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Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.

Pete Seeger

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FEEL FREE to give away the ending to the movie. When it comes to divulging every plot twist, spare no expense. Seriously, don’t make me stand in line and then wait another two hours to find out who breaks what Commandment of the Ten with whom. A little boy communes with spirits and the psychologist is one of them, whoop-de-dew. This is like that. Rather than coating the paper with a nostalgic title, like Flower Power 2: Project Aquarius, and then springing the Truth upon you in a way which you least expected, I decided to let you know from the get-go that the 1967 March to the Pentagon was yet another Intel psyop. That’s the ending. But are you really surprised? I’m not. It’s always the ending. The world is a stage and the official narrative is a script fleshed out by leading actors and character actors and walk-on actors. Remember when I had the audacity to tell you that Forrest Gump, had he inhabited the real world, would have been the Grand Master and Puppeteer extraordinaire of the American experience? I present to you another scene from the Robert Zemeckis Intel movie.

Perhaps you simply clicked onto this paper wondering what the 1967 March to the Pentagon possibly has to do with you and tacos, and that’s okay. It’s why I’m here—to connect the dots. And eat tacos. For starters, the recent 2021 Washington Capitol riot wasn’t simply a psyop—but a reboot. Totally different franchise though. They dust the scripts off all the time. Most recently, the stakes were higher, as was the budget. The 2021 event was led by Q, the extra-dimensional A.I. villain from Star Trek: The Next Generation, General Trump, an army of Proud Boys, and spooks. Sure, The Sixties was one big groovy Intel project, but if we’re comparing that to the modern Corporate led franchises Langley’s got cooking on the stove-top nowadays, then dear God, I miss the hippies. Look, if I had to choose my deception, then I’d rather be lied to by shroom-picking, cannabis-smoking, peace loving hobbits, okay? 2020 was awful. Hippies, please come back.

Given that the recent 2021 Washington Capitol riot was a fake media-sponsored revolution, and because history is repetitive, I suspect this will be another two-part paper. You the reader deserves it. Come again next week and I’ll have another savory dish prepared, but no promises. Before we begin, I highly suggest you pause here and read the following papers. They’re all brought to you by the same actors. Haight-Ashbury. Vito and the Freaks. RFK Assassination. Gulf of Tonkin. Grace Slick. Woodstock. Hearst. Jonestown. AIDS. WARNING: The Truth may hurt. I will not be held liable for deconstructing your worldview. I checked. The piece of paper they call the First Amendment still gives me that right.

And now for my report. As you may have already suspected, it involves flowers.

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THE FLOWER POWER movement began in Berkeley as a means of symbolic protest against the Vietnam War. Already, the official narrative is off to a terrible start. So many Intel projects originate from Berkeley that it’s difficult attempting to keep track of them all, or understanding why anyone still takes that Hearst bandwagon seriously, let alone the State of California. It was spook Allen Ginsberg, in his November 1965 essay How to Make a March/Spectacle, who apparently first promoted the use of flowers as a brochure handout for policemen, the press, politicians, and the sort.

For the record, Ginsberg helped to assemble a superpower team of spooks at Columbia University called The Beatniks. You may have heard of them. Fellow members included William S. Burroughs, Lucien Carr, John Clellon Holmes, Neal Cassady, and Jack Kerouac. Technically, Burroughs was likely the recruiting agent, but Ginsberg was one hell of an enforcer. Their superpowers consisted of poetry. Really, the narrative makes so much more sense when you finally contend with the fact that well-financed government agents sat around exhuming rotting Intel projects like Theosophy and then masqueraded as spoiled over-privileged kids pretending to be poor back-alley delinquents, complete with Freudian hangups but totally into Zen Buddhism and never without bongo drums and tambourines, bemoaning the economic materialism and sexual repression of white middle class suburban America. I probably overlooked an important detail or two, but you get the point.

Or in Ginsberg’s words:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

And that’s just the opening two lines of his most celebrated poem, Howl. Its first 78 lines, many of which run on for the length of a paragraph, is one long tiresome sentence. How adorable. That’s not to say that Ginsberg’s work is real poetry. The Government has been systematically dissembling art for decades, while simultaneously funneling millions of taxpayer money into driving up auctions offering crappy art. As a further explanation, you will want to read my paper on Jackson Pollock. The C.I.A. In A.R.T. The takeaway here is that modern day poetry and art in all of its Corporate forms is a war against humanity, and also a post mud flood thing. Howl is probably the result of a Government spook cutting and pasting words from a Scrabble hat after eating too much shrimp at the annual Langley Christmas party.

Why was it celebrated? Because spooks write praiseworthy reviews. They stock the shelves. They’ll even buy every last copy if they need to, just to make it seem organic. We only know about Ginsberg because he was cast into the sort of role intended to raise eyebrows; push the moral envelope. And here’s how they did it. On March 25, 1957, customs officials seized 520 copies of the poem being imported from England, claiming the book obscene. This will probably sound to you like a comedy, though I can only imagine our scriptwriters had another genre in mind, when I tell you that Shig Murao, the manager at San Francisco’s City Lights Bookstore (beatnik headquarters), was arrested for selling a copy of Howl to an undercover police officer. City Lights publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti was subsequently arrested for publishing the book.

The question you should be asking is why The Government built an obscenity case against Ginsberg and Howl and then took a poetry chapbook being sold by an independent publisher in a handful of bookstores to court. The answer is straightforward enough. To stir Americans into principled rallying cries but also to oppress them by normalizing Ginsberg’s homo-erotic glop into a standard of our collective consciousness. The case was widely publicized by LIFE Magazine. Why am I not surprised? At the obscenity trial, nine literary experts testified on the poem’s life and Judge Clayton Horn decided in favor of Ginsberg’s poem having “redeeming social importance.” So there you go. The Government is playing both sides. They are telling you that Ginsberg is obscene homo-erotic literature and that it should also be taught in public schools. In other news, Ginsberg was a Joo. Also, Ferlinghetti may be an Italian name, but his mother was a Joo. And now you know.

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FOR THE PURPOSES of this paper, which is the 1967 March to the Pentagon, our story ultimately begins on the evening of January 14. Same year. Our peripheral setting is San Francisco. The scene is Michael Bowen’s art studio. Who is Michael Bowen? I asked myself the same question. He’s the guy who painted the semi-iconic LOVE portrait. But he is so much more than that. Michael Bowen is the guy who turned The Sixties counterculture into performance art. And no, I do not have my wires crossed when I transplant art with witchcraft. Performance witchcraft is as old a tradition as Mystery Babylon itself. Bowen was simply chosen to bring it out into the open, initiate a few, and usher everyone else into the intended spell. You shall hopefully see what I’m talking about in a moment. January 14 was the day of San Francisco’s Human Be-In, the very occasion when people tuned in and dropped out and simply chose to Be. It was The Sixties. You had to be there.

What struck my attention is the fact that The Wikipedia specifically mentions four men in Michael Bowen’s art studio later that night. As a reminder, Wiki is passing notes in class. Wink-wink. There may have been more than four men present and accounted for, but Intel is not interested in breaking down for us the fourth wall. For this intended narrative, we are only given four names. Allen Ginsberg. Gary Snyder. Timothy Leary. And Jerry Rubin. Recognize any of them? Mm-hmm, I do too. And here’s the ending. They’re all spooks.

What were they doing in Bowen’s studio on the evening of the Human Be-In? Apparently, they were planning to levitate the Pentagon. Sure, let’s go with that. To be clear, it was Gary Snyder’s idea to preform an exorcism on the Pentagon, whereas Michael Bowen won the day by suggesting they levitate it. Again, this will all make sense to you if you recognize perceived reality is fed to us through performance art. The irony here, and the ultimate takeaway, is that Bowen’s crew was advertising a Washington march centered upon witchcraft, which is blatant misinformation and an intended tripping hazard, when in fact the psychodrama they were after is real witchcraft.

Michael Bowen’s bio reads as follows.

He was born in 1937 in Beverly Hills to Grace and Sterling Bowen. His mother had a lover in Benjamin Siegel, aka Bugsy, but Bowen knew him affectionately as “Uncle Benjie.” If you’re unfamiliar as to who Bugsy is, he’s the Jewish mobster who built a criminal empire through bootlegging, gambling, and handshakes which involved bodies in trunks before finally growing soft and setting up shop in a little desert town we know today as Las Vegas, an obvious Intel project, where he opened the famous Flamingo Hotel. Bugsy would often taken the young Bowen to the Las Vegas Strip to, you know, conduct business, and also the Sir Francis Drake Hotel near Union Square in downtown San Francisco. Bowen is not the last child of a mafia upbringing to arrive in this paper, but so far I have only described his mother’s side.

Bowen’s paternal grandmother, Alma Porter, was a member of The Theosophical Society, another obvious Intel front, from which Bowen “was exposed to esoteric metaphysics.” It was here where Bowen was likely groomed for his later role as esoteric artist. Save your applaud. You can thank me for connecting those dots later on.

Another contributor to his life’s work was someone named Samson De Brier. De Brier hosted mystical gatherings at his house in Los Angeles, many of which a teenage Bowen visited. In turn, De Brier was an occultist actor who appeared in Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, a 1954 underground film directed by Kenneth Anger. Remember Kenneth Anger? Perhaps not. He’s the spook with strange connections to Vito Paulekas, the Manson family, and the Folger family. The 1954 film also reflected Anger’s deep interest in Thelema, particularly Aleister Crowley‘s concept of a ritual masquerade party, whereas attendees dress up as gods and goddesses for the purposes of magick. If you’re curious as to how any of that holds any water for your visit to the local toy store, then I suggest you read the following paper. The Black Dahlia. It involves Stanley Kubrick and shopping in toy stores.

We also read that, as a teenager, De Brier met French literary giants André Gide and Gertrude Stein, among others, while visiting Paris, apparently becoming a lover of Gide. Of course he would. Because who doesn’t become the gay lover of poets and writers while visiting Paris? They literally stand around waiting for your arrival at the airport. If you’re wondering why De Brier didn’t also become Gide’s lover, it’s because she was a lesbian, and now how would that work? Seriously, you tell me.

We shall return to Michael Bowen in a moment.

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THE NEXT PERSON in Michael Bowen’s art studio on the evening of January 14 is Timothy Leary. Recognize the name? I do too. I am attempting to cram a great amount of research and detail into a 650 word essay weekly paper without turning this into a book, because I am not a typewriter-robot like Stephen King, and therefore will never adequately measure the weight of Leary’s agent role in one or two paragraphs. He deserves a paper of his own, but let’s have a go at it anyhow.

Timothy Leary’s story is dizzying in every which direction. Very early on, it involves becoming a cadet at West Point, and then getting court martialed and finally discharged from West Point. Afterwards, he enrolls in the ROTC program at the University of Alabama, because Leary hasn’t had his ass handed to him at the Point. At Alabama, Leary studies girls and psychology, apparently maintaining top grades in both departments, only to be expelled for spending a night in the girls dormitory. At the outbreak of The War, he foinds himself back in the loving embrace of the Army, because Leary made a habit of having his ass handed to him by breakfast. It is there that Private First Class Leary enters the psychology subsection of the Army Specialized Training Program, which includes three months of study at Georgetown University and six months at Ohio State. After The War, he leaves a corporal and re-enters the University of Alabama, eventually receiving his PhD from the University of Berkeley in 1950. But the question of the day is: Did Army psychologist Timothy Leary ever really leave? You will tell me Leary was a basket case. Of course he was. The Army has proven as much—over and over and over and over again.  Wink-wink.

Allen Ginsberg and Leary met sometime in 1960, after the Beat poet heard about the Harvard Psilocybin Project, an experimental study of psychology and psychedelics which was conducted by Leary and Richard Alpert, but also co-founded by Aldous Huxley. Richard Alpert went so deep into the psychological-LSD bunny hole that he would later change his name to Ram Dass, though many knew him as Baba Ram Dass. Ginsberg and Leary then began distributing psychedelics to Beat poets like Jack Kerouac and Charles Olson and jazz musicians Maynard Ferguson and Charles Mingus. In short, how can our Slave Masters truly win the war on narcotics when they’re the ones passing it around on the plantation, drugging up the slaves in the barracoon?

After his 1963 initiation into an ancient Aztec shamanic ceremony, San Francisco artist Michael Bowen traveled to New York City to meet with Beat artists, writers, and musicians, but also to establish a studio in the Lower East Side. I told you we would return to Bowen. Most notably, Bowen frequented Leary and Alpert’s Millbrook mansion, both of whom had now been fired from Harvard, hoping to take part in their acid-consciousness experimentations.

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In the summer of 1966, Bowen returned to the Intel project that is San Francisco and established a studio slash ashram in the neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury. Perfect timing. If you read my paper From JFK To Jonestown, then you will know that MK-Ultra Puppet Master Colonel Louis West arrived about the same time, so as to hire hippie actors and to set up office in the Haight-Ashbury Medical Free Clinic (because he needed mind control subjects, duh), all of which was part of the CIA’s Haight-Ashbury Project. Try not to let cognitive dissonance win the day. As you can obviously imagine, boots on the ground actors were needed. Auditions were held. Bowen simply exited one circle of spooks in New York City and arrived in another, but here he won a leading role.

Among his first orders of business, Bowen teamed up with Allen Cohen to co-found the underground newspaper, San Francisco Oracle. Cohen showed up in my From JFK To Jonestown paper and we saw there that he was a Joo. During the Summer of Love, Bowen’s studio tripled as the office for the Oracle, where he served as the art director and Cohen the editor.

We are almost caught up to the January 14 meeting in Bowen’s studio, home of the Oracle. But first, this is as good a time as any to mention that Bowen had already helped to establish, via painted portrait, and was indeed a point of contact for Janis Joplin, before initially leaving California behind in 1963 to pass notes with Beatnik spooks.

On October 6, 1966, the California State legislator banned the use of LSD, thereby creating a literal neighborhood of outlaws in the Haight, where acid had already become a staple of the community. Do you see what The Government just did? They legitimized the CIA hippie psyop, and on a day with multiple sixes. October 6 is also by no coincidence the very date in which Bowen and Cohen organized the Love Pageant Rally. Some 3,000 hippie hopefuls ditched class at Berkeley for the event. Janis Joplin arrived with Big Brother and the Holding Company and played for free. Afterwards, Cohen and Bowen, who had teamed up with Ram Dass, discussed hosting a much larger gathering. The event would go down on January 14, 1967.

They imagined something called the Human Be-In.

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THE HUMAN BE-IN is the moment burned into our collective consciousness when Timothy Leary stood in front of 30,000 hippies in Golden Gate Park and phrased the famous words: “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane played for free from the back of a flatbed truck with amplification given by a gas generator. Ferlinghetti showed support for his poets. Janis Joplin returned. The Hells Angels provided security. People made love rather than war, and everyone was content coming together for no other reason than just to BE. Kind of like a Calvin Klein commercial, but not nearly as sexy. The entire episode was once again designed by Bowen as more performance art. The official narrative even confesses as much. Haight and Ashbury was the stage.

Aside from Leary, guest speakers included Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder. There they are again. The only woman to speak was small time word alchemist Lenore Kandel. That very year, she published her first and only full-length book of poems, Word Alchemy. By 1960, she had been immortalized in the Jack Kerouac novel Big Sur as the “big Rumanian monster beauty” who walked around learning everything there is to know about Zen and wearing only purple panties as she did so. It was however her small pamphlet of poetry, The Love Book, which briefly cast her into the spotlight in 1966, when its three-part poem, “To Fuck with Love,” provoked citywide censorship. Once again, police seized every possible copy from both City Light Books and The Psychedelic Shop. In court, Kandel defended her work as “holy erotica.” A jury of her peers declared the book obscene, lacking in any redeeming value, and as you can probably already deduce, sales increased. The courts decision was then overturned. Of course it was. Kandel thanked the police by giving one percent of all profits to the Police Retirement Association.

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ANOTHER PERSON in Michael Bowen’s art studio on the evening of January 14 was someone named Jerry Rubin. Jerry Rubin’s father, as you have likely already deduced, was a Rubin. His mother was a Katz. In both cases, that can only mean one thing. Joos. We are told that Rubin attended Berkeley and that he then dropped out of the University “to focus on social activism,” but the “drop out” plot point is an often regurgitated Intel storytelling device, as we have already seen today with Leary. Leary kept hanging out with the Army and Rubin with Berkeley. Same difference.  In little time, Rubin became one of the founding members of the Youth International Party, or Yippie for short, along with Abbie Hoffman and satirist Paul Krassner, who was borrowed from spook Ken Kesey and the Merry Prankster Intel project. Kesey deserves a paper all his own, just not today. In a few short years, we find Rubin hanging out with John Lennon and Yoko Ono. He will then make his millions as an early investor in Apple Computers. Mm-hmm, Rubin was in the know.

Most notably however, Rubin played his part as one of the Chicago Seven, right alongside of Hoffman, another Joo. Today we are learning all about street theater, and Rubin’s appearance before the House Un-American Activities Committee hearings is a picture perfect example of the Yippie’s emphasis on mixing political protests with acting. Rather than pleading the Fifth, Rubin entered the room in a rented 18th-century American Revolutionary War uniform, proudly claiming to be a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine and then telling the committee: “Nothing is more American than revolution.”

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ANOTHER MEMBER of The Chicago Seven who spoke from the Lincoln Memorial at the March to the Pentagon event was David Dellinger. We are dangerously close to scrapping this paper and writing an entire rant on the Chicago Seven psyop, but I will have to restrain myself until another hour. Dellinger was born in Wakefield, Massachusetts to a wealthy family, and by that I mean that his father Raymond Pennington Dellinger was a Yale graduate and a lawyer, but more importantly, a friend of President Calvin Coolidge. David Dellinger went on like his father to study at Yale, but also Oxford. It was at Yale where he met and became friends with Walt Rostow, who would go on to play the part of National Security Advisor to President Lyndon B. Johnson from 1966 to 1969, placing the Pentagon psyop smack dab in the middle. I just made another connection. You’re welcome.

We are told that Dillinger had friendships with everyone from Ho Chi Minh, Martin Luther King Jr., Abbie Hoffman, anarchists Dorothy Day and A.J. Muste, Eleanor Roosevelt (wait, what?), Greg Calvert, James Bevel, David McReynolds, and numerous black Panthers such as Fred Hampton. But who wasn’t friends with Fred Hampton? Hanging out with Fred Hampton is practically what qualifies you as a spook. Fred Hampton held Timothy Leary under slave arrest, so there you go. The mere fact that Walt Rostow knew Dellinger, given his associations, designates the National Security Advisor a security threat. You will be tempted to tell me that it’s okay, because he knew Eleanor Roosevelt. Sure, let’s go with that. Dillinger’s narrative becomes even more ridiculous when we learn that he traveled to both North and South Vietnam in 1966 to learn first-hand the impact of American bombing, but I’m sure that wasn’t theater.

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ON OCTOBER 21, 1967, the 75,000 anti-war protestors who marched from the Lincoln Memorial towards the Pentagon were met by soldiers of the 82nd Airborne Division. We are told that Abbie Hoffman was not dissuaded. The Pentagon would be levitated. Or more specifically, according to his theoretical analysis, Hoffman would “use psychic energy to levitate the Pentagon until it would turn orange and begin to vibrate, at which time the war in Vietnam would end.” Allen Ginsberg then led Tibetan chants to assist Hoffman, while everyone waited upon 200 lbs. of daisies to be dropped from a light aircraft onto their target building. Meanwhile, the confrontation worsened.

One member of the march recalled:

Then someone in authority decided that the Pentagon steps had to be cleared. Rifle butts came down on people’s heads with dull, ugly, wet-sounding thumps. Blood splashed on to the steps. There were shouts of “Link arms! Link arms!”, mixed with screams of pain and curses. People were dragged off and arrested. The brutality was appalling and the people standing on the steps began throwing debris at the soldiers. I saw a garbage can sail over my head. I feared people might be trampled in panic as they tried to escape from the clubs and rifle butts.

Jerry Rubin recalled a scene whereas blood and piss were sprayed upon the Pentagon, complete with the painted words, ‘Che lives.’ And then hippies danced upon their feces.

Like the levitation idea, the daisy airdrop originated in the mind of Michael Bowen. Both failed—exoterically speaking. The flowers were purchased by someone named Peggy Hitchcock, a New York friend of his, and flowers don’t come cheap. Hitchcock’s husband was Walter Bowart, the publisher and co-founder of the New York City underground bi-weekly newspaper, East Village Other. Not exactly the sort of career path one takes, as budgets go, if they hope to drop napalm-sized blasts of raw flower power upon the Pentagon. Isn’t it funny how these same people all constantly seem to know each other in the polar opposite cities of New York City and San Francisco? Bowart later played the role of the investigative journalist who dug up Intel on the MK-Ultra program. Operation Mind Control was his 317-page report into government mind control through the use of LSD, behavior modification, and hypnosis. Do you see how cyclical this all is? Spooks swim in the same circle. Ken Kesey, like so many other Beatniks, was MK-Ultra. Bowart was undoubtedly working for Intel.

The Flower Power airdrop apparently went down without a hitch. That is, until the feds seized the aircraft. Also, the Pentagon was never levitated. Were the flowers confiscated? We are not told. Either Michael Bowen was able to retrieve them from the evidence room of the 9th and 10th Street headquarters of the FBI or Peggy Hitchcock had held another untold number on reserve, because the daisies were then brought to the front lines of the tense confrontation and distributed among the demonstrators.

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THE PICTURE which captures the moment in which the daisies arrived on the front lines is called Flower Power, and was later nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, the award for achievement in Government propaganda and Intel integrity, and first established in 1917 by provisions in the will of Joseph Pulitzer, a Hungarian born Joo. If dozens or even hundreds of hippies packed Flower Power into the rifles staring them down, we are not shown. Only one lone hippie is exhibited. I wanted to know who was photographed committing the deed, and this is what I learned. There are actually two separate men identified as the person shoving flowers down the throat of rifles, and in both cases, you already know the ending.

The person in the photo is most commonly identified as 18-years-old George Edgerly Harris III. His bio lists him as an actor who simply went by one name. Hibiscus. Hibiscus moved from New York to San Francisco in 1967 to—you guessed it—act, but not before first staring in a 1966 Off Broadway play titled Peace Creeps, which also featured the likes of Al Pacino and James Earl Jones. If he enlisted into Colonel Louis West‘s troupe of hippie actors, once pulling up to San Francisco in the Volkswagen, we are not told. You will tell me that Hibiscus was “Off Hours” while packing Flower Power at the Pentagon, and therefore not acting. Do me a favor and try to find a picture of Harris or Hibiscus or whatever we’re supposed to call him in The Matrix that doesn’t feature a painted face or Geisha drag. Harris co-found The Cockettes. The name will make a lot more sense after learning that it is described as a “flamboyant, psychedelic gay-themed drag troupe.” And now take a look at the man we’re told is Harris again and tell me that’s not somebody who’s acting.

Harris died in the early 1980’s during the HIV pandemic, another hoax. Interesting fact: His was supposedly the very first AIDS-related death to be reported by the New York Post.

The second person identified as the man in the photo is someone named Joel Tornabene, but those closest to Tornabene simply knew him as Super-Joel. His bio identifies him with “a socially prominent family” in Chicago, to put it mildly. His grandfather was Mafia boss Sam Giancana. So again, another Intel project.Though hippie apologists everywhere claim him to have been out of the family business when he distributed LSD. Sure. Tornabene was then groomed in Berkeley for his respective role, which is to say he helped form the Youth International Party (they dubbed themselves Yippies), but also to aid Abbey Hoffman in the 1968 Democratic National Convention riots in Chicago, a town in which he would have been intimately familiar with. And speaking of acting, Super-Joel gave the cops the finger through the caged door at the back of the paddy wagon after his arrest—a splendid performance indeed. The Yippie’s indictment was dropped when an attorney for Sam Giancana arrived in the script. Apparently, Tornabene was deemed mentally incompetent to stand trial.

Also, his part in the Flower Power episode has been described as an “audacious bit of street theater.”

More acting.

 

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I decided to look up the person who took the very Flower Power photo, and his name was Bernie Boston.

Years later, Boston insisted that Hibiscus was the actor in his photo. He said: “When I saw the sea of demonstrators, I knew something had to happen. I saw the troops march down into the sea of people, and I was ready for it. He came out of nowhere and it took me years to find out who he was. His name was Harris.”

On a side note, if you commit to an image search of Bernie Boston, you will receive pictures of Bernie Sanders speaking in Boston. Who says A.I. doesn’t have a sense of humor? The next thought that occurred to me was whether or not Bernie Boston was a Joo.  Another image search revealed even more pictures of Bernie Sanders speaking in Boston. Go figure. After tracking down a picture of Bernie Boston, in turn standing next to his own portrait of Flower Power, I can tell you that, while he isn’t Jewish, Boston is clearly an ethnic minority. Is he black? Any search in The Matrix combining Bernie Boston and black informed me that Bernie Boston photographed the black panthers. What ethnicity is he then? Every search simply spit back that Bernie Boston was American. For whatever reason, The Wikipedia is not interested in telling us who Bernie Boston’s parents are, except to say he was born in Washington D.C. and grew up in McLean, Virginia. Even if ethnic minorities are born in Washington D.C., the only people who inhabit houses in McLean are diplomats, military, members of Congress, high-ranking government officials, and their children. Get the picture?

His biography continues as follows. Boston graduated from the Rochester Institute of Technology in 1955 as a member of Sigma Pi fraternity. He then turned to the Air Force, tucking another two years of Army service under his belt, before finally turning to The Washington Star. We then find Boston photographing Intel projects such as the Black Panthers and Martin Luther King Jr. We are also told that Boston covered every president from Harry S. Truman to Bill Clinton. Who is chosen to photograph Presidents? You know the answer to that one.

In 1987, Bernie Boston once again found himself the finalist for a Pulitzer Prize. The Government propaganda committee had selected Boston’s photograph of Coretta Scott King unveiling a bust of her late husband, MLKJ, in the the U.S. Capitol building. This—after we are told that the FBI and the Kennedy administration were wiretapping King’s phones two decades earlier. How very quickly the tables turn. But again, are you really surprised? If The Government doesn’t play both sides of their own Intel projects, then who will? And what better place for a psyop than the Pentagon or the U.S. Capitol?

Will I cover the 2021 Capitol Riot in next weeks paper? Who really knows. The stack of lies which I hope to cover continually grows. I’ll never come close to highlighting every one of them in this lifetime. But do I really need to? Unless you prefer a constant influx of hibernation rather than cognition, then you already know the answer. Peace.

 

Noel