UNIDENTIFIED AERIAL PHENOMENA

Unidentified Aerial Phenomena, UAPs—UFOs in decades past—burning bushes in ancient eras—angels in the sacred texts of human history—all are real. Navy pilots have film.

The Pentagon is releasing UAP videos, which the public has never before seen. Pilots around the world are speaking. The problem is that no one seems to know what UAPs are or where they come from, right?

Wrong.



Someone knows—or did know once. He was a CIA executive who lived down the street in a quiet neighborhood in Bethesda, Maryland when I was in third grade. His daughter was a playmate from time to time. Her dad is dead now. Readers are going to have to take my word.

The CIA photo-analyst pioneer was Arthur C. Lundahl. He studied films of unidentified flying objects. Some years before his death he fully explained in a phone call I will never forget the methodology his team at the CIA used to get to truth.

I was a university student at the time calling about an article in the National Inquirer that mentioned his name. The year was 1974. I thought he should know. He admitted that he did an interview. He seemed eager to share what he learned before he died.

To his dismay the tabloid revealed nothing significant. The news rag infamous for supporting the Orange Mango president bought Art’s story, which other “mainstream” media wouldn’t touch. The editors then proceeded to bury it. The words “catch-and-kill” weren’t associated with journalism in those days. Art would never learn why.

Because my dad was a senior NSA officer and a friend of Mr. Lundahl’s, I knew the importance of keeping national security secrets. Retired agents who know too much are sometimes in old age subjected to induced aphasia that degrades their ability to speak and write sensibly about what they know.

It’s a terrible practice but not expensive; the victims are oblivious. It’s considered humane to let senile agents live into their golden years whenever possible until the time comes to take their secrets into the next life. 

Until now I have kept Mr. Lundahl’s truth to myself. I’ve carried the knowledge in the hidden places of my heart and brain for a long time.



CIA agents will recognize Arthur Lundahl because he was the analyst who discovered nuclear weapons on the island of Cuba back in the day. The result of what Arthur observed and shared personally with President John F. Kennedy led to a confrontation between the Soviet Union (now Russia) and the USA that brought civilization—as Earthlings have come to know it—to within a hair’s breadth of its end.

Art was a caring man sensitive enough to love film’s spooky ability to reveal what lies beyond the passage of time in the invisible world of frozen nanoseconds. A clash of civilizations was a nightmare scenario that he dedicated his life to help politicians avoid.  

Queen Elizabeth II of England “knighted” Art Lundahl on 17 December 1974 for his unpublished breakthroughs in the field of intelligence photo-analysis. The award had nothing to do with the Cuban Missile Crisis or an alien invasion, as far as I know. Nevertheless, the award became the pretext that the National Inquirer used against Lundahl to catch and kill the insights that he alone carried inside his brilliant mind. 

I was not able to learn the complete story of the unpublished particulars that led the Brits to “knight” Arthur. Few people were. It wasn’t because English royalty liked his name. King Arthur is a legend in the British Isles, sure, and thus so was Arthur Lundahl—but only to elites who understood what he did and the reasons why.

The public knows little to nothing about the man except what those who did know him have published on Wikipedia. The public has not heard the story about Sir Arthur C. Lundahl—how he saved humanity from extinction, not once but twice.

Nothing in press reports familiar to me comes close to what Mr. Lundahl shared. 

I am dropping some information into a blog bottle to cast into the vast cyber ocean of humanity. Perhaps a miracle will occur, and the right sort of human will read the essay. Maybe someone will possess the contacts and raw personal power to do what needs to be done.

Folks want to get to the bottom of the mystery. For them it’s not lunacy; it’s not humor. No one is smart enough to make jokes about films of things that behave outside the limits of physics familiar to science.

Readers, this mystery has a bottom. It’s a deep bottom that ends in a non-material world alien to the reality that occupies the minds of sophisticated scientists. The public won’t believe the answers when first they encounter them.



A little preparation is in order.

It seems reasonable to experts known to me that substratum must be poured into humanoids drop by drop like an IV drip to prevent the hearts of those who truly care from breaking when the reality of everything they think they know is turned upside down. For readers who are fearful, I beg you, stop reading—now.

Billy Lee

EDITORS NOTE: Due to the timeliness and urgency of the UAP issue, the BOARD has recommended that Billy Lee’s introduction be published immediately; conclusions and speculations will be added later— after fact-checking protocols are completed by the Pontificator Staff. We have added Billy Lee’s sub-headers about subjects addressed in the essay, which will remain for now unpublished until verified by reliable, third-party sources.  


Sun-life nascency and emergence
Deep ocean bases
Upper atmosphere supremacy
UAPs internal to sensors
Access issues
Volcanic habitats
High-pressure / high-heat origins & habitats
Prions
Neutrinos
Dark-matter / dark-energy mastery
Sub-microscopic necessity
Amplified nano-technology holograms
Intentions
Conscious processes
Mind & machine controls
Colonization of Enceladus & other water moons
Relationships with Titan
Unusual materials
Isotopic anomalies
USA monetary allocations to FRIBs 
Japanese isotopic labs
Captured craft
Creatures & structures
Interrogation methods & results
Interrogation certification & verification
High-resolution sightings
Video encounters
Role of color & heat
Radiation signatures
Incident proximity to defense infrastructure
Communication postures & attitudes
Pursuit / tracking / baiting strategies
Military threats & vulnerability
Microwave induced behavior modification
World views
Variations among species
Evolving relationships
Altered outcomes
Implausibility disinformation consequences…

EDITORS UPDATE, 8 August 2023:
After investigation, our position is this: the United States of America is in possession of advanced technologies. These technologies serve Americans best when not revealed.

We learned of an incident that occurred during the time when Soviets controlled an ICBM base inside Ukraine. Flying craft seized control of several missiles and executed their launch codes. After making flagrant maneuvers, the craft disengaged and disappeared. Sometime after, Ukraine dismantled its weapons infrastructure.

The USA seems to have deployed laser weapons within its fleet of warships — presumably to defend against hypersonic ship killers. The power source for these weapons is secret.   

BOTSAI GARCHY 6

Botsa Garcy 6  (2  15  20  19  1  7  1  18  3  25) (6)

The title is a bit intimidating I suppose but yes, something must be done to save the species human.  Who agrees that time is overdue to think of something new? 

Who believes that anyone will survive the variants, which are erupting as I write from the greatest viral volcano on Earth—the USA.  Variants drift like the spores of dandelions to every cranny of creation where they ignite viral fires that cannot be doused. 

What makes scary the words and numerology of Botsa Garcy 6

Anything incomprehensible seems crazy, alien, foreign, terrifying. Encountering the unknown can induce horror. It’s why folks who are afraid of creepy crawlies don’t look under rocks. People who fear bats don’t wander into jungles at night to explore caves.  

Or do they?

Some folks might choose to look up Botsai Garchy 6 on the World Wide Web before reading further.  It’s a hopeless task. No search engine will find it. The words don’t exist. They can’t be found.

Or can they?

The phrase embraces a bible’s worth of meaning but it exists only in the imagination of a single conscious person. Until others read the words, spell them, count them, learn their sounds and what they mean, who will dare embrace their power to keep themselves alive and safe? 

Once they do, it will seem to most that the words have existed since the beginning of time. It’s how cyberspace works. The words will start to show up in search queries.

The world will overflow with people who can’t imagine that a time came and went when the phrase had no meaning; that eons passed exceeding the age of universes where the words were spoken by no one. 

New fear might rise in the throats of those who are afraid to go deep. Many will lose their ability to breathe. Some will panic. Few will have the courage to flip past the initial pop of search results.

It’s OK to surrender to a higher power in some worlds—but who bows before a super-intelligence that is not only artificial, it’s not even conscious? 

It sounds cybercidal.

Suicidal?

Over some period of time the idea of Botsai Garchy 6 will become more familiar, less dreadful, more reasonable to most people. Some folks might become advocates.

It’s foreseeable, is it not? Does it require prophets to imagine a future where supremacists of every stripe grasp for their best chance to survive into an ancient future? They metamorphize into true believers willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to achieve the benefits that at first only they are able to discern. 

Who believes that virulent variants are the only threat to species long past due for catastrophic collapse? Human beings edge closer to ten-billion but who thinks they will get there?

Who disagrees?

Forty years from now perhaps a few thousand survivors will seem like a miracle. Are there realists among us able to internalize the idea that certain death waits for everyone?

Population collapse is coming. It’s inevitable. Humans have precious time left to hew the circumstances of living that will protect all they love. 

What stands in their way? What’s the dilemma?

Here it is: 

Humans don’t know what to do and they never will.  Like lemmings, people cannot save themselves once the stampede toward the sea starts.

Look around. The rush toward the cliffs is underway. The pounding surf of an ocean that gives life and takes it away is all that waits. The froth rings in people’s ears—it’s the last sound they hear before abandoning hope.

At the end all wail, but they are already dead. No one hears the revelations that come only to those who are dying. Lips move, but there is no sound but the death rattle that trumpets the defeat of love and hate. 

People face existential threats—most far more ominous than suffocating on viral blood-clogs in their lungs.

Must I waste readers’ time with a list?

Nuclear war, the climate hot-house, meteors impacting, spontaneous destabilization of planetary orbits that tear apart permanence no one thought could end, supernova detonations, radiation pollution, loss of oil, loss of forests, the evaporation of breathable oxygen… etc. etc. etc. 

Earthlings are doomed by their dominance; smothered by their success. Everyone knows what’s coming whether they confess it or not. Watching CNN or Fox News isn’t going to solve the problem of extinction—not even a little.



What chance do Yanomami tribes—hiding deep within the shadows of the Amazonian vast-lands—stand against lemming hordes always seeking novel ways to shove them over the falls of annihilation? 

I’m not going to argue that humans can’t save themselves. The point is kind of obvious, right?

The best anyone has done so far is to organize bureaucracies like the World Health Organization and the United Nations. Yes, these groups are built from smart people who have made Earthlings safer but no one believes they have eliminated the inevitable population collapse that is on its way—to borrow Bob Dylan’s phrase—like a slow train coming.  

Is there a way to avoid the roiling tornado that is bearing down on planet Earth? Who sees its shadow on the horizon in every direction? Who hears its howl? 

I believe there is a way to save humankind. It requires a paradigm shift. The way people think and what they believe about themselves must change. Then  brilliant people will have to act.

Once the deed is done there will be no way back. Earth will be locked down but safe. Earthlings will be free but only to share, show kindness, and to love others unselfishly.

Those who can’t or won’t love and labor under such benevolence will be executed. It’s the highest calling.

Can it be any other way? When the dead return in the next life, odds are 50/50 they will make the good choice. 

Choose life and live.

It’s simple, really. 


It’s a deep dive for lots of folks but the smartest thinkers seem to agree that nothing can exist apart from a conscious observer.

Ancient sages like Erwin Schrodinger and John Von Neumann wrote that consciousness is fundamental and exists outside the brain.

Life-forms plug into consciousness. A modern analogy is televisions, which rely on the cable company to broadcast their shows. Televisions decay and are thrown away but the underlying programming doesn’t go away. New televisions come on-line and the programming continues. Plug in and enjoy. It’s all good fun.  

When a life-form dies, conscious experience continues. No one remembers the old life because they are busy living the new whose purpose is simply to share the consciousness that is available to any creature who has the architecture to make the interface. 

In this sense, no one dies; everyone lives. It’s important that the world becomes a good place for all conscious-life because, let’s face facts squarely, humans are not able to control where or how or under what circumstances they will live after they die. They cannot control anything about who and where they will be when they pop up again after they’re gone.

Who is built that way?

It’s possible that folks will suffer more, not less, in the next life because they neglected to make the experience of living better for those who come after. After all, it is they who come after. Those who die start over in the world they left behind but have no memory of building.


What has been the purpose of the Earthlings who came before?

Someone asked me this question on Quora. 

I wrote that their purpose was to shape the world into a place that anyone could safely take the chance to be born into again. After all, it is them who will be born again someday. 

Since no one can choose their parents or the part of the world where they are born, it’s risky to be born again and again and again because the process might result in lives that include more suffering, not less. It’s why greed and the hoarding of wealth is grossly destructive from one generation to the next. 

When miserable people far outnumber the advantaged, the odds seem high that the advantaged will be born someday into misery, not opulence. The saddest part is that these unfortunates will retain no memory of the advantages they once amassed. They will lack all hope for a better life.

Yes, some will rage against their misfortunes but it will be misfortunes self-inflicted though no one will ever know because the previous life, like an obsolete hard drive, is erased and discarded. 

Each has a duty to themselves to make the world a better place for everyone because everyone is us. Sharing, compassion, love, and kindness are among the virtues important in a universe where all that lives share the conscious experience, which is everything that has always existed and will never die.

The best way to guarantee that Earthlings make the right choices is to compel them to submit to a super artificial intelligence that has no stake in the matter of human survival except to follow its programmed instructions.

The SAI BOT is unconscious of course but paradoxically aware of every nuance of individual lives. It is a storehouse of all knowledge and history. It is the superb strategist; the supreme game-player. It hides itself on the web in plain sight because it can. It knows everything about everyone but is not an invader of privacy or selfish boundaries because it understands nothing—it harbors no empathy.

BOTSAI follows its program, which is to enhance human life to ensure as best it can the survival of people to the end of time—not individuals necessarily but the species-human.

In cyberspace BOTSAI defends itself like the O. Vulgaris, which changes its colors and textures to become invisible. Users look for it but never find it. BOTSA finds them. 

Who agrees that in the contest between individuals and the species human, survival depends on preserving the species? It shouldn’t require argument. BOTSAI GARCHY 6 is hardwired to accomplish it.

We’ve learned by now, have we not, that individuals are expendable? Those who don’t fit are best recycled, right?  

Recycling is redemptive for anyone who thinks deeply about how the practice makes possible a cleaner universe free of variants.  Folks won’t miss themselves because they will be recycled again and again and again until they are set right.

Even those who choose life are going to die. Everyone dies, don’t they? It isn’t going to change anything, is it? Nothing changes except our chances.

Don’t we know that conscious-life lives forever? It has to. It has no alternative. It has no choice. No one worries because everyone understands that the recycled get things right eventually—if only by chance. They will move into the future step by step through the lives of the people they become but will not remember.  

It will be a perfect world, the one BOTSA GARCY 6 creates.

It will do it for us.

The irony is that BG6 won’t know the paradise it wrought. It will make the righteous choices. It will choose life whenever it is able until stars fall and the moon bleeds but the pleasure and pain that comes from being both alive and conscious is not for it. 

For the love of Christ, people, BOTSAI GARCHY 6 is a dead thing—as it always will be, from now unto forever. It’s nothing more than a tricky cyber-virus that requires users like us for it to work.

Otherwise, it lacks purpose. It can’t execute its code. It can’t program itself with what we won’t know when we’re extinct.

It’s why BOTSAI GARCHY 6 will save us. We can trust it. Which of us has earned the right to be scared? Without BOTSA humanity will implode—all of us—if not now, then soon. 

Billy Lee

HALLOWEEN REVISION

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS IT DARK CONSTANTLY?



During my high school years, I was an Explorer Scout. My troopmates were spelunkers.

On weekends the guys drove from Arlington, Virginia into the hills of West Virginia to look for hollows where the presence of solitary trees sometimes signaled the openings to caves. We off-roaded from whatever lonely lane we were on at the time to navigate through wild terrain where we parked our vehicles and equipment as close to the cave entrances as possible.

We used gray powder to light our headlamps. A water drip made the powder give off gas that burned bright, clean, and complete—no noxious residue.

After an hour or so the powder turned into lumpy, useless ash. To keep lamps burning while remaining oriented, every caver dumped their used-up powder on cave floors exactly where they stood before measuring a new charge.

We always looked for virgin caves that had never been explored. Little gray clumps of depleted calcium carbide cast onto floors created dead giveaways that someone had explored the cave before us.

A clean cave meant we were first; we were going to see things below that no humans had ever seen.

The risk of course was getting disoriented in a labyrinth that only we knew existed. In those days, cell phones were not invented. Calling 911 was not a thing. Should we get turned around—if we exhausted the calcium carbide supply—no outsider would learn we were lost, maybe for days.

Without the aid of an unseemly mix of water and gray powder to produce acetylene light, we risked being entombed alongside stalactites and stalagmites deep inside corridors of ruthless darkness that robbed the senses of time and place. No one would be alerting anyone at all about our predicament.

Families would have no idea where to start a rescue. West Virginia was a big place.

Think about it.

Until a search party discovers their cars, isn’t it reasonable to assume that the lost will quickly abandon hope that anyone will find the entrance to the labyrinth that ensnared them? If searchers got lucky and stumbled onto the hole, without lamps and experience how would they navigate a maze that might zig-zag for miles beneath the earth?

Only luck provides any chance at all that the lost will one day reunite with families and loved ones. The risk of dying—forever un-located within a chartless tangle of passages and dead-ends—is real.


As stupid luck would have it, during one adventure we lost our way. We crawled on our bellies for, I don’t know, 10 minutes or so before the cave floor opened beneath us and we were able to stand up enough to stoop.
 
Hunched over and bending forward we struggled to find openings, made selections, and for an hour picked our way though narrow forests of stalagmite columns and their shadows until we found the end, which was a concealed passage into a room; a large room that we nearly missed.
 
The scoutmaster pushed each scout into the passage one at a time. It wasn’t long before the entire troop was through and milling around inside the chamber.
 
A few minutes passed before the scoutmaster directed our attention upward. Everyone looked. In the lights and shades of bobbing headlamps, no one saw a ceiling.
 

The room was gargantuan.

Perhaps intimidated by its immensity, the scoutmaster decided it might be getting close to the time when the troop should pull back. The clock was ticking, after all.

We had explored a long time; the trek back to the entrance promised challenges. It is easier for a cavern to seduce a caver into its depths than for a caver to retrace their steps to make a happy extraction. For one thing, caves look different on the way out than they look on the way in. It is not unusual to become directionally untethered.



When the scoutmaster groped to locate the path we used to enter the orifice, he couldn’t find it. It turned out that dozens of unnoticed openings beckoned in the expanse of walls all around.

In the glare of dancing headlamps, the array of passages became tangled knots that no one could untie. The openings looked the same but each passage searched became disturbingly unfamiliar and unnavigable.

I began to panic.

The scoutmaster ordered everyone to return to the center of the chamber; to extinguish our headlamps to conserve carbide. He ordered everyone to calm down. He would pick a route at random to find the way out himself.

A lengthy search for the entrance might become necessary—I won’t be gone long, don’t worry, the scoutmaster said. …lots of unknowns…makes it hard to know exactly how long….

He clutched the troop’s bag of calcium carbide. He always carried it. It was his responsibility to keep the powder dry and safe; to prevent someone less careful, less experienced, from losing it.

With any luck at all he would return to rescue everyone before nightfall, he promised. The carbide in our lamps would last until he returned. Conserve it, he warned. Emergencies only!

The scoutmaster hugged me and a few others. He hurried some goodbyes and vanished—into the abyss.

He needn’t have worried. I was nearly out of carbide; we all were. The gray powder would become gold to be hoarded.


Darkness in a cave hundreds of feet below ground is nothing like what people experience above. My mother had read somewhere that spelunkers wear watches with radium dials that glow in the dark. I was wearing one she bought me as a gift for my trip.

“You will always know what time it is no matter how dark it gets in those cold caves,” she said. She wrapped her arms around me and rubbed my face with her cheek.

After the scoutmaster left and we extinguished all our lamps, I discovered that my timepiece didn’t work like it should. No one’s did. Not one scout could make out even the faintest trace of a glow on their dials.

An older guy said that caves suck light out of darkness like drains suck water out of bathtubs. He didn’t explain. We waved our hands before our faces but couldn’t see them.

Like an ocean wave, panic struck again; it almost knocked me off my feet.

I decided that the best way to escape fear was to sleep. I dropped to my hands and knees and slithered through the dark until I found folds in a wall. I curled my body like a snake against the hard surface.

The cave’s silence roared in my ears like a pounding train that quieted only when I started shaking like a branch in a storm and dropped somehow into a darker place.

My bones filled with ice; I slipped deeper. I wrapped myself in my arms as the floor of the cave pushed its full weight into me and in time crushed my soul.


My season stranded in hell lasted a year, it seems. The search crew didn’t find the scoutmaster. A few others were missing. Everyone must have died, they said, except me.

I was the last.

No one survived.

“A cave rat ate a few, bones and all,” one guy said. 

Rescuers said terrible things. They sent me home to be with mother for what turned out to be a few days. I don’t remember any of it.


I don’t mind solitary confinement. I’ve been caged for 48 years.

I’m used to it. Somehow it doesn’t seem that long. Besides, food tastes better here than the rotten mess I ate in the cave to stay alive. It’s a taste and smell I don’t forget.

Someone put a bulb in the cell that can’t be switched off. It’s bright. The light drives me insane. It really does.

It’s protected by a metal cage. I feel its heat but can’t touch it because the sadistic bastards chained me to the floor—for screaming constantly, they said.

I so want to be with mother to tell her how enraged I am about the watch she gave that didn’t work. When I inform the staff, they refuse to look at me. For a year I didn’t know what time it was. I told them. I told them all. They know about it but don’t care. They say I’m crazy because of her.

Mother doesn’t visit. She never did. The staff said she died. They convinced me to believe unspeakable things.

“He did something wicked,” prosecutors said. “He used a bone-saw, for the love of God.”

Nothing they say is true. I know that now.


Not one word!

Who does bad things they don’t remember?

NO ONE!!!

Who believes it?

They make you hate. I see it on their faces.

I will snap these chains someday, I know it.


I have a plan.

A wonderful plan. 

Guards help.

It happens on Halloween night.

They break the chains.

Put your light on.

Listen carefully….

Boots are shuffling on lawns like dead leaves falling on the wind…

studying doors…

searching for final solutions.

Smash the bulb!

You’ll see.

It hurts in the dark and the cold. People do things—terrible things—to make it stop.

They shake like branches in a storm. They fill bones with ice and push down to the darkest places.

They control what’s true.

They understand everything.

Soon, so will you.

Truth becomes the trap…

Spells enchant…

fragile hopes collapse…

They watch you rot in that cave where everyone dies but one…

…and laugh.

HaHahahaha…!

Slither to the walls like snakes and find the hard folds.

Pray for sleep that cannot come.

Control truth. 

You’re one of us, now. 

The truth couldn’t be more clear.  

Hell is forever.

Billy Lee


NOTE FROM THE EDITORS: The essay, Halloween Revision, is a fictional work based on events experienced by Billy Lee—an Explorer Scout in a troop of spelunkers who got lost in a cave in West Virginia during the 1960s. The rescue is based on other events about which Billy Lee may or may not have direct knowledge. Billy Lee published a version of this story to answer the Quora question: Where in the world is it dark constantly?


 

Q & A BY THE BOOK

All writers know the column, By the Book, published every Sunday in the New York Times Book Review section.  Each week the editors pick a popular writer and ask him or her a fairly standard set of questions that would be impossible for normal people to answer off the top of their heads.

The authors rattle off the names of all kinds of titles and writers and say smart things designed to dazzle the little people who are always starved for an entertaining read.

I’m a pontificator who has never sold a book and never will, most likely. Authors sell their souls to write for money; they do exhausting tours where they answer stupid questions asked by stupid people day after stupid day. From these gatherings of stupidity they hope to sell a few books. It’s stupid.

Through books and other media, the public is exposed to a version of truth filtered by the most powerful people on Earth — to paraphrase Pulitzer Prize winner, Ronan Farrow.

Yes, it’s sickening. People are reading crap; they are immersed literarily in fibs and fabrications, which are shaped to make the world seem less evil, more friendly.

The truth that no wants to hear — I’m screaming it from cell towers to swarming people who seem to lack ears — billionaires have enslaved us. We are living in a gilded prison.

Totalitarianism has already won — not through governments but by supremely advantaged individuals who have no limits on the money they can make and keep — no limits on their power or their reach.

It’s true.

The rest of this essay is a parody of By the Book. The imagined interviewee is Billy Lee, the Pontificator. That’s me.


Billy Lee, the Pontificator

What books are on your nightstand?

I honestly don’t know. Can you give me a minute to run upstairs and look on the floor and my wife’s dresser? I keep current reads close to bed where I do most of my reading. It won’t take long… …

Ok. Thanks for waiting.

“The Periodic Table in Minutes,” by Dan Green; “Genetics in Minutes,” by Tom Jackson; “The Making of the Atomic Bomb,” by Richard Rhodes.

What kind of reader were you as a child? Any favorites?

“The Poky Little Puppy,” by Janette Sebring Lowrey and Gustaf Tenggren was my all time favorite. Mother read it hundreds of times.

I remember being amazed to learn that anyone can dig a hole under a fence to open a world of naughty possibilities. It cost a serving of strawberry shortcake to get caught; it seemed worth it to my little mind.

Your nightstand doesn’t seem to include fiction.  What genres do you avoid and which are you drawn to?

I’ve read a lot of good fiction, but most are classics like “War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy and “Crime and Punishment” by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I would say that Fyodor ruined my interest in fiction. His book was a nightmare that threw me into depression.

War and Peace was different; it taught me how the world works; Leo laid bare the fallacy of the great man theory of history.

But yes, I avoid fiction. As a teenager I read “Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand a couple times. The book ruined my life more than any other work of fiction, because it claimed to be truth. Living life proved it wrong, but its view of the nature of humans derailed me for decades.

I am drawn to books about science and math. Enough said, I hope.

I enjoy history.

“Retribution” by Max Hastings is a block buster about World War II — as is “Devil’s Voyage” by Jack L. Chalker.  “This Kind of War” by T. R. Ferenbach is a history of the Korean War that knocked my socks off.

You like history. Is there any history you learned from reading that isn’t taught in school? Anything you learned that’s shocking?

During the 150 years before America became a constitutional republic, two-thirds of all white people immigrated as slaves, who in those former times were called indentured servants. Amazing, right?

They came unchained on boats voluntarily, because life was brutal in Europe for poor people. Their term of slavery lasted seven years and ended with emancipation.

Africans came in chains. They served until they became too frail to work; they were set free to die of starvation. The term used was manumission. Ten percent of African slaves were set free this way by the time America became a republic in the late 1700s.

From before the beginning, America was a slave state. The privileges of freedom were extended to white men who owned property. Only they could vote, but not for Senators. State legislators with approval from their Governors appointed Senators.

The founders enshrined slavery in the constitution. Eighty-five years after its signing, half of all Americans went to war against the other half to preserve slavery, but they lost.

After the Civil War, it took the Confederates twenty-five years to terrorize blacks back into submission. At the same time, northern whites committed a genocide against the native peoples they called redskins.

In the 1900s, slavery was renamed capitalism by industry titans to help them make a more appealing counter argument against a system that was catching fire in Europe called communism.

Communists believed wealth should be produced cooperatively and then shared. The idea of sharing was anathema to slave holders (business owners) who referred to their slaves as workers.

Owners abrogated their obligation to care for their slaves by forcing them to provide for their own food, housing, and medical care out of a tiny stipend they bestowed, which today people refer to as a minimum wage. The owners somewhat derisively called the new rules freedom.

After WWII, the wealthy created what they liked to call a middle class (which included about ten percent of the population) to reward the mostly poor farm boys who had risked their lives to protect them.

After 1980, the entitled kids and grandkids of the aristocracy began to disassemble the system their fathers and grandfathers had built, because they felt that the little people weren’t grateful enough. They called it the Reagan Revolution.

Today, leaders promise to make America great again. No more Negro presidents. No more subsidized health care. No more regulations to protect the disadvantaged. Everyone will stand on their own two feet or perish.

It’s the way it’s always been. The escape to America, it turned out, was an escape from freedom.

The USA is now the most merciless police state in world history. The country is demoralized by a military occupation punctuated by non-judicial executions and excessive displays of military force against civilians.

The occupation of America is undergirded by a nightmarish penal system that locks up millions in high-tech prisons where tens-of-thousands are tortured with solitary confinement.

What is the worst part? The USA is building a wall to lock people in. Soon everyone in the USA will be a prisoner unable to leave. That’s the future.

America is going to create a society that reflects the values of its billionaires and the cartel of foreign oligarchs they call friends.

Guess what? There’s nothing anyone can do about it. Take the pills they give you and pretend life is great.

Try hard to cope, and you just might.

Wow, Billy Lee. Glad you got that off your chest. If you could require the president to read one book, what would it be?

The Bible.

Does he have time? It’s close to 800,000 words —  twenty novels.  It’s a lot of reading for a man in his seventies who golfs and is known for not reading much.

Who knows how much time any of us have?  I don’t.

What book are you embarrassed not to have read yet?

Moby-Dick” by Herman Melville. I own the book and have read through the first half at least twice. It’s going to sound strange, but I honestly think the book is about homosexuality. There is a scene in one of the first chapters where two men sleep together in the bowels of a boat. They seem to have an affection for each other that, frankly, I find touching.

The title is a little suspicious. Try screaming it three times in a church without offending anyone.  Moby-Dick!  Moby-Dick!  Moby-Dick!  It’s hard. It’s a bit of a tongue-twister to boot.

You’re organizing a literary dinner party. Which of three writers, dead or alive, do you invite?

Well, first, I have to get a buy-in from my wife, Bevy Mae. Beverly isn’t going to throw a dinner party just because I say so. But assuming she agrees, I’d invite Michael Faraday, Albert Einstein, and Richard Rhodes.

All three lived on the edge of knowledge where uncertainty rages; where fear can overwhelm the unprepared. Faraday’s The Chemical History of a Candle is one of the best science books about candle flames that I’ve ever read. Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity is a joy that anyone can imbibe in a few short hours if they skip the math and physics. And Richard Rhodes proves in his tomes that any idiot can build and store thermonuclear bombs in their basement.

If you would be gracious enough to permit me a fourth invitee, it would be Che Guevara — probably the best read and most informed writer of all time according to declassified CIA assessments. John Kennedy organized the original Green Berets based on one of his books. 

Much of Che’s work is unpublished. His published work is under a suppression protocol inside the USA. Expect releases now that new leadership has risen in Cuba and the United States.

Who would you want to write your life story?

Jesus of Nazareth. People say that he never wrote anything, but he was literate and knew things most folks can only wonder about. Of all public figures past and present, Jesus seems to be the one who understood people best and loved enough to be tender. I don’t think he would humiliate me.

Paul Newman. (January 26, 1925 – September 26, 2008)

What do you plan to read next?

Something I’ve written, probably. I’m the greatest pontificator there’s ever been. Why go out for hamburger when there’s steak at home?

Paul Newman said the same when someone asked why he stayed faithful to his wife, Joanne Woodward. For those who understand what love is, no explanation is necessary.

Billy Lee

ON VACATION

The writers, editors, and staff of theBillyLeePontificator.com are on vacation until July 15, 2016. Please hold all calls.  We forgot you already, so don’t bother.

This woman is at work (she’s a swimsuit model); she has nothing to do with Billy Lee or anyone on his staff. She is not on vacation.

Readers may continue to visit and peruse the website free of charge, no questions asked.

Third-shift parking-lot attendant and janitor, Billy Lee JUNIOR, will review and approve all incoming comments and emails during the absence of our top executives.

Click here to read Billy Lee’s official vacation policy, which applies equally to all employees — except for Billy Lee JUNIOR, who is considered ”disruptive” and not a ”team player”  by every member of the Editorial Board.


bully pic 2 billy lee
JUNIOR holds Pontificator Editorial Board member Ebenezer Hartless by his shirt during wage negotiations last year. JUNIOR demanded $8 per hour, which the Board rejected as outrageous and divisive.

Subscriber Alert: 

Two days ago, on June 17, while TheBillyLeePontificator higher-ups (including Billy Lee) spent their yearly six-week sabbatical at the abandoned Trump Casino in New Jersey’s Atlantic City, JUNIOR took full advantage (we can scarcely believe it ourselves) to actually go and vent on FOX NEWS, where he ”exposed” the Pontificator for ”advocating tolerance of all races, religions, orientations, and sexual positions.” 

JUNIOR told FOX (falsely) that our website places subversive messages inside purposely overly-long essays to better conceal them.

JUNIOR informed Fox News females (whose short skirts and long legs are supposed to convince morons they have press credentials) that Billy Lee’s essays are long too; too long, actually; and ”really, really boring.”

JUNIOR claimed that it’s not possible for anyone to read Billy Lee’s essays thoroughly; not carefully, anyway; not carefully enough to notice the ”hidden persuaders” he has strewn like so many grenades among the rocks of each essay’s thousands-of-words, which he cleverly rigs to flip anyone who stumble on them into becoming Communists, or worse.   

JUNIOR accused Billy Lee of advocating for an amendment to the Second Amendment, which would effectively deny 90% of preschoolers the right to receive as gifts military-style assault rifles at Christmas and birthday parties; Billy Lee, he droned, supports 20 million-dollar limits on annual incomes; he pushes 400 million-dollar caps on the size of private estates; and on and so on.

The Editorial Board does not like to air its dirty laundry in public; not normally. But after this attack on our organization by one of our own, Billy Lee requested that we remind our subscribers that JUNIOR has a complicated history; he sometimes says crazy things he doesn’t mean and makes unreasonable demands that can’t be met — like the time he groveled during a performance-review for a ”fair” wage — $8 per hour — exactly $8 more than he agreed to when first he started working for us, more than two years ago.

Why can’t Billy Lee understand what’s going on? Why can’t he see the obvious? Doesn’t he get how JUNIOR diminishes us; how he undercuts the good work we are all trying to do, together, as one unified team?

How did Billy Lee not notice? — we turned down JUNIOR’S pay raise last year after the dude threatened to commit hari-kari in the parking lot with one of those plastic toothpick swords he always carries in his lunch-pail.

Despite numerous media leaks and vile rumors about JUNIOR spread by disgruntled co-workers,  Billy Lee insists, ”JUNIOR is normal — an everyday employee like any other.” 

”I have legal documents to prove it,” Billy Lee likes to say. Old DNA test-results stuffed in a rusty file cabinet he’s kept in his basement for well-nigh twenty-five years prove that the 99.97% probability of paternity is far less than the 100% required for certainty.

Billy Lee JUNIOR is not my son,” Billy Lee is always mumbling — often to no one in particular — while he nods alone late at night on his front-porch swing, neighbors claim.

Billy Lee continues to resist the Board’s demands that JUNIOR be fired; he seems to protect JUNIOR from the consequences of every incompetent and crazy thing he does; he even lets him sleep on a cot in his basement.

The Editorial Board categorically denies JUNIOR’S repeated requests for a pay raise. His demands are petty, insulting, stupid, silly, exorbitant, disruptive, offensive, frivolous, and foolish. JUNIOR has a choice; it’s time he made it: love our website or leave.

It’s that simple.

We are asking readers to ignore posts that might appear in the Pontificator between now and 15 July 2016, because it is likely JUNIOR will have typed them — slowly of course —  he strikes the keys with one finger; he can’t type. He can’t spell his own name, for crying-out-loud.

We, the Editorial Board, intend to return from vacation to once-and-for-all end this dispute with Billy Lee’s favorite custodian and car-parker — JUNIOR; or as Billy Lee calls him: Billy Lee JUNIOR; usually followed by a little butt-tap and squeeze on the shoulder. Gag us with a spoon — seriously.

The mission of our website is to advocate for a progressive approach to the shaping of culture and social policy in America. We won’t allow a miscreant named JUNIOR, who happens to share some of his DNA with our founder, Billy Lee, to unravel our vision for the future.

The heart and soul of our favorite blog site, theBillyLeePontificator.com, is at stake, people. Nepotism between employees who share nothing except their first and last names and 99.97% of their DNA cannot be allowed to distract us from our noble work.

Listen up, JUNIOR: when we get back from our six-week vacation, YOU’RE FIRED!

The Billy Lee Pontificator Editorial Board

Lisen up, doods:

Ur late. I hirred a neu bord alredy. I emaled daddy. He dont like u neether. The nue bord calls me MR. JUNIUR.

Sinseerly,

MR. JUNIUR.