Dispatches From Lockdown Nation: Jon Rappoport On Fire!

Take a deep breath.  Ready?  In today’s episode of the current president in the iron mask, and a 77-year-old physical freak, Biden, with a brain aneurysm (and twelve doctors) who won’t make it through the swearing-in ceremony if he’s elected, leaving the fate of the nation to one Kamala Harris; and a country smoking in ruins, sold out by Fauci to the Chinese—hold your horses, no self-respecting B studio will green-light this mess, it could never happen, this is America, this is the land of the rednecks with big guns ready to invade governors’ offices alongside coiffed soccer moms who see their kiddies quarantined and locked down in schools after several snot-bubble sneezing third graders test positive on a viral assay geared to inflate case numbers…

What do they have on President Trump?  Is it his taxes?  Something much worse?  A night in a hotel room?  I’m asking, because the US GDP has just dropped more than 30 percent this past quarter—the greatest collapse in US history.  Bar none.  And what is the president saying, what is he doing?  Besides wearing a black mask.  And talking about operation warp speed to develop a killer Gates vaccine.  And wondering whether the presidential election should be postponed.

Recently, I wrote five consecutive pieces directed at Trump, urging him to use the full power of his office to force open the economy of the country, come hell or high water, deploying the military or the DOJ—because the economic wreckage was that bad, and the danger line had been crossed months ago—and how much more evidence does the man need to convince himself this is an economic war being waged against The People, under the cover of a fake pandemic?  Does he need Fauci to confess before a tribunal, Gates to admit he’s a Howdy Doody eugenicist on YouTube, the UN to issue a directive swearing allegiance to Mao and Stalin and Lenin and turning over its priceless piece of NYC real estate donated by Rockefeller to ANTIFA?  Would that do it?  Does he need raging mobs of dispossessed and evicted Americans attacking the White House and being gunned down by troops?  Would that do it?  Does he need a spinning silver Saucer landing in the Rose Garden with gray men stepping out holding a communique from the Milky Way Council of Elders stating America is finished?  Would that be enough?  Or does the president just want to wear a black mask and not find his ass with both hands?

In 1928, Edward Bernays, the wretched father of modern propaganda, wrote: “The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of…”

It’s obvious that the global virus fakery called COVID depends on The Individual conceived as a social construct.  He is now a carrier, infector, transmitter, vector of disease.

Even more important in this personality makeover, he is now a socially conscious member of the community of share and care and collective goo.

“Once we convince you that you’re an altruist down to your toes, we can manipulate you six ways from Sunday.”

That’s the synthetic part.  You take a direct ideal—humans helping other humans—and you twist it into papier mache and plastic and cartoons and deflating politeness and robothood and automatic reflex and stimulus response.  Everybody’s a good neighbor in Pleasantville.  Everybody wants to “save the world.”  There is a new gloss over society.  Shiny.  Oh so shiny.

This operation takes decades to perform.  It involves constant messaging on television, in classrooms—especially in classrooms—in the workplace, in homes, in churches.

And when the operation succeeds, guess what?  The government can enlist untold numbers of people in self-immolating programs on behalf of Humanity.  Pull the trigger, obtain compliance.

“Of course I’ll go along with the masks and lockdowns.  Anything to serve a higher cause.”

Yes, indeed.

A new identity has been glued to The Individual.  He is no longer just himself.  He’s been made “better.”

Again, the trick is starting out with something genuine—and then twisting it into an artificial shape and imposing it on the mind.

Plotline: people were once strong, independent, resistant, and highly suspicious of all efforts to entrain them into cartoon versions of themselves.  But after enough messaging, they became docile.

Thread: Once upon a time, pro athletes were highly difficult to control as “citizens.”  But then came the concept of being role models.  Which meant: behaving.  Which meant doing good works in the community, for charity, for the less fortunate.  Nothing wrong with good works.  Certainly not.  But hidden in the background, there was a successful effort to make these men over into obedient members inside society’s structure, willing to follow orders on behalf of the greater good.  As defined by appointed anointed officials. There was a reversal in their minds—along with very large amounts of money….have to protect that cash…

Sports tough guys, billionaire team owners submit to COVID.

I stand in awe of their cowardice.

Not one of them will grow a pair and say NO to COVID.  They obey senseless and destructive government directives like abject weaklings.  The whole lot of them.

As the three major sports leagues in America try to open their seasons, the athletes bend and bow before warnings: THE WHOLE YEAR COULD BE LOST IF ENOUGH PLAYERS TEST POSITIVE. That little worm Fauci actually controls their every move, their dollars, their careers, their teams, their fortunes.  And they take it.

The team owners, rough and ready capitalists who do cutthroat business like pirates of old, meekly submit as well.

Yes, these sports heroes and their owners do exhibit all the signs of living in a state of hypnosis about “the pandemic.”  But that’s too easy as a final answer.  The athletes are supposed to have enormous reserves of adrenaline and courage.  They play through pain.  They endure injuries that would make ordinary civilians flee to Disability.

And yes, it’s about the money, just as it was about the money when the China-Nike scandal blew up and pro basketball stars kept their mouths shut about the horrific human rights abuses (mass murders) in China, in order to protect their shoe contracts.  Sure.  Money.

But again, it goes beyond that to basic courage and independence, which these players are showing NONE of.

No guts, no glory.

Some of the more famous athletes are acting as overt whores of the State.  They make little video vignettes for propaganda television.  They’re “at home with the family,” urging the public to go along with the hammer directives of the State lockdowns, which are destroying millions and millions of lives.

The athletes and the owners and the coaches have fitted themselves into the weave of society at a level that is the ultimate choke.

Where is the team that says NO, WE WON’T GET TESTED, WE WON’T COOPERATE WITH CONTACT TRACING, WE’RE READY TO PLAY, WE’RE NOT BUYING THIS LOCKDOWN.

Where are the sons of bitches of days of yore who went out there and ran and hit and slid and tackled and blocked and fought and clawed for every advantage?  These modern-day Sampsons have had haircuts.  They’re bald.

I try to imagine what men like Ted Williams and John McGraw would have done and said in the face of a Fauci lockdown warning.  It would have been a sight to behold.

There was a time when the men who built cars at the Ford factory—who staged a massive sit-down strike at their work benches and wrestled the right to unionize away from Henry Ford himself—these men would have rushed INTO work, no matter what, if told they had to stay at home and lock themselves in because of a GERM.

Now, like little lambs, the athletes’ unions fold up their tents and obey the governors’ edicts.

Take all the coaches of all the sports in the country—not one of them is saying NO to the lockdowns and the insane directives about distancing and masks.  Not one coach among all these tough guys, most of whom are former players, is saying the whole vicious charade is insane and he’s not going to give in.

These athletes have been mind-controlled at a level that is astonishing, given how they used to think and live and play their sports.  Their natural impulses to do good have been turned against them, through the magic of years and years of propaganda messaging.

—Now let’s turn from these bald Sampsons to the people of New York.

I was born there.  One of my early memories was looking across 2nd Avenue at a candy store.  This was 1943.  The candy store no longer sold Fleer’s bubble gum—the best bubble gum—because the latex was needed for the War effort.  But the rumor was, they peddled it under the counter for an exorbitant two cents a chunk, with the cartoon inside the wrapper.

When I was 22, after growing up in the suburbs, I moved back to NY and for several years lived among some of the smartest asymmetric people in the world.  You could have an argument with the dumbest person in the city and it would be a smart argument.  Everyone had opinions, and they could back them up.  There was no such thing as political correctness, believe me.  If you had uttered the phrase, no one would have known what you were talking about.

New York was a great city.  The thing was, no one was proud to BE a New Yorker.  That false synthetic layer of goo came much later.  In the old days, there was no pose, no artificial front.  People had ideas, they had talent, they had survival instincts.

The best jazz musicians in the world lived and played in New York.  When a giant like Bud Powell was playing at Birdland, you could get in for a dollar and sit in a hard wooden chair and listen to him until two in the morning.  A buck for the greatest pianist in the world.

And now, the city is wrecked and boarded up, and the people are locked in.

Out on the street, the few aimless glazed pedestrians wear masks.  They’re not the same people.  They’re replacements.  Pods.

OVERNIGHT, the people of New York could throw off the whole phony pandemic, not only for themselves, but the world.  They could come out of their apartments and go back to work, defying the petty little lunatics like Cuomo and De Blasio.  They could open up their restaurants and bars and stack in the customers.  They could start building again.  They could open wide the libraries and museums and fill the concert halls.  They could open up the little groceries to all comers.  They could laugh in the face of the public health authorities.

And it would be OVER.

In 1962, that’s exactly what would have happened.  And not for some cause.  Not for the chance to do a little virtue signaling.  Not for the sake of “being a New Yorker.”  For survival.  For continuing to live their lives, people would have shaken off that slimy fraud Fauci like a five-minute bad dream.  A joke played by an idiot.

They would have looked at the screaming lockdown headlines in the newspapers on the corner stand and shrugged and gone on their way.  “You’re telling me I can’t walk down the street and listen to John Coltrane at the Jazz Gallery on a summer night?  You’re out of your mind.”  And the Termini brothers, who owned the club, would have packed the place even tighter than usual, just to thumb their noses at the mayor and his con artists.  They would have put in a call to their contact at Democratic Machine headquarters.  And it would have been OVER.

No one would have obeyed.  Independent scholars would have walked into the 42nd St. library, as they did every day, and gone to the reference desk and asked for manuscripts on ancient Roman law and the Walt Whitman papers and the early maps of the city.  The quiet upstairs macrobiotic restaurant on 2nd Avenue (1962) would have served supper as usual.  The Cedar Bar on University Place would have turned in another raucous night.  The Irish bars would have been jammed.  A chamber orchestra in Washington Square Park would have performed Vivaldi, with the sounds of traffic from 6th Avenue in the background.   Miles Davis would have played at the Apollo.  If Ravi Shankar was in town, he would have done a couple of stunning hours of ragas at the Asia Society and adjourned to an East Side apartment to continue on until dawn.  No one and nothing would have obeyed a lockdown.

Pandemic?  Virus?  Get serious.

That New York…where is it?  Who are all these one-dimensional super-politicized puny goofs of the city swearing allegiance to the medical fakers?  Are they waiting for gold stars on the blackboard from the teacher?

In the old days, New York had DISDAIN.  You didn’t get by with platitudes.  You didn’t blithely mouth Left or Right and get away with it.  The city was plugged into its own non-stop bullshit detector.  What did you have to OFFER?  Aimless blabbermouths were consigned to a special circle of Hell.

There was no political PROGRAM.  Today’s “New Yorkers” would apparently be afraid to live in a landscape like that.  They wouldn’t know which way to turn.  They have a desperate need to become slaves to an IDEA.  In this case, an idea about a virus.

In the 1960s, concealed by the Vietnam War, the city was undergoing a transformation into a cartoon of itself.  That’s when the synthetic notion of “being a New Yorker”—based on nothing—started to take hold.

There were many reasons.  Mind numbing leveling television.  The raising of children to be targets of advertising and fetish objects in a consumer society.  The new New Yorkers were taught that liberal politics were a necessary adjunct of their status.  Liberal equaled big government.  Messaging from every possible quarter was aimed at turning the people of the city into servants of share and care as defined by government…

Going to doctors and acquiring diagnoses of physical and mental conditions was starting to take off as a social trend. It was part of “good behavior” and “being good.”  The medicines and the vaccines were, of course, toxic.  Street drugs were also trending upward.  Although no one wanted to admit it, because “being good for the greater good” was paramount, the city was taking in more immigrants than it could handle.  There weren’t enough jobs.  Desultory schools were steamrollered.  Even skyscraper architecture was moving away from unique structures like the Chrysler and the Empire State, into functional steel and glass boxes.  Signs of the minds.  “We need more offices so more people can be good workers for good companies.”

With people dumbed down enough, they would fall for any con.  Any piece of shiny gloss.  And it was provided:

New York media (the greatest communication center in the world) covered the rise of New Money as if it were a perfumed cultural signal of a dawning epoch.  By the 1970s, intellectuals in the city were reading hyped chronicles of the emerging $$ stars of Manhattan.  Painters, fashioneers, stock speculators.  And yes, Trump.  The content of these celebs’ output was entirely irrelevant.  All that mattered was that it was ringing up extraordinary sales in inflated dollars.

To view how thin and vulnerable new New York had become, and how brainless—when, in 2020, the fake pandemic hit, and lockdowns were announced, the population promptly folded, and went into mask and social distance mode without a whisper of protest.

In short order, the city was made over into abject wreckage, shuttered, obedient, loyal to a psychotic delusion.

In a silly song he recorded long after its internal demise, Frank Sinatra said New York was the city that never sleeps.

Now that’s all it does.

CODA: If the September 11th attacks had happened in 1962, there would have been no need for Billy Joel or the Yankees to rally “all New Yorkers.”  The people of the city would have looked at the firemen and cops as human heroes risking everything for other humans.  Period.  That would have been enough.  More than enough.  That would have gone deeper into souls and minds.  Where it counts.

—Entraining minds.  The job of the super-State.  Reworking independence into devotion to a synthetic pose of altruism.

But in this phony pandemic, it’s good to be BAD…