90s Psyop #9: The Olympic Park Bombing

The 1996 Centennial Olympic Park bombing was supposed to be the work of a lone extremist Eric Robert Rudolph, a radical anti-government survivalist who, we are told, managed to pull off a terrorist attack in the middle of the Olympic Games using little more than a pipe bomb and backpack. But, as with so many stories of national tragedy, this one follows a very familiar script: an explosion, a rapid scapegoat, a media feeding frenzy, and government response that – coincidentally, of course – expands state control.

Insert different names and locations, and you could be talking about Oklahoma City, 9/11, the Boston Marathon Bombing, or any number of suspiciously convenient crises that just so happen to lead to increased surveillance, stricter security measures, and a general tightening of the noose around personal freedoms.

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The poor, misunderstood carbohydrate, Part I

I’ve been in a bit of a fugue lately between jet lag, ten times zones and west to east, tripled with intestinal troubles coming out of Kenya and (which in my mind led to) a nasty head cold. Through all of this, and being upside down on the clock, I decided it was time to write. The result was several hours at the keyboard leading to a very long piece, knowing all along it was too long to be publishable. It was suggested I break it down into shorter pieces, which is where I am at this morning. I am fully recovered now, sleeping on the clock (up at 4:30 AM, but that is just my age) and head, sinuses and lower regions all operating as proscribed. 

The United States and other places (Mexico for one) are in crisis brought about by bad eating habits that lead to obesity and diabetes. I’ve long known a cure for both but run into obstacles getting the information out. These are created in large part by two factors that interfere with simple nutritional eating: Television (and media in general), and professional nutritionists. 

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American Psyop – 90s Edition (The Long Island Lolita Hoax)

I’ve decided to post summaries on what I consider to be the Top 10 hoaxes of the 90s. This absurd and lurid tale came in at #10. The follow-up at #9 will be the Olympic Park Bombing.

In the summer of 1992, Long Island – a land known for big hair and even bigger attitudes – became ground zero for a love triangle so absurd it felt like an R-rated after-school special gone wrong – an intricate mix of media hysteria, suburban drama, and one too many perms.  Enter Amy Fisher, a semi-fictional 17-year-old femme fatale/high schooler whose hobbies included wielding a .25-caliber handgun and teasing middle-aged men – when she wasn’t busy teasing her hair. 

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Mr. Overwrought

I’ve had quite a time since our return from Kenya. For one, I’ve suffered from what I am calling “Hakuna Matata’s” revenge, thinking that Hakuma was just a character in the movie Lion King, rather than a Swahili phrase meaning “no worries.” (I never saw the movie.) Enough about that. In addition, maybe part of the whole, I came down with respiratory troubles, aka head cold. Couple all of that with east-west jet lag (we traveled out ten times zones and back in two weeks), and I’ve been overwrought. The result is that I write long posts like the one (formerly) down below (now removed) about dieting, which occur at 2 and 3AM, and for which I devote considerable brain muscle, all for naught as no one reads them.

I have decided that a paragraph I inserted as an afterthought will be enough on the subject, and so unlike me, ’nuff said.

 

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Deserve’s Got Nothing to Do with It

The title comes from a memorable line in Unforgiven, spoken by Clint Eastwood’s character in response to Gene Hackman’s Little Bill, who, in his final moments, protests, “I don’t deserve this. To die like this.”

In a tragic real-life parallel, Hackman’s lifeless body was discovered in the foyer of his home, partially decomposed. Data from his pacemaker revealed that his heart had stopped nine days earlier. At 95 years old, there was no question of a staged disappearance—only the stark reality of time catching up. Yet, no one deserves to be left undiscovered for weeks, a poignant reminder of life’s quiet, often unceremonious endings.

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Intolerance is all about!

I came upon a post about Petra Liverani and the moon landings at Fakeologist. Petra and I have gone round and round on the subject until I decided just to let it be. I cannot change her mind. I won’t try. In the meantime, Petra came out with a post called 12 logical fallacies unmasked in the use of the terms “conspiracy theory” and “conspiracy theorist“. I like the post. Petra started out by naming 12 logical fallacies.

  1. The authorities decide which events are conspiracies – the Appeal to Authority fallacy
  2. Only the majority expert voice counts, the minority expert voice is to be derided and ignored – the Appeal to Common Belief fallacy
  3. Professionals do not make claims of conspiracy nor do they theorise – the Strawman fallacy
  4. Refuters use the more specific and appropriate term, “psychological operation” or psyop – the Definist fallacy
  5. Selecting the obviously invalid argument – the Cherry-picking fallacy
  6. OMG! You’re one of those tinfoil-hatted people! – Argument from Intimidation fallacy
  7. Your reasoning is based on bias, mine is rational – The Bias Blind Spot
  8. Is the fact of conspiracy the main concern? – no, it’s the Big Lie fallacy technique used for millennia to control our minds
  9. The sophisticated Big Lie – the addition of the False Dilemma fallacy
  10. If those in power had done it they would have … – Hypothesis contrary to fact
  11. That’s insane, that cannot be true – Argument from incredulity
  12. When the rule is that they must “tell” us the truth underneath the propaganda how is the rejection of the narrative in the realm of “theory”? – The Loaded Question fallacy

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1980s Starry Awards

I haven’t been around much lately because, well… life. Also, much like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, I have spent my time working through the musical jungle of the 1980s—900 albums, give or take a few synthesizers. Ay Caramba!

In my infinite wisdom (or questionable judgment), I have decided to rank my Top 80 Songs of the 80s—a truly Herculean, thankless endeavor. And since I’m still wading through the final albums of 1989 I figured, why not make things even more ridiculous? Thus, I present my own makeshift version of the Grammy Awards, which I have oh-so-cleverly named… The Starrys. (Insert collective groan here.)

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Is Taylor Swift for real? (I kid! Of course she’s not!)

I draw attention to a post by Francis O’Neill, a man I have only recently come across, called “Is Taylor Swift in on it?” I think that is a fair question, even as it seems painfully obvious to me that she is ‘in on it.’ All she has to do is sit back and take it all in … the fame, the accolades, the money. Like the Beatles and Monkees*, to go generational on you, her job is to merely say nothing in public that would betray that 1) She does not write her own music, and 2) She does not perform her own music. If she were on a tell-all kick, she might also add that she has never seen Travis Kelce naked, nor he her/him/it, and that she knows as much about Covid and vaccines as she does about musical structure.

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About the post below

I like to write, and have even on occasion been paid for my written words. One time was by the Rocky Mountain News. I submitted a piece, it was accepted, and I was paid … the number that comes to mind is $600, but that seems a lot. Maybe more like $200. I don’t recall much about the piece (it will come to me later I suppose), but I do recall that when I read the published piece, the editor had inserted words I had not written.

He made it better, dammit. But I recalled then what my oldest daughter, trying to decide her future, had confided in me: that she could never be a journalist, because they are not allowed to think on the job (my words, hers were probably better). How did such a young person come upon such wisdom? I know what she said to be true, but at her age, not about me.

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Vandalism as a worthy cause

The above 1821 painting is called The Hay Wain, by John Constable, a British artist. I have deliberately kept the reproduction above small to preserve some of the integrity, but of course computer screens do not begin to be faithful to originals, much less iPads or, God forbid, iPhones. I would love to be able to stand in front of it. It is kept at the National Gallery in London.

In July of 2022 this painting was vandalized, a triptych overlaid placing modern civilization atop, and the vandals gluing themselves to the painting. The vandalism was done by a group called Just Stop Oil, the subject of this post, but first more about the article I am citing from, a work by Fred Bauer. It is called Vandals of Civilization, and is in the March, 2025 edition of National Review. Unless you buy the magazine from a newsstand, or subscribe, you’ll not have access. I am a longtime subscriber to NR, since my youth with an extended interruption … I read it in my early 20s and forward, and now read it with a far more skeptical eye. So much of it is good, so much less so in my view, but the people there always adhering to the principles of its founder, William F. Buckley, Jr., a man I deeply admired.

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