraner, my sister and my youngest sister in the baby carriage. Everybody we passed was sobbing and crying. At barely four I wondered out loud where my father was in these tumultuous times and was told he was at our summer home in New Jersey repairing the hurricane damage.

My father’s best friend was my uncle, a six foot four Scotchmen and gung-ho marine, already a legend as the toughest cop in New York City. He was the Sage of Quays father, and my Uncle Mike. They would drink Pinch Scotch, which my father bought by the case for him, all night and sometimes I'd be allowed to sit in on the conversations. They both frequently remarked on how I acted like an adult. They would launch into tirades about the Kennedys whom they both called Irish pigs, as they also called for some inexplicable reason, it was the late sixties and he wasn’t Irish as far as I know, John Lennon of the Beatles.