The northern half of Arizona is not a place you want to be at the moment, as large chunks of it have been reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes. To be specific, as of this morning’s scorecard in the (slightly singed at the metaphorical edges) newspaper, an area about the size of Los Angeles is ablaze, 32,000 people have had to leave their homes, and none of it is being contained. You could even see the smoke from downtown Phoenix – not because it was particularly close (despite the note from a British friend, solicitous of our wellbeing, unaware that Arizona is bigger than the entire UK!), just because there was so much of it.
No-one is really too surprised, given the extreme drought conditions in the state this year. Here in Phoenix, we’ve had no rain at all in almost two months, and less than 0.2″ for the year so far. I appreciate that to wet, cold British people (Wimbledon’s on – by logical inference, it must be raining) this would seem like paradise, and indeed it is nice to have reliable weather, where barbecues are no longer a lottery. It does have drawbacks though, such as having to take the car to get washed, rather than relying on a good downpour of acid rain to do the job.
Anyway, the equation goes something like: Drought + Timber + Psychopathic Forest Ranger + Conservationists = Inferno. Some of this may require explanation. One of the biggest fires this year, in the next door state of Colorado, was allegedly started by the forest ranger who claimed to have discovered it. She was apparently burning a letter from her ex-husband. She didn’t do this in the sink, like any sensible person. She did it in a forest. In the middle of summer. Why do I sense there may be more to this story?
As for the environmentalists, accusations have been flying, right the way up to the Governor who suggested, more or less, that if the Forest Service had been allowed to clear out some of these damn trees without hippies setting up home in their branches and holding hands round the trunks, we wouldn’t get such conflagrations. And where’s your goddamn spotted owl now, tree-huggers?
It also gives us another reason to be glad we live in civilization, having recently been toying with idea of buying some land up North, in order to escape the 45C heat. Needless to say, that idea has gone onto the, er, back burner. As indeed probably has the land itself. We appreciate the joys of urban life, such as a working fire service, instead of having to rely on water dropped from a safe height by a passing helicopter.
Besides, any fire here in Phoenix would only get about 100 yards or so, before coming across a fire break cunningly disguised as a car-park. These have approximately one tree per square mile – with four cars clustered around it like camels at an oasis, all looking for the tiniest piece of shade. Still, compared to what’s happening elsewhere in the state, I think we should chalk up yet another reason to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.
You may have noticed the lack of updates here recently – we’ve slipped from once a week to once a fortnight, and we went through the whole month of May without a new editorial at all. There are a multitude of reasons for this – work, other projects, travel and planning for the upcoming wedding – and I should probably warn you that none of them are likely to get better for the next couple of months. Updates will remain sporadic, probably until around the end of August, when we come back from the honeymoon and deal with everything that has accumulated in the meantime.
Such things are an inevitable result of possessing a life, and I amn’t complaining. Well, only some of the time, anyway, when trashcity.com is so busy that the day runs get up, process orders, pack orders, eat, sleep. But then, I’m never satisfied, and we could just as well be teetering on the edge of starvation, with Chris and I having to comtemplate a return to wage slavery. Besides, how many jobs let you work in your underwear, watch Jerry Springer and take five minutes out to go paddling in the pool?
Other projects are twofold. girlswithguns.org, home to a slew of female action heroine pieces, is coming along steadily, with about 30 short reviews and a dozen lengthier pieces. The estimate for its arrival on the Net is around the start of September, though a beta-version may seep out before we go away. I’m also in the process of writing a book on conspiracy theory: it was originally intended to be something like Conspiracies for Idiots, but there ain’t no such animal. Having done the UFO chapter, I’m now looking into Freemasonry. It’s all very interesting, but boy, does it make your head spin.
Travel. Had a five-day trip up the west coast of California, driving up from Los Angeles to Santa Clara for the Conspiracy Con, peeking briefly into Oakland (six baseball stadiums visited, 24 to go). Highway 1 has to be the twistiest, trickiest piece of road I’ve ever been on, largely because Americans are clearly not used to a single lane in each direction with no median. This explains why I had my first experience of coming round a corner to find a psychopath attempting an overtaking move coming rapidly towards me. Two miles later, I had my second experience thereof. I’m sticking to interstate highways from now on.
And, of course, next month I’m getting married. Next month. Blimey. Puts a whole exclamation point on things, doesn’t it? Though it’s both simultaneously an irrelevance, and the most important event of my life. It’s not as if it’s going to make any difference to things, though it will mean I get a green card and become a permanent resident, rather than only getting to stay because I’m an employee of Trash City. Otherwise, it’s actual impact will be negligible; Chris will take slightly longer to sign her cheques, since she’s swapping a four-letter name for an eight-letter one.
And yet…it also acts as me planting a stake in the ground and saying, “This is my life, and it is what I want.” It’s an affirmation of confidence in the way things are; you can walk away from a job or a home, but not a marriage. Chris keeps asking me if I’m sure I want to go ahead, but every day makes me more certain that it makes sense on every level. Mind you, I’ll also be quite glad when it’s all over, but that’s another story! Till then, hope you understand if new stuff here is not quite as regular as it might be… 🙂
The landscape of conspiracy research changed irrevocably on 9/11, and it was inevitable that the events thereof would dominate proceedings. All but absent were last year’s alien-angled themes, though the absence of David Icke perhaps had something to do with that, replaced a by more prosaic explanations. Against the backdrop of the FBI being called to account for the failure to stop Al-Qaeda, there was an almost grim determination to bring things out into the open.
The venue had also changed from last year, moving across Highway 101 to the Santa Clara Marriott. We didn’t have to share facilities with the Charismatic Catholics this time; however, Friday night in the hotel bar saw rather a lot of scary-looking female athletes (including a hockey team wearing shirts saying ‘Chicks With Sticks’), some of whom were engaging in what would be inappropriate touching in an Arizona bar, but I guess not down the road from San Francisco. The Marriott was also located just down the road from the Great America Theme Park; between lectures, you could step outside and hear, every 90 seconds or so, the screams of the terrified being dropped into oblivion. What more fitting setting for a convention about conspiracies in the post 9/11 world?
Eric Jon Phelps. Having missed the first lecture last year, we made a special effort to be on time, but really shouldn’t have bothered. Phelps’ lecture appeared to consist largely of overhead slides taken from his book, throwing the audience in at the deep end by assuming we all knew who the Knights of Malta were, and why belonging to them makes you a bad person. The topic – the Jesuits and their influence on world affairs – was potentially an interesting one, but all life was drained by the presentation. I can stand almost any level of ineptness (I’ve walked out of less than a handful of movies in my life), but thirty minutes was enough for both Chris and I. Rating: E
Dr. Nick Begich. Thank the lord for Dr. Nick, whose lecture was informative, entertaining and educational. He spoke a lot of common sense, not least his exhortation to the audience to trust no-one and check up on all alleged facts for themselves. In the conspiracy field, as elsewhere, independent thought and questioning is often discouraged in favour of acceptance of what “they” tell you, so Begich’s encouragement to look into things for yourself was a refreshing breath of fresh air.
Based out of Alaska, his main topic was HAARP, a technique of pumping energy into the upper atmosphere that can be used for long-range communication, but also potentially for weather control and possibly even behaviour modification. But despite the potential downside, his was an upbeat talk, which left us feeling empowered and hopeful for the future. It didn’t seem to be just us who appreciated him either, going by the rapid way in which his new book sold out at his table after the lecture. A
Anthony J. Hilder. If you could come up with a stereotype of a conspiracy researcher, Hilder would probably be it. Clad in a turtle-neck sweater and possessing what was either a bad toupee or a very bad hair-style, and doing a fair imitation of Morton Downey Jr., he stalked among the audience. Long on rhetoric, but short on actual facts, he harangued us with a seemingly endless array of buzzwords: Illuminazi, left-islation, New World Odour, evil-archy, bank-sters, cash-ist cartel, etc.
He came across as not much more than a talk radio host – and there’s a good reason for this, as that’s just what he used to be. He came across more as someone playing a character, and for all his shouting (not to mention his favourite phrase, “If you liked what Hitler did, you’re going to love what Bush is doing!”), it was the sort of thing that I found easy to ignore. Hilder got my vote as Speaker Most Likely to be a Government Agent Provocateur. D.
Ted Gunderson. Retired FBI agent Gunderson spoke about satanic child abuse cults, and how there is a cover-up among the police and judiciary to prevent their existence being revealed. He paid particular attention to the McMartin case, where a preschool was allegedly the center of such a group; the children reported tunnels underneath the school, but none were found until after the case has been dismissed. Gunderson’s investigations provided significant evidence that there had been such tunnels, and that they had been filled in at some point.
This, and evidence at another site he’d discovered, were fairly compelling, but he largely failed to prove much beyond the local level. If I were involved in abusing children, I’d certainly do everything I could to keep it quiet, and there’s no real need to invoke a global conspiracy to explain this. I still think that, when Satanism is involved, it’s largely as a convenient control mechanism for the young victims, rather than out of genuine religious motives. B-
This ended Saturday’s program for us – we didn’t bother with the banquet, having found it not worth the money last year, so we headed out to eat. The local curry house had been closed – mere coincidence, or something more sinister? – so we had dinner in a nearby Irish-themed restaurant, where we were sat next to a gay softball team. Are there no heterosexual athletes in northern California?
Sunday saw Chris and I, semi-independently, both deciding to wear our Funker Vogt shirts. Never have we been stopped so often and asked what our clothing meant, but then I tend not to wear clothes in a foreign language, where about the only intelligible word is “Terroristen”. Perfect attire for a conspiracy convention.
Norio Hayakawa. The day started with a presentation on Area 51, but even this disparaged the concept of alien activity there. Hayakawa reckoned that the UFOs, and related stories thereof, e.g. Bob Lazar’s testimony and the opinions of former CIA pilot John Lear, are merely a convenient smoke-screen for the government to hide more terrestrial, but perhaps no less bizarre, research and development. These include such exotica as laser-projected images in the sky, which may have been used as psychological weapons in the Gulf War.
Though his presentation wasn’t perhaps the most polished of the weekend, he showed a great deal of interesting information and photographs of the (non-existent, according to the goverment) bases around Groom Lake. The reports that activity at the base has ended are clearly incorrect, though it would make sense if the blackest of the black projects are now being tested somewhere else, away from prying eyes. But the mere fact that the government can claim and seal off such a huge area of land without having to give good reason to the public, is conspiracy enough for anyone. B
Eustace Mullins. I have serious qualms about this speaker, who is one of the most notorious alleged anti-semites and Holocaust deniers around, who has articles on ultra right-wing sites such as Stormfront. It is probably this, rather than any inherent truth in what he says, which has led to problems with him visiting Canada and Britain – the mention in Mullins’ lecture of his attending the funeral of American Nazi Party founder, George Rockwell, was illuminating in itself.
But Conspiracy Con is, as it should be, a forum for all views, and he largely stayed clear of contentious territory. The result was rather bland, consisting of the usual anti-federal government arguments, and fulmination against the new security measures at airports, which he seemed to think was personally directed at him. It was also hard to agree with his stoic defence of Senator McCarthy, who probably did more to set back the cause of liberty than any single person since World War II. Certainly not dull, but there was a lot here with which I simply couldn’t find common ground. C-
Walter Bowart…will outline the timeline of the current human condition. Strap yourself in for a cerebral journey into the most mind-blowing subjects of our time, including: schizophrenia as our next evolutionary stage; the end of civilization as we know it; telepathy and the end of all secrets; MK-Ultra and the GOD pill; the Roswell crash and JFK’s role in MJ-12. The unconscious societal behaviours of the last century, not declassified documents and eye-witness accounts, are proof of the “celestrial” influences on our world, as well as the terminal nature of our civilization. After the collapse, there will be two conspiracies – one against the future and the other towards the future, while the majority sleeps.
Okay, the above paragraph is taken verbatim from the convention program…because while it sounds vaguely familiar, neither I nor Chris can remember anything he said! This might be because our minds have been wiped of the dangerous information he provided, by “them”…or it might just be that his talk was dull and rambling – you decide. There must have been something of merit, as I was interested in a copy of his book, Operation Mind Control, but he never came back to his table in the dealer’s room. Nor does he respond to email, and having seen reports that Mr. Bowart has a nasty habit of taking money and not delivering the goods, I won’t be sending him a check. D
Col. Bo Gritz. The final speaker was certainly the most remarkable character of ConCon02: one of America’s most-decorated soldiers, a former CIA trainer who partly inspired the Rambo movies by his missions to recover missing POWs from Vietnam. Dressed in uniform with his medals almost covering his chest, this lecture was packed full of amazing anecdotes, delivered in a folksy but down-home manner. Particularly interesting was his information on the share dealings which preceded 9/11, with options in the airlines involved and companies located in the WTC being heavily traded. Someone clearly knew in advance, and wanted to profit…hearing that the now executive director of the CIA used to run one of the companies involved sent a shiver down my spine.
He also mentioned the likelihood of there being clandestine Soviet arms dumps left here from the Cold War (we have them in Russia, apparently, so it makes sense), including “suitcase nukes”, of reduced size (equivalent to around 10 kilotons of TNT), but if set off at ground level, would still be filthily radioactive. All Bin Laden would have to do is bribe the Soviets who know their locations, and he wouldn’t have to bother smuggling fissile material in. A worrying scenario, but Gritz reckons that the Koran forbids such an act, unless it was in retaliation for the West going back into Iraq or something of that magnitude. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen.
I could perhaps have done with less fundamentalist Christianity – I wanted to ask Gritz how he reconciled his career as a trainer of assassins with ‘Thou shalt not kill’ – but in between praising the lord, he came across as the sort of man you could completely trust. The kind we could use more of in government (a little like Jesse Ventura, perhaps), Gritz was an excellent and surprisingly optimistic note on which to end things. A-
Well, almost end things. The final event was a Q&A panel, but this was less interesting than last year’s, and was largely a rehash of the themes for the weekend, with not much new information coming out. We were happy though, having discovered – albeit almost too late – that the hotel bar was willing to let us bring our drinks through. The resulting anaesthesia probably helps explain why I didn’t feel in need of a lie-down in a darkened room, quite as much as the first time round, and finished the convention feeling mellowly content. Hey, the world might be going to hell in a hand-basket, but as long as there is Sam Adams Summer Ale to be had, who really cares?
As mentioned, found this convention less stressful than last year; having our rooms in the venue probably helped, though the seats in the lecture hall were notably less comfy – when you’re in them for eight hours a day, these things matter. Two words as a suggestion for next year: stadium seating. If they have cup-holders and somewhere for your popcorn too, so much the better.
It was also curious how many of the speakers seemed tightly linked to each other: Hilder, Gunderson and Hayakawa, for certain, perhaps others, all appearing in each other’s videos and writing forewords to each other’s books. It’s almost as if there is a conspiracy conspiracy, and if you’re not part of the “in crowd”, you don’t get to be heard. Now, there’s a topic for Conspiracy Con 2003! Where do I sign up?
More information
The Conspiracy Con website – audio- and video-tapes of this year’s presentations
If you’ve just clicked over from our review of Jason X, you might be wondering if this is another piece of film criticism. But, no – this is indeed the new editorial, inspired by stepson Robert’s departure earlier this evening for his school prom. This is his first effort at such things – the junior version is really a dress-rehearsal, since he’ll get another in 2003, his senior year, allowing him to make all the screw-ups now, without them really mattering. This is why he is going to the prom with two girls…neither of whom are his actual girlfriend (it’s a long story), and is also why Chris was frantically driving round town at 4pm this afternoon, trying to find flowers.
There was a certain amusement value to be had from assisting Robert – a guy whose idea of dressing up is closer to “clean T-shirt” than “tux ‘n’ tails” – as he struggled with the intricacies of cufflinks, bow-tie and buttonhole. Not that I was much help, having worn a tie of any sort precisely once, I think, since coming out here, and cufflinks are solely part of some obscure genetic memory. I possess a lovely pair of TC cufflinks which Chris had made for me, but unfortunately, possess precisely no shirts with which I can use them. Still, we made it in the end, sending him out into the world looking the picture of elegance – albeit somewhat uncomfortable elegance, running a finger round his collar in an effort to breathe more easily.
The whole prom night thing is terribly un-British, much like the concept of ‘graduating’ from high school – we just tend to walk out and not look back, usually with a thought best summarised as “thank god that’s all over”. I’m a little concerned about Robert, as both graduation day and prom night tend to be associated in my media-influenced mind with some kind of disaster. For example, we have the local mayor turning into a giant snake and eating the pupils (Buffy), a peeved telekinetic wreaking havoc (Carrie) or an upset student coming back to her old school for revenge (Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night 2). In light of events yesterday in Germany, the last plotline seems particularly ominous…
I’m sure no such misadventures will befall Robert, however. Chris would be very upset – not least since we went out and bought a new closet organiser for him this evening. If he gets eaten by a giant snake, she’ll have wasted her time and energy (not to mention a wide selection of colourful expletives) in making it. I hope he appreciates her effort. I confess to feeling guilt at not being in there with her, assisting in the assembly. But her repertoire of curses is far superior to mine, since she possesses an entire second language-worth. So I can see it all going horribly wrong, and even causing a temporary-but-severe fracture in our relationship, which is not something you want when there are power tools about.
Besides, it’s not called “do it yourself” for nothing… 🙂
Until the weekend, I was under the impression that I’d largely managed to sneak under the radar as far as American officialdom was concerned. Sure, I’d had a million and one hoops to jump through to GET here, but now they’d finally let me in, I intended to live a quiet, monastic life. I wouldn’t bother the government, and the government wouldn’t bother me. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the court system in Maricopa County, which is why I received a summons for jury service on Saturday morning.
They were clearly keen to have me, and even included a bus-ticket – one-way! – so that not even mechanical failure could prevent me attending. And they were prepared to pay me too: the princely sum of $12 for each day, an entirely appropriate sum given the extent of my legal knowledge is two years spent sharing a flat with a law student.
I have to say, though – my first reaction was “Cool!”. I guess I’d always harboured secret dreams of being involved in a pivotal trial that would change the very fabric of life forever. Of course, the reality would probably involve something very mundane and tedious, involving the theft of a bicycle. But even so, you still hold someone’s reputation in your grasp; would I have the moral fibre to weigh the evidence, make up my mind regardless of external pressures, and live with myself afterwards?
Unfortunately, we’ll never know. Reading the small print, to my disappointment, it stated that all jurors had to be citizens of the United States. Dammit. What about the right to be judged by your peers? Shouldn’t we immigrants be able to face our fellow newcomers, who can understand the pressures and struggle of life in a foreign land? Admittedly, here in Phoenix, this would probably mean a jury composed of six Marias and five Joses, trying to communicate with a very confused Scotsman whose knowledge of Spanish is limited to “dos cervezas, por favor”, but there you go.
Suspect it’s probably a good thing; the risk of getting lumbered with a long trial, at $12/day, was just too much, and I can see why Chris was pleased it was me rather than her that got the call-up. Little wonder the justice system in America is universally regarded as broken; you pay peanuts to jurors, you’ll get a bunch of monkeys. Though it would probably prove quite easy to limit your tour of duty to a single day. Simply adopt the sort of mannerisms which would bring any defence attorney to their feet in an instant, objecting to your very presence in the court building on the grounds it would prejudice things against their client.
Subtlety is not necessary here; indeed, the more you act like a total loony (preferably from the “Kill ’em all, let God sort ’em out” brigade), the better your chances. Talking fervently into space is probably good, maybe with the odd half-heard profanity. Acquire a nervous tic. Address everyone as “your honour”. Carry a Bible. Hey, just use your imagination here – you’ll be home in plenty of time for tea, bus-ticket or no bus-ticket.
