Vanity Fair writer Alex Shoumatoff got himself arrested for crashing Bohemian Grove, a private men’s club in northern California for the upper echelon of the rich and powerful. He was there to spy on the three-week camp they hold every July, where said rich and powerful relax while living in tents in their private woods.
It’s been a long time since a mainstream journalist successfully infiltrated the notorious Bohemian Grove: About twenty years in fact. We do have a non-mainstream celebrity with Bohemian boasting rights: Shrieky controlled opposition shill Alex Jones got into the Grove a few years ago, but I’m pretty certain they let him in on purpose because he came home with some miraculously unconfiscated video footage. Jones turned that footage into a dark movie in which he made Bohemian Grove out to be much more creepy and dangerous than it probably is in real life, and by that I mean BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA! Child Sacrifices to SEMITIC gods!!! Oh NOES!!! kind of creepy.
Whatever. Tinfoil hattery is an exhausting business and it takes a near psychic to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff. Alex Jones’ job is to freak out and inflame the already suspicious anti-New World Order Christian patriots into blaming and fearing “da Jooz,” the Neocons and the Zionists while distracting them from the REAL Powers: Certain Euro-royals and Jesuits who pay the Armageddon Bringers to be their front men. These hyper-billionaires are so rich that you’ve never heard of them, and apparently some of them have strange ideas about what makes for a good party.
In short: The Bohemian Grove Conspiracy is one of hundreds of sensationalized diversions meant to bleed people’s energies vampire-style, so that truthseekers have neither the time nor the inclination to see the membership for what it is: A bunch of rich sociopaths doing whatever it takes to control the world, period. Greed is banal: It knows no religion, no spirituality, no magic, but the Power Elite will cynically use them all as means to an end. It knows no limits, fiscal, sexual or otherwise. Rules are for the little people.
Anyway, here’s a good offering for the next Trivial Pursuit game: Harry Shearer’s 2002 movie “The Teddybears’ Picnic” is a parody of the Bohemian Grove conspiracies.
So what is Bohemian Grove, anyway? The truth is more ridiculous than the fiction: It is summer camp for rich and powerful men indulging their suppressed homoerotic urges. Think Burning Man or Robert Bly’s “man camp,” only with spandex, glitter and show tunes, and “gin fizzies” served as early as 7 a.m. These captains of industry spend the whole weekend drunk off their asses, singing and dancing and doing skits, often in drag. One of their hallowed traditions is walking around with their weenies hanging out, peeing on anything and everything they feel like peeing on, and passing out drunk in the bushes. Sounds like fun, huh? Richard Nixon called Bohemian Grove “the most faggy goddamn thing you could ever imagine.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that. For what it’s worth, during my time in Hollyweird I learned that porn stars, both male and female, moonlighted as “valets” at Bohemian Grove. Make of that what you will.
One of many pagan-styled events being a big bonfire “Cremation of Care” ritual in front of huge stone owl. Supposedly this means the Grove members are Satan worshippers, at least to members of the pearl-clutching Churchianity sects. Being an armchair occultist and occasional pagan reveler myself I know Cremation of Care is likely a dramatic (and harmless , unless one of them accidentally sets his robe on fire) opening event during which the members symbolically unburden themselves of the cares of the world so that they may better enjoy the rest of their vacations.
This latest infiltration was by another Alex, one Mr. Shoumatoff from Vanity Fair. Unfortunately he did such a crappy job of it he didn’t make it past the first checkpoint. Maybe the next guy will be more successful, but honestly: We have La Cage aux Folles. We don’t need to see film footage of our past presidents peeing on trees while in drag. Or . . . do we?
Remember that when the government comes calling. If they say they want to help and they only offer you $290 billion or some bullcrap number like that, you stand proud and tell the government, “I didn’t work my ass off behaving so irresponsibly as to bring our nation’s economy to the brink of disaster just so you could call me a slut!” The government will apologize and it will let you know how much you mean to it by offering you another $10 billion. “You’re worth it,” the government will say, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’ve always been worth that much to me.”
Now comes the first medi spa in Manhattan wholly dedicated to strengthening and grooming a woman’s genital area. Phit — short for pelvic health integrated techniques — is to open this month on East 58th Street.
Dr. Lauri Romanzi, a gynecologist who performs pelvic reconstruction surgery, said she came up with the idea for the spa one day while walking by an outlet of BriteSmile, the tooth-whitening chain. She liked that the stores cater to people with healthy teeth.
The spa is essentially a gussied-up examination room down the hall from Dr. Romanzi’s medical practice. At the spa, the signature treatment will be a $150 gynecological exam — in which a client contracts her pelvic muscles around Dr. Romanzi’s fingers — to determine by feel whether muscle tone is weak, moderate or strong.
And here I thought Americans had already achieved the pinnacle of narcissism. Is it really possible that women have gotten so LAZY that they’re outsourcing their Kegel exercises? Is the Apocalypse at hand? Honestly, I don’t believe it necessary that we ape Rome during it’s epic fall.
Besides, this is what intimate friends are for: To be personal trainers for our privates. Frankly, I think this kind and level of personal service requires a house call. Failing that a resourceful woman can just pull up her Puss-n-Bootstraps and use her own fingers. The DIY approach is easy and free.
I wonder: Will the good Doctor be holding Kegel aerobics classes? (I can see it now: “Come on, girls, squeeze! Squeeze! One two three four!”). She might as well go all the way and hold pong ball distance competitions and “throat pilates” while she’s at it. Any doctor specializing in something so asinine as “vaginal rejuvenation” is likely to be of the “alter your pussy to fascinate your man” mindset. If she’s going to devote her career to insulting women’s vaginas she might as well go all the way.
What’s she gonna call the place, Spagina? She should pipe Barry White muzak throughout the spa: “It feels so good . . . Oh, what a groove You have no idea how it feels, My hands just won’t keep still . . . Oh baby oh baby . . .”
Men, inquire within as to the availability of towel boy and technician internships.
One would think that if the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker were a Muppet she would be Miss Piggy, yes? But one would be oh so wrong.
Surely she has her bitchy and grand Miss Piggy moments, having pretty much nailed the seventh and most deadly sin VANITY. However, depending on the time of the month she is also a female version of either Gonzo or Beaker: Adorably weird and introspective, or a babbling freakout mess, usually over world events she can do absolutely nothing about.
The coming demise of the American economy via the debauching of our dollar currency (see: HYPERINFLATION and STAGFLATION) will soon provide the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker plenty of nothing for which to express much ado. It will take a freaking miracle to save us now. Perhaps instead of Blogging the Apocalypse the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker would be better off with a martini and a mild sedative?
An independent market-research firm, AIMRCo (Adult Internet Market Research Company), has discovered that many websites focused on adult or erotic material have experienced an upswing in sales in the recent weeks since checks have appeared in millions of Americans’ mailboxes across the country.
According to Kirk Mishkin, Head Research Consultant for AIMRCo, “Many of the sites we surveyed have reported 20-30% growth in membership rates since mid-May when the checks were first sent out, and typically the summer is a slow period for this market.”
From the Department of Unintended Consequences: President Bush’s economic stimulus package, which so far has been ineffective in stimulating the economy, is giving the porn industry a rise instead.
Lay-dees, if you’ve occasioned to wonder at men’s priorities, wonder no more: What appears bonehead stupid to us is boner obvious to them. Men are like un-neutered dogs: Just pet them, feed them, pick up their crap, give them lots of fresh air and adventure, make constant cute squeeky noises at them, deal with their funky smells as they age, let them sleep in your bed, and roll your eyes as they continuously hump anything they can. You may need to buy a leash.
This is why I have cats. You know, it’s possible some women are buying porn with their stimulus checks, but I like to think women are more sensible than that. Anyway, I have a message for you guys out there who’ve not yet received your checks in the mail: If you haven’t figured out how to get all your porn for free by now, you are too stupid for money. Send it to me instead and I’LL go shopping!
“Words are all we have, really. We have thoughts, but thoughts are fluid. And then we assign a word to a thought, and then we’re stuck with a word for that thought, so be careful with words.”
- George Carlin
Sepinwall on TV: George Carlin, 1937-2008: A man of many words
by Alan Sepinwall/The Star-Ledger
Monday June 23, 2008, 2:36 PM
Twelve hours after comedian George Carlin died Sunday of heart failure in a Los Angeles hospital, a Google search of recently-updated pages to feature the phrases “George Carlin” and “passed away” drew more than 6,000 hits. If there’s an afterlife and Carlin is up there looking down at us, he’d be . . . well, first, he’d be surprised . . .
Can you tell my old camera is dying? I might be kittyprinted out. Let’s see: Kittyprint nightgown, robe slippers and blanket, with matching cat. Yup, my kittyprint collection is probably complete.
In short: The Bohemian Grove Conspiracy is one of hundreds of sensationalized diversions meant to bleed people’s energies vampire-style, so that truthseekers have neither the time nor the inclination to see the membership for what it is: A bunch of rich sociopaths doing whatever it takes to control the world, period. Greed is banal: It knows no religion, no spirituality, no magic, but the Power Elite will cynically use them all as means to an end. It knows no limits, fiscal, sexual or otherwise. Rules are for the little people.
This latest infiltration was by another Alex, one Mr. Shoumatoff from Vanity Fair. Unfortunately he did such a crappy job of it he didn’t make it past the first checkpoint. Maybe the next guy will be more successful, but honestly: We have La Cage aux Folles. We don’t need to see film footage of our past presidents peeing on trees while in drag. Or . . . do we?
Surely she has her bitchy and grand Miss Piggy moments, having pretty much nailed the seventh and most deadly sin VANITY. However, depending on the time of the month she is also a female version of either Gonzo or Beaker: Adorably weird and introspective, or a babbling freakout mess, usually over world events she can do absolutely nothing about.
