Take the Disinfo Quiz

Can you tell the difference between a legitimate area of deep-political research and a carefully constructed rabbit hole leading nowhere? When navigating the conspiracy wilderness of mirrors, it’s important to realize 90% of the so-called “research” is garbage being spread by kooks or people pretending to be kooks, unless, of course, it’s a mainstream book parroting the official government line, in which case it will be praised to the skies in all the major media from far and wide.

This is how the entire spectrum of conspiracy research has been removed from the accepted borders of reality. In the jargon of mind control ops, all researchers have been “sheep-dipped” as lunatics. Good or bad, crazy or sane, every deep-political researcher is just another conspiracy crackpot. So much for investigative research. Investigative research is practically extinct at this point.

So the kookier the stuff that gets published, the farther they drive the center of gravity away from uncomfortable realities that might stir people into action, and the deeper they go into the designated rabbit hole, a place filled with fearful sheeple and paranoid delusions. Manufacturing all this noise is a sophisticated mind game played out on several fields. Most religion (and any other mind-control cult) works by first leading the gullible down into a state of fearful resignation.

This test is designed to measure your ability to navigate the many rabbit holes that dot the conspiracy landscape, so I invite everyone to take my Disinfo Quiz. Most of the theories listed here are discussed in greater detail elsewhere on my blog.

All conspiracy research falls into one of three categories:

1) credible research; 2) manufactured rabbit hole leading nowhere; or, 3) limited hang-out, a deflection of the real story, usually scapegoating the designated patsy.

Limited hang-outs are often employed as lightning rods to capture the center of energy on an emerging consciousness.

So tell me which of the following categories do these popular internet conspiracy theories fall into?

Credible story? Rabbit Hole? or Limited Hang-out?

1) The CIA killed JFK

2) We never landed on the moon.

3) 9/11 was a ritual event based on Crowley magick

4) Chemtrails are poisoning the world

5) Fluoride is poisoning the world

6) Cannabis cures cancer

7) The Aurora shooting was a magic ritual event

8) Madonna is Queen of the Illuminati

9) Circumcision is a form of ritualized child abuse

10) Albert Hoffman, of LSD fame, secretly worked for the CIA

11) A vaccine given in the 1950s could be creating an explosion of cancer in Baby Boomers

12) The Jews are secretly running the world

13) JFK Jr was murdered

14) Elvis is alive

After you compile your score (answers below) find out how you rank, Magus  or Sheeple?

13-14 correct: Magus

11-12 correct: Senior

9-10 correct: Junior

7-8 correct: Sophomore

5-6 correct: Freshman

4 or less correct: you are undoubtedly a member of the brainwashed sheeple

Answers:

1) credible

2) rabbit hole

3) limited hangout

4) rabbit hole

5) credible

6) credible

7) rabbit hole

8) rabbit hole

9) credible

10) credible

11) credible

12) limited hangout

13) credible

14) rabbit hole

My First Trip on LSD

It wasn’t long after Hayes brought Carp into the Knight Riders that he began plotting how to get rid of him. Meanwhile, Tim Anderson, the original bass player for the Finchley Boy’s, convinced his dad to let him re-join a band. You might remember Tim was the first member of the Finchleys to unleash himself at a rehearsal and help guide the Finchleys into the realms of real rock’n’roll—what Dave Aguilar of the Chocolate Watchband describes as: “An overloaded lumber truck coming down the mountain, riding two wheels on all the curves” (see “True Origins of the Finchley Boys”). Hayes (left) held a secret tryout with Tim and we were all very impressed with his passion. “Wow, we finally got a showman in the band,” said Hayes afterwards. Tim left thinking he’d just joined a band.

“What about Carp?” I wondered. There’s an age-old technique for getting rid of band members without any uncomfortable confrontations, and Hayes was naturally going to employ this technique by disbanding the Knight Riders and then re-forming a new band a few days later with Tim as the lead singer. Of course, this new band would require a new name and Hayes asked me to start thinking up possible new names immediately. I decided to split rather than stick around to see what was going to happen when Carp showed up for a band meeting and heard the bad news about his band disbanding.

I hitch-hiked over to the Union Tavern, in the basement of the Illini Union, one of my three favorite hangouts at the time, the other two being Turk’s Head and House of Chin. (This was before the Red Herring Coffeeshop opened in the basement of the Unitarian Church.) Bugsy was sitting at a table wearing a huge Cheshire grin. An older beatnik dude was with him. I started talking to Bugsy, but the older dude interrupted right away. “Bugsy’s tripping right now,” he said. Holy Cow! This was the first I’d heard of any LSD in my hometown!! That’s when I noticed Bugsy’s eyes were big as saucers. A buddy of Bugsy’s had just flown to San Francisco for the weekend (the round-trip ticket was under $300), purchased several hundred blue capsules of LSD (still legal at the time—150 mics each we were told). The caps cost $1 on the street in the Haight, but could be sold for almost anything in Urbana, so desperate were people for a taste of this new infamous drug. On an initial investment of less than $1,000 this dude was planning to make at least $10,000 in profit. I could see the calculator going off in his head. I was fronted four capsules for the special price of $10 each.

I headed over to Doug Blair’s new crib. After the baseball-bat incident with Frank Sowers (see “King of the Greasers”) Doug had left high school and gone straight into the University of Illinois. He was a straight-A student running his own radio station at the time, so it hadn’t been too difficult. Instead of moving into a dorm like most incoming freshmen, Doug had located approved-student-housing on Third Street. It was a giant old house and had two or three beds in most of the rooms, but somehow Doug (left) had scored a small private room on the very top floor all by himself. The first time I’d gone up there, Doug had been getting high by sniffing lab-grade toluene. I tried it and almost instantly had a frightening panic attack and couldn’t remember my name for about 30 seconds. It freaked me so bad, I never wanted to sniff glue again. The only earlier experience I’d had with glue was when a bunch of us decided to hold our own version of the Finchley Boy’s famous glue party (see “True Origins: Stairway to Heaven”). We were at Jim K’s house and after we got high, I ran out to his backyard, which fronted a local golf course, took off all my clothes and started running around naked. Of course, this greatly concerned my friends, who desperately tried the herd me back inside while trying get me re-dressed. They finally got me back into the house with my underwear on, when Jim K started chasing me around the house brandishing a huge kitchen knife. He wanted to stab me because he’d only hosted this party on condition that I behaved myself, which I obviously hadn’t.

Fresh Cream by Cream had just come out and Doug was listening to the song “I Feel Free” when I arrived. I showed him the blue capsules and we decided to take half right away. Twenty minutes later we both took the other half. Twenty minutes after that we decided to go to the Union Tavern. Bugsy was no where in sight. We started coming on just as we sat down at a booth and when the waiter came, we realized we had to split as we were getting claustrophobic. In a daze, we walked out on the terrace on the Union’s south side, where Doug bumped into a girl he knew named Spacey. She started flirting with Doug. I couldn’t communicate, so I pulled Doug aside and said I needed to return to his crib where I felt safe. I just wanted to curl up in a blanket and listen to records. Doug guided me back to his place but wanted to go back outside. “Don’t leave me!” I pleaded. Doug came up with the idea of me calling someone to babysit me via the telephone. I thought that was a great idea, and, of course, I called Carole. “Well, you can’t have kids now,” she said when I told her I was tripping. They were spreading a lie at this time that LSD caused birth defects. Funny how it took so long to reveal this connection with alcohol, but they prematurely jumped all over it when it came to LSD. Carole secretly tape-recorded my rantings while I described all my hallucinations and wild revelations. (She’d discover the tape many years later and tell me it all sounded so innocent.) Eventually, Doug returned, by which time we both had huge psychedelic auras around our heads. We stayed up all night listening to music. Doug always had the best record collection and stereo of anyone I ever knew.

Around 8 am, I left for school and arrived at the pavilion at Carle Park across from Urbana High (the same place where a snowball fight changed my life, see “From Violent Streetgangs to Merry Pranksters’). The pavilion  is where all the longhairs smoked cigarettes before going to class. I unexpectedly bumped into the Knight Riders. Carp had thrown them down the basement stairs and threatened to beat the shit out of them if they tried to disband. So the Knight Riders still existed. I wasn’t surprised. Then I pulled a piece of tin foil out of my pocket, opened it and revealed two capsules of LSD. The Knight Riders seemed really dismayed and started acting like I was a heroin junkie or something. No way were they interested in anything as powerful as LSD! A few hours later, Hayes informed me I’d been kicked out of the band for being a drug addict.

Watch that Hand!

Here’s the Tudor house on Delaware where I grew up. I didn’t realize it at the time, but we’d been desperately poor all our lives until my Dad was made head of the biochemistry department at the University of Illinois. Suddenly our lives got a lot more plush. Unfortunately, I got into huge confrontations with my Dad while growing up (see my eBook, “The Steam Tunnels”). I was headed down a counterculture path by the time I turned 15, and my Dad was really opposed to that direction. I had to run away several times before I could even grow long hair. Eventually, we worked out a truce of sorts, and I moved down into the basement and began transforming it into a psychedelic playground.

Right before I moved down there, however, I’d put an Eldridge Cleaver for President poster in the second floor window of the room my brother and I shared (left corner).  When my Dad saw that poster from the sidewalk, he flipped out and ran upstairs and destroyed it. I was wearing this blue hat that said “LSD” at the time, long before I actually took any LSD. I’d just gotten a bass guitar and met the most beautiful girl in town, a blonde named Carole, who lived with her mother and grandfather in Champaign. She was my age, a year behind my brother at Uni High (see “Smartest Kids in Town”). One week-end I found myself walking to her house after a Finchley Boy’s concert, with two or three other couples who wanted to make out. I’d never made out in my life, and neither had Carole, far as I know. It was her girl friend’s idea. When we got to the basement, we kept the lights off and everybody just sort of settled into a comfortable position in the dark. Carole said we could snuggle, but no making out. That was cool with me. I put my arm around her waist at some point and she said, “Watch that hand, don’t move it any higher.” I was a real stupid chuckle-head at the time, and when she said that, I immediately started inching my hand up toward her breasts. I wasn’t even trying to cop a feel to be honest, I was just trying to be funny. But it wasn’t funny. Carole erupted immediately, and threw us all out of her basement. She was steaming mad. I walked home knowing I had just squandered the best opportunity of my life. I learned an important lesson that night. See, you have to be super respectful of girls, otherwise they won’t trust you. Carole was shy and sensitive, just like me, and instead of building a foundation for a possible relationship, I’d broken all sense of trust. I hoped I could repair the damage, if I just kept working on her, which I would of course.

Photos of Carole back in the ’60s are hard to come by, but I did locate this one, so you get an idea of just how gorgeous she was. Is this not the classical face of an Alice in Wonderland archetype that inhabits our collective unconscious? Carole had the most incredible blonde hair that reached all the way back to her ass. Her father’s side of the family was from the South, and she had a real Southern Belle quality. She could really talk up a storm, and had a way of touching you while she talked that seemed like a come-on, but it wasn’t. She also made her own clothes and was almost as good at rock’n’roll fashions as Mary Shirley. Carole was a brainiac; her specialty was Russian literature and she was one of the top Russian scholars in the country at the time, which was great, because I loved Tolstoy, Chekhov, Nabokov and a bunch of other Russian novelists. Only I was reading translations and she was reading all these books in Russian. Carole was always helping people out when she could. She spent several hours every week reading books to blind people. Her mom was super cool and liked me from the start, although her grandfather seemed highly protective of her. Unfortunately, he passed away right after I met Carole and that was another trauma she had to go through. The day after the funeral Carole had a vision he’d come to visit her late at night in her room to tell her he was all right. Unfortunately, very soon, an unexpected development would put an end to my fantasies of going steady with Carole.