Hey y'all, thanks to Bruce for letting me back early. I'll be nicer, fairer, calmer.
Thanks to crikket, too, of course. Fearless.
(No, folks, we are not the same person, lmfao.)
Thanks to c2w? for being a force of reason.
(I will no longer address any police-state-y, martial-law-y things.
If asked for info directly only, will I answer.)
Thanks to anyone else, too. Jerky, barracuda, anyone who supported me even just a little.
(Pablo Chandler, is my Facebook handle. Be ready to prove your RigInt identity, lmao.
Well, at the very least, send me a message along with the request, "Hey, I'm ------!"
If I just see a name and a stranger's profile, I won't know whether to accept, etc.)
8bitagent wrote:Crikket, this is amazing stuff from Fourthbase's facebook. Why the hell wasn't he posting all this here instead of going on a verbal jihad spasm? The stuff Crikket is talking about is the sort of deep state
meta-play that RI should be about.
For the record, it was just because I couldn't.
That was all stuff I had gathered up and written in the last few days.
That said, I'm not sure if there's any connection between the Boston bomb brothers and *that* circle of intrigue, but it does provide context.
Not so fast, lol, my excellent associative friend.
There may yet be a connection. Let's find out.
(That rumor I heard last Friday night? Before the Elvis dude was released?
Cops investigating Braintree Motel 6
and Braintree post office
Some questions I had over my mini-respite:
- How long had Sunil Tripathi been dead?
Was he ever spotted by anyone when missing?
What was the deal with that blogger who doubted the airbrushed Sunil story?
If the coroner determines Tripathi was alive up until last week...
Will the coroner wind up strapped with a bomb and barbed wire?
If the scanner ID of Tripathi led to his capture...
Would there be photos found of him on Boylston St.?
Would the few early #2 pics look enough
- Did Tyler Wood and Chris Kyle ever meet? Talk?
Why does Wood keep spontaneously lying about being a veteran?
Why does he seem
- Did the two MA National Guard dudes see anything in front of LensCrafters around 2:50?
What was their specific assignment that day? Respond to the aftermath of a WMD attack? (Nods.)
The one with the Craft hat...where did he get it? Online? Training? Employment? Friend? Boss?
(It's definitely a Craft hat, see the little flag on the right side.)
- Was the Mehanna kid right re: being persecuted (by Carmen Ortiz) for not turning informant?
How many, if any, of these previous Boston mosque militants ever met Tamerlan?
Who in the ungodly fuck is "Misha"? A white guy? A convert? Converted when?
- When do we get to see the clip of #2 setting down the backpack?
Sure, it might spoil testimony in a trial, but, the video is good enough...no?
- All the reminiscers of #2 (and #1), again: Who are they? (All of them...who
- A townie cab driver picked up both at Malden T; they seem to have just picked up a bomb...where?
- Wait, so now they only had a single pistol???? WTF?????
- Can we get a clear picture of people who were legged one moment, legless the next?
(Just to nip this sad hoax thing in the festering bud...but maybe it will just keep going, anyway...
Would a pic of the decomposing fragments of Martin Richard do the trick, then? One part, mailed?)
So many more questions...good ones, great ones. So many. Some less directly-related. Like...
- Did anyone notice that Sacco and Vanzetti shot those two guys on April 15th, around 3pm?
Speaking of, and to save this from inundating the thread with multiple posts (ahem)...
Two posts which have a tangential connection (Boston terrorism and 4/15 3pm; MIT) to this thread:
April 15, around 3pm.
In 1920, that's when some crew of thugs robbed and murdered Alessandro Berardelli and Frederick Parmenter. It happened in South Braintree, in exactly the place where I've been buying groceries (pasta, vegetarian meat-substitutes, lemonade, etc.) for the last 17 years. Parmenter was a factory paymaster, buried with full Masonic rites. Berardelli, though, was simply a working-class Italian. For many decades, his death has been overshadowed -- if not ignored and utterly forgotten -- by champions of the working-class and defenders of Italian honor. Which, frankly, is a disgrace. He was murdered by either one crew of thugs, or another. Either some crew from an Italian mob, or another crew from that age's Italian anarchist equivalent of Al Qaeda.
"All disgrace should be forever removed from their names." Dukakis, in 1977, referring to a couple of Galleanists who contributed in spirit if not materially to a campaign of terror, murder, physically-violent sedition. Let's get real, though: Sacco and Vanzetti were a disgrace. Very much so. A disgrace to dissent and resistance, a disgrace to their ancestors and fellow Italians, a disgrace to all unequivocally-innocent people who've ever been on death row. Were they innocent of that particular shooting? Possibly. Did they get a fair trial? Probably not so much. Were they a disgrace? Absolutely. As were their bomb-dropping cohorts, as are the intellectuals who defended them unequivocally and have treated them like heroes since. Berardelli was a father, he had two young children, he worked for a living, and he never killed anyone or advocated for terrorism. The guys who probably murdered him...they're the heroes? Screw that.
The month of my...errr...walkabout. Every day, every night, back and forth, shuffling between and within the campuses of Harvard and MIT. I must have been quite a sight, "that husky unshaven white dude in sandals wearing the Sox cap with the backpack and a wild thousand-yard stare", is how I imagine being seen. But, thousand-year stare is more like it. I haunted a few other campuses around town, too, and a multitude of other neighborhoods. But it was at Harvard and MIT where my hours and miles added up the most, where I endlessly paced the sidewalks and corridors, where I conspicuously read Camus and Weil for attention I never got, where I used the few publicly-accessible computers with an internet connection and many a publicly-accessible restroom, where I pestered a few professors and loitered in several bookstores, where I crashed a Hare Krishna Q&A and a Korean student film festival for the free vegetarian grub, where I even found a couch or chair to sleep some nights and where I occasionally stole brief naps in the daytime, one of which was interrupted by a gathering of world-class black-history scholars, whom I still owe a gratitude for introducing me to a now-forgotten hero named Julian Mayfield. I even bumped into a BLS classmate on one of those afternoons.
There were two other people, though, whose paths I now wish would've intersected with mine that month. Actually, we might have inadvertently crossed paths at some point, and I would never know because I passed thousands and thousands and thousands of people that month, and none of the three of us were recognizable people then, and only one is now, and the other seems only barely-known to a subset of philosophy-junkies, and I am still a total nobody, lol. On the bright side, though, I'm still alive. And those two aren't. I think about it now, what might have been.
Maybe I see Mitchell Heisman walking across Harvard Yard that morning in late September, on Yom Kippur, all dressed in white, and I say, "Hey dude, looking sharp!" and maybe we strike up a conversation, and after several uninterrupted hours of hardcore philosophizing, after finally persuading him, "No dude, you're wrong, and that is a terrible idea", I head back out to Mass. Ave. to pound the pavement all night, and maybe he heads home to write a new chapter and re-title his book to something a shade more uplifting than Suicide Note.
Maybe one night that late September in the wee hours I notice Aaron Swartz sneaking around MIT, and maybe I follow him inconspicuously, and maybe he notices me because I suck at spying, and he asks me what the hell my deal is, and I tell him, and I ask him what his deal is, and maybe he tells me because I'm both thoroughly harmless and hip enough to his agenda to share his plan with, and after an hour of trading ideas I finally persuade him, "Yes dude, you're right, but that is a terrible idea", and then I depart to take the scenic route back to Central Square, and maybe he rides home to re-think his strategy and to imagine a less-illegal way to unlock the world's secret knowledge.
Maybe I also get each of their numbers and, once my walkabout is over, I call them up, and maybe later that fall, in some shabby apartment, sitting around a bong, there would be the trio of Paul Chandler, Mitchell Heisman, and Aaron Swartz enjoying life and trying to figure out how to maybe make it even easier, even better, even freer.
[Someone asks if Heisman's book is worth reading.]
He concludes that life is meaningless. So, no: Not worth reading. At all. Not saying it's rubbish, he seems to have been an excellent thinker. Just an atrocious judge. It's funny, I think I might be the exact mirror image of Heisman. I, too, have probably written about 2000-3000 pages' worth of intense, life-evaluating thought. But poor Mitchell wrote his million words secretly, for himself only, sinking deeper and deeper into a life-negating pessimism. I've written my million words publicly, for the sole purpose of communicating with others, rising higher and higher out of a long-term existential crisis into a life-affirming optimism. He punctuated his moment of trespassing on elite college grounds with a gunshot to his head. I punctuated mine by filling a chalkboard at the front of an architectural school's auditorium with a rant explaining why it was unethical for the budding architects present to construct useless prototypes of theoretical housing when just 50 feet away homeless folks slept on granite.