The Republic of Occluded Facts
CH Exclusive Interview with UFO Whistleblower Dave Grusch
Reveals Black Projects, SAPs, NHIs
Are top Hollywood executives aliens?
One unsettling way to spend a weekend in our Republic of Occluded Facts is to drive to a small mountain town in Colorado, ditch your phone because it gets no signal (and is a spying device in any case) and speak for hour after trippy hour about aliens and their weird craft with a man who purports to know something of their history, a history he says our leaders lie about, out of fear, arrogance, and greed.
Dave Grusch, age 36, is a former intelligence agent, Air Force officer, and briefer of presidents on spooky matters, many related to satellites and space, known only to our military elite. He’s a six-foot-six pylon of a guy with close-cropped hair and an open, unshaven face that goes pink in the sun but doesn’t quite tan. I meet him on a warm alpine morning in a hotel parking lot, the very definition of neutral ground. Standing beside his spotless new Ford truck, which he plans to trade in soon because …
Hells Angels Do Disneyland
Once-feared outlaw motorcycle gang now a bunch of strawberry moonshine-sipping simps
Ryobi-powered dildo captivates squares
Selling tickets to once-sacred festivals
Everett’s isn’t too busy for a Friday, which is surprising, as it’s the premier dive bar in downtown Arcata.
Catfish is bouncing tonight. I’ve now come in enough to where he doesn’t card me at the door. He tips his hat, “Nice to see ya.” Inside, my boss at the elementary school is playing pool with some skinny aging punk who put King Gizzard on the jukebox. Her long blonde hair falls to the side as she snipes a solid off the wall into the corner pocket. She always wins. My housemate Chris and I go to the bar and each pay $4 for our Rainiers. Robert is behind the bar; he greets us with a recycled dirty joke before he cracks and hands ‘em over.
On our way over to Everett’s Chris and I walked past The Jam, another bar just around the corner. A few dozen Hells Angels are parked out front, lining G Street. Staring out the porthole window beside our booth, I see a couple of silver-haired bikers still …
Swifties
Pop Princess Takes Seattle
70,000 females fill football stadium at $1500 and up per ticket as glittery-eyed psychotics roam the streets
Will deliverance arise from the outstretched hand of Taylor Swift?
Picking glitter off the carpet of the Ace Hotel in Seattle in the dog days of August is the reward I get for leaving home and venturing into the great beyond. Every year, at around this time, I descend from my farmstead in order to report on what remains of the America I once loved, and still have strong feelings for, despite the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth. “They’re Taylor Swift fans,” the woman cleaning the floor beside me helpfully explains. “They’re very nice, but they leave glitter everywhere.”
Taylor Swift seems like the least of Seattle’s problems, though. It’s not that city people are rude by nature, as I explained recently to one of my neighbors. It’s that the math is different, when basic social interactions like stopping to say “hello” or give directions might bring you face-to-face with a being whose psychotic pain-ridden inner landscape hopefully does not resemble anything that is …
