How easy it is to make people believe a lie, and how hard it is to undo that work again! (Mark Twain)
Excuse me if this is old news to most readers. I’ve been hanging out at Aulis lately, as so much of this Moon hoax stuff is a great sleep aide. I watch it late in the evening as I drift off. There’s only so much I can watch of shadows and lighting sources – and I drop off. (The accompanying text to the video is quite long … and , okay, a sleep aid too, telling us how they pulled it off.)
Continue reading “Faking the Lunar Rover using dolls … no kidding … they used dolls!”
The post down below brought back a mystery. Citizen Kane’s last word was “Rosebud”, as that was the answer to the mystery of the significance of his last word at death: the name of his childhood sled. My last words will be “two windows”.
I am both sloppy and meticulous, that is, my desk has never looked anything like that of a CPA, who are typically ISTJ in Jungian personality types. I am borderline I and E, introvert and extravert, on that damned test, and no matter how many times I take it, that’s what it is. Other than that I am easily and overwhelmingly NFP on the rest, “N,” Intuitive, more about ideas and concepts over details; “F,” standing for making decisions based on feelings and instincts rather than logic, and “P,” meaning Perceiving, preferring spontaneity and flexibility over structure and planning.
I grabbed this photo from Ab at the Fakeologist blog, of Jeffrey Epstein before and after his death. The two are obviously two different people. Someone has taken a left profile of him standing erect and laid him on his side for comparison. I did something very similar with the JFK morgue photos, revealing that the person in the photos was not JFK, but rather the product of some fancy darkroom work. So too above, but note: The ears and eyebrows appear to be from the same person. Only the nose, more bulbous, differs. Photoshop was not available in 1963, but even now they could have done a bit better, unless it is, again, Petra’s revelation of the method.
I left a comment at Ab’s site, reprinted below the fold here. Sadly, Ab does not get much in the way of comments, especially those of the quality I get here. His blog is far more active than mine, so people ought to be chiming in more. There was but one response to my comment (usually there are none when I pitch in) and that one was about gematria. ¡Ay, caramba!
I attended Catholic schools for the first 12 years of my life. The first eight years were taught by Dominican nuns, with one lay teacher covering second grade. Our school was one block away from the church, so that you can imagine frequent trips there for various ceremonies, like confession, stations of the cross, or just weekday mass. Weekends consisted of Saturday, a free day, and Sunday, at least part of which had to be used to attend church under penalty of mortal sin and eternal damnation if we failed. Unless we had a good excuse. However, going fishing, playing baseball with the neighborhood kids, or even reading a book were not considered good excuses. There were no good excuses, really, save deathly illness, or perhaps death.
One memory to emphasize that we were not wealthy kids attending this school … girls, on entering the church, had to have head covers. None of them had any such thing, no lace or doilies, so on entering they would pin a Kleenex on top their heads. It got the job done.
It’s been a long time since I looked at this photo. I used to be a CPA, and due to that I had to take 40 hours annually of “CPE”, or continuing professional education. That’s not a bad thing. Most often in my early career I would take courses by mail, but as time went on invested in seminars. Sometimes there were good speakers.
That’s all over now. I gave up my license in 2019 and have not looked back. Here’s something interesting: After I retired, I got an email from a person just gushing about me and my abilities, telling me she is running a business and in need of a CPA, and people told her “Get in touch with Mark!” Views differ, but I am not, in my opinion, stupid, and what I saw there was the Colorado Society of CPAs [DORA – the Colorado agency that governs professions] attempting to lure me into what looked like a professional gig. Had I fallen for it, they would have nailed me for practicing without a license. It was a trap.
I made it through all 666 pages of the book Memoirs of Billy Shears, by Thomas E. Uharriet some time ago. To the left is a face split between the image on the cover of the book, and a 1957 photo, said to be of Paul McCartney, but actually the one I call Mike. In the book “Billy” claims to have undergone plastic surgery to implant plastic to create the illusion that he looks like “Paul”, or the man we know now as “Macca”. But it appears to me all they have done is take the original Mike and draft an image based on that. I see no plastic sticking out.
The book is written in two voices, that of “Billy”, who claims to have been a studio musician before the death of the original “Paul” on 9/11/1966, to have played in various bands under other names, to be a trained musician who can read music and who has written all of the songs of the Beatles (after 11/22/66) that are not separately attributed to John Lennon, George Harrison, or Ringo Starr. That part is made-up nonsense, but there is an overshadowing of truth admitted to in the time alluded to that came before the fake death on 9/11/66:
NOTE (Page 167): The Beatles’ music will evolve from the most naïve that their writers could imagine to the most liberated. The first hit in America ( being their second in the UK) credited to Lennon-McCartney, though far beyond their writing skills, was Launching the engineered social transformation that sold over 15 million copies worldwide. [MT Note: this must refer to either I Want To Hold Your Hand or She Loves You.]
Mr. Mathis highlighted this photo, calling it an obvious fake, which it is, and commenting that it looks like a “Hot Wheels mock-up, with square-edged cars and all the seams still showing.”
All that is true, but I add one more thing: The blade is not nearly long enough to service the windmills I see. Try this calculation for yourself: A typical truck bed is 8’6″. At 1PM in the photo, you’ll see a truck – perspective is completely distorted, but let’s run with it. On my screen, it is one-half inch wide. (All screens are different, but the relationship of images to one another should be the same.) The blade is about five inches, so that in real life that blade would be five divided by one-half (=10) times eight feet six inches, or 1,020 inches, or about 85 feet long.
A typical carbon-fiber wind turbine blade is about 350 feet long, or the length of a football field plus two ten-yard endzones plus the distance to the first row of seats where Green Bay Packers go to jump up after a touchdown.
So the blade above is only about 24% the length of a real blade. That is, unless the blade is being trucked to Lilliput.
PS: How did that blade wind up way over in the oncoming lane? All I can think is that the wind blew it.
By The Old Badger (Dave Klausler)
Some daydream, nightmare, or this stupid world charade tipped me to fitness thinking lately. Nah, that may not even be it – I am triggered by music frequently – during workouts most commonly. But that’s right back to physical stuff – melting deep in my head too. I paused while the haunted Sinéad was expressing herself in Universal Mother – heartbreaking. She can shove Shuhada’ Sadaqat right up her dead pseudo-muslim ass. If you really want to hear raw power and fury, try Troy from The Lion and the Cobra – incredible. There’s a guy here on SubStack – Jonathan – that I view and read – he uses gymnastic rings too – that was also stewing in me. Hard to say now… I’m always consciously multitasking.
We have upstairs three rooms, each inordinately large: a bathroom, walk-in closet, and bedroom. They are what I would consider artifacts, which I define as something unintended and left over from other intended activities. This house in original from was much like a toaster, two floors, small footprint, and by world standards fully adequate for its intended purpose.
The former owners, however, wanted something bigger and better. They did not want this in order to live in a bigger house – they wanted to be able to sell it so that they could buy a place with land. The woman who was partnered with a man in the construction business wanted to raise horses, utterly impossible here, as it is a steep wooded hillside. So they popped out the north side of the building, and doubled the size of the structure, creating a lovely living and dining area, and two “offices” on our main floor, each qualifying as a bedroom were it to be used for that purpose. In the basement, they created two large areas of no particular purpose, and two small rooms, one qualifying as a bedroom, the other not (no closet).
When I was a child in Catholic grade school, I was an altar boy. It was a big deal to my deeply indoctrinated mind, wearing girly frocks and lighting candles and ringing bells. Our pastor, Father Neville once took trouble after a morning mass to advise me that I was not my brother Steve, that I was not measuring up. Asshole. That really stung and in no way did it move me forward, especially not beyond Catholicism, as it should have.
One morning during a weekday mass we had to attend, my class sat in the balcony of the church, Little Flower, to this day still on 2nd Avenue South in Billings, Montana. It caters to the Hispanic community, and is quite charming. As an altar boy I knew the drills, when to stand, when to kneel and sit. We came to a part of the mass where we insiders knew it was time to stand, and yet my whole class just sat there, so I mustered all my courage and stood up, all alone, to snickers and oddball looks from our nun/teacher, sister Iforget.
I was demonstrating the courage of nonconformity in the most conformist way possible, by adhering to the altar boy code.
Piece of Mindful 