Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Steve Riskus Exposed as a Fraud

I have it on good authority—my own—that the pseudonymous BCO board member who played a seminal reportage role in the September 11, 2001 attack on the Pentagon, the man known familiarly to us as Steve Riskus, can confidently be identified as Naval Chief Petty Officer James Schauer, currently the leading Officer for Production at the Fleet Imaging Center Pacific, in Seattle, Washington.

The policy in effect in late 2001 regarding the registering of a domain name, required that the contact information be included in a public database known as WHOIS. The original Whois page for critical thrash listed a James Schauer, 5913 Highdale Cir, Alexandria, Virginia 22310 as the registrant. Schauer must not have been very happy with this availability, and the internet began to be modified.

I make an unavoidable connection with Schauer, the peripatetic naval officer.

Young Schauer has been coming up in the world since he went west, although he was winning awards even before 9-11 gave a jumper-cable boast to his career nipples. Like winning a 1rst-place prize in 1998, in the Military-Funded Newspapers, Large category, while in the Naval Reserve Force Public Affairs Office in a still-dry New Orleans, he was one of four "significant contributors" working under a "primary contributor," Patricia Antenucci's winning effort in the pages of the Naval Reservist News. Go Team player!

In my weakest stevenwarran blog posting to date, my inner ear wasn't militarily attuned and acronym-buffed when, I passed on, “The BCO message board is apparently a byproduct of an DARPA military funded program.” DARPA, SMARPA. What I meant to say was DINFOS.

The CPOs and their 93 selectees had perfect late summer weather during the training leading up to the ceremony. Each and every one will never forget their initiation day as they were finally told to "Go be a Chief." NAS Whidbey Island Crosswind May 30, 2003

Whatever. James' dear old alma mater, The Defense Information School, housed in a 232,000 square-foot facility in Ft. Meade, Maryland, where in classrooms and labs that are equipped with the latest state-of-the-art equipment, about 4,000 students are trained each year.

Combining the school's subtitle, "The Center of Excellence For Visual Information and Public Affairs," along with its motto, "Strength Through Truth," results in a nearly perfect Orwellian oxymoron.

"Military and civilian graduates of the School can be found in almost every major broadcast, newspaper, public affairs or visual information related operation in the United States and overseas." Go Team Spirit! Give me a G! Give me an A! Give me a N! Another N! An E! Give me a T, and another T! What does that spell? Thirty-Something Eyewitnesses! Yeah!

Someone with indubitably too much time on his hands, a certain Bruce Moore, updated a report in August 2006, called Chief Photographer’s Advancements from 1946-2005, where we see the select crowd who make the cut: (I'm warning you! Don't click on when did he make chief? link, unless you want about 8-pages of lambda code down on your computer! It's there, but don't touch !)

(Actually, a lot of time. Mr. Moore is now working as a Texas prison guard, for some reason, letting others take the pictures.)

Mr. Moore was at one time web master for the NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF NAVAL PHOTOGRAPHY, where a certain Mr. Tim Timmerman was co-chair of a merchandise committee. My, such a small world.

Although the name Steve Riskus was mocked early on as an obvious contrivance, everybody gave it a pass as a realname for some reason. Why? We understood it within its context, where names on boards like criticalthrash, crewcial, trogdor, and vlv, were anonymous representations, like my favorites, tryviolence, or BiFurious, signaling as coded surrogates, more amusing as fill-ins perhaps than the real people.

Was it because of the following, where an excess of contact information overexposes him, and lulls us with his availability?
"I took these pictures seconds after I saw an American airlines 757 crash into pentagon. I was heading towards 395 on route 27 when the plane crossed my path about 100ft ahead and crashed into the side of the pentagon.
Steve Riskus
AIM: youthenraged
+1 703 856 1855 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting +1 703 856 1855 end_of_the_skype_highlighting begin_of_the_skype_highlighting +1 703 856 1855 end_of_the_skype_highlighting
+1 703 856 1855 (nextel phone)
+1 703 333 6705 (work)
+1 703 313 9209 (home
We go to Whois.net to verify the famous smoking-gun date-fact--criticalthrash was set up on 09/10/01, the same day Rumsfeld announced $2.3 trillion in defense budgeting had been unaccountably spent--and we have our little "Ha! Ha!" moment, but apparently no one stopped to ask why the registry document had been purged of the personal contact information, which is the point of an official domain record.

Ask yourself, would anybody, either an up-and-coming yuppie or a post-ironic hipster, ever take a photograph like this one--let's say....shell-shocked, accidentally......of his arm....cull it out of a series as irrelevant, but then leave it to linger in a nearby folder? I hate to delete anything myself but I definitely would have rotated it clockwise a quarter-turn, that is if I'm not Karen Hughes.

But if my left arm was as mono-graphically tattooed as Riskus' is, clear down to his wrist, I wouldn't. Is Schauer German or Jewish? That helps explain it. A mirror-image Lithuanian Jew, beyond the pale, and behind him, the pail, meant for us to vomit in.

(I know to a high degree of organic certitude that this is "Riskus," gotten off a thread in which his beard was the topic. I'll link to it when I get a chance.)

Index of Terror
xjacktarx posted this on October 28th, 2006 @ 6:03:48 pm
That guy says you waited months to make those photos public, but didn’t you post them on pr.n or pf.c or whatever it was on the actual day of the attacks?
It's better to let sleeping dogs lie, xjacktarx. I found the punkforum.com board for 9-11-01 archived. I'll post a scan when I can get back into my computer. All together it allows a tiny bit of insight into the reality and surreality of the day. Here I cherry-pick some threads:
  • jen 10:13am
    the pentagon just blew up.
  • riskus 10:48am
    picture of the pentagon I took
  • Jesse 10:55am
    hijacked plane circling Dulles?
  • riskus 11:22am
  • Scott 12:04pm
  • riskus 12:35pm
    pieces of the plane hit my car
Riskus seems nonplussed barely an hour and ten minutes after his brush with Hani Hanjor's singeing vortex of splattering Olsen matter; says "picture of the Pentagon" like he was saying "picture of the Eiffel Tower," not "NINE FUCKING ELEVEN, FREAK!" What do you want to bet somebody called with a little drama instruction: to go all caps and five exclamation marks is not an organic mood development.

And who is TYLER, who at the exact same moment as Riskus' excitable 11:22am message says this: "Pentagon hit for the third time."?

The following snippet of message-board dialog between carvegrind (J. Stapula) and Riskus is from a thread at board.crewcial.org, called 'the 9/11 pentagon conspiracy,' where the 9-11 conspiracy has been trash talked to death for over 16 months. (Apparently, this is the entirety of the communication.)

riskus reposted this bit of September 11, 2001 board transcript on February 16th, 2007 @ 9:30:32 am
my friend just told me he had saved my initial im conversation i had with him on this day. I was actually on my way to his house when it happened to help work on the pool we were building.
  • youthenraged: pieces of the plane hit my car
  • youthenraged: the plane went right in front of my car
  • CARVEGRIND: you are kidding.........FUCK, what?!!!
  • youthenraged: im serious
  • youthenraged: i got tons of pics
  • CARVEGRIND: fuck!!!!!!!!...I'm glad you are ok
  • CARVEGRIND: ....did you take any video?
  • youthenraged: no
  • youthenraged: i didnt think to
  • youthenraged: i though i was dead
  • CARVEGRIND: you are ok though right?
  • youthenraged: yeah i think
  • youthenraged: i will come by later
  • youthenraged: and i will still be there tomorrow if it still goes on
  • CARVEGRIND: no sweat man......I'm sure traffic is really REALLY BAD
  • youthenraged: people are going the wrong way on 395
  • youthenraged: at least when i was on it
  • CARVEGRIND: another plane crashed in a Pennsylvania airport
  • CARVEGRIND: like actually on the wrong side?.....INSANE
  • youthenraged: yeah
  • youthenraged: did josh sho wup
  • youthenraged: www.youthenrage.com/terror: more pics
  • CARVEGRIND: yes he is here
  • youthenraged:im scared man
  • youthenraged: pieces hit my car
  • youthenraged: people started running across the road
  • CARVEGRIND: I heard there's another plane circling around Dulles thats hijacked
  • youthenraged: jesus
  • youthenraged: turn the pond into a bomb shelter
  • CARVEGRIND: my neighbor across the street has a bomb shelter.
  • youthenraged: nice
The Riskus' Shots: "A Ton Equals Thirteen"
(First, note that he has changed the descriptive paragraph--understandably removing the telephone numbers-too TMI, but also taking out questionable facts about his siting and orientation, which only feeds conspiracy blogger's paranoia.)

"I took these pictures less then 1 minutes after I watched the American airlines 757 airplane crash into the pentagon on september 11 2001. I left shortly after the picture were taken in fear of further attacks. Feel free to contact me anytime if you have questions about the pictures.
Yes, I did actually see the plane impact the building.
Steve Riskus
AIM: youthenrage"

Photograph #1 Beginning on Route 27 north of the heliport, where he said he saw the plane one hundred feet ahead of him, and moving in the likely order in which he took the shots, the first image is unexceptional, revealing little of interest other than establishing a basic reference point to the overhead metal sign.

But in Photograph #2 the mood is startlingly more dramatic. It must have to do with fire!

Photograph #3 As in the second and fourth shots, what distinguishes the three shots is the extremely high vantage point from which they're taken, especially when compared with images one and five, their sequential bookends.

Photograph #4 Moving south.

Photograph #5 In the fifth shot, the photographer is back down at or near grade to take what I call the "money shot" because so many false witnesses can be identified for prosecution.

Still moody with smoke and flame and showing the only kinetic derrière in the entire corpus, it is well into the off-ramp leading to Columbia Pike, to the left of the row of blue port-o-potties in the photo below.
Riskus would have had to climb up a concrete retaining wall edging a rise in Arlington cemetery in order to gain the vantage point for images #2, #3 and #4, after first shooting #1 at grade, well to the right of the the overhead sign.

Since two lamp poles are seen in shots #2 and #3, Riskus would need to be up at the extreme right of the wall in this FEMA image below. This seems too high to me, even taking foreshortening into consideration, but the only other alternative would be having him stand on the roof of his car, and I would tend to find that even more unusual behavior.
It would have been easier for Riskus to have mounted the precipice at the southwest end, nearer to where these folk have found a shady, out of the way perch for a good looksee, just behind the spot where the Di Lorenzo Tri-Care Health Clinic is setting up a pharmacy in the middle of the Route 27 on the afternoon of 9-11, even though no casualties were removed from the Pentagon after the first half-hour.

Need I state my point? Climbing up and down to cross a great distance is a long way away from his car; it isn't in keeping with the state of being a terrified bystander. Have you ever driven near an airport and had a 757 jet-liner come up from behind you on approach and catch you unaware? Well, imagine that sensation not at 180 miles-per-hour but at 530! Followed by a giant percussive blast (concussive too, if like me you believe high-explosives were used) that a jetliner hitting (Just once now! No do-overs!) a solid reinforced limestone-and-brick building, at what our narrator, I hope has mistakenly estimated to be, 100 feet.

And coming as a surprise! It was the shock that transformed us! That's how we can tell one another apart now!

I just can't identify with someone who would follow that up by clambering up a roadside verge retaining wall in order to achieve the result of only five milquetoast images, but getting back to the relative safety of his car to get the hell out of there, (as conditions permitted) who would then stop, and imped other's retreat, to finish up a partial roll with surrealistically unimportant shots.

And let us not forget to ask why he would then on his own dime post to and maintain for five years, a contextless web page of these images, at what must amount to a huge expense in bandwidth, so that we may know them, all the while complaining about the attention he's getting.


I think his team tried its hardest, but so many things went wrong here, leaving aside the date the domain was registered, which obviously they couldn't change, because they changed everything else, and in eliminating the contact information, they gave great weight to what they took out. Unfortunately, the record has to stand alongside the crewcial page registered by Ian Meyer using his Burlington Iowa persona.

I guess you just have to know what it's like to go without an information flow--pressing your nose up against the glass to see all the steaming knowledge buns inside--to understand the power in not knowing something.

So "steve" was on RT 27 heading towards I-395, about 100 feet away from where the plane crossed, stuck in traffic (but alone, since his lanes are empty in the foreground, although up ahead Father McGraw and Loyde England are blocking lanes, so traffic was halted back where?) while people mill distractedly on the other side of the concrete divide showing an unbelievable disparate focus.

The escape route--what Riskus knew, when did he know it. What was his route home and did he head back into the District before going to 5913 Highdale Circle, in Alexandria?

And off the road to hell: how does the devil get limestone to burn and smell like sulpher? What the images do show discernible in the flames.


From a previously unimaginable deliberate inter-services slaughter, to an even more sinister intra-navy precision strike. Was Mrs. Sincock targeted by name and was Lt. Brian Birdwell only lightly toasted!

(All of the photographs used in this piece have been cleaned of underlying computer code and are safe for downloading and use in research. Be careful of all images, especially those issued by government and military sources, as they frequently carry over 1MB in underlying code--the purpose of which can only be imagined.)

Why is that mound of earth and rubble doing in the middle of the clover leaf? It's presence makes no sense. There is no road construction to be seen in any of the photographic record. Were they shooting things out of it?

My absolute favorite shot, as Steve does a Daryl Donley with his side-view mirror and we can see he pulled over and waited until a school bus blocked the action. Smooth operator!

Then he pulled ahead to get this gem.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Lt. Gen. Kevin Kiley: How to Succeed in Business, Without Even Trying

Sorry, I just had to lead with a Broadway reference.

If my theory holds true, that the central figure of authority in this pivotal 9-11 image is General Kevin Kiley, then everything falls into place, i.e. how the corrupt but compliant are elevated in their careers over the competent to create the cruel context of reality as we know it, is how I'd put it alliteratively--otherwise call it the "brownie syndrome," for former FEMA director, Michael Brown.
What this image depicts, in my understanding, are the negotiations taking place between military authorities at the Pentagon and the civilian responders to the attack of 9-11, over access to the building. The final result being, there was zero access to the interior for at least two days, given the top-secret zeroxing that went on in there. And who better to overrule any objections from the civilians mandated with insuring public safety, than a chief army medical figure, at the time director of the Walter Reed Medical facility, but whose career has been on a meteoric rise, before 9-11, and since.

It is difficult for me to make identifications from photographs, but I took a clue from my higher power when, in a D.o.D. image data bank series, the group shot taken outside the Pentagon on September 11, was followed shortly thereafter in the sequence with a formal portrait of Kiley. (I recognize assistance when I see it, and H.P. help is always kindergarten, so I readily give thanks to keep it going.) But being such a shallow surface creature, my recognition begins and ends at his hair, so I couldn't be sure this was Kiley.

Then of course, there's the fourth dimension to factor in: time. I had to look closely to realize the following portrait was different then the proceeding one, as Kiley starts in on his fifth and sixth rows of medals--and puts on a few pounds, I might add. That would explain why the man I saw being interviewed by Judy Woodruft on PBS looked so different than the fantasy figure I'd built up in my mind, whom I called General Kevin Kiley. (And since when are white stars ever found on a red field? Hmmmm?)
That interview concerned revelations of poor conditions at Building 18
at the Walter Reed facility. Who better to stop the buck for responsibility for those conditions than the Army Surgeon General, who was formerly director of the facility? However, Kiley not only failed to accept responsibility, he acquired chronic, incurable foot-in-mouth disease, when he closed the interview by saying

"Well, I will tell you that I continue to be extremely proud of Walter Reed, the staff. As I said this morning at a town hall meeting, I jog around the compound in the morning, and the staff are there at 5:00 and 5:30 in the morning ready to take care of patients."

I'm sure it is painful to feel yourself turning into nothing more than a bureaucratic cog in a corrupt machine--and find yourself getting FAT too. However, offering an unconscious personal revelation that you self-identify as fit and trim, is grotesque in a limbless context, and there's the rub. General Kiley only pretends to truly understand the context of his job. The truth is, he has done the bidding of a criminal faction of the U.S. government, which formerly always had its reward. But times have changed, and forces have shifted. No longer can the greatest--and only- superpower in the world be led by the likes of these men:

Getting back to the photograph and the "lines of power" displayed within it, we see the neutered Battalion Chief in the buff turnout coat has been completely sidelined to chat with that ridiculous woman who figures in several of the images of medical triage taken that day. She never knows what to do with her hands, which is not her fault. Any good director would see the lack of underlying motivation and given her some bit of business, even knitting would be an improvement. And trés interesting, with the high resolution we see the inconspicuously colored marking of duct tape wrapped on her upper arm, which signals what exactly?

It seems likely that the photograph has been altered to disguise the fact General Kiley is 6'8" tall, but the blue-helmet wearing figure partially visible beside Kiley is probably not 4'11".

But the truly damning piece of evidence is the young man standing apart and flanking, and it couldn't be more obvious than if he had six red arrows pointing at him (and he stands beside a red-colored triage tarp, perhaps the only photograph depicting the oft-mentioned detail of color-coded triage tarps to be seen in the entire image corpus.) He seems disabused of the notion America is under attack, and churlish at that thought of dressing up if he's not going to be allowed inside the building. Any fantasy I may have indulged in of fireman jumping into their boots and sliding down a pole in response to an emergency is spoiled by the vapid look of futility and resignation he shows.

Whatever his name, he, along with the photographer, and to a certain extent Kiley too, are working stealth agents of a higher power, determined to see us do things differently. It is photographs like this one, in which we see the faces of participants revealing more truth than intended, that we will find the evidence to be used in upcoming trials. Don Imus, who was appalled by this story, is the first person I've heard yet speak of "hanging Cheney." It is time to speak forcefully of that.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

U.S. News & World Report "The Other Tragedy" Dec. 10, 2001

U.S. News & World Report

The 'Other' Tragedy

The attack on the Pentagon left heroes, victims, survivors, Here's their story

By Angie Cannon
Posted 12/2/01

They all remember the blackness. It formed a wall of inky, blinding smoke inside the Pentagon, and Isaac Hoopii ran right through it. He wore only his short-sleeved blue police uniform--no mask, no protective coat, not even a handkerchief over his mouth. "Is anybody in here? Anybody here?" From the darkness, frantic voices replied: "Help me! Help me! I'm over here." Hoopii called back, over and over: "Head toward my voice, head toward my voice! Come toward my voice!"

Hoopii's is a singer's voice, deep and mellow, even in small talk. On weekends, the 38-year-old Hawaiian K-9 cop sings in a wedding band called the Aloha Boys. On September 11, Hoopii used his voice to save lives. He was at the Pentagon when the big Boeing 757 slammed into it.

We are reminded often of the haunting images of that infamous morning, especially the strikes against the twin towers in New York and the heroes of United Flight 93, who perished in a Pennsylvania field. But there was, of course, another attack that day. Terrorists also hijacked American Airlines Flight 77 and flew it into the west side of the Pentagon.

_ This is the story of that "other" attack. It is a story with its own distinctive collection of victims, heroes, survivors. We remember still the ghastly gash and the blackened facade of the famous five-sided building. For a while, the Pentagon was part of split-screen America with the World Trade Center. But attention quickly receded from Washington. So much so that sometimes we don't realize that more people died at the Pentagon--189--than in the Oklahoma City bombing.

Inner view. Since September 11, the gouge in the Pentagon has widened day by day, as the damage to the nation's symbolic fortress is far worse than first appeared. Demolition crews use an ultra-long-reach excavator (the only other one in the country is at ground zero, in New York) to remove the rubble, 5,000 pounds at a time. To look at the Pentagon today is to see a much different place, almost one without its geometric distinctiveness. The clean cuts on the edges of the building look as if they might have been part of the original design. Now the building's inner B ring is plainly visible, a view not possible when the Pentagon's construction was completed in January 1943.

In all, 400,000 square feet of office space will be rebuilt. Part of that area had been renovated recently, and that saved lives. Not all the offices were occupied that morning because of the renovation. In addition, the outer ring had been reinforced by floor-to-ceiling steel beams that ran through all five floors. Between them was a Kevlar-like mesh, similar to the material in bulletproof vests, which kept masonry from becoming shrapnel. Together, the beams and the mesh formed a citadel that kept the top floors from collapsing for about 35 minutes, time enough for some people to escape. New blast-resistant windows above the crash site didn't shatter. A new sprinkler system kept the fires from consuming the entire place.

Now, it's time to start over again. All in keeping with the original design--the 17 1/2 miles of corridors that connect the five rings--right down to replacement limestone from southern Indiana quarries. The grand ambition has people working in the outermost ring by Sept. 11, 2002.

Derek Spector has driven past the Pentagon countless times, visual furniture in his daily life. On September 11, he was five blocks away, sitting with fellow firefighters at Fire Station No. 5 in Arlington, Va., watching TV as the second plane rammed into the World Trade Center. "You never know, it could happen here," a friend on the phone said. "No way, man," Spector shot back. Then he heard a plane, fast and low.

The hijacked jetliner, traveling at 350 miles an hour, was only about 100 feet from the ground when it cruised over Arlington police officer Richard Cox's head, just a quarter mile from the Pentagon. "It was low enough for me to see the reflection of cars and trees and buildings on its underside as it passed by," he says. "It was low enough for my heart to stop."

The plane clipped light poles on nearby Route 27 and a backup generator at the Pentagon, bouncing off the ground before plowing into the building at a 45-degree angle. Originally bound for Los Angeles, the jet, carrying 64 people, crashed between corridors 4 and 5, blasting the first and second floors of Rings E, D, and C. "You could feel the explosion in your chest," says Cox. At the fire station, the ground shook. "What was that?" Spector shouted. "A plane," firefighter Brian Roach said.

Chaos. Wayne Sinclair heard it before he felt it. He outfitted computers for the Army on the first floor of the D Ring. As usual that morning, Sinclair, 54, caught the subway so he could be at work by 6, always the first of the seven employees to arrive in Room 1D520. He made coffee, dashed off a few E-mails, tinkered with computers. Shortly after 9:30 a.m., he and his colleagues were watching the World Trade Center attack on CNN's Web site when they heard a thunderous roar.

Everything turned black. Smoke and fire engulfed the room. Walls crumbled. Desks, file cabinets, and computers hurtled through the air. "You couldn't see anything," he says. Some people were thrown to the floor. Sinclair could feel his face, ears, and arms burning. But he couldn't see them because the smoke was so thick. People screamed for help. Chaos reigned.

Down the hall from Sinclair's office, Jim Lynch, 55, was well into his workday morning in room 1D457, part of the Navy Command Center. Officially, Lynch performed behind-the-scenes communications wizardry. But most knew him simply as the Candy Man. For years, he briskly walked the Pentagon halls, listening to light rock on his Walkman and wearing bright orange, red, and yellow ties and tennis shoes. The Candy Man bought cases of gold-wrapped Werther's Originals and handed them out each day during his lunch break, a big-hearted fixture in the bureaucratic maze. Trish Hackett, an Air Force executive assistant, like so many, heard of him soon after she started her Pentagon job a couple of years ago. "One day, a friendly, smiling Kenny Rogers look-alike wearing earphones handed me a piece of candy, and I knew I had finally met the Candy Man." Lynch had planned to take that Tuesday off, but he had too much work to do. He started his day meeting over bagels and doughnuts with an employee from the Norfolk, Va., naval base. Later, Lynch returned to his command center office. After the attack, his wife, Brenda, frantically called his number; she couldn't reach him.

Many of those affected by the attack had worked in the Pentagon for years and viewed it as a fortress. One ring away from the Candy Man's office, Louise Kurtz hadn't had time to develop that sense of comfort and control. She was starting only her second day in a new job at the Pentagon. Life was sweet. She and her husband, Mike, had saved for two years for their first real vacation ever last spring, an Alaskan cruise. The 49-year-old Army accountant was excited about her new job and was faxing payroll information. She went over to a coworker's desk with a radio so they could listen to reports from New York. Ten seconds later, their world exploded and a fireball swallowed them. The petite woman instinctively put her hands over her face before she somehow managed to climb out a window and escape.

Bomb! One floor up, John Yates worked in 2E471, a warren of cubicles. At 50, he was an Army security manager who handed out keys and employee badges. His morning also began quietly with E-mails and phone calls. "Do me a favor, do the rest of your work today under your desk," his wife, Ellen, said only half jokingly when they spoke by the phone after the World Trade Center news. He had been sitting on a table watching TV. When he stood up, the Pentagon shuddered. A big ball of fire knocked him to the floor. Black smoke flooded the room. Searing heat scorched him. Upended file cabinets blocked him.

Down the hall from Yates, Lt. Col. Brian Birdwell, 40, had been at his desk in Room 2E486 since 6:30 a.m. He had scanned the day's headlines and some documents, while sipping his ritual morning Coke. Cheryle Sincock, 53, worked there too. A two-star general's secretary, she had arrived, as always, at 4:30 a.m. There were always a million things to do before her boss arrived. Her husband, Craig, who worked two corridors away, called at 8 a.m. to say he was leaving the building for a meeting. Two daughters called later with news of the twin towers. "There's no way that's an accident," Birdwell murmured to Cheryle as they watched the World Trade Center crumble. Birdwell walked out to the men's room in corridor 4, a move that saved his life. He had just taken three or four steps out of the bathroom when the building was rocked. "Bomb!" the Gulf War vet immediately thought as he was knocked down. When he stood up, he realized he was on fire. "Jesus, I'm coming to see you," Birdwell prayed. His mind flashed to his family.

At Washington Hospital Center, Dr. Marion Jordan also was watching TV when an announcer broke in with the bulletin about the Pentagon. "This is gonna be a long day," Jordan muttered. Quickly, he ditched his sport coat for green scrubs. "Code Orange. Code Orange," a voice blared over the hospital's PA system. "This is not a drill." Doctors scrambled to the five bays near the helicopter pad. "It was pretty much bedlam," says Jordan, the Burn Center director. A clinical manager with a booming voice yelled above the din: "Everyone keep the volume down!" The quiet lasted until the first patients arrived.

Firefighter Spector and his two-man crew were among the first responders at the Pentagon. Spector saw flames shooting from the top and armies of people running in an orderly way from the building. The heavy wooden doors to corridor 5 were blown off their hinges. "There's a lady screaming in the E ring," an Army officer cried to Spector. The firefighters combed E ring for about 50 feet until a huge debris pile blocked them. They searched D ring until they hit a wall of fire. At times, they stopped, held their breath and listened, hoping to hear any sign of life. They heard only popping noises and falling ceiling tiles. "We never found a single soul," says Spector. "That will stay with me forever."

Officer Hoopii was more fortunate. He helped people straggling out of the building. One woman's skin was peeling so he hoisted her on his broad shoulders. Another woman was missing her shoes, so he carried her. Her mouth and nose were black, and she was in shock. "You are alive," he reassured her. He wanted to go deeper into the blackness. Someone yelled at him to stop. "We gotta get people," he shouted back. He was going on pure adrenaline. The smoke was suffocating, and he heard the building cracking. But he pressed on to the D ring. That's when he heard the desperate voices.

Wayne Sinclair and five coworkers crawled over the rubble and out of their office, 50 to 75 feet from where the plane hit. The hallway was so black, they lost all sense of direction. Only Hoopii's voice guided them. "Head toward my voice. Head toward my voice," he called. Huddled closely together, they followed it. Hoopii's voice led them out of the building, but Sinclair and the others never saw whom it belonged to. Hoopii was already back helping others.

John Yates was one floor up from Sinclair. Dying in a fire had been Yates's biggest fear. But he didn't let it paralyze him--instead, he started crawling. Someone grabbed his right leg. Yates heard voices at the far end of the room. He moved that way and found some coworkers. "We can't get out this way," they told him. "Yes, we can. Follow me. Just follow me," Yates insisted. They crawled over the debris and ended up in corridor 4. A couple of Navy guys grabbed him under the armpits and walked him to the center courtyard. "I could see the flesh hanging off my hands," Yates says.

Brian Birdwell was lying on the ground in the same corridor, his head on the floor. The smoke was several inches above him. But in those few inches, he could see down the corridor, so he knew which way to head. He stumbled toward A ring. Several Army guys, including a close running buddy, carried him to a triage site. He tasted jet fuel in his mouth. He was shaking violently, and medics cut off his dark green uniform pants. "It looked like I had melted," says Birdwell.

Meanwhile, 57-year-old Craig Sincock, wearing civilian clothes, had run the 2 miles back to the Pentagon from his meeting. He pitched in, offering water to workers, carrying stretchers. But he had another motive: He wanted to be as close to the crash site as possible so he could look for Cheryle, his wife of nearly 25 years, the general's secretary. He stared at the windows, trying to remember where her office was. He stayed until 11 p.m., went home, showered, slept briefly, changed into his Army uniform, and returned at 4 a.m. to help out more. At 10 a.m., he got a call, saying she was missing.

Birdwell and nine others were transported to Washington Hospital Center. Doctors had never seen this many major burn patients at once. Some were critically ill. Dr. Jordan, 57, a good-natured dynamo who likes to rebuild old Harleys in his spare time, grabbed his partner, Dr. James Jeng: "We need to get the burned skin off so it doesn't form a tourniquet." The pair opened up operating rooms and bounced between them. They essentially shaved off burned skin. The doctors cut until they found live tissue, then covered it temporarily with donated skin.

Jordan knew they would quickly go through all the skin in the freezer, so he had a nurse call the skin bank at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center in Dallas. "Send us what you've got," was the urgent request. Planes weren't flying, so the medical center packed 70 square feet of skin on dry ice, stuck it in three Styrofoam coolers, and drove it up in a blue Chevy van. The two drivers broke speed limits, pausing only for bathroom breaks and tacos at drive-through windows. The skin arrived 23 hours and 12 minutes later. A Cincinnati skin bank came through with 30 more square feet in 12 hours. Another in Dayton delivered more skin to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base with the order: "As soon as you're flying again, get this to Washington Hospital Center." The donated skin stabilized the wounds until the doctors could graft the patients' own skin taken from the rare spots that weren't burned. Jordan and Jeng worked 12-to-16-hour days for three weeks. They traded off spending the night at the hospital, with Jordan sleeping on his office couch and Jeng curling up on an air mattress. Since September 11, they have done 112 surgeries on nine of the patients.

Jordan sees something different about his Pentagon patients from the literally 10,000 other burn patients he has treated in 23 years: their spirit. "They have a different mind-set: `I'm not going to let it beat me.' "

Cadaver skin. You can see that in Brian Birdwell, who mouthed the words "I love you" to his wife, Mel, when he opened his eyes for the first time September 13. That same day, President Bush visited the Fort Worth native. "Colonel Birdwell," the commander in chief said as he strode into the hospital room. With tears in his eyes, the president saluted the bandaged soldier, holding it until Birdwell slowly raised his burned arm as high as he could to return the salute. Birdwell, burned over 40 percent of his body, saw himself in the mirror recently--his forehead plastered with cadaver skin, the tips of his ears singed off, the delicate skin around his eyes stretched out. His sense of humor was intact. "I think I look pretty good for a guy who just got run over by a plane," he said, grinning.

Mike Kurtz, 50, didn't recognize his wife of nearly 31 years, Louise, when she was wheeled past him in the hospital. She's the Army accountant who had been on the job only two days at the Pentagon. He thought it was a mummy when she went by. He has since been at her side every day. Louise, burned over nearly 70 percent of her body, spent more than two months in intensive care. Three weeks after Louise arrived, the doctors amputated all her fingers, which were burned badly when she tried to cover her face. Her husband agonized for the words to tell her. He was struggling through it, when he noticed she was trying to say something. "I know," she mouthed. "It's OK." Mike Kurtz broke down sobbing, because she had known for two days. "She is a pillar of strength," he says. He had bought Louise her first real ring, a 2-carat diamond, for their 30th anniversary. Now, he intends to put the stone in a necklace.

The burn patients are rebuilding their lives. John Yates's daily therapy begins when a therapist pours hot wax on his purplish hands to soften the scar. Then, he massages cream into them. And then, he bends his fingers down, holding them for a 10-count. It's excruciating, yet it's the standard therapy; it keeps burn patients' fingers flexible.

"I'm still here." Simple things are confounding. Turning doorknobs. Opening soda cans. Holding a pen. In the big picture, though, those are small things. "At least I'm still here," says Yates, grateful to have been spared. Birdwell recently went outside for the first time since September 11. He looked up at the sky in the hospital courtyard and simply said, "Thank you, God, I'm still here." He has a renewed sense of purpose: "Christ got me out of the fire. In him not taking me, that means I have a mission to complete. He'll tell me what it is in due time."

Craig Sincock lost Cheryle, the general's secretary who worked with Birdwell. He recently wrote a letter to his wife: "Thank you, Cheryle, for a quarter century of happiness, joy, friendship, and love. . . . Thank you for your patience when my ego became too big. . . . Thank you for being my best friend. . . ." The day after the attack, he went to the Family Assistance Center set up in a nearby hotel and counseled other families every day for about three weeks. "The more I worked with them, the less fear I had about what happened," he said. And then, he returned to the church he had left years ago. Now, Sincock is back at work doing long-range planning at the Pentagon. He started a Web site for the families (www.pentagonangels.net), on his own time, with his own money. Sincock says he has seen many miracles since September 11--the biggest is watching families move from grief to acceptance. "When you see where they were to where they are now, that's a true miracle," he says.

After three weeks in the hospital, Wayne Sinclair found his rescuer after the Washington Post published a short story on his escape. "You sure were my guardian angel that day," he told Officer Hoopii. "I'm just so happy you are alive," Hoopii replied. Now, they are fast friends. Hoopii is back working with a bomb-sniffing dog, but every night, he looks at the Pentagon and thinks: "There are so many people there who won't be going home, and I am so fortunate to go home."

Right after the attack, a shrine was erected at the center for Pentagon families. Beneath the photo of Jim Lynch was a box brimming with gold-wrapped Werther's Originals and a note: "Have a candy and a smile for the Candy Man."

Shortly after September 11, Trish Hackett quit her Pentagon job to join her husband, stationed with the Army in Turkey, sooner than planned. Life is too fragile, she realized, when she saw the Candy Man's name on the list of the dead. "To Jim Lynch, thank you for your bright smile and happy heart," she wrote in her eulogy of him. "I only hope you have a very large pocketful of Werther's Originals with you because I have heard they are the angels' favorite candy."

Making the Pentagon whole

The crash of American Airlines Flight 77 damaged or destroyed 2 million square feet of office space (wedges 1 and 2), of which about 400,000 square feet is being demolished and rebuilt. Crews have cleared much of the debris, and Pentagon officials intend to have people working in the refurbished space of the outermost ring by Sept. 11, 2002. One eerie fact: Ground for the Pentagon was broken on Sept. 11, 1941.

Structural damage

At 350 miles per hour, the Boeing 757 slammed into the first and second floors of the Pentagon's western face at a 45-degree angle between corridors 4 and 5. The plane blasted through rings E, D, and C, and parts of it were found between rings C and B. It damaged some 400 support columns, some severely and some with microfractures. The plane sliced through part of the building's recently renovated section, which was reinforced by floor-to-ceiling steel beams. Between the beams was a Kevlar-like mesh, similar to the material in bulletproof vests, designed to keep concrete from turning into shrapnel. Together, the reinforcement kept the upper floors from collapsing for about 35 minutes. The new blast-resistant windows did not shatter. The new sprinkler system kept the fire from spreading.

Demolition and reconstruction

Demolition began on October 18 and was completed November 19. Crews worked around the clock. One machine crew used an MP20, an excavator that takes 5,000-pound bites out of buildings. Only two such machines exist in the nation--the other one is in New York at ground zero. Soot and water damage were pervasive. In some offices, furniture and drywall were covered with mold from the millions of gallons of water used to fight the fire. When the plane hit wedge 1, workers were just a few days away from completing a three-year renovation of that section. Now, planners are starting over. Some limestone is coming from the southern Indiana quarries that supplied the original stone, and some charred pieces of stone are being cleaned and will be reused. Other blackened pieces will go to museums or a planned memorial. The cost of rebuilding the Pentagon is estimated at $1 billion.

[Drawing labels] Inner courtyard A ring B ring C ring D ring E ring Area of demolition C ring D ring E ring Corridor 5 Corridor 4 Support columns (E to C ring) Damaged Missing Approximately 380 feet Approximately 70 feet 1 2 3 4 5 Wedge 1 (renovated) Water and smoke Structural damage

Area of demolition E-ring collapse Blast-resistant wall 2-inch-thick blast-resistant window Steel frame Structural wall Limestone Kevlar-like material

Source: Department of Defense

Graphic by Rob Cady, Angie Cannon, and Philippe Moulier

This story appears in the December 10, 2001 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Representations Expressive of the Divine

A 19th-century naîve eglomisé interior scene depicting a religious at prayer, receiving symbolic visions while emitting emotive smoke spirals of spiritual ectoplasm. Mounted in an original carved and gilt walnut frame. Continental 18” by 15” (46cm X 38cm) NFS

I don’t know about you, but after the last couple of blog items I needed to cleanse my palette. Sharing this superbly outré religious item will do just the trick. It’s rather a good example of being both within the paradigm and without simultaneously, (and I look forward to seeing the algorithm code for that by Monday morning next week, Mr. Smarty Computer-pants.

On the one hand, the creator of this image was a talented amateur, existing within a narrowly defined program, producing formulaic stereotypes. On the other, for what it’s worth, I don’t think I’ve ever seen captured more precisely in two dimensions the ineffability of a spiritual experience then here, by indicating the energy with swirling vortexes of smoky matter. See how she’s mixed the burnt umber with the burnt sienna? Splitting to reveal the Eucharistic dove? Go ahead, give it a click, I dare you.

And what, for heaven’s sake, was she doing painting on glass!!!!! Couldn’t she find a board or something?

The elegant frame made for it attests to the fact that it was understood somehow, and cherished at its creation. Difficult to date—sensibilities could be a hundred years either way inside a secluded monastery or nunnery—so, say Bohemian, 1850?

Which reminds me of a guru who once said of his year's studying in the east: “the same bowl of rice, the same time of day, day in and day out.”

Aren’t we glad we’re here doing what we’re doing?

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Beta Theta Pi at Yale circa 1915

These photos are of a pledge paddle from the Yale class of 1915. I acquired the device on e-Bay, where after it had served a term as the crown jewel of my college fetish collection, I resold it.It bears the Greek letters for Beta Theta Pi, founded in 1839, which, although it was the first college fraternity to publish its constitution--in 1879, and one is tempted to ask why--it “continues to guard certain secrets reserved for members,” according to Wikipedia. If those secrets are consistent with the symbolism it shares with other occult organizations, then it's likely they are responsible for bringing the world to the brink of ruin.

Nothing in the public profile particularly sets Beta's apart from similar secret societies like Scull & Bones, and Trogdor, who “bonded by oath and ritual,” are “bound by trust and responsibility,” to “form lifelong bonds of trust,” except perhaps, as the first fraternity founded west of the Allegheny Mountains and the first to locate a chapter west of the Mississippi River, BTP exemplifies manifest destiny. Beta's absorption of The Mystic Seven in 1889, also adds an extra layer of occult freemasonic cast to their tradition.

Within these bonded entities, a system of “Leadership Development & Self Governance” requiring “each chapter to identify future leaders, [and] provide for their education and training,” determines the individual’s placement, and establishes the hierarchal system, although how George W. Bush made the leap from cheerleader to President indicts that system, it also explains why we were offered only the systematic choice of a fellow Skull & Bonesman, John Kerry as an alternative in 2004.
An Open Motto is the public expression of unique ideals and/or standards, and Beta’s mottoes are uniquely standard: Worthy of the Highest, the Three Great Principles, and Firmam Consensus Facit, Latin for “Co-operation makes strength, is but an embodiment of the experience of man in all ages and nations.”

The Code of Beta Theta Pi, in Article 1, Section 2, continues the theme of “securing unity of action and sympathy in matters of common interest,” concluding it “recognizes mutual assistance” as foundational.

There is a depth to match the extent of the bond. In Goal IXLifelong Fraternal Brotherhood, is created and strengthened by the intensity and integrity of effort required for success and enriched by the shared responsibility for achievement that endures.” Note that the phrase integrity of effort refers to unity, not integrity.

Beta Theta Pi Heraldry page describes the symbolism pyrographically etched in the wood, at least to some degree. The symbol in the saddle of the grip, what I thought was the universal pictograph for “Ouch,” is the

“standard badge of the Fraternity, is to be worn over the heart and in a manner befitting the honor and dignity to which the badge is entitled. the use of the badge as a ring, as a decoration or in any other element on printed matter or T-shirts or in any other printer manner (other than as the official badge of the Fraternity) is specifically prohibited,”
so we learn this paddle would be considered contraband today, but we aren’t told the meaning of the imperial laurel victor’s wreath.

We are told that in 1897, “the current coat of arms containing the dragon and ____kai____, designed by George M. Chandler, then an undergraduate, replaced the original Arms, which was designed by John I. Covington in 1869,” but we are not told why the change was made, and what space-kai-space means, unless it's the unpronounceable name of the anti-Christ.

The rare heraldic dragon sinister, were it standing, would take the blazonry word specific to dragons: segeant, as distinct from a lion’s standing rampant. If one paw of either were raised, he’d be erect, which may indicate we have a one-armed dragon on our hands. The three stars are “a development of the pledge button,” before which “ pledges wore ribbons of pink and blue.”

The reverse side, with the personalization “Ted” Babbit from “Budge” Richardson Nov. 23, 1915, is dominated by a hooded figure standing before the Yale University initial Y. Nowhere on Beta’s heraldry page are hooded figures explicated, but for anyone who grew up in the south certainly, the symbol carries a heavy weight of unfortunate connotations.These symbols speak to the esoteric understanding within separate, and never equal, covert communities. Whatever their organizing methodology was, which formerly allowed them to create reality unseen and unbidden, it has given way to a general awareness of manipulation and deceit in the exoteric world. The moral horror in Iraq is a bell that cannot be unrung. Whatever the controls an individual faces from within, from a paddling, to a fist-fuck, to a snuff film, it needs to become revealed. Then we can put an end to scenes like this:

The grief on these guard’s faces is difficult to mask, especially in contrast to Rumsfeld’s bizarre emoting.
That The Old Guard ceremonial unit was singularly charged with the recovery of bodies at the Pentagon is a detail not lost on the press, although they didn't report it:
DoD News Briefing - Victoria Clarke, ASD PA (David Chu, Meg Falk, Maj. Gen. Jim Jackson; and Ed Plaugher, fire chief of Arlington County.)

Q: Is it true -- (off mike) -- Old Guard? Is that who you've got doing this; the guys who do the ceremonial...

Jackson: Yes. The Old Guard is an active duty infantry organization with a multiple mission requirement, and one of them is to be able to do contingency work like this. And they do spend a significant amount of their time practicing these skills.

Q: I notice that funerals were proceeding at Arlington Cemetery this morning, at least some. I heard 21-gun salutes while I was -- (off mike)

...Jackson: We have reduced some of our support to the funerals, but some are, in fact, going on based on capabilities and families' desires.

Q: Sir, so some of the people that would normally be involved in funerals are now guarding some of the entryways here in the building?

Jackson: That's correct.
The tradition of silence and secrecy within an elite group like the Old Guard must at core, hold many terrible secrets, in order for this secret to have a context in which to be held.

The following bit of marginalia was the single most important trigger to my recognition of the truth. It is from a vanity web page of a Las Vegas politician named Steve Ross, who was attending a federal-government sponsored "environmental summit" at the Sheraton Hotel north of the Navy Annex and the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. Titled like a return-to-school report, My Experience in Arlington, Virginia during the Pentagon Terrorist Attack, after describing how he came to know an American Airlines 757-jet had crashed into the Pentagon, he made this tangential remark:
During that time, many of the Pentagon employees entered the hotel to get off the street due to the threat. When I returned to my table with lunch, I noticed that one of the Pentagon employees had sat down at the same table. After a few minutes of watching the news broadcasts he asked very puzzled if something had happened to the World Trade Center towers. Apparently he had not heard that the World Trade Center towers had collapsed. It was truly amazing to see this man become completely and utterly stunned when he told the news. He remained completely still with his eyes fixed to the news broadcast for quite a while. Everyone at the table was moved by the sadness that he exhibited.

I have experienced having all the wind knocked out of me by non-physical force--I know what it takes for that to happen. For this Pentagon employee to suddenly realize he had been taking part unwittingly in a public shock and awe event, must have felt like a blow to the solar plexus.

Deb Anlauf, of Colfax, Wisconsin, the wife of Jeff Anlauf, the owner of BP Amoco, was in her 14th floor room of the Sheraton Hotel, when she heard a "loud roar" and then "Suddenly I saw this plane right outside my window. You felt like you could touch it; it was that close.... Then it shot straight across from where we are and flew right into the Pentagon. ... When it hit, the whole hotel shook.
It is my opinion that Mrs. Anlauf did not receive the same blow to the stomach. I think she fabricated her eyewitness experience for political reasons. We need to get the hotel records for 9-11-01 for the rooms in the upper floors that face east. We need to find out where else ringers were planted. We can tell each other apart now. And if there's any doubt, just wait.


"The very word "secrecy" is repugnant in a free and open
society; and we are as a people inherently and historically
opposed to secret societies, to secret oaths and to secret

"We decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and
unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the
dangers which are cited to justify it."
-- John F. Kennedy

Friday, February 16, 2007

A Trogdor Fetish Object & Its Home Revealed?

They Serve in S...S...Silence

Well, I feel the tiniest bit pretentious having captured a screen grab of my frat monster to find what looks to be glazed papier-mache. Nor can my tone be one of such great assurance in describing it as wielding a ritual fetish object, i.e. a frat paddle. It could even b e a chainsaw. With one arm in flesh tone, and the presence of blood red, I simply think it to be in the worst possible taste given what our country is experiencing right now in Iraq. The same distastefulness which is found elsewhere in Trogdor's birthday Flash presentation: like the headless child, and the motionless little girl lying at the mouth of a "chalk" dragon.

In any event, within my perception, this object had power, but it doesn't any longer.

So, what's it going to be? Right handed or left? You can't have it both ways.

Well, that’s a first for me. As I was making superb--if I do say so myself--clarifications and additions to the Trogdor wiki entry, on a page devoted to the third birthday Flash presentation, someone was coming along right behind me and deleting them. So rather than get into a pissing contest, I came here.

The section we engaged in an editing conflict over is described thusly:

On January 13, 2006, the three-year anniversary of the week Trogdor debuted on the site, a "Happy Trogday" animation was released, featuring fan-submitted pictures of Lite-Bright drawings, tattoos, Halloween costumes, pancakes, license-plates and other things inspired by Trogdor. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burninate]

The Flash Presentation itself can be viewed here: [http://www.homestarrunner.com/trogday.html]

Apparently someone else thought this rapid-fire sequence of screen images of mostly amateurish “fan-based” art was significant enough to record with Wiki-ticks. Although my visual acuity is not what it once was, I’d stack my anal compulsivity against any one's. After repeated viewings I spotted this factoid:

A Virgina license plate reading "Trogdor" {It reads "BRNIN8R"}'

{And it's from Victor Van Bortel Subaru, in Victor New York, making it likely a Subaru registered in New York.} I added.

Then, I added the following in bold font to Trogdor House:Trogdor house" {It's apparently at some Texas university (notice the sign on the right)}'{It is a substantial, mounted, bronze plaque, on which the map of Texas is apparent. Two additional square bronze plaques flank the entrance. These memorizations would indicate the establishment carries a heavy tradition. This makes it odd that after a diligent internet search, I found no reference to a Trogdor House at a Texas University. This might indicate it is a secret society on par with Yale's Scull & Bones.

Another image is described as: *{{tick}} A sculpture of Trogdor ''{really evil looking; it's holding a [[Big Knife]]}''

I slashed a line through Big Knife, having learned how that very moment, and added this:

It is most clearly a fraternity hazing-ritual fetish object (commonly known as a fraternity paddle) being wielded mid-stroke by an elaborately wrought and artistically individuated winged dragon, symbolic of the devil. This design stylistically pre-dates significantly the various Trogdor variations, and may be their conceptual basis. It may also be that a relationship between this powerful votive object and the mysterious Trogdor House exists.

I went on to say, in a contribution that didn't have a chance to be saved, even for a second, that since the source or origin of all the images in the sequence was being determined, that if it proved indeterminable where these two images originated from, that meant they were likely linked, and should be given added significance—being the meat and the potato, if you will, floating in the “smalled” soup of contrived offerings, being my theory.

I made a small additional contribution by noting that one shot was identified as from the List Visual Arts Center at M.I.T. It goes along with this:

*{{tick}} A picture of Trogdor done in "post-its" ''{note: this is the MIT "hack" documented at [[School Sightings#Trogdor: MIT Hacker]]. Should be linked in a Fun Fact.}''

I didn’t get a chance to remark upon a cigarette lighter, hand-engraved with a Trogdor image, which has some ritualistic connotations, in my opinion. One similar is shown being used in the animation where Trogdor was born: http://homestarrunner.com/sbemail58.html

http://www.hrwiki.org/index.php?title=Talk:Happy_Trogday&action=submit (Editing page)

One person named is a sort of leader in the construction of these pages. Her page can be found here: http://www.hrwiki.org/index.php/User:AbdiViklas

Her entry was of some interest to me because she says her name, which she changed not too long ago, was a combination form with robotics. Determine for yourselves her name and her role: http://www.hrwiki.org/index.php/some_kinda_robot You may also want to check the Subaru dealer: http://www.vanbortelsubaru.com/ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Trogador.jpeg#filehistory An alternate spelling is Tragador, a con-founder and a ruse.

I might add, that any right to privacy, or the maintainability of any tradition of secrecy, is lost when items deemed sacred by their holders are proffered in the public arena as inside jokes, as these were. That secrets can be maintained in full view is one thing. That doesn't mean they must be. They're secret until someone spots them.
“Evil cannot stand to be seen, for when it is truly seen, it is not unconscious anymore, and its seeming power over us gets taken away. Just like a vampire can’t stand the light of consciousness, once we see evil, we take away its autonomy - it can no longer act itself out through us unconsciously. The energy locked up in evil then becomes available to serve what is best for the whole, which is to say it becomes transformed so as to feed and nourish life, instead of creating death.” Paul Levy

Thursday, February 15, 2007

....Christ Consciousness...

"I Had No Idea"

"Rumsfeld thought a bomb had exploded at the Pentagon, even though the military defense command had been warned 12 minutes before impact that an errant airliner was headed toward Washington."
I had no idea
Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld said on September 16, 2001 on ABC's Sunday morning news program, This Week, as quoted in "Shoot-down order issued on morning of chaos." by Jonathan Weisman, USAToday Sept. 16, 2001 11:38pm EDT
"The secretary was in his office, really not that far away from the side of the building that got hit by the plane. He and another person immediately ran down the hallway and went outside and helped some of the people, some of the casualties getting off the stretchers, etc. When he came back in the building about half an hour later, he was the first one that told us he was quite sure it was a plane. Based on the wreckage and based on the thousands and thousands of pieces of metal. He was the one that told us, the staff that was in the room. So he was really the first one who told us that it was most likely a plane."

Assistant Secretary Clarke interview with Jim Mitchell, WBZ Boston Saturday, September 15, 2001
"I talked to Colonel Bucci, who recommended that I speak the Secretary. They brought me in to see the Secretary, who was with a small entourage. He and his staff had moved back to our offices, which are one ring deeper inside the building than his office, which had filled up with smoke. I told them what I had seen and what I gather is that I was the first personal account that he had. Even at this point, I don’t believe the Secretary was confident that, in fact, a civilian airliner had hit the building. I think they still speculated about a bomb, a cruise missile, a small aircraft, but I was glad I was able to give useful information. I told them the plane came in full throttle, level, flaps up, wheels up, wasn’t crashed into the building, was flown into the building.

"The Secretary was essentially incredulous, but, then again, maybe that was just his manner. He asked me if I was sure. And as I said, I was close enough to look into the windows of the airplane as it flew passed. There was no doubt in my mind what I had seen."
MAJ Lincoln Leibner Responding in the Pentagon