Monday, January 14, 2019

David Wilcock - Veteran UFO Insider Returns with Groundbreaking Testimony of His Experiences at Area 51 in 'Alpha and the Omega'

Source: Divine Cosmos

Published: January 6, 2019

By: David Wilcock

Bob Lazar was the first great UFO / Area 51 insider to explode onto the scene back in 1989. Now, 30 years later, he has resurfaced in a must-see new movie — Bob Lazar, Area 51 and Flying Saucers.

No one had heard about Area 51 and reverse-engineered spacecraft before Lazar. In many ways, he is the godfather of the disclosure movement.

Heavily attacked and defamed, Lazar retreated into obscurity, never profiting off of his claims and making a living running a chemical supply company.

It is very interesting to see Lazar finally be willing to face a new round of extreme hatred and public scrutiny in pursuit of the truth.

A movie recently emerged from Orchard Entertainment cataloging Lazar’s stunning re-appearance on the UFO scene.

We are still working on an in-depth article about the California wildfires, QAnon and the impending defeat of the Deep State.

Events are rapidly unfolding at this time and each day brings new surprises. We hope to have the wildfire piece out soon.

[UPDATED Tuesday… Look for red headline on Anthony Sutton in Wall Street / Ford / GM section midway down.

UPDATED Wednesday with MUST-SEE Larry King interview with Bob Lazar that was just released! Disclosure is at hand.]


Bob Lazar electrified the world in 1989 when he came forward with mainstream TV host George Knapp, first anonymously in May and then publicly in November.

I first got turned on to the UFO subject in 1993, and bought as many new books as I could afford, while also devouring the triple-zero stacks in the library, where paranormal was filed in the Dewey Decimal System.

I bought most of the new-release UFO books straight through until about 1997, when the internet essentially replaced published books as the hot-spot for new intel.

Nonetheless, in those first four years from 1993 to 1997, it was nearly an absolute standard to hear the Bob Lazar story re-told in each new UFO book I picked up.

See also - Cosmic Disclosure - William Tompkins Bio - Show Transcript, Plus Extended Commentary from Dr. Michael Salla

So prevalent was this information that after a while I would judge each author based on how thoroughly and informatively they engaged the Lazar material.

This was the origin of all UFO research for me. Now, after all this time, seeing Lazar come back to us is a true mind trip.

It feels like the “alpha and the omega”, the beginning and the end.

To me, it also feels portentous, as if disclosure is soon at hand and this is one of the last stops along the way.


The awakening that led me careening headlong into the Bob Lazar mystery began from intensely painful roots.

All of this discussion is very relevant to how I started reading books about Bob Lazar.

The “set and setting” I found myself in was bizarre and disturbing, and taught me lessons that catapulted the awakening.

I applied and got accepted to a college that Rolling Stone had dubbed one of the top-ten “party schools” in the nation for 1991.

No, I don’t remember how high New Paltz made it on the list — but her top-ten victory strongly influenced my decision.

It definitely helped that it was right next door to Woodstock, New York — geographically closer than any other school.

Both of my parents were very, very strict, and like others I was ready for a full-scale rebellion as soon as I was “free.”

I spent a year embedded with hordes of drunk, vomiting students, and dealing with the insane effects of living with them.

Life in the dorms ended up being far more intense than living with my parents and dealing with high school.


We had a freshman class of 2000 and a graduating class of 200. Nine out of ten of the people stumbling around me wouldn’t make it.

You could tell who they were in any given class. They were never there. The non-stop partying was far more interesting to them than education.

Everyone had gotten good SAT scores and survived high school in order to get accepted, but it quickly became you and about ten others in the classroom… if that.

See also - MAINSTREAM TALK OF FULL DISCLOSURE - Conspiracy Realists See Trump's Space Force as Strong Evidence of Preexisting Secret Space Programs

The classes were easy enough. If you could show up, remain half-conscious and write some things down, you would pass the tests.

As far as I can remember, there was virtually no homework whatsoever, other than last-minute cramming for tests.

The professors invariably told you everything that would be on the tests out loud in class. Any instructor who didn’t was quickly stigmatized.

The textbook was an unnecessary relic if you wanted to go deeper than what you were going to be tested on.


So much beer was spilled on the floor of our suite that you had to peel your shoes off of it to walk, which I guess gave us better exercise.

The greasy ripping noise involved with moving from point A to point B meant no one could sneak up on you.

We had fully co-ed dorms. Guys’ suites on the right and girls on the left, in the same hallways and floors.

More than once I helped nurse one of the girls down the hall through terrible episodes, holding their hair back from the water as my mother would have done for me.

In many cases I was the only person willing to help anyone.

I tried cutting my own hair to save money, only to do such a bad job that we decided to shave off the back and sides, immediately earning me the new nickname “Beaker.”

I ultimately found out from campus staff that my particular suite of four rooms in 212 Dubois was the most problematic and drunk area of the entire school that year.


Knowing how few of us were going to graduate, and living through the non-stop party going on, I started seeing the hidden truth of the New York State (SUNY) college system.

The freshman dorms felt like cages for crazed animals. As long as we didn’t blow up the buildings, they got their money. Business was business.

The state was providing an “insane asylum” for fresh high-school graduates who had been broken by the system.

Everyone was ready for a full release of sex, drugs and rock and roll.

We were effectively locked up together in a building and campus with virtually no rules or controls on our behavior.


I don’t ever recall anyone getting arrested, except maybe for committing violent acts in town or trying to break into a soda machine.

We had no bills to pay, no adult responsibilities, and were doing the same things we could have done if we were in a homeless shelter — except the rules would have been stricter.

With loans we would repay for years, grants from the state taxpayers and money from our families, this was truly a very expensive party to attend.


Let’s say you’re there for three and a half months per semester, and it all adds up to about 10,000. That’s almost a hundred dollars a day. (10,000 / 105 days = $95.24 a day.)

Providing shelter buildings for hordes of partiers at a hundred bucks a day could be a pretty good business, if you think about it.

The state authorities would clean it all up at the end of the year and start over with new tenants a couple of months later.

It was a government business. Provide cheap, short-term housing for crazy people who party now, pay later.

One out of ten actually turned it into an education.

I almost qualified for the Equal Opportunity Program due to how poor we were. My family’s income missed it by just a thousand.

If so, I would have gotten all my partying money from the state, as well as taxpayer money to finance the whole thing.


I was also quite surprised to see that the adult campus employees I interacted with on my job were often like children, and clearly addicted to various things.

Most people were not as academic or disciplined as my parents had led me to believe was commonplace. They were “just getting by.”

For example, it was obvious that most of the Maintenance employees were alcoholics, and many were visibly intoxicated on the job.

Everyone seemed to be self-medicating from their exposure to a sick society, and the trauma that this then created for them.

I traced much of the problem back to television, and the non-stop “buy, buy, buy” messages to profit from our distraction.

There were still a fair number of feel-good ‘jingles’ in commercials and TV show intros — instantly singable, hypnotic songs.

The infamous Oscar Meyer Weiner song debuted on television in 1965 and is a classic example:

“And if I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner, everyone would be in love with me.” How does that work, exactly?

Apparently, being an “Oscar Meyer Weiner” meant regularly eating toxic, nitrate-laced commercial hot dogs.

If you watch it, one kid in the commercial resists the group and sings, “If I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner, there would soon be nothing left of me.”

This reflected many people’s common opinions at the time about commercially-processed, preservative-laden “fast foods.”

See also - UFO the SIZE OF PLANET EARTH Seen Hovering Near Saturn - Further Signs of Advanced Technology within Our Solar System

Notice how many times they refer to hot dogs being made with “good meat” at the end of the commercial.

The kid is then bullied into marching and singing along with everyone else through a classic case of what psychologists call “group attribution.”

I was studying group attribution in one of my freshman year psychology classes, while suffering through an unbearable ordeal with it in my very own home — if you could call it that.

In the post-Pizzagate world it is also very ‘odd’ to hear children singing about everyone loving them because they are edible ‘wieners.’


Our planet was poised on the brink of disaster, and we were taught that all our problems could be solved by spending money and enjoying addictive things.

If you fall in line with “the authorities” and do not disrupt the program, everyone will be in love with you.

Otherwise, if you stand out or complain, there will soon be nothing left of you:

The group attribution error occurs where it is assumed that individuals in the group agree with the decisions of the group.

When people make decisions in groups, they often follow group rules and are influenced by the social dynamic within the group at the time, thus downplaying their own real preferences.

The equivalent “group attribution” in my suite was drinking yourself into delirium every night but Tuesday.

I refused, and was hated for it. I was routinely heckled, demeaned and laughed at, and encouraged to be more “normal.”

In this case, “normal” meant becoming a very severe alcoholic.


The weed I was smoking was considered mysterious and ugly by my suitemates, particularly after they tried it one night and all threw up.

After all, it was an illegal drug. I was the real criminal scumbag of the bunch. That was how they saw me, and they shunned me for it.

Once again, I was the outsider — just like in high school — even though I went to supposedly one of the nation’s top-ten party schools.

The TV told them alcohol was socially acceptable. I didn’t own a TV, and I ended up basically never watching commercial television again.

I had read enough articles in High Times Magazine to know that alcohol was significantly more toxic and damaging to the body than marijuana.


This point was also made in David Solomon’s classic 1968 whistleblower book The Marijuana Papers, which I read cover-to-cover in 1990 and wrote a book report about.

This book was THE defining screed on the issue for the hippie movement, making a big splash particularly after Woodstock.

This was what my copy looked like. I found it, among other treasures on ESP and hypnosis, in my mother’s basement library:

This book proved that the criminalization of marijuana was another classic case of government conspiracy.

I brought it with me to college. No one would read it. If I tried to tell them what the book said, they quickly changed the subject.

The Volstead Act made alcohol illegal in 1920. By 1933, the act was repealed thanks to the eighteenth amendment to the US Constitution.

Soon after drinking was decriminalized in 1933, Big Alcohol discovered that much of their Southern customer base had switched to marijuana — particularly blacks.

They had no interest in switching back. A major intervention was necessary to save the business.


Harry J. Anslinger, head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics since 1930, got the hyper-strict Marijuana Tax Act of 1937 passed.

This legislative shift was accomplished through the use of a heavy-duty propaganda and fear campaign.

This involved a direct collusion between media and government, with William Randolph Hearst leading the charge through his newspaper / media monopoly.

I would soon realize that a very similar government-media collusion was occurring over the Bob Lazar story, and UFOs in general.

In February 1928, a similarly sensational article appeared in the Hearst publication the Examiner, falsely stating that marijuana was known in India as the “murder drug.”

[Hearst’s article claimed] that it was common for a man to “catch up a knife and run through the streets, hacking and killing every one he [encountered].”

Even more outlandish, the [Hearst] article claimed one could grow enough cannabis in a window box to “drive the whole population of the United States stark, raving mad.”

The ridiculous propaganda film Reefer Madness from 1936 crystallized the mass-media indoctrination movement that was underway.

In the film, the drug causes women to consent to sex with just about anyone, men to go into murderous rages and people to commit spontaneous suicide.

Since this drug was associated with jazz musicians, there was a strong message that white women might get romantic with black men if they used it.

The message of this film was driven home with a deluge of cartoonish propaganda posters all throughout the country, often with sharply racist themes.

These were found in Hearst publications and elsewhere. Also notice the huge phallic connotation of the ‘joint’ in the first poster:

If you haven’t seen the trailer for Reefer Madness, it is utterly hilarious to realize people took this seriously at the time:

The full film is public domain and available all over YouTube, such as at this link. It is now seen as a comedy.

There is an online “museum” of various propaganda items related to “Reefer Madness” that you can check out here.

The public believed what they were told, and soon Big Alcohol was making big profits once again, despite being more dangerous.

It didn’t matter what the medical research had actually proven, however unpopular it may have been in the controlled media — even in the early 1990s.


The others in my suite saw me as the “drug addict” and they were just engaging in “social drinking,” complete with blackouts, hangovers and vomiting.

Times certainly have changed, as marijuana is now legal for medical use in 33 US states and for recreational use in 10 states.

There was no sudden fanfare, no epic, defining event to demarcate the “old days” versus the way it is now.

I see the UFO subject as being much the same way, albeit we are still at an earlier point in the “decriminalization” timeline.

I appear in a majority of Ancient Aliens episodes, and a new one just aired with Megan Fox and William Shatner as guests.

This shows just how conventionally-accepted this subject is becoming. The ridicule is fading. It is only a matter of time.

I must say it was quite bizarre to have a copy of The Marjuana Papers in my dorm, and look at how a government-media conspiracy had created this upsetting situation.

My suitemates only begrudgingly tolerated my behavior, and were constantly trying to force me to switch over to alcohol with group attribution and abuse.

My early experience with reading about and discussing the Bob Lazar story with my fellow classmates turned out to be very similar.


The utter madness of a year in the “Doobie Hall” freshman dorm led to me quitting alcohol, marijuana and any other drugs forever in September 1992.

I was one of the few to make it to my sophomore year, and moved to the nerdiest dorm I had heard of — Crispell Hall, the “quiet study dorm.”

The story is told near the end of the first half of my book Ascension Mysteries, after countless requests from people wanting to hear more personal information.

The whole experience was so wild that it took me many years of meditation to reconstruct my overall memories of what happened.

The final “inciting incident” that catapulted me into Crispell Hall sobriety was about as alarming as any campus life could ever get.


We had a major PCB / dioxin chemical spill on campus after my first bleary-eyed semester, in December 1991.

The level of government conspiracy I personally witnessed, and the effect it had on my health and safety, made me realize they could be lying about everything — including UFOs.

In many ways, this event was as bad as if we had a nuclear disaster. The protocol for handling the hazardous materials was basically the same.

Someone skidded on the ice, hit a telephone pole and created a cascading power failure that caused PCB oil to overheat, burn and release deadly dioxin smoke from the transformers.

Little did I know that I would soon become an expert on PCBs — Polychlorinated Biphenyls — just like the rest of us.

Big corporations like GE put this toxic oil into power transformers, claimed it was safe, and then when the truth came out, the PCBs just sat there because no one wanted to spend the money to replace them.

In the months and days leading up to this disaster, I would see stickers like this on various power transformers I walked by on my work-study grant job doing campus deliveries:

Yes… this crap was bad enough that you’re literally calling in the military (Coast Guard) and the EPA if anything happens to the PCBs.

I had enormous intuitive feelings that “something bad” was going to happen every time I saw these stickers, and that I should talk to the local fire department about it — but I never did.

I easily re-read these same stickers some 200 times on the job, and had spent considerable time thinking about the wording and what could go wrong.

Many, if not most of the buildings on campus had power transformers with these stickers on them. It all looked like a time bomb just silently ticking away. It was.


If I had listened to my intuition, the whole thing might have been handled better — including them not hitting the fires with water, which made it far worse.

That’s exactly what the stickers were referring to when they said that these toxic contaminants required “special handling and disposal.”

Electrical fires shouldn’t be hit with water in the first place, but in this case they were, for whatever reason.

With PCBs used as an insulating heat-sink oil in the transformers, the firemen’s water caused lethal toxins to spread and leach into the ground and water table.

A significant amount of of soil had to be treated as if it was radioactive, scooped out and removed as a result of all this.

I numbed all the pain out, and was still very “active” with my use of marijuana and psychedelics when we all returned in late February.


The biggest problem, as it turns out, was that when PCBs burn, they turn into a far more deadly substance known as dioxin, which can kill you in one part per billion.

Lethally toxic dioxin-laced smoke had outgassed into three crazy dorms — Capen, Gage and Bliss — and two buildings, Parker Theater and Coykendall Science.

We were delayed by about a month getting back to school, only to find buildings wrapped in plastic, 50-gallon toxic waste drums, yellow Police Lines and men walking around in moon suits.

A significant amount of soil around and under Parker Theater had to be removed due to its hazardous dioxin levels.

The smart kids applied for transfers and went to different schools. Not me. I just followed my orders and reported back to active duty.

This image was taken by Eric Coppolino, a mysterious journalist who became the campus hero for standing up to the entrenched bureaucracy and exposing their serious crimes.

The administration told us “everything is fine, move along, nothing to see here, keep drinking.”

Armed police were stationed in vehicles to prevent any drunk idiots from entering the toxic buildings “for fun.”

The police didn’t need to be there. No one was dumb or suicidal enough to have tried a stunt like that.

Even if someone wanted to kill themselves, I doubt they would want to do it through an unpredictable, hyper-toxic chemical spill that looked the same as a nuclear disaster.

I can tell you that walking back to your dorm and seeing shrink-wrapped buildings and toxic waste drums under strong psychedelic enhancement is about the worst “Bad Trip” you can imagine.

I had at least three of these bad trips during that semester, maybe more.

The contaminated soil “dig site” next to Parker Theater.

Who knows what the f- this is but I don’t like it.

Through Student Leader News Service, Coppolino bypassed the controlled media of the day and spoke directly to the student body through self-printed newspapers.

The administration told us everything was fine, but the reality was that kids were moved back into dorms that still had lethal dioxin residue in the air ducts.

The moon-suit dudes had only cleaned the ducts up to arm-length depth, and dioxin was easily found if you went in a little farther.

This was scientifically proven when Coppolino took swab samples from the ducts and sent them off to labs.

Theoretically, any air gliding over the dioxin and into student rooms could be quite carcinogenic, if not lethal.

Coppolino was quite a hero, and after graduation I spent a year working with him under his camouflage name of Eric Francis.

That was my first foray into the idea of being self-employed doing something cutting-edge and definitely not mainstream.

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