Don't Try and Make Me Go to Rehab, I Said a No, No, No.

Four days out of Smithers, (open link in new tab, for a MySpace musical background.) age 26, at Pearl's daughter Thykle Omega's wedding, held in the house. Pearl said, "You name your baby Omega and it'll be your last!" The bartender was a friend, Karl Knute, who became part of the great lost tribe of AIDS.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

(Subtitle: The Year the Pictures Turned Out Nice.)


I think this is 1986. Ev and me, looking rather more dynastic than affectionate. I liked the tree we did one year in white CATTLEYA orchids and polychrome Gerbera daisies better.

Ev's family of origin grouping, a shot which displays the wonderful Adam plaster tracery on the 13'-high coved ceiling.

Master of his universe.

Can only remember her name as Pat. Aren't the French tulips absolutely divine? People would ask of the painting, Rothko? Adding, but it is not signed! To which, the standard response was, but it is not finished!


Pat came with Talley Beatty, who was one of the great African-American dancers and choreographers, and a great friend of ours. Many of his dances, like The Stack Up, are still performed in repertory at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

The woman giving Talley the evil eye is Flora Roberts. She was Stephen Sondheim's agent but she's gone now so she didn't get any of the new Sweeney Todd movie moola. Talley died penniless but he got a half-page obit in the New York Times, if that's any consolation.

Ev's F.O.O. and his book authors, in the stairhall between the living and the dining rooms.

My avatar image for 2008.

Girls! Phooey! Can't live with them and you're not supposed to shoot them.

Pearl, who kept house for 20 years and could cook for 150 at parties like these in a tiny kitchen that originally was a butler's pantry--the only significant change in that marvelous 19th-century limestone house. Eunice was hired on to help as Pearl got old.

Squirting a Cutie

MKULTRA

Weaponizing pharmaceuticals.

MKULTRA

LEMON PARTY!

So, what ya gonna do to me when ya catch me, tryviolence? Ya gonna hurt me?

I could use a little...

stevenwarran's rides

18-years-old, circa 1976, in my circa 1970 white MGB. The only car that ever got me laid, although it impoverished my late teenage years. I love the checkbook stuck in my shirt pocket. Clearly, I had just returned from the mechanic's shop where I had drained my accounts dry.

In the 1980's, my ride was a 1966 Daimler, which was always mistaken for a Jag, until I pointed out the "D" on the hubcaps.

It was a four season automobile. It impoverished me for a decade, until I sold it to a real estate broker in Sag Harbor who was as dumb as I was.

The steering wheel was on the right-hand side. I made some of my most memorable arrivals in that vehicle.
We inherited it in something of a goof from someone named Saypol (whatever you do, don't Google "Judge Saypol!") After a dinner party, my partner Ev symmetrically willed him his 1967 230 SL, but Saypol died first, so it was shipped over from Greece.

Ev was a handsome dog.

Who's Running the StevenWarRan Persona?

Whoever it is, they've been at it for some time apparently. Here stevenwarran is at the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay & Bi Equal Rights, dressed as a transgendered bumblebee.
Here he is standing between his handlers, "George" to the left, and "Peter" to the right.

Here's Martina Navratilova raising the rainbow flag.

There's Phil Donahue in tie and suspenders!

Here's Peter marching right behind Phil at the head of the parade!

Unlike the 20 or so apocalyptic private security guards protecting Ted Haggard's former congregation, it's doubtful a single marcher is packing heat.

Peter is with Doctors without Borders. He sent an email this week:

I am having a great time in sunny Bangladesh. On the map we are in southern Pirojpur District, city of Mathbaria.

The first week here we were exploring the cyclone devastated areas along the southern coast. We, the "French" team, had the westernmost area next to the Sunderban Forest preserve for Bengal tigers. Everywhere we went we saw wrecked towns and villages, ferries overturned, trees blocking the road, downed power lines and great holes in the road from uprooted trees . We would drive through the wreckage talking to government emergency coordinators, health care workers, village doctors and pharmacists trying to see if there were outbreaks of cholera or diarrhea, dragging trees out of the road and holding up power lines with branches so the car could pass. We slept in abandoned schools, some government official’s bungalow and in the truck. And every night at midnight we sent a report by candlelight and computer battery back to Paris.

In this area, Mathbaria, all of the coastal villages had scores of dead, and the survivors living in shelters built of what pieces of corrugated tin they could salvage, drinking water out of the river with dead animals floating by. I spoke with the head of the area hospital who said that he couldn’t cope with the demand and that there were areas he had not yet reached. So MSF came to help.

We started a mobile clinic program going to the most remote coastal villages and a water treatment program to restore drinking water to the villages and to the hospital. We are also distributing blankets to children under five, soap to all patients and water treatment tablets to all patients and their families. I now have four mobile clinics operating which see over 300 patients a day. We see lots of diarrhea, respiratory and skin infections and every day have to turn away patients with the promise that we will be back tomorrow. Some patients we have to transport to the hospital but almost all we can treat on site.

The situation is gradually improving and I hope that we can finish up by the end of the month and let the national health system take over. It’s a beautiful country; flat, green delta land surrounded by water like Louisiana with rice fields stretching out on all sides. The people are so welcoming to us as they busily and ceaselessly clean up the wreckage. Men stop chopping the fallen trees in the road to wave and women invite us into their palm leaf shelters to get out of the sun, little children dare each other to ask me a question in English.

We have set up clinics wherever possible in whatever can accommodate us. One of our clinics is on a river island so we hired a wooden fishing trawler to glide down a canal choked with water hyacinth,( sometimes we have to get out and push or haul), past broken bridges out into the wide river to the island of Majenchor. The villagers have made a landing jetty for us out of wrecked rowboats so we don’t have to step in the mud while unloading our supplies. Another clinic we reach in a caravan of rickshaw vans that we push along a mud road that winds through the rice paddies. And another is in a village school the walls of which were blown off during the storm but the wooden framework and roof are intact. One of the villagers always manages to bring us tea mid morning.

We rented out an entire small hotel for our base in the city of Mathbaria on the main square right next to the Big Mosque. We eat in a restaurant next door where there is an endless supply of curry, chilis and tea. If you linger long over lunch you can often see dinner being led in, squawking or baaing depending on the menu. My room in the hotel is on the third floor and on ear level with the minaret from which a loudspeaker- amplified call to prayer issues each morning at five. Luckily the singer always clears his throat before starting which is my cue to fold my pillow over my ears. One of the singers has a beautiful voice improvising with an ecstatic lilt, therefore a pleasure to hear. Another lacks enthusiasm, is prone to long pauses so that just when you think he has finished he starts up again, does the call in a rote manner and you feel that he is just phoning it in.

Our office is on the ground floor of the hotel, in back, overlooking a pond by the mosque where people bathe in the morning and schools of black mouthed fish rise to feed in the evening. From the roof you can watch the sunset over the market place and the stars come out in this city without electricity, (we have our own generator). The Eid festival, commemorating Abraham’s aborted sacrifice of Isaac, is coming up on the 21st ( national holiday), and the square in front of our hotel will be filled with the devout I am told. And I am having a great time.

I became the project coordinator so have the task of coping with the thousands of problems to be solved each day. Sometimes I feel like I am pushing the entire project along through this day into the next, listening to staff complain that their lunch was too greasy, having to get customs to let our latest shipment of water treatment pills through without the usual delays, locating the water/sanitation team that missed their boat and attending lengthy coordination meetings with government officials during which we always break for tea. But the place is beautiful, the people friendly, there is no war and I move each day from clinic to clinic, from rice paddy to island, from village to village, gliding down a river or pushing a rickshaw. SO until the end of the month I will be measuring out my life in cups of tea, compiling statistics, attending more endless meetings, supervising clinics in remote, romantic locales and enjoying this beautiful country as it gets back up on its feet. Merry Christmas to all, and Happy Eid Love Peter

I know this was supposed to be about stevenwarran, but the work Peter's doing sounds much more useful.

Utah State Police Taser Speed Trap Victim

I was reading the comments generated by this video making the rounds recently and I was struck that nobody got what really was happening in it.



The cop appears to slow down and pull over to let someone pass from behind. As soon as the car passes, the cop pulls back out and chases him down. What else was the cop doing? He appears to pull over in order to deliberately block the view of a temporary 40-mile-per-hour, reduced-speed sign. I bet that was the first sign drivers came upon coming in that direction. And it didn't look like a work zone.

What the young man kept saying was he wanted to go back and look to see the sign. He acts the way innocent people act. The cop on the other hand, acts the way people running away from their feelings and the truth act: aggressive, dishonest and unprofessional.

The corrupt nexus between law enforcement and shady politicians has for years now treated traffic tickets as an income stream rather than a health, safety and welfare issue. This of course, is nothing more than a regressive taxation on the poorest and least connected population in communities everywhere. A lot of Americans think the police are a part of the problem.

Is it hard to see the solution for this sort of thing is morality? Cops need to confess and atone for their part in America's worldwide sin. Go see American Gangster. That young family is going to be set for life on the proceeds of a winning lawsuit. And Utah gets another black eye.

The Men in the Mirror

Mr. Daryl Donley September 11, 2001. His spooky pointless image, which the Library of Congress says he took first of the total of four--count them, FOUR--images that the symphony house manager took on the morning of 9-11-01. That would seem impossible given the traffic and the fact he is leaving the carnage as seen in his rear view mirror. Like his infamous fireball shot, which was a secondary explosion, three or four minutes in, the timing of the Donley series is spotty.

Mr. Jason Ingersoll, undated (self-portrait?), appeared 2007 on his professional photography web site. Good luck in your new career Jason!

July 19th 1995 Chang Lee took it and StevenWarRan was the first man in the mirror!

(This was from a very early edition of the Times in which the caption needs correction. We advocated for parking, not its elimination.)

My version of Myspace bathroom mirror portrait. Thanksgiving morning, 2007.

A bit younger.

The Smiling Brian Birdwell!

9-11 Truth has better looking
women than Official Story.

Bigger breasts too. A recent survey found 33
percent more tissue per orb than dessicated
official-story establishment women have

Mario Salvio on Spraul Hall Steps

December 2, 1964

There’s a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious that you’re so sick at heart, that you can’t take part, you can’t even passively take part, and you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears, and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you have to make it stop, and you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, and the people who own it, that unless you are free the machine will be prevented from working at all.

Hitler at Sotheby's

I finally located a carton of old files of mine containing some interesting tidbits of personal history to blog on over here at my more "personal" expression, the context-creating Steven_War_Ran--colloquially referred to by some in my base as "his gay-shit blog," as distinct from my "paranoid-shit blog," the spaceless, and duly 9-11-focused: StevenWarRan.



But tidbit doesn't begin to describe the fruits of Google research borne after I seeded a chance synchronicity, or as I prefer to call it, a God-incidence, twenty-five years ago, when I tried to peddle an official portrait of Adolf Hitler at Sotheby's auction house in New York--a task at which I was not successful.

The back story of my attempt to hondle an over-life-size (in real life Hitler was 5'8'', in the painting he is 6'2") oil-on-canvass, painted by the artist who Albert Speer in his 1970 book, Inside the Third Reich, calls "Hitler's official painter," Heinrich Knirr, is my intent here, and not der Fuhrer himself, a subject widely considered to be the most evil and destructive political manifestation of the 20th century, a verdict I'm content with, since George W. Bush's reign of terror can be neatly said to have only begun with the 21rst century, so in no way provides competition for the title.

Although, the historicity of propaganda is of some interest too. Absent any help from me, the picture resides today as the centerpiece of the WWII Victory Museum, a contrived affair located just outside of Auburn, Indiana. Jeff Gubitz, executive director of the Fort Wayne Jewish Federation, in an explanation of the exhibit for museum visitors, says of its home at exit 126 of Interstate 69, “I think the importance of this particular exhibit is that it doesn’t honor or glorify Adolf Hitler," which, I should think under the circumstances, goes without saying.

Also in providing a context for the exhibition, Rabbi Jonathan Katz wrote, “This exhibit suggests the way art, just like humanity itself, can be corrupted in the service of wickedness....We often speak today of the power of the pen. But the power of the paintbrush and canvas can be equally, if not more, influential. An exhibit like this should prompt reflection on the use of mind control to achieve dastardly deeds. In an increasingly uncertain and vulnerable world it should make us that much more vigilant of those who would propagate odious falsehoods and exploit diabolically crafted images to infect and overthrow the foundations of civilized society,” which is my sentiment exactly. It is holocaust elucidaters, not the deniers, who should see the fruits of the present American administration most clearly.

The important work of researching and conserving the painting was done gratis by Barry Bauman Conservation a Midwestern firm which in 2004, "left the private sector to establish America's first national conservation laboratory dedicated to offering complimentary conservation services to museums and non-profit organizations." In addition to the extensive case study: "Portrait of Adolf Hitler" by Heinrich Knirr, which will tell you everything you want to know, Mr Bauman's web site lists three other case studies of laudable conservation services (amongst many others) he carried out on important paintings since 2004, at no charge to the not-for-profit institutions who hold them.

Mr. Bauman at work.

The museum, which had its grand opening in May of 2003, says, "According to the portrait’s donor, Jack Smith of Thomson, Ga., the portrait was liberated by one of the first American soldiers to enter Munich, Germany, in the spring of 1945. The soldier intercepted two Czechoslovakian men running down a street carrying a large object, which turned out to be the painting of Hitler."

It is at this point, I believe, that our stories intersect. My involvement stems from a chance acquaintanceship with an earlier owner of the painting, a man a generation or two older than myself, Jim Luce, an old friend of and frequent visitor to the household in which I lived. Jim may very well have been the Czechoslovakians' interceptor, or perhaps an officer just above them--that detail is lost from my memory. But I do recall, that in the time I knew him, in the early 1980's, Jim worked on a plantation in Georgia, which may, or may not, provide the linkage with Mr. Smith.

And I can state for the record, Jim was not an anti-Semite--he was a sadist. A collector of Wilhelmina, to whom Hitleriana was tangential. On the plantation, he worked in the tack room, polishing the stable gear, his fetish, which may indicate a grace-and-favor position offered in his dotage. As a young man, he had done the same while working in the Queen's stables at Buckingham. His was an old-school fetish, one in which the object was taken seriously for life. Since he had to work, he combined it with pleasure.

He was from the working class Wisconsin Luce's, like his brother Charles, chairman of Consolidated Edison from 1967 to 1982, not the ritzy New Jersey Luce's, like Clare Booth, whose first husband was a Brokaw, who beat her, which provides some symmetry to the story at least, or her second husband, with whom she experimented with LSD under the tutelage of Gerald Heard...also a motif.

The stories which tickled me the most were from when Jim worked as the major-domo to "the last remaining Dodge in Grosse Point, Michigan." He told a story about how after she died he took a Renoir down off the wall but then thought better of it, thinking if he went after some of the good Japanese imari the daughter was less likely to notice the liberation. He was an influence on my career, I see now.

He was austere, and arch, and very, very wicked and I was glad I had made a good impression at our first brunch, when I served thin omelet's made of folded-over eggs without any filling inside. This pleased him immensely, as he referenced it for years afterward--perhaps I made up in style what was lacking in flavor, although I attributed the afternoon's success to the Bloody Mary's.

So having an important portrait of Hitler rolled up in one's closet (he said it sometimes fell out and hit him) certainly adds to one's overall effect. My brief foray across town to see what Sotheby's thought seemed innocuous at the time. I was aware the painting had no artistic merit, but its quality and historic importance were undeniable I felt, so I dismissed as odd what the auction house dismissed as controversial.



Since nothing succeeds like success, having a brother be the well-known chairman of Con-Edison was a component of his allure to me at that time as well, although after what I've learned recently researching Charles's career, I have to wonder who was the real sadist.

A lawyer by training, Charles Luce had had limited experience with utilities, according to Time magazine, writing in a 1977 Luce on Luce apologetics following a disastrous blackout--of not the drinking kind. He had been administrator of an Oregon power company in the 1960s and later "showed managerial talent as an Under Secretary of the Interior during the Johnson years"--the dead giveaway.

Speaking on the record for the company, but in actuality, I'd submit, more about himself, Luce said they provided "a tremendous catharsis for the pent-up tensions of the city. If we didn't have a Con Ed, we'd have to invent it." In other words, he was paid 200,000 of those delicious early-1970's dollars to be a whipping boy and a lightning rod. How else to explain his karma, which would have him quoted as saying only four days before the big event: "I can guarantee that the chances of a brownout or a blackout are less than they have been in the last 15 years, and that the chances are less here than in most other cities in the United States."

(A history project has conveniently organized bibliographies pertaining to the Great Northeast blackout of 1965; and the far different New York Blackout of 1977; as well as to the electric utility industry and the use of electric power in general, and hypertext links to web sites germane to the issue.)



The economic history of the utility makes absolutely no sense to me. Not surprising, given the company's own history, which speaks offhandedly of Thomas Edison's apparent "liberal payments to New York's open-handed city government," beginning at its inauguration in 1880, saying succinctly that by the mid-20th century, there was a "growing perception among New Yorkers that Con Ed was an inefficient utility. The origins of this reputation seem to be split between the unavoidable difficulties of supplying power in so complex an environment as New York City and Con Ed's failure to meet that challenge."

When the company couldn't afford to finish operating plants it had begun construction on, Luce had the state buy and finish them, then bought the power back, but how the consumer benefited by this is unknown. What then is the definition of the "state" here, versus a "power company?" Can a power company raise a militia in return? With 25 percent of a Con-Ed bill representing taxes, what is "off-the-books" to hide inadequate fiscal health? The company's history doesn't mince words: "Charles Luce's decision to sell off two of the company's plants in 1974 made possible a renaissance at Con Ed," but only for the real center of concern: the stock and bond holders. For the rate payers the dark ages continued.

"Luce took the unprecedented step of withholding dividends in the first quarter of 1974" causing the stock price to fall from $30 per share to $6, which would have been a good time for the state to buy out the utility and manage it for the public good. Because by 2001, the company could write, "As a result of our strong financial performance, we have been able to increase our dividend each year for more than a quarter century." "Strong financial performance" is code for "high rates," and lack of accountability.

"Between 1990 and 1993 the company laid off 3,000 workers, and by 2000 it had reduced its workforce by another 3,000." Since its business wasn't shrinking, doesn't this imply its prior workforce was inflated by 6000 workers?

It took the capital of Vanderbilt and Morgan to innovate and develop the electrical industry but that investment was paid off long ago. Even with politicians regulating the monopoly (that is, until they "de-regulated" it,) the seat of power always remained in the corporate board room and for 127 years, rich and poor New Yorkers alike have paid the highest electricity prices in the nation (with Long Island running a close second.)

But what should scare us the most is the lesson from the Blackout of 1977. Within a few hours of going off grid, disadvantaged neighborhoods devolved into orgies of looting, while in Greenwich Village, the hooting of orgies--one big all-night block party--was heard. The summer of "77

As Nietzsche said of Hitler (in 1881), so shall be said of George Bush.

to be continued.......

Hitler Historical Museum

Kaiser Wilhelm

Hitler Paintings Auctioned in England

Hitler Historical Museum

CONJURING HITLER: How Britain and America Made the Third Reich by Guido Giacomo Preparata

www.baumanconservation.com

Buchenwald

Knirr Portraits of Hitler 1935, 1936, 1937

www.thirdreichruins.com/kunsthaus1.htm

http://www.artnet.com/Artists/LotDetailPage.aspx?lot_id=2D46D95946CC3DD4

www.thirdreich.ca/portraitsphotos.php

Academy of Fine Arts, Munich

ConEd

Deaths in Iraq from Southampton, Long Island

Southampton, on the East End of Long Island, is not all glitter and glamor after grubbing for money. Places have karma just like people do, and Southampton has her "issues" she's working on.

As the oldest English settlement in New York State, 1640, (well, Southold, our sister settlement on the North Fork also has a claim to oldest, but Southampton had Henry DuPont and Henry won) Southampton was a land grant, and the proprietors, as they were called, were still divvying up the spoils well into the 20th-century. The indigenous population, the Shinnecocks, are still with us, maintaining traditions on a small reservation of bottom land they were relegated to by an illegal act of government, land they are now resented for because of its tax-free status, as they start new traditions like suing for casino gambling rights. Descendants of the big name in original settlers, the Halseys, are also on the scene, many still farming, and I surmise having these original players still around after 360 years represents some sort of unfinished business.

In World War I, Southampton lost seven young men in the trenches and field hospitals of Europe. They are memorialized in a beautiful room called Parrish Hall, now owned by its neighbor, the financially strapped Southampton Hospital. The room has great leaded-glass French doors--centered on one wall is an elliptical light bay of them. Another wall has a fireplace flanked by niches articulated with semi-detached columns. The names of the seven boys are carved in marble below a broken pediment as an over-mantle.

When the room was recently renovated, a hidden movie screen was installed in the ceiling directly in front of the fireplace. When drug reps use the room, bringing with them enormous displays of free food to tempt the doctors, it is lowered for their slick presentations and often they forget to raise it back up again. The switch to operate the screen is in a little storeroom hidden behind one of the flanking niches. To access it, half of a bookcase swings open, like a hidden library door. If the screen is down, like a punctuating blank, when non-drug-transacting groups use the room, I take a fierce joy in the symbol-laden act of going behind the books to lift the veil to remember why the room exists.

Southampton has lost two men in the Iraq war so far. The first was Staff Sgt. James Pettaway, 37, and he might be considered typical, in as much he was a black man from a working class background, who segued into a career as a prison guard while serving in the reserves. Southampton has had a sizable minority community going back to the 18th century, coming up from the South as migrant farm workers, inter-marrying into native-American families, but never on an underground railroad. Pettaway was on his second tour of duty and he left behind a son.


The other loss is far from typical, socio-economically speaking, and as it continues to echo, I tend to believe Southampton is not such a bad place to stay after all, as something of great import unfolds across our planet and the field of our group consciousness.


He was Sargent 1rst Class Schuyler B. Haynes, 40, and he came from vweery good family, as the hard C in his given name is the same family name that gave New York its hard-c Schuyler county. Socially speaking, Southampton has a single sine qua non, the Beach Club, and the Haynes' had made the cut several steps back. Actually, his maternal grandmother, who was an Albany Townsend, had a magnificent shingle-style house on the ocean. In a back hall of the Haynes house in Southampton is a large-format aerial photograph of the ocean-front Townsend house, which was approached by a horseshoe driveway centered by a planting of blue hydrangea, all of it on a scale we can only dream about. The house burned down in 1927, making it the sort of ancestral bona fide having a family house lost in the hurricane of "38 is.

I understand that his mother remains distraught over her son's death. His funeral last November, held at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, had the pews overflowing with a type who, for the most part, had never had the war brought home to them in this way. There is no easy way out of Iraq and learning its lessons won't be easy, although I am of a mind the lessons will be hardest for people of Schuyler's background. He will be memorialized this coming Sunday at St Andrews Dune Church, where the rich worship in blazers, at least until the next hurricane. He left behind his cat.

Spray Painting Over Blast Damage: It's Not the Crime, It's the Cover-up

Note especially the middle window on the right. It has been blasted outwards into the air shaft, which is forward, toward the facade of the Pentagon; in other words, in the opposite direction an aircraft supposed took, which entered the building from the outside in.

Also on the right corner, is a clear indication of the technique used, of gradating metallic shades in imitation of the natural shades on planes as seen in sunlight. The giveaway however, ruining the trompe l'oeil effect, was in painting over even the window glass.

The brightest goldest gold is reserved for the cleave that splits the back of the E-ring on the left, and I would submit it serves as the central iconic symbol of an opening up of a rich vein of wealth, a manifest destiny for the 21rst century, complete with downspout, but hidden, meant to be seen only by the knowledgeable few--and of course, predicated on war. I should think being "cut in" on a deal like this is a powerful inducement for keeping the secret, that, and the implications behind the little rhyme, "snitches get stitches."

Also note on the extreme left, on a fifth-floor windowsill, the hardened puddle of melted blast-proof window.

This photograph sure gets around. It can be found in one Navy and two Army image archives, and it's even available commercially---I found it at the Corbis image archive, although they makes three mistakes--one, it is not by Ron Sachs, two, it is not an aerial view, and three, they have it positioned sideways!

0000382189-006| RM| © Ron Sachs/CNP/CORBIS

AERIAL VIEW OF PENTAGON AFTER ATTACK

Original caption: Result of the crash of an American Airlines aircraft on the Pentagon. The offices were destroyed.

Image:		© Ron Sachs/CNP/CORBIS
Photographer:		Ron Sachs
Date Photographed:		September 14, 2001
Location Information:		Arlington, Virginia, USA

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And why did these "blast-resistant" windows on the exterior facade of the E-ring fail so catastrophically? Sgt Lagasse's little dissertation in the PentaCon film Smoking Dutch Cleanser, that the explosions at the Pentagon were deflagrations not detonations, misses the connotations of the conflagrations , which were concussive not percussive and Lagasse is a little ass-e.

(Flickr terminated my 3000-image study account of editorial material I had downloaded off the web. This image was of an office interior with untouched photocopy machine, but with windows melted from exterior heat.)

If this was a test, the windows failed.