YOU’RE PROBABLY curious. That is why you returned. Our last meeting involved peering in upon the life of somebody named Colonel Louis Jocelyn West, puppet master extraordinaire. It ended on a cliffhanger. Or perhaps this is your first time and you haven’t the faintest clue what I am talking about. Either way, welcome. Here at The Unexpected Cosmology, we’re celebrating two-hundred years of post mud flood psyops and being lied to about everything, by which The Colonel is no exception. If you need a recap, West was essentially the Bruce Wayne of the MK-Ultra program. He led a badass life sitting down in jail cells interrogating hardened brainwashed criminals—much as Batman would with comic book villains. Only West transformed them into pretty Monarch butterflies. Glittery and sparkling. And now you have been caught up to speed. Yes, this will sort of be like a George Clooney Batman movie in that arch-nemesis’ Jack Ruby and the flower power Hippies are things of the past and West is going up now against two new villains. Sirhan Sirhan and Patty Hearst. There are of course accomplices. Colorful characters like Donald DeFreeze and the Polka Dot Dress Lady. FYI, Patty Hearst is just a teaser and will be saved for our next outing. Same Bat Time. Same Bat Channel. The surprise ending however, in both cases—and you’ve probably already guessed as much—is that everyone involved is an actor.

You would do well by first reading my last paper, From JFK To Jonestown: The Haight-Ashbury MK-Ultra Connection, where-in we followed Colonel Louis Jocelyn West from his humble origins as a 22-year-old Colonel through his two-decade stint developing the MK-Ultra program under Dr. Sidney Gottlieb, at which time he essentially seared the hippie counterculture into the American consciousness, via San Francisco. Again, you have been caught up to speed. You can read the full report for yourself here. Tusko the LSD Elephant. And now for the cliffhanger. Right about when Colonel Louis Jocelyn West’s “Haight-Ashbury Project” was a wrap, Charlie Manson moved his bludgeoning Family from his office at the Haight-Ashbury Medical Free Clinic to Los Angeles, where he partied for a year or so with Mama Cass and the Beach Boys. West moved there too. Coincidence? Nope. Perhaps they shared a ride. We will never know. In 1969, the very year of Sharon Tate’s murder, West was appointed as head of department and director of UCLA’s Neuropsychiatry Institute which, as it relates to birds, might as well be a hop and a ski around the block from the Roman Polanski house.

Fun fact. Somebody named Terry Melcher produced The Byrds first two albums. I have pointedly stated how I believe David Crosby was being groomed for the role as the potential killer we know now as Charlie Manson, and then one day Dennis Wilson of The Beach Boys introduced the final contender to Terry. I have told you about this and more without exhibiting any proof to back the claim. If this bothers you, then I suggest doing your own research. I will present other claims here, such as Bobby Kennedy’s assassination being yet another hoax without bothering to exhume his body. That would be illegal. You are free to continue believing the obstinate lie that is the 20th-century psyop, as presented to us in television and the media, or you can choose as I do to not believe any of it. In the meanwhile, go ahead and make a YouTube video debunking my work. You will not be the first. Flat Earthist Dean Odle is currently showing his true colors by running as the Governor of Alabama and he’s committed himself to perhaps as many as a dozen YouTube videos complaining of my articles, all in desperate hopes of turning readers away. I wasn’t sure as to how I should go about announcing that Odle is running for Governor, and so I figure Bobby Kennedy running for President is a nice tie-in.

Just so we’re clear, Terry Melcher will not make any further appearances in this episode. It is worthwhile  pointing out however that Melcher lived in the 10050 Cielo Drive house only months before Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate moved in. Notice how I keep circling the drain of the Manson hoax? Eventually we will turn to it. At the time, Melcher was dating Candice Bergen, who would later go on to play the sitcom character Murphy Brown. We’re surrounded by actors. So many actors people visited the 10050 Cielo Drive house that it would be impossible to list them all. Did Colonel Louis Jocelyn West ring the doorbell? We will probably never know.

 

 

But I’m already getting ahead of myself, as is often the case, because it’s June 5, 1968. Only moments after his celebration of winning the California Democratic primary election in his campaign to become the next President of the United States, Bobby Kennedy is led through the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. He starts down a narrow passageway, navigating the floor space between an ice machine against the right wall and a steam table to the left. He stops to shake hands with busboy Juan Romero just as a lone gunman appears from behind a tray stacker near the ice machine and unloads all eight rounds from his .22 Long Rifle caliber revolver. LIFE Magazine photographer Bill Eppridge is there alone to document it. Convenient, as always. Place a Neil Armstrong moon flag there, because we shall return to Eppridge in a few minutes. According to the few witnesses who stood around Kennedy’s limp body, Sirhan Sirhan held the smoking gun.

Lest I forget, the short of Colonel West’s involvement in the incident is this. West examined Sirhan Sirhan in his prison cell and proclaimed him to be another “lone nut.” End of story. It’s lone nut Lee Harvey Oswald shot by lone nut Jack Ruby all over again. Goodnight America. If you thought The Sixties sucked, then get ready for Colonel West’s wrangling of the 1970’s.

Come to think of it, the RFK assassination is essentially the JFK assassination all over again. We are presented with a patsy and then told of a second shooter. 13 shots were reportedly fired despite Sirhan’s revolver was chambered for only eight rounds. Bullets targeted Bobby’s front and back end. The wounds and gunshots never matched. Two undercover CIA officers, working for a dummy corporation, were documented on the scene. We are described a mysterious blonde woman “with a very good figure” wearing a polka dot dress rather than red, whom Sirhan arrived with but left on her own—smiling. Sirhan Sirhan claimed not to remember the shooting. So, hypnotic brainwashing, MK-Ultra, hence Colonel West. Also, the photos were faked and we saw no body.

Perhaps now you will agree that Bobby’s assassination hinges upon brother John’s. One Kennedy lay victim to a “lone nut” and naturally the following brother followed in his wake. Problem is, I have already exhibited why the Zapruder film was a hoax. You will have to pause here and read my report on your own, as I will not go over those details again. Agent Zapruder and Frame 313 Exposed. Pull a leg out from the table and everything falls. JFK was such a success on the American psyche that spooks needed a second go at it. RFK was simply the lesser spin-off, shot from different angles. Kind of like what AfterMASH was to M*A*S*H. Both times, you see, Kennedy would have ended the war in Vietnam. You give Americans something to hope for and then castrate them for it. And when that doesn’t work, our Slave Masters will give us the free gift of pornography in the hopes that everyone will end up an emotional or intellectual eunuch. We are told that Bobby Kennedy’s last words involved asking busboy Juan Romero, “Is everybody OK?” When Romero told him that everybody was a-ok, Kennedy then added: “Yes, everybody’s OK.” From the Hallmark perspective, it is as if Kennedy were accepting the fate of the Kennedy name, when in fact, were this a real event, he should have quipped: “Oh shit, we faked my brother’s death but this one is legit.”

 

 

You will want to take careful notice of the fact—and I almost neglected to tell you this—that Sirhan Sirhan did not assassinate Bobby Kennedy while he was giving a speech in a crowded room. This is important. Why? Too many witnesses to the hoax. You’d think television would have a stronger appeal for the intended psychodrama, rather than LIFE Magazine, but given the amount of people standing around him, it simply could not be pulled off without a hitch (and to the satisfaction of every Wizard involved) until Kennedy exited the stage. You will hopefully recall that JFK’s assassination was only witnessed—miraculously—by a dozen or so individuals. There is a reason for that. Dealey Plaza was a controlled environment. Abraham Zapruder was a 33-degree Freemason with obvious CIA ties while every other person standing around Kennedy’s Lincoln convertible, including the motorcycle cops, were either Freemasons, crisis actors, or government Intel. Kennedy’s parade route was jam packed for blocks, but not at Dealey Plaza, where you’d think most people would find preferable viewing conditions. Dealey Plaza was even built as a monument to Freemasonry. And at any rate, both “the patsy” and “the second shooter” certainly cozied up to the plaza. Go figure. Lincoln’s assassination was another hoax. Unlike the Ambassador Hotel, Ford’s Theater was controlled. The seats were only a third filled and likely every one of them by Intel.

Were there Freemasons in the Ambassador Hotel? Yes. Were there crisis actors? The blonde bombshell sure sounds like one. But unlike Dealey Plaza, there were far too many real people allowed to participate in the crowd, and Bobby didn’t have an escape vehicle by which he might be raced off the world stage. Senator Kennedy’s only security that night was former NYPD and FBI Agent Bill Barry and a couple of hired actors, Rafer Johnson and Roosevelt Grier, whom we shall turn to in a moment. Sure, they were standing with him in the crowded room, and might have deflected an assassins advances, but they were also at his side in the narrow hallway. The imagery which Bill Barry presents us with is that of Kennedy sandwiched between two assassins, each emptying rounds from their chamber, and yet his own security remained completely oblivious as to the advances of a reported second shooter. Only Sirhan Sirhan was apprehended. Had Kennedy really been assassinated, Sirhan Sirhan and his accomplices would have had a far better chance at making their way through the crowd and lobbing off two or three rounds each before they were apprehended. You will understand why in a moment. Before the advent of television, assassinations were almost always attempted in crowded spaces. Think about it.

 

 

The original idea, we are told, was that Kennedy was to end his speech and then meet with reporters. Campaign aide Fred Dutton‘s decision to forgo the press conference through the original intended route and arrive at the Colonial Room by way of the pantry was a last minute decision. After telling the crowd: “My thanks to all of you; and now it’s on to Chicago, and let’s win there!” Kennedy started to exit the stage when William Barry stopped him and said, “No, it’s been changed. We’re going this way.”

Karl Uecker, assistant maitre d’ at the Ambassador, personally escorted Kennedy by the hand. Why? We are not told. In the June 14, 1968 edition of The Dispatch, Uecker is quoted: “He was supposed to—the first plan—was that he was supposed to go downstairs, the next floor, and he was supposed to make a speech over there and their minds were changed at the last minute. When I came out I just remember that somebody told me, ‘Turn to your right—bring him toward the colonial Room.” Uecker believed the order was given by Uno Timanson, manager of the hotel’s food and beverage department.

The mere fact that Sirhan Sirhan decided to hang out in the hallway of the hotel kitchen of all places, and just stand there behind a tray stacker with a loaded gun and a smiling blonde, hoping that Kennedy might make a last minute route change, is lazy storytelling—to say the least. But perhaps that is what they were going for—the senselessness of violence among peacemakers. Cruel fate. Irony.  That—and they also needed a controlled room with people who were completely bought and paid for. The 26 seconds of Zapruder footage was a manufactured movie. With Bobby Kennedy, they would manufacture photographs and then simply tell America they’d been castrated again. The magical ceremony was still effective—as alchemy goes. Americans collectively awoke on the morning of the 5th with the news that another Kennedy had been shot. Collectively they prayed. They cried together and hoped. They would then wake the following morning, on June the 6th, with the collective consciousness that RFK was dead. America wept.

Oh, the futility of it all.

 

 

The nice tie-in here is that Sirhan Sirhan blamed the killing on Bobby Kennedy’s support for Israel’s Six-Day War. This is the media’s way of telling you Bobby Kennedy was a Zionist. Zionism doesn’t pay for their commercials the same way Cheerio’s would. They often prefer Intelligence and leaving behind a calling car. There was of course another motive, and that was black people. Right. Two commercials are better than one. Somebody named Thane Eugene Cesar is the guy who hated Kennedy’s support of black people. He was found standing next to Kennedy’s body, gun in his hand (loaded or unloaded?) and as a lazy plot device, we are told he had dreamed of becoming a cop but was rejected by the Los Angeles police force. He then went on to work as a plumber in a classified section of military arms and aeronautics giant Lockheed’s factory in Burbank, so Intelligence, only winning the job as the hotel’s private security guard one week before Senator Kennedy’s murder. Again, convenient. As if this were the Parker Brothers game of CLUE, and we are standing around attempting to figure out who used the revolver in the kitchen, Cesar is proudly quoted as saying: “I had no use for the Kennedy family… biggest bunch of crooks that ever walked the earth.” Right. Is Uno Timanson supposed to be yet another “who done it” murder suspect? Your guess is as good as mine. 

Another familiar element in the narrative is sloppy police work. We see this time and again in hoaxes. Why—you ask. There is a reason for this, and that is because policemen often become Freemasons, as secret societies have their advantages in the rat race. The police never followed through with the laughing polka dot dress lady, but also showed no interest in a second shooter, despite multiple claims and a corpse riddled with bullets, which should attest to that fact. That is probably because we are dealing with the improv of crisis actors. Bobby Kennedy’s aide, Paul Schrade, was reportedly struck by a bullet during the assassination. By 1968, Schrade had already helped to organize Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta into household names, even marching with Martin Luther King Jr., who was shot in Memphis only two months prior to Kennedy. Schrade showed up after the 1965 Watts riots too. Schrade has repeatedly said: “Bobby Kennedy was shot three times by a second gunman. Sirhan was never in a position to shoot Kennedy in the back.” When questioned, Thane Eugene Cesar never could recall whither or not his gun was unholstered before or after the shooting began, nor was his gun retrieved for investigative purposes. If the police weren’t interested in following through with a second shooter, it probably has little to do with the fact that two men had already wrestled Sirhan Sirhan to the table and almost entirely because there was no first shooter to begin with.

 

 

One of the men who wrestled the gun from Sirhan Sirhan was Rafer Johnson. By 1968, Johnson was a decathlete and a two-time Olympian but also an actor, having already appeared in several movies, including the 1961 Elvis Presley vehicle, Wild in the Country. On the night of his assassination, Bobby Kennedy was on his way to Chicago. Ironically, Rafer Johnson went on to Chicago, serving on the organizing committee for the first Special Olympics competition, which was held on June 20, 1968, just two weeks after the incident. It was hosted by Special Olympics founder, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, whose three brothers are John, Robert, and Ted Kennedy. Her daughter Maria would later become a Schwarzenegger.

 

 

Speaking of Schwarzenegger, I’ve included a picture of The future Governator standing next to Roosevelt Grier, via tennis match circa sometime in the 1970’s. Grier was another one of the men who wrestled the gun from Sirhan Sirhan in the Los Angeles kitchen. By 1968, Grier was a noted football athlete but also an actor. Think they wouldn’t use track and football athletes turned actors for a murder hoax? Then you may not want to take a closer look at OJ Simpson. Maria Shriver became a Schwarzenegger (or did Schwarzenegger become a Kennedy?), and Grier followed in his footsteps by running for California Governor in 2017, losing to Nancy Pelosi’s nephew, Gary Newsom. Spooks all swim in the same circles.

Grier appeared in an episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. in 1964. I checked. Actress Sharon Tate appeared in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. that very year. Do you see what we are doing? We are making connections, and here is another. Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate attended Kennedy’s dinner at a house in Malibu on the night of his assassination. Oh, but there’s more. Abigail Folger was murdered in the Polanski house alongside Sharon Tate. If you take the time to read my paper on Grace Slick, you’ll see how spooks everywhere are related to Abigail Folger and vice versa. Here it is. The Children of Cain. Folger not only lived in the Haight at the same time as Dr. Louis Jocelyn West and Charlie Manson, she also lived in Laurel Canyon at 2774 Woodstock Road, directly across the street from Mama Cass Elliott, where Sharon Tate and the same drug dealers regularly visited. She was also a contributor to Bobby Kennedy’s campaign. While this last fact may seem like a woop-de-doo to some, the bigger news is that she helped to finance Kenneth Anger’s film, Lucifer Rising, the one that was initially supposed to star Godo Paulekas but instead starred Mansonite Bobby Beausoleil. Godo was the toddler child of Vito Paulekas, the first hippie, another person who was being groomed for the part of Charlie Manson.

 

 

Someone else at the Ambassador Hotel worthy of mention was singer/actress Rosemary Clooney, the aunt of actor George Clooney. You were probably looking for another Batman tie-in and there it is. A month later she had a nervous breakdown in Reno, Nevada, like some sort of MK-Ultra episode. Clooney remained in psychoanalytic therapy for eight years, thereby murdering a wildly successful two-decade career in show business, and was never the same afterwards. We are told the assassination of Bobby Kennedy is the reason. Perhaps she had the sort of loose lips which sinks ships, but that is probably none of my business. Another interesting and often overlooked fact; her first autobiography was published by Playboy Press.

 

 

The biggest red flag in either assassination hoax is the mere fact that the actor-politician connection ultimately swings right back around to Kennedy family patriarch Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., and really, I’m actually quite embarrassed to have missed this very important detail the first time around. We have already seen Jack Valenti, the President of the Motion Picture Association of America, onboard Air Force One while Johnson was being sworn in as President, and yet Joseph Kennedy’s involvement in Hollywood has as much to do—and probably more to do—with John F. Kennedy’s assassination hoax than Bobby’s. Though again, they are clearly both connected. The world is a stage and the Kennedy’s produced movies.

In 1926, Joseph Kennedy made the move from New York to Hollywood, promptly turning his attention to film studios. During the silent film era, studios often owned exhibition companies, which were then necessary to get their films onto local screens. Kennedy quickly acquired the Keith Albee Orpheum theaters Corporation, which had more than 700 vaudeville theaters scattered across the United States. After purchasing another production studio called Pathe Exchange, Kennedy merged his acquisitions to form Radio-Keith-Orpheum. You may have heard of RKO Pictures. The studio produced two of the most famous films in motion picture history: King Kong and Citizen Kane. It is also responsible for releasing Walt Disney’s pictures from 1937 until 1956. So, we’re talking all the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck shorts. This includes Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Pinocchio but also Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan. Hollywood is magic. It derives from the most ancient of Babylonian Mystery practices. Hollywood. And the Kennedy’s made a lot of money pushing, shall we say, a certain recipe on the masses.

 

 

Sometime in 1928, Kennedy turned his attention upon the Pantages Theater chain, which held 63 profitable theaters in its inventory. After Alexander Pantages declined his initial offer of $8 million, Kennedy stopped distributing his movies to Pantages. But Pantages was not yet detoured, as he had made moves to turn over some of his theaters to his two sons, Lloyd and Rodney. And then something happened which changed everything.

On the Friday afternoon of August 9, 1929, seventeen year-old Eunice Pringle sought a private audience with Pantages, hoping that she might get booked as a dancer in his movie chain. The details are still murky, as they are undoubtedly intended to be, but some thirty minutes later Pringle scrambled away from “the casting couch,” a room that some had described as a janitor’s closet, with a ripped dress and her hair skewed. Shrieks that Pantages had raped her filled the hallway of his office. This set into motion an international media feeding frenzy, which resulted in his arrest and conviction. Newspaper coverage of the trial, particularly by William Randolph Hearst, portrayed Pringle as the innocent victim while painting Pantages in shades of malevolence. Though he was later found not guilty at a second trial, his reputation was irreparably tarnished. Pantages fingered Kennedy as the person responsible for setting him up and then accepted his revised offer of $3.5 million. Pringle confessed on her deathbed that Kennedy was the mastermind behind the plot. Oddly enough, Kenneth Anger described this same incident in Hollywood Babylon II.

 

 

Here’s another fun fact—because today I’m full of them. Snow White and King Kong were Hitler’s favorite movies. Also, the Kennedy’s chose the globe deception for RKO’s studio logo. Mm-hmm, propaganda from the start.

In my next paper we will continue what we started and float freely like a feather in a Forrest Gump movie as we follow the life of Colonel Louis Jocelyn West. The ultimate purpose of this excercise is to see how one psyop leads to another. As promised, new villains will arise in the persons of Patty Hearst and a sinister terrorist organization which might only find competition with the likes of COBRA in an episode of G.I. Joe. You won’t want to miss it.

One final thought before taking a nap-nap. (I am about to turn forty and find no shame in the practice.) Just the other day I was reading about King Ahab and Queen Jezebel in 2 Kings and it occurred to me that they ruled the Kingdom of Israel by means of magic. It is a separate topic, but come to think about it, not really. Does this mean Queen Jezebel swirled an oar around in a boiling cauldron, peppered with pigs eyeballs and the gangrenous fingernails of an old hag, perhaps a unicorn’s scrotum or gorilla’s toe? That’s precisely what Joseph Kennedy and RKO would like you to think now, wouldn’t they, when in fact the art of movie making derives from the Babylonian Mysteries.

My hope in writing this is that you will see the face of real magic, which is the psychodrama. I can’t help but wonder if the Babylonian and Egyptian sorcery which Jezebel mastered in her day—directed no doubt against the people she ruled over—would fit right in line with a politically charged Hollywood productions of today.

But I think you already know the answer to that.

 

Noel

 

 

P.S. (Post Script):

The Further Adventures of LIFE Photographer Bill Eppridge.

 

 

RATHER THAN committing to another Forrest Gump inspired article which would aim at following the life of Bill Eppridge, I decided to do it here, post script. I came >this close< however to committing the deed. So, consider everything which follows a bonus. We shall keep it short. I hereby command all the powers of the First Amendment, which has to do with my freedoms of speech, or something to that effect. Let’s begin, er, continue.

When last we encountered Bill Eppridge, a couple of sports stars turned actors were wrestling Sirhan Sirhan into a headlock while Thane Eugene Cesar just stood there with his gun unholstered. Snapping a short series of photographs next to Bobby Kennedy’s body was LIFE photographer Bill Eppridge. Do recall that LIFE photographers were the first on the scene with John F. Kennedy’s assassination, just as they were the first to arrive at Bergen-Belsen in Germany. Anne Frank. You will probably be tempted to tell me that Eppridge had already been privately following Bobby Kennedy around for some days and it was only natural that they’d be alone together when Sirhan Sirhan emerged from behind the tray stacker. Perceived reality in the 20th century was a series of manufactured images pushed upon us and shoveled down our throats by the CIA-owned media, by which LIFE Magazine was on the forefront exposing the film.

Since you’re apparently still here, actively reading, let’s take a look at a mere snippet of Eppridge’s obituary at The New York Times, placing red flags appropriately where need be. “He photographed Latin American revolutions, the Woodstock music festival, the civil rights movement. After three civil rights workers were killed by the Ku Klux Klan in Mississippi in 1964, he and a reporter lived with the family of one of the victims, James Chaney, for a day or two.” There are so many red flags to deal with and so little time. Everything I highlighted in red was manufactured by spooks. The Latin American revolutions, for example, were masterminded by the CIA. Woodstock, by the Jews. Woodstock. The Civil Rights Movement, the Rothschild’s, also Jews. And so on and so on. Had The NY Times included his involvement with Ed Sullivan and The Beatles, Barbra Streisand, and gay San Francisco, I may have had a meltdown.

 

 

Here we see a picture of the Chaney family as they depart for the burial of James Chaney in Meridian, Mississippi, on August 7, 1964. It was taken, as you have probably already guessed, by Eppridge. James Chaney was killed alongside two white guys, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner, on June 21, reportedly by the Klu Klux Klan. Their bodies would not be discovered for another 44 days.

The narrative we are given is that Bill Eppridge, fresh off his assignment immortalizing the Beatles in America, arrived at the Chaney’s front porch without an invitation and asked if he could live with them for a couple of days. No advanced phone calls. No prior arrangements made by the local office. Eppridge simply jumped on a plane and arrived on their doorstep. They said yes. Clearly, the groundwork is being laid for another manufactured hoax. Why—you ask? Because the CIA-owned media isn’t concerned when the KKK kills a Mississippian or a black man. The media only cares to invest in their own stories, and this time, two white guys were invited into it. Yellow Journalism at its best.

Look at the three young women in the back of the Chaney’s automobile. The two on port and starboard are barely able to hold their composure. They’re incredibly self-conscious, even smiling. It’s like Eppridge as their director described the somber mood and then asked that everybody look forward. Except for the boy. Did Eppridge ask the Chaney’s to slow their car down while en route to the funeral (perhaps they hadn’t even left the driveway yet), so that the boy could sear America’s consciousness by breaking the fourth wall? Only the parents were capable of maintaining their posture.

Now that I think about it, I will write a future paper further detailing the life of Bill Eppridge, because you the reader deserve it. And I think I know exactly how I will tackle the subject, but no promises. Meanwhile, I will let you do your own image search into the further adventures of LIFE photographer Bill Eppridge. You will see, beyond any reasonable doubt, the American experience getting sculpted from behind the photographers lens. We have been over this so many times, and I know some of you, in fact most of you, will be tempted to take the Forrest Gump approach to reality and claim Eppridge was simply a carefree feather floating with the breeze, landing in the right place at the right time while Manifest Destiny and human ingenuity and Capitalism and all that dribble rises above the sweeping current of natural evolution. But that is not how the world actually works. Just stop and consider how LIFE brought in their photographers and turned everything they developed in the dark room to gold, and then you will be on the right track.