Alex Jone's Bohemian Grove

Diogenes

Lots is made of Bohemian Grove, and Alex Jone's blurry footage of the ceremony, which he claims is either an effagy of a man, or an actual man. How Jones risked his life from the guards, and the security he had to overcome.

Whats lesser know is that a British Journalist travelled to the Bohemian Grove with Alex, and got even further than Alex and actually attended the ceremony.

I wanted to attempt the impossible. I wanted to somehow get in, mingle, and witness the owl burning myself. After all I had heard about the global elite these past five years - the claims and the counter-claims - I believed this to be the only tangible way I could finally learn the truth. What were they doing in there?
I had no clear idea how to accomplish this. My original plan had been to enter the forest alone, perhaps climb up some hills, and basically just scout around until I found it. Recognising that this was an ill-conceived strategy, I telephoned some of the anti-New World Order radicals I had met during my travels to ask their advice.
David Icke warned me against it. He said the reptilian bloodlines transform themselves back into giant lizards at Bohemian Grove. Furthermore, he said, Henry Kissinger, Jimmy Carter, Walter Cronkite and the male members of the British Royal family routinely sexually abuse their harem of kidnapped sex slaves - brainwashed through the MKULTRA trauma-based mind control program - at the Grove. I asked David how he knew this, and he explained that one of the sex slaves, a woman called Cathy O'Brien, escaped and wrote a chilling memoir about her experiences called the TranceFormation of America.
‘If you read Cathy O’Brien’s book,’ said David, ‘you’d know not to go anywhere near the place. People disappear in those forests.’
I called Alex Jones, the radio and TV talk show host I had met while visiting Texas with Randy Weaver. He instantly invited himself along.
‘That place is sick,’ he yelled. ‘You’ve got presidents and governors and prime ministers and corporate chieftains running around naked. They have orgies. They worship their devil owl. I’ll smuggle a camera in and get right up in their faces.’
‘I think stealth might be a better approach if we want to witness the owl burning ceremony,’ I said.
‘You’re right,’ said Alex, thinking aloud. ‘Let’s liken it to Indiana Jones. Getting in their faces will be like going for the little emeralds along the way to the big ruby in the head of the idol, which would be to actually witness the owl burning itself.’
‘Exactly,’ I said.
I was glad Alex was joining me. He struck me as someone who would behave fearlessly in the face of danger. He also had five million listeners. He was a high profile person. He had personally organised the re-building of David Koresh’s Branch Davidian church at Mount Carmel in Waco. He had a can-do attitude. I could not imagine that, with Alex around, they would dare to do anything should we be caught.

here's how he got in;

‘Where are the Texans?’ asked Rick.
It was two hours later. Violet had gone back to the Occidental motel. Rick and I were steeling ourselves for our impending penetration with cocktails at the Village Inn, a lovely riverside bar on the edge of the Grove.
‘I last saw them diving into the bushes,’ I said.
‘Boy scouts,’ tutted Rick. ‘So predictable. You know there’s poison oak all over these forests.’
‘Will they die?’ I asked Rick.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Depends how many times they get stung. Anyway. Are you ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I said.
I took a last big swig, we paid up, walked the hundred yards to the entrance, up past the sign that read ‘No Through Road’, and were immediately approached by a security guard.
‘Hey there,’ said Rick.
‘You guys should have driven up here,’ smiled the guard.
‘Oh, we wanted to walk,’ said Rick. ‘You know. Enjoy the air.’
‘Hey!’ said the guard. ‘No problem. Have a good time at Care.’
He gave us a little salute. We walked on.
‘That was easy,’ I whispered.
‘Told you,’ whispered Rick.
We walked the length of the car park - there were perhaps 500 cars, Mercedes and BMWs and Range Rovers and Jeeps - and up to a second wooden guardhouse, manned by a bored-looking security officer and some young valet parkers. Nobody seemed to notice us as we walked past.
And then we were in Bohemian Grove.

9pm. There was no formal announcement. No bell was rung. But the Bohemians instinctively knew that the time had come for them down at the lagoon. The ceremony was about to begin. Rick and I found a prime spot, directly opposite the giant stone owl. We sat on the grass and we rested our backs against a tree. Soon the grassy bank was packed. A thousand men had drifted down, in groups of 20 or 30, and were crowded together, sitting cross-legged on the grass. Many lit cigars. A few scrutinised me. I was probably the youngest person there.
I glanced behind me and spotted Alex and Mike. They spotted me. We looked away.
‘First timer?’ asked a big man wearing glasses.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You’re going to love the ceremony,’ he said. ‘FOOLS! FOOLS! Ha ha!’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘You’ll see,’ he laughed. ‘Here. Have this.’
He handed me a colour programme. The cover read ‘Cremation Of Care. July 15th 2000. 121st Performance. Bohemian Grove.’ I thanked him and flicked through it. It was a cast list.
High Priest - Jay Jacobus.
Voice of the Owl - John MacAllister.
Funeral Cortege - The Gentlemen of Lost Angels Camp.
And so on.
From across the lagoon, a single violin began to play. A hush descended. A figure appeared before the owl. He wore lederhosen. His lederhosen was covered in leaves. He resembled some kind of elfin Germanic Tarzan. He was, I learnt from my programme, Eden’s Garden Soloist.
He stretched out his arms and began to sing, with operatic grandeur: ‘Glorious! Glorious! Oh twigs! Oh Boughs! Oh trees...!’
For the next ten minutes or so, Eden’s Garden Soloist eulogised nature’s splendour, his voice ringing through loudspeakers concealed in the trees. Spotlights picked out individual redwoods. They glowed green.
Then we were plunged suddenly into darkness. The drums thundered. Boom! Boom! At each boom a robed man carrying a flaming torch appeared amid the trees. There were perhaps 30 of them. It was, without question, a berobed torchlight procession. Their hoods were red, their robes black. They resembled posh Klansmen, or the cast of a Broadway musical, should Broadway ever decide to do the Moloch Pagan Cult of Sacrifice story.
They lit a pyre at the foot of the owl.
‘Hail, Bohemians!’ said the High Priest, and it was clear he was the highest of all the priests because his robes were silver and gold and made of silk. The High Priest reprised Eden’s Garden Soloist’s eulogy of the great outdoors. ‘The ripple of waters, the song of birds, such music as inspires the soul...’
To summarise, he informed the crowd, these men of wealth and power, that dull care, arch-enemy of Beauty, must be slain, right here and right now!
‘Bring fire!’ he roared.
I wondered what Alex and Mike were making of this. I, personally, took dull care to mean the burdens and responsibilities of business, but I imagined that Alex was interpreting the scene differently. A naysayer could easily presume that dull care meant the world beyond the Grove, the average Joes, and that the High Priest was suggesting the world leaders in the crowd should not give a damn about ordinary people.
As I pondered this, a startling thundercrack rang out through the trees, followed by a scary, cackly voice. It was the voice of Dull Care.
‘FOOLS!’ he roared. ‘FOOLS! Ha ha ha! When will ye learn that me ye cannot slay?’
Dull Care suggested to the High Priest that he was invincible.
‘When ye turn your feet to the marketplace,’ he mocked cacklingly, ‘am I not waiting for you as of old? FOOLS! To dream ye conquer care.’
At this, and in a breathtaking display of pyrotechnic wizardry, the spirit of Dull Care spat fire onto the High Priest. From the tree tops, a gob of fire rained down upon the High Priest’s hat. This infuriated the High Priest.
‘Nay, thou mocking spirit,’ he spluttered. ‘We know thou waitest for us when this our sylvan holiday shall end. But this too we know: year after year, within this happy Grove, our fellowship has banned thee for a space. So shall we burn thee once again and in the flames that eat thine effigy, we’ll read the sign. MIDSUMMER SET US FREE!’
And the crowd roared and cheered and yelled the last line back at the priest.
‘MIDSUMMER SET US FREE!’
At this moment, Death appeared on a gondola on the lagoon, carrying a papier-mâché effigy towards the giant owl. Dry ice floated upon the lagoon’s surface. It was a beautiful sight. The effigy was retrived from the boat by (my programme informed me) the Brazier Bearers, held out to the owl’s midriff, and then thrown - by the Mourning Revelry Dancers - into the fire.
‘AAAARGH,’ said Dull Care, his grotesque death rattle filling the forest.
‘Hooray!’ said the crowd.
Then fireworks erupted. Then everybody sang And When The Saints Go Marching In. Then it was over. We clapped. The Grove descended once again into silence, broken only by the sound of many elderly men murmuring to their neighbours: ‘Could you possibly help me up? Thank you so much.’
‘Well, well, well,’ I said.
‘Pretty spectacular,’ said Rick.
‘I guess we should go,’ I said.
We wandered back towards the exit. A ragtime band was playing near a bonfire. All along the path, men unzipped their khakis and urinated up against the trees and straight onto the road. This did not strike me as mere convenience. There were public toilets everywhere. It was a statement. I needed the toilet myself, so I urinated too, my urine joining theirs, forming a little golden stream down the path and into the mud.

Quite different then Jone's claim

You can buy his book Them - Adventures with Extremists

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemian_grove