Posts Tagged ‘Bohemian Club/ Illuminati’

Still nothing irregular at the Grove entrance, but The "Writer" knows otherwise.

The “Writer decided to try his hand at reasoning. A large congregation of black helicopters , though a bit off-putting , does not in and of itself indicate R.B.S.* on the radar. It could be a legitimate military presence as added security for a very special group of Bohemians. But those strange pod-shaped attachments, what could they contain? And the array of silver tubes? Way too ominous. Especially with the huge crowd of Americans sure to show up for the big BoHo Show less than a week away, and the hidden heliport less than a mile from the Monte Rio Amphitheater. This will not do.

The end result of the thought processes described above was that The “Writer” sat himself down in front of the TV (where the Giants were clinging to a 2 to 1 lead in the bottom of the 5th @ Arizona) calmly took out a fresh sheet of shiny magic paper, picked up his Pilot Precise V7 Rolling Ball Pen, and proceeded to write:

From the “Santa Rosa Press Democrat”, 7/24/2010

“Well, I know those helicopters weren’t chocolate when they woke me out of a sound sleep at 2AM, with their whop-whop-whoppin’. Stealth, my ass.” said Railroad Avenue resident , Don Godair.

If those sound like the comments of a rational man you should have no problem believing the rumors that have been spreading like LSD-laced peanut butter throughout the small resort town of Monte Rio. Some of the locals take seasonal employment at the grove and they are hearing and repeating some pretty strange stuff.

Where there’s strange stuff you often find black helicopter sightings and these stories are no exception. First came the calls from residents of homes in the vicinity of The Bohemian Grove, most complaining of the sound, some reporting visual sightings. Then the report of a maintenance worker who had stumbled onto a hidden heliport on his rounds was circulated around local watering holes. Supposedly he was alarmed by the number of black helicopters he saw there and was particularly nervous about the strange pod-shaped tanks attached to the choppers. When he returned to see if they were still there later in the evening he found the heliport lit up by several powerful spotlights. He described a scene of chaos: black clad military types, cursing and moving around what appeared to be giant dark chocolate versions of the black helicopters he had seen earlier. Stranger yet is his claim to have seen two rugged looking operatives break off a tail section of one of the choppers and jump back as a cascade of creamy white filling gushed from the cracked copter to glisten in the bright glare of the spotlight. Knowing that no one would be likely to believe so strange a tale, he returned at dawn the next day to see if he could retrieve some kind of evidence of the last evenings hi-jinx. Several of his bar mates claim to have seen the chunk of chocolate that he brought out of his weathered backpack. One said it was as large as a human head and still coated on one side with a creamy residue.

When asked to comment on the persistent rumors of dark chocolate helicopters Grove spokesperson, Rock Hardplace, retorted, “Please!”, as his limo window hissed shut and he roared away, leaving this reporter in the dust and this tiny community clouded in mystery.

And that is how The “Writer” dispatched a threatening brood of Black Death Angels with a single phony news story. (Eat your heart out Jon Stewart.)

But there ‘s still another few days before the BoHo Show. Plenty of time to thwart a couple more nefarious plots. The “Writer” smiled, appreciating the challenge and mentally dedicating himself to the safety of his beloved but weird little community. He also smiled, appreciating the explosion of offense that had brought the Giants from behind to a 6 to 4 lead in the bottom of the 7th.

This frozen moment of excellence was utterly shattered by frantic Gojira barking, thumps and rattles, meowling of a cat, sparking noises, bright flashes and an acrid smell, all going on just outside the door to the mobile mansion.

In the light of the full moon The “Writer” could make out The Cat With No Name astride a dark writhing rodent with flashing red eyes, sparks spraying from its broken neck. Its tail was lashing about so fast it was almost invisible. The Illuminati had sent another of their unholy electronic minions to monitor his every move.

The elation he’d felt only moments before was history as he used his Jack Daniels Worlds Fair Memorial Walking Stick to finish off TCWNN’s handiwork. It took four satisfying blows to extinguish the hellish light from the digital demon’s eyes.

*RBS- Really Bad S**t

The "Writer" displays the business end of his lethal Jack Daniels Worlds Fair Memorial Walking Stick.


During the days immediately following the release of the flyer he’d done to advertise a new type of Bohemian Club Variety Show, The “Writer” had spent some time gauging the effects of his efforts. Five days later he could find no trace of his flyer, and the original BOHo flyer threatening the appearance of The Three Tenors was long gone from shop windows and bulletin boards. Unlike his last foray into Guerneville he could hear no mention of the upcoming show among the conversing clusters of folks he passed in the aisles at Safeway or on the streets of the little resort town. It was as if none of this drama had ever happened. It would seem then that his power to alter reality with text and drawings had definite time restrictions. This could be both good and bad. Good because the threat of Tenor Terrorism had been averted without having to do any follow-up writing regarding his bogus World Beat Extravaganza. Bad because there was still a lot of Summer left for the Ills to launch another offensive.

The scheduled time for the show came and went without notice. The “Writer” busied himself with plans for the upcoming Independence Day weekend and his new “Those Amazing Humans” blog feature.

On July 4th he immersed himself in the preparation of an Extreme Comfort Food recipe: Hawaiian Mac and Cheese. He’d seen the concoction in The SF Chronicle a couple of weeks ago and impulsively chosen it has his culinary contribution to the family festivities. As it turned out with his limited cooking experience it took almost three hours to put together, not counting the last 25 minutes in the oven. But it emerged every bit the decadently delicious, nasty treat that he’d hoped for. The recipe is reproduced below for readers who enjoy this kind of radical comfort fare. Warning: It includes Spam!

After a weekend of loud explosions, blinding flashes, unhealthy food and adult beverages, The “Writer” sought the refuge of the mobile mansion to digest and recuperate in peace. Not till mid-week did he venture forth. He wanted to do a little recon near the entrance to the Bohemian Club to see if he could see any signs of unusual activity. Then he would scan the bulletin boards around town while posing as a consumer. He knew it would be folly to underestimate the evil purpose of The Illuminati and their Bohemian meat puppets. By the time he reached the first stop sign he’d already seen three posters for an all new, completely different Bohemian Club Variety Show. The Ills were on the move.

The Freakish Four?

TCWNN* showed little interest in the lifeless hummingbird-drone and after rubbing against the unsteady legs of the still wobbly “Writer”, she left for the shady garden nook behind the RV to get a drink from the gurgling fountain there.

On closer inspection the ro-bird proved to be 90% organic in nature. The visible synthetic elements were the glassy-lensed eyes which served as mini-cams, the nylon-reinforced wing framework designed to carry the weight of the added circuitry, and the hypodermic syringe/beak which would probably have injected its liquid contents into his nose, had it not been for the timely intervention of TCWNN*.

The “Writer” had read a few high-tech thrillers and was aware of the fact that the DOD had already deployed insectoid mini-droids in the Middle East for reconnaisance. But this heartless engineering violation of his helpless avian friends was a whole new kind of evil.

Holding the twisted little bird body in one hand he used his other hand to write a paragraph describing the emergence of a colorful stream of nan-o-bot repair cells. “They oozed in an azure trickle from micro-pores at the base of the beak to all afflicted areas to begin the process of repairing the extensive damage. By the time the “Writer” had finished the last sentence the glow had returned to the sapphire eyes, the wings had begun to flutter, and the greatful little cybercreature was sitting gingerly on the senior scribe’s bony finger. The hostility it had shown earlier was replaced by devotion and affection for his reanimator.”

The questions remained. Who had sent this tiny, lethal emissary? What was it’s mission? What chemical would have been injected into the “Writer’s” pimply snout? If indeed this was an Illuminati-inspired attack, as he suspected, were they so threatened by the prospect of his “going rogue” that silencing him for good seemed the best option?

When he felt clearheaded and physically stable enough to accurately assess his situation, he realized that things could definitely be worse. He’d used his writing skills effectively again. He’d written the hummer-drone back to health and recruited it as an ally. His feline friend, TCWNN, had proven herself in a combat situation. He wouldn’t be alone on this adventure. He had an unlikely “posse”: Gojira D. Dogg, The Cat With No Name, and the “Humm-inator”. Would this team be enough to stay one step ahead of the scheming Illuminati conspirators; enough to effect Obamaloid positive change; enough to pay the freaking property taxes? Only time and the “Writer’s” future output will tell.

*The Cat With No Name


Touch the flaring hood of the rampant reptile if you dare!


As the “Writer” shook his Pilot Pen in the face of the Waitz-like entity with his left hand, his right hand surreptitiously sought the lethal, brass-headed, Jack Daniels Worlds Fair Memorial Walking Stick that he kept in the umbrella bucket just behind him.

“Are you the real Tom Waitz or just a literary swamp gas manifestation in my blogosphere?” As he spoke the “Writer” punctuated his speech with carefully placed blows to the head and shoulders of the cringing pseudo-celebrity. Gojira’s mad yapping intensified the chaos.

The hallucinatory entertainer reacted appropriately to the “Writer’s” bludgeoning attack: yelling in pain, lifting his arms to defend himself, backing up, cursing.

“F**K, man. Cut it out! Dammit, quit! Jesus, stop! Listen. Ow! I’m not a freaking hallucination. I’m Tom Waitz. You know I live in Sonoma County.  I used to come into your old toy and gag store in Occidental. With the kids, remember? Come on now, Pop. Put that thing down.”

The “Writer”, suddenly drained of energy, slumped limply into his wooden chair. “I’m sorry. This is just getting to be too much for me to get my head around.”

The Waitz being rubbed a swelling knot on the back of his head, bent over to pick up his jaunty hat, then reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw something small and shiny.

“I’m just here to give you this “C” harp. The big boys want you to add a little more music to the mix. They say you’ll know what that means and this will help.” rasped Waitz.

“And, just a friendly word of advice to a Western Sonoma County brother: You might want to tone down the Illuminati/ Bohemian Club conspiracy crap a bit. Man, they know where you live, and your little dog too. If you turn this “opportunity” into some kind of muck-raking manifesto, something unfortunate might go down. Can’t you just relax and master your tools and talents, before you start throwing down with the Powers That Be?”

As the “Writer” felt consciousness slip away, he could barely hear the tinkling toy piano solo at the end of “The Ice Cream Man”. He could briefly feel the cool, hard metal of the harp in his hand and he could hear the last words of the Waitz-thing as they fell down a long, dark tunnel to another level of The “Writer’s” own private Wonderland.

“Keep the Funk alive, brother!”

The "C" Harp