The BLM and local cops want more resources to handle a large population.
BMorg says the BLM’s demands would cost $10 million, and lead to “substantial” increases in ticket prices – which are already more than substantial for an event where the punters have to bring all the entertainment and facilities themselves.
The 10-year Permit for the event is at stake. This is needed for the largest event on Federal land to continue.
Among the contested changes suggested by BLM in the draft report, according to the Burning Man website, were:
— Federal oversight over certain parts of Burning Man‘s operations
— 10 miles of either plastic or cement barriers around the perimeter fence
— Dumpsters within the city and along Gate Road for the 80,000 participants
— BLM-approved private security funded by Burning Man who would be screening for weapons and drugs for anyone entering Black Rock City.
One suggestion, labelled as “brazen” in the Burning Man staff statement, was that the group would pay for the maintenance of County Road 34, which takes participants to the entrance…
Further complicating matters is the fact that organizers are seeking a 10-year permit with BLM to continue to hold the event at Black Rock Desert, which has been “home” to Burners for 27 years. The environmental impact statement was done in part to look at the potential outcome if the event grows to hold up to 100,000 people, versus its current attendee numbers of 70,000, or not holding the event at all.
The field manager for the Bureau of Land Management’s Black Rock Field Office said its suggestions are “attempts at trying to solve problems” in comments to the Gazette-Journal, emphasizing that the report is not yet finalized
BMorg’s response is, predictably, to raise ticket prices. No matter that they are able to sell another 30,000 more tickets. At current VIP Price of $1400, that is an extra $42,000,000 revenue per year – plus handling fees, vehicle passes, and all that jazz.
Initial cost estimates for BLM’s recommended stipulations are nearly $10 million per year and would raise ticket prices substantially. Importantly, BLM would benefit financially from these increased expenses through their existing requirements to take a percentage of a permit holder’s gross revenue.
They couldn’t just keep ticket prices the same, and bank the extra $32 mil?
This is quite an incredible story, and I’d like to sincerely thank Chip for choosing my channel to break it on.
Please contribute to Chip’s GoFundMe, which will help him finish and publish his book.
Let us know what you think in the comments, and any questions you want me to ask Chip in the next interview. Diehard Deadheads may be outraged to learn their favorite band is a psyop, others who have followed the research of myself, Dave McGowan, Joe Atwill, Jan Irvin and many others before us may not find the material such a shock.
Previous show with Robert and Joe discussing John Perry Barlow and Timothy Leary:
Included in this post is some of Chip’s writing and photos. At the end I will add some more from my own research collection. I have purchased the Fountain Valley School yearbooks for 1963 and 1964 and can confirm that Barlow, Weir, and Chip Wood all appear together in the 1963 yearbook.
Three months after “Chip” is created, when he is the size of a three inch banana and his “eye buds” are forming, his mother tries to commit suicide. The rest of his gestation is “distressed” and he is born premature with his left eye points up & to the extreme left. (strabismus) His unpleasant mother is greatly disturbed, and cried that Chip is a spawn of Satan sent to ruin her comfortable and wealthy diplomatic life. But Chip’s father, a young super star diplomat in the Marshall Plan, gives Chip his love, and takes him to London for many dangerous eye operations. They play “Light & Dark” baby games together, and become very close with a near-psychic ability to communicate. His father tells him a million times: “You may have a bad eye, but your brain is just fine!” Chip believes his father, and soon teaches himself how to build flying model airplanes by self-education.
When leaving Brussels for Manila during the Hukbalahap Rebellion there, Chip’s father is afraid the Europeans will believe America will forget Europe and their great dream to change into a war-free European Union. To assuage their leaders of these fears at his farewell garden party, Chips father persuades him to play Mannequin Piss on a pedestal to everyone’s amusement. It is Chip’s diplomatic debut.
After contracting Polio in Manila, Chip’s family moves to McLean, Virginia, and live in a wonderful house surrounded rolling and beautifully forested hills west of Washington. It becomes Chip’s magic Garden of Eden. When he is nine, in August, 1957, he saves his father’s career by persuading a Vietnamese leader to return to a South East Treaty Organization party in their family home. The leader had become outraged, and demanded the conference immediately end. Nobody could bring the leader “back” to the gathering, and Chips father was faced with becoming “the man who lost Vietnam”, a career killer. Then Chip does a weird rotating left eye trick he had taught himself, and leads the leader back to the party. The next morning Eisenhower hears at his breakfast CIA briefing that “Foreign Service Officer Ben Wood’s retarded son saved the conference with his magic left eye.” Chips family moves to Vietnam where they eventually learn America will soon go to war, lose, and try to use nukes at the end. Chip decides to become a low-profile anthropologist, teacher, and private diplomat.
One day his first girlfriend suddenly tells him: “OMG, Chip, you are actually smart!” He believes her, and becomes smarter. In May, 1963, Chip creates the logos, name, business & artistic properties for what becomes the band “The Grateful Dead, and entrusts into the hands of Robert hall Weir who later, with Chip’s brother, totally betrays Chip’s interests. In 1966, Chip takes a Topology IQ test and scopes over 160. Chip’s father’s career, he had been Kennedy’s Vietnam adviser, is, after Dallas, destroyed by Johnson. Chip’s acceptance to U. Colorado vaporizes, and he must enter the Army for the war in Vietnam.
While training in Georgia, Chip meets Hamilton Jordan, and creates for him a plan to make his boss Jimmy president so he can start a Mid East Peace process, recognize China, and win a Nobel. Chip becomes an outstanding military leader, and a decorated combat veteran Green Beret “A” Team Commander. Just before leaving Vietnam, Chip creates a plan for a fellow Black Panther Green Beret from Chicago to go home, and create a champion black basketball player that speaks good English, then a champion black golfer that speaks better English then the golf commentators, and then America’s first black President. It works.
Back in America, chaos reigns. Chip races Motocross, then enters a yoga monastery. Chip’s father is murdered by interests controlling the revenues of the Grateful Dead Band, and Chip is threatened with murder by Phil Lesh. Chip moves to Nanjing to teach English, and improve Chinese/American relations, and becomes famous there. etc, Etc, ETC !
July 2, 1991, Page 00018The New York Times Archives
Chalmers Benedict Wood, a retired Foreign Service officer who served as an adviser to the South Vietnamese Government, died on Thursday at the Medical Center of Princeton, N.J. He was 73 years old and lived in Princeton.
He died of a brain hemorrhage, the funeral home said.
Mr. Wood, a 1940 graduate of Harvard College, joined the Foreign Service in 1947 after serving in the Army Air Force from 1940 to 1945. He was stationed in Brussels and Manila before going to Washington to serve as the State Department’s officer for Greece.
In 1957, he was named second secretary at the United States Embassy in Saigon and from 1959 to 1963 was in charge of Vietnamese affairs at the State Department. From 1964 to 1966 he served as first secretary in London and the next year directed the Cyprus office at the State Department.
Mr. Wood was then senior adviser for Binh Dinh province in Vietnam from 1967 to 1969. He returned to the State Department in 1970 with the office of Philippine affairs and from 1971 to 1974 served in the American Embassy in Wellington, New Zealand, as deputy chief of mission and charge d’affaires. Then he became a consultant on energy research and development.
He is survived by his wife, Patricia; two sons, Ramsay and Chalmers, and two daughters, Felicity and Penelope.
Chip’s brother Ramsay was also connected to the Harvard Psychedelic Project in the days of Timothy Leary and Henry Murray (OSS), which was involved in several of the 149 different subprojects of the joint British-US MKULTRA operation. Ramsay lives in London and is a Sufi priest. It is interesting that his Wikipedia page talks quite a bit about Lawrence Lessig, who was a close friend of John Perry Barlow. They were involved in setting up Harvard’s Berkman Klein Center for Internet and Society. Barlow talks about Lessig in his memoir, and even Chip gets a brief mention.
Included, “Ben’s Bacon” re how I got the GD gig later. After that SEATO gathering, all sorts of folks came down to my basement model airplane shop to talk “mutual” shops. One was Major General Edward G. Lansdale, my “Uncle ED”, life mentor from Manila in 1950, and later Director Eilliam Egan Colby, “Uncle Bill”, whom I met in Saigon in 1958.
Also included “Ed & Maya” re how I profiled the right Asian American virgin nerd-girl to design the wall. Ed found her, and she did very VERY GOOD. And with about 140,000,000 having visited and shed tears there, they might be interested in my yarn. We shall see. Thanks for your interest.
With daughters. The girls are all right!
PERSONAL BACKGROUND. 1947-1963:
Because my arguing gold-diggging Mom traumatically near-killed herself and me when I was three months insider her just as my eye-buds were forming, I was born walleyed, and thought retarded.
As an infant I went under the knife for deadly frightening eye operations in London during which I thought I was dying. Then I would wake up in post op blind with both eyes heavily bandaged, drugged to the nines, and Dad holding my hands gently singing old sea shanties: “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…” We became very close even though I couldn’t yet even talk.
After my operational frights, and I could see again, I became a silent, unhappy, and autistic. So clever Dad took me to a Marshall Plan funded classical music concert for wounded WWII vets.
We were just three rows back center, the orchestra almost in touching distance. The first two pieces were somber yet growing, and Dad showed me how to wave my arms about as was the conductor. I responded, the only child there. Dad must have made a donation or something beforehand because the conductor and orchestra would occasionally look at me, smile, and a few even waved baby style. I was mesmerized, standing in my seat, and happily became interactive with them. Near by folks were amused. The band was deeply involved emotionally with the entire audience, the wounded, halt, lame, dispirited, homeless, all, and were playing their hearts out for us. Then Dad, grinning very big, shook me like a rag doll me with a big “AH-HA!” gesture, and the orchestra launched into Beethoven’s Fifth.
I was thunder and lightning struck to the depth of my bones for life. Words fail: I was a pre-verbal child. But the adult phrase “exploding in a supernova of reborn from the dead by love of life” are reasonable. When we were all leaving after the last of many concert hall shaking encores, many were crying determined to rebuild worn torn Europe immediately, and make our world a better place. Me crying too, and Dad took me home to bed where I dreamed infant dreams of God only know what all. So is it any wonder what I first sketched when designing the logos for the band Dad gave me permission to create in May, 1963?
See a head-link?
Ben’s Bacon DRAFT
August, 1957, my childhood drew
to a close. Dad was asked by Ike and both Dulles brothers, one running the
Central Intelligence Agency, and the other the Department of State, to go to
little Vietnam on the other side of our world and stop a looming war there. Dad
was to try to avoid that potential fiasco because many nations and the Vatican feared
such it could lead to a disastrous global thermonuclear conflict. He was to
develop trusting liaisons with South Vietnam’s President Diem, and committed back
channels communications with Ho Chi Minh in North Vietnam as Roosevelt had during
World War Two when “Uncle Ho” had fought with us against the Japanese, and
saved our pilots shot down in the jungles.
Such was Dad’s bacon and eggs.
He had become quietly loved throughout Europe during the Marshall Plan as a super
star young diplomat able to charm birds off trees, slide fat envelopes of his
own cash over or under a table in two shakes of a lamb tail, and solve a vexing
Cold War problem to the East by the third shake. We as a family had all joined
into the passion of that amazing era. We were enchanted as most everyone there
was amid the shocking ashes of World War Two which still smelled of death, and
the still reverberating echoes of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bomb
episodes in Japan. All of us were determined “to make our world into a better and
Dad’s dream was to be appointed
our American Ambassador to Paris, as had been his friend and mentor David K.
Bruce*. That was Dad’s bacon. That he spoke fluent French
was his eggs, and that he had majored in European History back in the old days
at Harvard before serving in Europe in WWII, was his hot morning coffee. Dad
Prior to his departure, a large
delegation of powerful Vietnamese and their wives came to Washington for a
crucial South East Asia Treaty Organization conference. But for two frustrating
weeks it had become a difficult and unhappy gathering in the steaming summer
Washington heat. So, for a little holiday, the delegates and their wives were
invited by Dad out of their secret bolt hole hotels, and into our home to
relax, refresh themselves in our cool and rolling forested hills west of
Washington, and personally get to know “A Real American Family!” They were
After the Secret Service had
inspected our home for dangers etc, and radioed to the police our home was
“safe”, the Vietnamese delegates arrived in a long procession of black
government sedans. It was my job to take the wives up to my room, and show them
all the little things that made up the life of a real live American boy. That
had long been my designated junior diplomatic family job: Charmer Chip.
The slender wives, the very
cream of Vietnam’s womanhood, dressed in their long and colorful traditional
diaphanously svelte Vietnam Ào Dài dresses, were for stunned ten year old me
the most charming and beautiful creatures ever to walk this earth. So after all
the introductions on our front porch, I lead them upstairs to my bedroom, sat
them all on my bed, and made my best junior diplomatic welcoming speech: “Dear Ladies
of Vietnam, welcome into my family home, and my American life. Please ask me
ANY question you wish. Please! Do not be shy! I am here with you, and at your
service! Those are my favorite pictures. There is Davey Crocket and his famous
long rifle ‘Betsy’, that’s a B-52 taking off with JATO rocket assist, that’s a romantic
castle in Scotland…” And so it went, the hidden switch on my reading light, my study
desk and Potomac school books, my short wave radio for listening to anywhere in
the world, through the clothes in my dresser and closet, and so on through
everything, which they examined as if detective and scientists. They “Oood,
Ahhed”, chattered among themselves, and the Leading Lady asked their questions,
such as which was my favorite book, and could they please see my shoes? By the
time I had shown them everything
right down to the toothbrushs in my bathroom, and I had answered all their
questions, we were never to be forgotten friends for life.
So I took them to our kitchen
for their coup de grâce*: a just carefully made,
perfectly salted, buttered, touch of sugar southern styled whipped to fluffy
cream steaming bowl of mashed potatoes. Our very American made General Electric
Triple Whip Maschine Oder Ehrfurcht Und Wunder was whipping the creamed potatoes threateningly as
I quickly dipped my practiced finger in between the whirling blades for a hot
dollop of deliciousness to my mouth, and motioned for them to do the same.
It was our calculated family
kitchen-trick with guests: frighten them a little, then delight them. It would
be a little memory they would take home to Vietnam, and tell friends about. The
wives were genuinely frightened, shrinking back in alarm. They had never in
their lives seen such a dangerous kitchen machine whipping away like a brazen
gallon-sized dragon of unforgivingly hard white and chromium American steel.
Naturally, I stepped boldly up to the menacing monster as Almighty God Zeus
would to slay another lady-killing Dragon, reached up my manly United States
arm, and switched it off.
The wives hands darted up to
cover their mouths, hiding their gasps of relief. So I turned it on again, took
the Leading wife’s dainty hand, guided it up to the switch, and made her turn it off. Pink rushed to her
cheeks, always a good sign with females, and she tittered like a Nightingale in
After much chatter, we all dipped
in for a mutual nibble, looked all around at each other, raised our dolloping
fingers to our mouths, and tasted together as one. Their eyes grew large,
squeals of delight blossomed all-round, and our mutual amities were forever
thereafter engraved upon the Harmonies of Heaven’s Mandate. Then they rushed
out to drag in strict order their husbands, and school them about their next
family American made acquisition. [Vietnamese
wives have more in-family power than most Westerners realize. For example, the
legend of Cinderella’s Magic Fairy God Mother came from Vietnam to the West via
night time fireside travel stories along China’s Silk Road. Centuries later during
our foolish war there, I was always peculiarly lucky as if by the Magic of a
secret Fairy Godmother.]
Ahhh, Diplomacy when it is right
and good! A while later everyone was gathered on our north porch overlooking
the majestic Potomac River far below. Cocktails, drinks, refreshments, or
snacks were in all hands. The mood shifted, became more optimistic, and the
possibility the conference could succeed seemed in reach. Everyone was smiling,
a few laughing lightly, the clink of glasses touching steady, Dad was pleased,
and I so proud of him. Up in the forest around our home a breeze stirred the
leaves in the treetops as murmurings and whisperings in the blue sky’s
Suddenly, the large Vietnamese
political “Great Leader” became outraged because of a misunderstanding, and
demanded the whole conference come to an end immediately. He stalked out to the
edge of our lawn, turned his back on everyone, and folder up his arms in anger.
This was a diplomatic disaster for Dad because he would be blamed for “loosing
Vietnam” for the rest of his diplomatic career! Dad and several others went out
to ask the leader to please return to the conference, but he refused. Dad and I
were very close, and I could see he was worried, and even frightened. I had never
seen that before!
It shocked me deeply! Dad was my
greatest hero. I couldn’t understand it. So I went to him. He was walking
hurriedly back and forth in our living room inside from our porch where
everyone was standing in rigid silence. He was looking as I had never seen
before. I stood in trembling alarm waiting for him to recognize me.
Surprisingly quickly, he suddenly stopped, and looked at me. “Yes Chip?” he
asked. “May I try?” He looked at me as if I was an alien just blasted in from the
Alpha Centauri star system. Then he suddenly laughed, threw up his arms, and said, “Well, EVERYTHING
else has failed! So why not? Certainly Chip. You go try!”
And thus I embarked upon my
first solo international diplomatic escapade! I knew I had three diplomatic
weapons no one else there had. (1.) I was ten years old, and I knew from long
family experience it is foolish, and even politically dangerous for any big
leader to abuse a charming child in front of wives and witnesses. (2.) I had
heard stories about the prisoners of war in Asia recounting: if you sang, and
acted crazy doing interesting and weird things with your body, an Asian might
wonder whether you were possessed by The Divine, and treat you well. And (3.)
quite secret, I could do a trick with my eyes that shocked adults, and made my
friends roll on the floor with laughter. I had become frustrated with my birth-defective
left eye. When tired, my left eye would wander up and away to my left, and I
would be teased mercilessly: “Hey wall-eyed retard!” So after weeks of practice in front
of a mirror, I had taught myself to keep my right eye still while moving my
left eye in circles. Like the Devil’s evil magic, I could look into your eyes
with my right eye, and at the same time make my left eye go around and around
in big circles! I had once played the trick to a mean old aunt of a primitive
religion, and she had jumped back, and squeaked in horror: “Get thee away from
me Satan!” Then she had run away. It was so cool!
So I ran down to my basement
workshop, got my best model airplane glider, ran out to him with it, and
launched it so it floated by right in front of him. He glanced at me, grunted,
and looked away embarrassed. He had never been buttonholed by an American kid when
angry, and he knew danger when he saw it. I attacked again, launching my
airplane right by him. “Wouldn’t you like to fly my airplane with me?” I
persisted in my most charming and musical voice.
He looked at me, so as quick as I could in
order to hold his attention, I started explained the rudiment of aviation. “You
see Sir, I made this glider myself from Balsa wood and glue. This tail-plane
area is twenty three percent of the wing area, the wing has a nine to one
span-to-cord ratio with eight degrees of dihedral for stability, and the
plane’s balance point is forty percent back from the leading edge, which I can
adjust with play-clay here on the nose”. I pointed at it. “Because balance is a
key to controlled flight, just like Confucius said: balance is very important!
Isn’t it just SO interesting!?”
His eyes widened slightly, and
he looked at me with sufficient surprise to forget his anger. We looked deep
into each other’s eyes for two heartbeats, and before he could remember his
anger and look away, I stepped closer, looked harder into his eyes, and said:
“Dear Sir, won’t you PLEASE come
back to my father’s party? It’s for you!”
I put a worried look on my face. “If you don’t come back Sir, my father will
lose his job, and then we won’t be able to afford the expensive surgical
operation I need…” And, keeping my right eye glued between his eyes, I
started making my left eye go around in the biggest circles I could. “…and then I won’t be able to go to a good
school, and get the education I need to be a great diplomat like you and my
father! Please Sir?”
He instantly drew in his breath
with an “Oh!” of shock as he stepped back from me. Quick as I could, I stepped
forward again, grabbed him politely by his wrist like a policeman slapping
cuffs on a perp, and pulled. “Please?!!” And he came! So I took
his big hand in mine, and lead him back up to our porch as a wayward lamb, back
where eyes swelled, mouths fell agape, his giggling twinkling-eyed wife tittered
anew, whispered wagers on my gambit were won and lost, and Dad rushed forward
to receive him.
I hurried away as if busy with
other family chores. I knew that would create the best diplomatic impression
because it would give everyone the freedom to say all sorts of wonderful things
about me they wouldn’t say if I stayed for their praise. And, it made it
impossible for the Great Leader to get angry when it to dawned on him he had
been bamboozled by a ten year old retard.
That evening Dad admitted I had
“…done good”, and winked at me. Saving Ben’s Bacon had been fun, and that night
I dreamed of him our Ambassador in Paris. I later heard, though it was probably
just another amusing Washington DC cocktail story, that the next morning, just
as President Eisenhower was sipping his steaming hot breakfast coffee, his
morning CIA briefing officer told him, timing his words carefully, exactly how
the conference had been saved, and a possible global thermonuclear war averted
by the spin of “Foreign Service Officer Ben Wood’s son Chip, and His Magic Left
Eyeball”, and the President of the United States of America, the most powerful
man in the world, spilled hot coffee all over his lap.
1. A deathblow delivered to end the misery of
a mortally wounded soldier.
2. A finishing stroke, or decisive
Uncle Ed & The
Girl at Yale
by Chalmers Wood 3/18
It started when I was a
kid reading Confucius. His thinking seemed more advanced in the long term than
our zero sum Roman Empire based stuff. Rome had fallen. The English Empire was
teetering. Dad and I discussed it at length. We were extremely close, our
mutual love and trust beyond doubt. Dad introduced me to Edward G. Lansdale
about ‘51 in Manila when I was five. Before Ed came to our home for dinner, Dad
said he was unhappy because someone back in Washington had made trouble for
him. I was the family charmer. Dad asked me: “Chip, can you please make Ed feel
good again about America?”
well. Ed was a genuine American hero. Soon he was bouncing me on his knee,
blowing great harmonica, and telling fantastic stories about Jap Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda up in the hills still fighting WWII. Ed was a
great subtle win/win Confucian Christian American guy with music. “Uncle Ed”! He’d
squelched the Hukbalahap Rebellion
two days before its getgo because he spent a lot of time out humping the bush
making real friends among all comers while not abusing their young women etc.
So the locals had told him what was going down.
Then some wannabee back in Washington boasted about Ed’s secret Huk
exploits with names, and they were
soon murdered back out in the Philippine’s bush. I could feel he’d been somehow
wronged when we first met. Something bad. Later when I heard all, it cautioned
me about American field service, and going private became a thought. We are a
culturally young & mixed nation, with only about 11% the time learning by
directly experience re national cultural developments compared to old China. It
tells. To my thinking: learning by direct experience often beats book learning,
and both is best.
While in Vietnam (’68-’69) as a Special Forces Lieutenant, my de
facto job was (a.) planning with both Vietnams their obvious eventual
unification, their developmental
future entry into world trade, creating domestic and foreign reserves, and the so
on get rich stuff. That went with extreme subtly, while (b.) I went about more openly
under the cover and security of Uncle Bill Colby’s killer Phoenix Program while
(c.) appearing to be a normal psyops guy, Ed’s specialty. [I had met “Uncle Bill” William E. Colby in
old Saigon in ’58] That sounds unusual, but I’d known the Viets for a decade, and
they knew me from childhood, especially the elite wives, and they had more direct power in their families than any
American ever knew. In fact, the Cinderella and her Fairy God Mother folk tale
came from Vietnam to Europe by fireside stories carried along China’s bygone
The only danger for me came from American Army officers trying to
use me in some hopeless WWII based scheme, which were countless in that utterly
different war. Late in my tour I chatted with a Black Panther Special Forces
NCO from Chicago, and persuaded him America needed a Black President. For amusements
I scootered around up in the hills on a trusty little Honda 90 in black pajamas:
to light to pop road mines, and to local looking to worry about getting shot
the Viet Cong. A few of my Special Forces buddies were outraged, but I just didn’t
care. We would soon lose in Vietnam, at which point it could go thermonuclear
worldwide. I met with friendly Viets all about, we usually had tea together,
and I always promised to return when all was over. “Would you like your
children to go to American Universities?” Piece of cake with the Viets back
A decade later I was in NYC when quietly slipped a train ticket
to Washington to meet a taxi. The taxi drove me to the Viet Vet Memorial design
competition where I was received as a VIP without explanation, and ushered through
a look see. Then to McLean, Virginia, told to go in a home’s front door, and
there sat Uncle Ed in his easy chair apologizing about “The girl.” “What girl?” “The girl in Phu Tuc, the one
you turned down.” “That girl?!” “Yes. The next guy disappeared, and spent four
years a POW. We got him home with ruined feet. Sorry ‘bout that. Teaches down
at NC State now” “Oh.”
The plan had been for me to be the White King of the Radé and
Jaré Montagnard mountain tribes with the village chief’s exquisitely eager
fourteen year old darkmoon-eyed butterscotch-skinned daughter my Princess, and I
was to lead them all out to defeating dastardly evil communizzm worldwide. Ed
had been screwed into it by higher ups in the Johnson administration. [Johnson
had destroyed Dad’s diplomatic career for briefing Ike and Jack we could not
win in Vietnam, studiously ignored Ed’s sage advice, my University Colo acceptance
and hoped for career had vanished, and into the Army to war I was ushered.] We
chatted for a while about old times. Charming Ole Uncle Ed! He was The Man. Then
“What did you think of the entries?” “They are all horrible,
bitter, blaming, self-centered, even hateful. They will all only just rub more
salt in the wound, every last one of them.”
long silence “What do you think
we should do?” I was shocked. That was a
huge national question of global political import. I subsided back in my chair,
and stared up at the blank ceiling, dazed and abstracted… Slowly it came…
…“Well, we are not able to heal the wound… we are just too immature a culture to
understand how to do it… It must come from an older and more experienced
culture… Not quite Europe… Too many
foolish wars… Asia… China…
Yes China… The wiser birthings of new dynasties after catastrophic failures…
An educated Chinese family that has experienced utter defeat, and recovered
well… A Chinese American family that
lost everything in the ’49 revolution, came here, and has done well… With a daughter that became their new dream
of hope for their family future… A girl of pure heart, a virgin who naturally knows
she is the new hope of family, and IS that quite happily… naturally, deeply, instinctively… who
studies Art, Architecture, Symbolism, Legends, History, Philosophy… An undistractedly kind female nerd… Not West
Coast.. Not central… East Coast…
Highly educated… Not Harvard, to
big, rich, corrupt… No… Yale… Yes Yale…
Architecture school, The Yale Architecture School Ed… Look There!… You find her Ed!” Suddenly I was angry. “Just get her down on
site like a normal class assignment, no fuss no muss… like turning loose a young deer into a
park… Then leave her alone… Wait till she comes back on her own… And she will!… Help her Ed, maybe without her even knowing
it”… I stood up exhausted and irate. We
stared into each other’s eyes. His jaw loosened slightly, eyes widening. We
understood each other. We were Old Hands, and I was HOT: “She’ll know what to do Ed, Because We Sure
As Hell Don’t!”
We lost 58,000 American, and 3,000,000 Vietnamese friends in
that unwise war. It could have exploded into a global thermonuclear war as the
Cuban Missile Crisis almost had save exactly
one (1) Russian submariner. We looked at each other silently. Old Hands. I went
out the door to the waiting taxi, back to NYC, and that was that.
Did The Job
Ed & Maya Lin!
& Uncle Bill Attending
Thank You Commander Vasili Alexandrovich
Hands Ed died in ’78, Dad in ‘91, Bill in ’96, and Vasili in ‘98
Once again I have a dubious Internet character with government connections making preposterous allegations against me. Sigh.
Dave “Acton” Sweigert’s lawsuit against Jason Goodman has moved from South Carolina, where Goodman used his YouTube channel to shut down the Port of Charleston, to the Southern District of New York. Goodman is also the subject of an $18 million defamation lawsuit by (ex?) CIA case officer Robert David Steele in the Eastern District of Virginia.
Dave Sweigert has filed a motion to intervene in the Steele lawsuit as an interested party. Both he and Jason Goodman are representing themselves “pro se”, meaning without a lawyer. Sweigert has considerable experience in this, having successfully won a whistleblower case over CIA budget misappropriations in the same Virginia Court in the 1990’s. Jason Goodman has many lawyers on his show, including Larry “K.F.” Klayman, who was censured by a magistrate for inappropriate touching of his children – and lost two appeals trying to deny this.
The Court asked Goodman to specifically state under oath that he has had no legal assistance in preparing any of his filings. That seems obvious in his latest one, which is an elaborate conspiracy theory. He has accused me of conspiring with friends, enemies, acquaintances and strangers to launder money through the Steemit web site.
Jason Goodman has spoken about Steemit many times and had guests on his show to explain it to him, but he still doesn’t understand it at all. I have a plug-in for WordPress which automatically shares posts from this blog on the Steemit blockchain. Other Steemit users can upvote the post if they like it, each vote earns the post author “Steem Dollars”. The Steem blockchain is public, which means we can easily evaluate Goodman’s claims of a “vast money laundering conspiracy”.
Steemit Account Values:
frank bacon (Tyroan Simpson) $630.94
lifttheveil411 (Nathan Stolpman) $457.05
Defango (Manuel Chavez) $40.21
Dave Acton $3.39
jason goodman $3.08
George Webb $3.08
Queen Tut $1.58
Sugar Shine $0.24
Two of the other “co-conspirators” named by Goodman, Jacquelyn Weaver and Kevin Alan Marsden, do not even use Steemit.
The idea that I would risk my career, reputation, and freedom for $159 is preposterous. Likewise, it is silly to think that money launderers would use a platform where all transactions are visible to the public.
Jason Goodman’s absurd filing has necessitated me filing a statement defending my honor against these outrageous, libelous, and ridiculous claims.
Joe, Vahid and I have more in common than decades in the tech industry: we have all recently been accused of being CIA agents by Jan Irvin. We talk about this and the wider problem in the alt-media of “everyone’s a shill” serving the divide-and-conquer agenda, which takes the focus away from real research.