Nashville and Little Rock have the Trail of Tears. Lower Manhattan has its African slave burial site. The North American Plains lay claim to the mass slaughter of that antediluvian woolly quadruped, the buffalo. And, in more recent time, Dallas calls its own the brain-shattering assassination of one very young and charismatic president, JFK. Conspiracy, pulp fiction or lurid home truth. Call it what you will, but leave it to Dallas to recast one of the country's most tragic events into an industry of self-promotion. From the edifying Sixth Floor Museum in the West End to the heppest of the with-it at Lee Harvey's, a super-funky bar in The Cedars of South Dallas, the city profits from the surreal essence of one horrific midday in November 1963. It's not so much that the denizens of creative business take pride in yester-generation's traumatizing September 11, but rather that they are the midwives of a necessary probing, dissection and analysis of Dallas' wart-like attribute. Industry, yes, but of what exactly? Just as easy as you can make a million off of shellacked turds in this country, you can market paranoid catharsis and... More >>>