OK, what you're looking at it here is a random icon of the great hidden religion of Western Civilization-- the cult, literally-- of the poobahs of the New World Order, the interconnected elitists entitled to membership in the Bilderbergers, Trilateral Commission, Council on Foreign Relations, and Rockefellerist foundations and committees and boards, who are currently squirreling away their wealth to the tune of 20 trillion dollars in offshore accounts, depleting the value of ordinary people's lives and directing world affairs to the brink of collapse-- a scene here from the Bohemian Grove, in California, in 1877.

They have been retreating up to the redwoods to conduct a bizarre set of rituals all this time, every year, presidents and million- or billionaires, Kissingers and the like, and the bottom line of the Bohemian festivals is just this: nothing sacred is sacred, all religion is empty and stylized B.S., everything is hilarious while we are in the woods, all solemn ideas are foolish, even death is a joke, and while we are rich and powerful people in the woods but only for that short time everything is silly-- and so then we can return to the cities contented and get down to the serious business of fleecing the population by controlling their tastes and opinions.

The problem is that if it is not your habit to consider human institutions as essentially foolish undertakings and wide open to the pomp of ridicule or sharp satire, then your joking, specifically confined to special holidays, will be stale and banal.  You will dress in togas and drink novelties, you will scream with laughter at halfbaked puns, your cocktail party will be just like a reception at campaign headquarters for a candidate for the Yakima City Council.  What do the dictators joke about among themselves and some nervous family members?  What do they say about the explosions at street level?  Do they continue to play Parcheesi?

  

We don't know for sure what they're doing here in 1895.  Mocking the fallen giant with obscene epigrams?  These are men sure that they'll one day own the world.

  

In 1904, it looks like they have captured Lenin.  

Here is the "Moloch Owl," or giant effigy later to be set afire in another ritual; or the burnt one may be Old Man Gloom, yet another statue of the same size.  Moloch, of course, is the horrible ancient god to whom one sacrificed one's children to be burnt alive.  Moloch is the devourer of offspring; the owl is the old symbol of wisdom.  The smartest thing to do, then, is to reduce the human race?

The giant feast; waiters in white coats!  White tablecloths, dinner dress.  You might ask yourself, what am I doing sitting out in the woods with a bunch of middleaged men dancing, singing, drawing cartoon portraits of naked pals, swimming, playing and sleeping with them? 

Another homoerotic moment at Bohemian Grove, a bonfire with neckties.

Bogus funeral service near caricature of a naked Grovist.

Moloch the Owl again:

 

 The Bohemian Grove festivals have not stopped; the pictures are all pre-1930.  No elected official or public servant should be attending such a thing without a full explanation in a public forum.  What's all this hankypanky about, and how could any of it be taken as a serious secret?  Out with the cult.  If it is a way for staid buttondowned authorities to get in touch with the gay guys hiding within them and they want to call it art instead of gay, fine, but out with it.  Imagine Richard Nixon there in the dark, playing "Bohemian."  He was there.  Why?

If you go to all this trouble, it means something.  What does it mean?  What are they ashamed of?