ChemTrailsMN ✈️

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Last Notes

2026-09-28 14:08:03 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1951309690000384000

2026-05-12 12:36:21 GMT

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2026-04-08 20:08:12 GMT

marsha...marsha..... MARSHA! https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1888707225245978624

2026-03-25 20:44:04 GMT

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2026-01-09 18:39:22 GMT

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2026-01-09 18:39:08 GMT

I DON'T CARE WHO YOU ARE....
THAT RIGHT THERE, IS FUNNY! https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1856432288431087616

2026-01-08 17:45:53 GMT

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2026-01-08 15:15:09 GMT

His last words to Buddy Holly had been: ""I hope your plane crashes.""
"The tour bus had no heat.
It was January 1959, and the Winter Dance Party Tour was zigzagging across the frozen Midwest—twenty-four cities in three weeks, distances between venues that made no logical sense, performers crammed into a bus that had broken down so badly they'd burned newspapers to stay warm.
The drummer, Carl Bunch, was hospitalized with frostbitten feet. Everyone was getting sick. The Big Bopper had the flu. They were exhausted, freezing, miserable.
By the time they reached Clear Lake, Iowa, on February 2, Buddy Holly had had enough.
""I'm getting a plane,"" he announced. ""I'm done with this bus.""
He chartered a small Beechcraft Bonanza to fly ahead to Moorhead, Minnesota—400 miles away—for $36 per seat. Three seats available. Buddy took one. That left two.
Waylon Jennings, Holly's 21-year-old bass player, was supposed to go. So was Tommy Allsup, the guitarist. They'd agreed to pay for the seats—a chance to arrive early, sleep in a real bed, do laundry.
But then The Big Bopper, a large man at over 250 pounds who could barely fit in a bus seat, approached Jennings backstage. Richardson was sick, feverish, desperate.
""Can I have your seat? I need to rest.""
Jennings gave it up without hesitation.
When Buddy Holly found out Waylon wasn't flying, he teased him. ""Well, I hope your ol' bus freezes up again.""
Waylon grinned back, tired, joking: ""Well, I hope your ol' plane crashes.""
Nobody laughed.
They were exhausted. It was late. Those were just words between friends.
Meanwhile, 17-year-old Ritchie Valens—the kid with ""La Bamba"" climbing the charts—asked Tommy Allsup for his seat.
Allsup didn't want to give it up. But Valens kept asking. Finally, the guitarist said: ""Fine. We'll flip for it.""
Bob Hale, the local disc jockey emceeing the show that night, flipped the coin in a side room backstage.
Ritchie Valens called it.
He won.
Years later, Tommy Allsup would open a bar in Dallas called ""Tommy's Heads-Up Saloon""—named for the coin toss that saved his life.
At 12:55 AM on February 3, 1959, the Beechcraft Bonanza lifted into the snow.
Buddy Holly, 22 years old. Ritchie Valens, 17. J.P. ""The Big Bopper"" Richardson, 28. Pilot Roger Peterson, 21.
The temperature was 15 degrees. Winds gusted at 36 mph. A cold front was moving through. Visibility was terrible—snow, darkness, no horizon.
Minutes after takeoff, the plane banked. The tail light descended.
Then it vanished.
At dawn, a farmer found the wreckage scattered across a frozen cornfield near Mason City, Iowa. The bodies were thrown from the aircraft. All four were dead on impact.
Back on the tour bus, Waylon Jennings learned the news.
His last words to Buddy Holly had been: ""I hope your plane crashes.""
He was 21 years old. And those words—said in jest, said in exhaustion, said without thinking—would echo in his mind for the rest of his life.
""For years I thought I had caused it,"" Jennings later confessed. ""I still hear that joke in my head every single day.""
The tour continued. Waylon barely made it through the remaining two weeks. He was offered a spot in the reformed Crickets after the tour ended.
He turned it down. He went back to Texas with ""no intention of ever playing another note.""
But Buddy Holly's story doesn't end in that Iowa field.
He was only 22, but he'd already changed music forever.
Before Buddy Holly, rock and roll artists didn't write their own songs. They didn't arrange them. They didn't produce them. Record labels controlled everything—told performers what to sing, how to sing it, what to wear.
Buddy Holly said no.
He wrote his own material. He arranged his own songs. He produced his own records. He wore thick-rimmed glasses when everyone said rock stars had to be conventionally handsome. He layered vocals, experimented with studio techniques, created a sound that was sophisticated and raw at the same time.
He made rock and roll look intelligent.
The Beatles named themselves after Holly's band, The Crickets. John Lennon and Paul McCartney both said Buddy Holly changed their lives, showed them what was possible. McCartney eventually bought the publishing rights to Holly's entire catalog—that's how much he meant to him.
Bob Dylan said hearing Buddy Holly for the first time altered his entire trajectory.
""That'll Be the Day."" ""Peggy Sue."" ""Oh, Boy!"" ""Maybe Baby."" ""Rave On.""
These weren't just songs. They were blueprints for everything that came after.
And Buddy Holly created them in just eighteen months of stardom.
Eighteen months. That's all he got.
Ritchie Valens was even younger—just 17. He'd brought Mexican-American culture into mainstream rock and roll with ""La Bamba,"" sung entirely in Spanish when that was unthinkable. He was a trailblazer, breaking barriers, paving the way for Latino artists in American music.
He had everything ahead of him.
The Big Bopper—charismatic, larger-than-life, a radio DJ turned musician with ""Chantilly Lace"" climbing the charts—was 28. Building momentum. Just getting started.
Three lives. Three trajectories. All ended in a frozen field because a coin landed on heads instead of tails.
In 1971, singer-songwriter Don McLean released ""American Pie""—a song about loss, nostalgia, and the end of innocence. The phrase he used for the crash became permanent:
""The day the music died.""
Don McLean was a paperboy in 1959. He learned about Buddy Holly's death while delivering newspapers that morning. The line in his song—""February made me shiver / with every paper I'd deliver""—was literal.
A generation mourned. The happy innocence of the 1950s ended in that Iowa cornfield. Everything after felt different.
But here's the thing about Buddy Holly's legacy: the music didn't die.
It transformed.
Every artist who writes their own songs, who produces their own records, who refuses to let labels control their vision—they're walking a path Buddy Holly cleared at 22 years old.
Every kid with glasses who picks up a guitar and realizes they don't have to look like Elvis to change the world—that's Buddy Holly's gift.
Every boundary broken, every genre blended, every rule questioned—he showed that it was possible.
Waylon Jennings eventually found his way back to music. He became a legend of outlaw country, refusing to compromise, doing things his way. He carried Buddy Holly's influence—and his guilt—for the rest of his life.
He never forgot the lesson his friend had taught him: be true to yourself, no matter what anyone says.
The Winter Dance Party Tour of 1959 should have been just another forgettable tour through small Midwestern towns.
Instead, it became the night music transformed from performance into legend.
Because sometimes genius doesn't need a lifetime. Sometimes it just needs a moment—brief, brilliant, unforgettable.
Buddy Holly got eighteen months of stardom.
And he used them to build a legacy that will never die. "
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2026-01-07 13:19:50 GMT

https://radio.biocentric.org/listen/national_alliance_radio_network/listen
PRO WHITE CONSERVATIVE RADIO -
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2026-01-07 12:17:06 GMT

Congressional Reform Act of 2025
President Trump is asking everyone to share this in the next three days, which would result in most U.S. citizens reading the following message. This is an idea that should be shared, regardless of your political affiliation.
Congressional Reform Act of 2025
1. No Tenure / No Pension. A Congressman/woman collects a salary while in office and receives no pay when they're out of office. And no more perks go with them.
2. Congress (past, present, & future) participates in Social Security. All funds in the Congressional retirement fund move to the Social Security system immediately. All future funds flow into the Social Security system, and Congress participates with the American people. It may not be used for any other purpose.
3. Congress must purchase their own retirement plan, just as ALL Americans do.
4. Congress will no longer vote themselves a pay raise. Congressional pay will rise at the same rate as the COLA for monthly Social Security recipients minus 1% if having a budget balance deficit.
5. Congress loses their current health care system and participates in the same health care system (Medicare) as the American people.
6. Congress must equally abide by all laws they impose on the American people (i.e. NO MORE INSIDER TRADING!!!).
7. All contracts with past and present Congressmen/women are void. The American people did not make this contract with Congressmen/women. Congress made all these contracts by and for themselves.
Serving in Congress is an honor and privilege, NOT a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators should serve their term(s), then go home and go back to work - not get all kinds of freebies. Term limits of 2 terms, and treat them like regular citizens!
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2026-01-06 23:34:18 GMT

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2026-01-06 16:27:22 GMT

NEVER FORGET, NEVER FORGIVE.
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2026-01-06 13:29:46 GMT

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much more peace since I blocked dski ....

2026-01-06 13:26:34 GMT

""Well, I'll tell you—nineteen pounds is cock.""
"She was Hollywood's most beautiful woman. She married Frank Sinatra—after he left his wife for her. When a reporter asked why, she gave the most infamous answer in Hollywood history.
Her name was Ava Gardner, and she lived exactly as she pleased—consequences be damned.
Born on December 24, 1922, in Grabtown, North Carolina, Ava Lavinia Gardner grew up barefoot on a tobacco farm, the youngest of seven children in a family so poor they sometimes didn't know where the next meal would come from.
Her life changed because of one photograph.
In 1941, her brother-in-law, a professional photographer in New York, took a picture of 18-year-old Ava and displayed it in his shop window. An MGM talent scout happened to see it. He contacted the studio. They asked for more photos.
When MGM executives saw those pictures, they didn't care that she had no acting experience, no training, no connections. They sent for her immediately.
""She can't act. She can't talk. She's terrific,"" one executive reportedly said.
They signed her to a contract based purely on her extraordinary beauty. Then they tried to mold her into a proper Hollywood starlet—teaching her to walk, talk, and behave like a lady.
Ava hated every minute of it.
For years, MGM gave her tiny roles—unnamed characters, background parts, blink-and-you-miss-her appearances. She was eye candy, decoration, a beautiful face in the background while other actresses got the real parts.
Then in 1946, she was cast as Kitty Collins in ""The Killers""—a seductive femme fatale who destroys men without even trying.
It was like the role had been written for her.
Ava Gardner became a star overnight. And Hollywood would never be the same.
But it was her personal life, not her film career, that made her legendary.
At 19, Ava married Mickey Rooney, one of Hollywood's biggest stars. She was madly in love. He was a serial philanderer who gambled away money and cheated constantly.
The marriage lasted one year. Ava filed for divorce, heartbroken but wiser.
Three years later, she married bandleader Artie Shaw—a brilliant musician and insufferable intellectual snob who treated her like she was stupid. He gave her reading lists, criticized her lack of education, and belittled her in front of friends.
That marriage lasted one year too.
Then came Frank Sinatra.
In 1949, Sinatra was married to his first wife, Nancy, with three children. His career was in decline. His records weren't selling. His film career had stalled. He was yesterday's news.
Then he met Ava Gardner.
Their affair was immediate, passionate, and utterly destructive. Sinatra left his wife and children for Ava—a scandal that rocked Hollywood and turned his Catholic fan base against him. His career tanked even further. Columnists called Ava a homewrecker. Fans sent her death threats.
Ava didn't care. She was in love.
They married in 1951. It should have been a fairy tale ending.
Instead, it was six years of jealous rages, screaming fights, thrown furniture, infidelities, and passionate reconciliations. They were both fiery, both stubborn, both incapable of backing down.
One night, a reporter asked Ava a question that had been on everyone's mind: Sinatra was rail-thin, barely 119 pounds soaking wet, diminutive next to Ava's statuesque beauty. Why was she so obsessed with him?
Ava's answer became Hollywood legend:
""Well, I'll tell you—nineteen pounds is cock.""
The quote scandalized Hollywood. It was vulgar, shocking, inappropriate—everything a proper movie star wasn't supposed to say.
It was pure Ava Gardner.
During their marriage, Ava became pregnant twice. She had two abortions. ""MGM had all sorts of penalty clauses about their stars having babies,"" she later explained in her autobiography. The studio controlled every aspect of her life—including whether she could become a mother.
Despite their explosive relationship, Ava and Frank never stopped loving each other. They divorced in 1957, but they remained close friends until her death. Sinatra would call her regularly, send her money when she needed it, and reportedly kept a photo of her for the rest of his life.
But Ava's scandals went far beyond Sinatra.
She had a tempestuous affair with billionaire Howard Hughes, who became obsessed with her and had her followed constantly. She dated bullfighters in Spain. She drank heavily, partied relentlessly, and refused to play by Hollywood's rules.
Studio executives tried to control her. She told them to go to hell.
Male costars tried to seduce her. She chose who she slept with, on her terms, and wasn't ashamed of it.
Gossip columnists tried to shame her. She gave them more material.
Yet beneath the scandals and the wild behavior was something deeper. Ava Gardner was a woman ahead of her time—refusing to be controlled, apologizing for nothing, living authentically in an era that demanded women be submissive and proper.
She was also a staunch supporter of civil rights. Growing up in North Carolina, she'd witnessed segregation's cruelty firsthand. As a child, she sat with Black children in the segregated sections of movie theaters, defying the rules even then.
As an adult in Hollywood, her personal assistant was Rene Jordan, an African-American woman. Ava regularly took Rene to whites-only clubs, daring anyone to say something. When they did, Ava made scenes, refused to leave, and forced establishments to serve them both or lose her business.
In 1955, tired of Hollywood's judgment and scrutiny, Ava left America entirely. She moved to Spain, then later to London, living as an expatriate for the rest of her life.
She continued acting—appearing in ""The Barefoot Contessa"" (1954), earning an Academy Award nomination for ""Mogambo"" (1953), and giving a haunting performance in ""The Night of the Iguana"" (1964). But her roles became less frequent as she aged and Hollywood's interest in complex, mature women faded.
Her later years were marked by health problems. Decades of smoking had destroyed her lungs, leaving her with emphysema. She suffered strokes. Her legendary beauty faded.
But she never regretted anything.
""I haven't lived a perfect life,"" she once said. ""I haven't even lived a careful life. But I lived.""
Ava Gardner died on January 25, 1990, in London, at age 67. She'd outlived both Mickey Rooney and Artie Shaw. Frank Sinatra, her great love, would outlive her by eight years.
At her funeral, Sinatra reportedly broke down and wept.
Ava Gardner's legacy is complicated. She was beautiful—objectively, stunningly, impossibly beautiful. But reducing her to just beauty misses the point entirely.
She was a woman who refused to be controlled by studios, husbands, or society's expectations. She said what she thought, slept with whom she wanted, and lived on her own terms in an era that punished women for doing exactly that.
She was called a homewrecker for loving Frank Sinatra. But he left his wife—that was his choice, not hers.
She was called a drunk and a party girl. But male actors who drank and partied were called ""charismatic"" and ""fun-loving.""
She was told she couldn't act. Then she was nominated for an Academy Award.
She was told to behave like a lady. She told them where to shove it.
Ava Gardner proved that you don't have to be perfect to be legendary. You just have to be yourself—unapologetically, defiantly, completely.
She was Hollywood's most beautiful woman.
She married Frank Sinatra after he left his wife for her.
When a reporter asked why, she gave the most infamous answer in Hollywood history.
Because Ava Gardner didn't answer to anyone but herself. "
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2025-12-31 23:22:50 GMT

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Happy New Year! ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz 😝

2025-12-31 12:19:16 GMT

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE BEE GEES https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1853075199611101184

2025-12-31 12:12:07 GMT

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2025-12-31 02:28:09 GMT

AND THE IDIOT OF THE YEAR AWARD GOES TO:
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2025-12-30 22:34:42 GMT

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2025-12-30 22:32:42 GMT

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2025-12-28 21:39:31 GMT

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2025-12-28 13:13:40 GMT

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2025-12-28 13:05:29 GMT

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2025-12-24 01:48:20 GMT

WWII Japanese Infantry Never Expected 12-Gauge American Shotguns in the Assault.
The Pacific Theater, 1942 to 1945. The dense jungle undergrowth of the Pacific Islands created a unique combat environment where engagements often occurred at ranges of less than 30 yards.
In these conditions, the United States Marine Corps deployed a weapon that would challenge every assumption Japanese forces held about modern warfare, the 12 gauge pump-action shotgun.
While the historical record of specific combat employment remains limited, the presence of Winchester Model 1897 and Model 1912 shotguns in marine units throughout the Pacific campaign represented a tactical capability for which Japanese military doctrine had made no provision. The Imperial Japanese Army had spent decades preparing for war against Western powers.
Their training manuals addressed British rifles, American machine guns, French mortars, and Soviet submachine guns. But shotguns, weapons they considered tools for hunting birds rather than implements of war, never appeared in their tactical considerations. This oversight would prove significant as American forces brought approximately 25,000 Model 97s and 60,000 to 80,000 Model 12s into military service during World War II.
Japanese military doctrine in 1942 centered on sation spiritual power that would overcome material disadvantage. This philosophy wasn't merely propaganda but a calculated response to industrial reality. Japan produced less steel in a year than America produced in a month. The Imperial Army's solution was to make each soldier superior in close combat where spirit and training would prevail over mechanical warfare.
The tactical expression of this doctrine was the night infiltration attack followed by close quarters combat with rifle and bayonet. Japanese infantry trained extensively in these tactics which had proven successful against Chinese forces. British troops in Malaya and American defenders in the Philippines. The standard engagement sequence was clear.
Approach under cover of darkness, infiltrate enemy lines, then overwhelm defenders at close range, where Japanese superiority in hand-to-hand combat would prove decisive. American shotguns invalidated this entire tactical framework. At the close ranges, where Japanese doctrine anticipated dominance, a marine with a Winchester Model 97 could fire six loads of 000 buckshot in approximately 2 seconds using the weapon's slamfire capability.
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2025-12-23 17:40:00 GMT

A Mob Boss Made a Joke About Dean Martin’s Mother — His Calm Response Shocked Everyone.....
The Sands Hotel was packed on the night of November 3rd, 1955. Dean Martin was three songs into his set, the audience eating out of his hand when Anthony Big Tony Castiano walked in. Big Tony wasn't just any customer. He was a capo in the New York crime family with ties to every major casino in Vegas.
He was loud, he was crude, and he was drunk. and he wanted everyone to know he was there. Dean was in the middle of a ballad when Big Tony's voice cut through the room. Hey Dean, sing something with some life in it. My grandmother could put more energy into a song and she's been dead for 10 years.
The audience laughed nervously. Dean smiled, keeping his composure.
Well, sir, if your grandmother sings as well as you behave, I'd love to hear her sometime.
More laughter, this time more comfortable. Dean had handled the heckler perfectly, acknowledged him, made a joke, moved on. He continued with his set. But Big Tony wasn't done. 20 minutes later, Dean was telling a story about growing up in Stubenville, Ohio, about his mother, Angela, and how she'd taught him to always be polite, always respect others, always conduct himself with dignity.
It was a sweet story, one that humanized Dean and connected him to the audience. People were smiling, nodding along. That's when Big Tony stood up, his voice booming across the showroom. Dean, your mother taught you manners. Shame she didn't teach you how Vegas really works. The room went silent. Every person there understood what had just happened.
Big Tony hadn't just heckled. He'd insulted Dean's mother. In Italian culture, in any culture really, that was crossing a line. but especially for Dean, whose mother had died when he was young, whose memories of her were sacred. This was personal. The band stopped playing. The spotlight operator didn't know where to point the light.
The audience held its breath because everyone knew Dean Martin had two choices. He could ignore it and look weak, or he could respond and potentially start a war with a mobster who had the power to end his career in Vegas. Dean stood at the microphone perfectly still. He wasn't smiling anymore, but he wasn't angry either.
His face was calm, contemplative. He took a slow breath, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, but somehow reached every corner of the room. Sir, I want to thank you for bringing up my mother," Dean said. "Because she's actually the perfect example of what I'm trying to explain." Big Tony smirked, thinking he'd won. His crew laughed, but Dean wasn't done.
My mother came to this country from Italy when she was 17 years old. Dean continued, "She didn't speak English. She had no money. She had nothing except her character and her values. And you know what? She taught me. She taught me that the way you treat people when you have power over them tells you everything about who you really are.
The room was completely silent now. Dean's voice remained calm, almost gentle, but there was steel underneath. "My mother cleaned houses for rich people," Dean said. She scrubbed their floors, washed their clothes, cooked their meals, and some of those people treated her with respect. They said, "Please and thank you.
" They saw her as a human being who was working hard to feed her family. But some of them, Dean paused. Some of them treated her like she was invisible, like she was nothing, like being poor and working with your hands meant you didn't deserve basic human dignity. Big Tony's smirk was fading. He could sense where this was going.
"And you know what my mother told me?" Dean asked. She said, "Dino, the people who are cruel when they have power are the weakest people in the world because they need power to feel strong. They need to make others feel small so they can feel big." Dean's eyes were locked on Big Tony. Now she said, "Real strength is being kind when you could be cruel.
Real power is lifting people up, not tearing them down." The audience was transfixed. This wasn't entertainment anymore. This was something deeper. "So when you make a joke about my mother," Dean said, his voice still calm, still measured. "You're actually proving exactly what she taught me. You're showing everyone in this room that you need to insult a dead woman to feel powerful.
You need to mock someone's mother to get attention. And sir, that doesn't make you look strong. That makes you look desperate. Big Tony's face was red now. His crew had stopped laughing. People at the surrounding tables were looking at him with expressions that ranged from pity to disgust. Now, you said my mother should have taught me how Vegas really works, Dean continued.
Let me tell you how Vegas really works. Vegas runs on money. Sure, Vegas runs on power. Absolutely. But you know what makes Vegas actually function? It's the dealers and the waitresses and the janitors and the performers. It's the people who show up every day and do their jobs with dignity, even when people like you treat them like they're nothing.Dean took a step forward on the stage.
My mother understood something that you clearly don't. Power without character is just bullying. Money without decency is just greed. And making jokes about someone's mother doesn't make you clever or funny or powerful. It makes you small. The silence in the room was absolute. Dean had just called out a mobster publicly, thoroughly, devastatingly, without raising his voice, without cursing, without threatening.
He'd simply held up a mirror and shown Big Tony exactly what he was. So, here's what I'm going to do, Dean said. I'm going to continue with my show. I'm going to honor my mother's memory by treating everyone in this room, including you, with the respect and dignity she taught me, even when they don't deserve it.
Even when they've disrespected her. Because that's what real strength looks like. That's what real class looks like. And that's how Vegas really works when you understand what actually matters. Dean turned to the band. Let's pick it up with something cheerful. How about that's Amore? The music started. Dean sang and Big Tony sat there visibly shaken as the entire room watched him.
He'd come into this showroom to assert his dominance, to remind everyone of his power, to put Dean Martin in his place. Instead, he'd been made to look like exactly what he was, a bully who needed to hurt others, to feel important. After the show, Dean was in his dressing room when there was a knock on the door. It was one of Big Tony's associates, a man named Mr. Martin.
Big Tony wants to speak with you. He's waiting outside. Dean's manager looked terrified. Dean, don't go. Let me call security. It's okay, Dean said calmly. I'll talk to him. Dean walked outside to the parking lot where Big Tony was leaning against a Cadillac smoking a cigarette. His crew was there, but they kept their distance.
Big Tony looked at Dean for a long moment, then spoke. "You made me look like an ass in there."
"You made yourself look like an ass," Dean replied evenly. "I just pointed it out."
Big Tony took a drag on his cigarette. You know, I could make things very difficult for you in this town. I know, Dean said. You could probably end my career in Vegas.
You could make sure I never work here again. You have that power. So, why did you do it? Big Tony asked. Why risk everything to defend your dead mother's honor? Dean thought about it for a moment. Because some things are more important than a career. Some things are more important than money or success or staying safe.
My mother gave everything so I could have opportunities she never had. The least I can do is defend her memory when someone disrespects it. Big Tony was quiet for a long time. My mother died when I was 12. He finally said she was a good woman, better than I turned out to be. He looked at Dean. What you said in there about how people treat others when they have power? My mother used to say something similar. I forgot about that.
I forgot a lot of things she taught me. It's not too late to remember. Dean said quietly. Big Tony laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. Yeah, it is. I'm too far gone. I've done too many things. He flicked his cigarette away.
But you, you're the real deal, Dean. You stood up there and spoke truth to me without being disrespectful.
You defended your mother without attacking mine. You made me look small without humiliating me.
He paused. That takes more guts than pulling a gun.
That takes real strength. It's just who I am, Dean said.
No. Big Tony corrected. It's who your mother raised you to be. and she did a hell of a job.....
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2025-12-19 13:52:27 GMT

“These two deaths perfectly illustrate the vast chasm between the right and the left.
One man made detailed public statements of his personal beliefs and has never said anything hateful or evil. He advocates for living a life according God's will.
He saw being a good Christian, husband, father and citizen as the pinnacle of achievement. He delivered this message to our nation's young people advocating for God, family, and service to others. This man was constantly lied about, smeared and hated by the other side. He was under constant physical threat from the opposition which wanted to cancel, shutdown and silence him rather than accept his invitation for dialog.
He was barely aware of the other man on the other side of this contrast. His allies were also under constant threat and the subject of constant harmful lies and violence. His strongest allegiance is his faith. He was murdered for his views by the hateful radical left. Upon his death the right congregated in prayer while the left responded with vile hate and continued violence.
The other man constantly spread lies and hate. He routinely wished harm upon his opposition. He advocates for Hollywood, socialism, and hedonism. He was a regular visitor to Epstein, Weinstein and Diddy along with Clintons and Obamas.
He wanted his opposition arrested or killed and he had no interest in debate. He wanted to lecture people as if he had moral authority. His main goal in life was self aggrandizement and hedonism. Young people were targets of his perversion.
He wasn't killed by his opposition because they didn't give a rats azz about his views. He was killed by his own sexually abused drug addicted son. His immoral life produced the son that killed him. The left didn't gather in prayer.
They used his death as another excuse to spread lies and hate. The right wished him peace in prayed for his surviving children. The left used his death as another Trump hoax pretending that Trump celebrated his death, another lie true to form. The right, Trump included recognized the tragedy and wished him a skeptical peace.
When the left used his tragic murder as another hoax, another excuse to hate we are now responding with the truth. Rob Reiner was a horrible discipline of sin. He sought no forgiveness late in life choosing hate as his son spiraled further into the abyss. He's certainly reaping what he sowed today. Wealth and excess in life are no longer his reality.
If you fully appreciate the unredacted truth you'll see that the right vs left truly is good vs evil, freedom vs oppression, a thriving honest society vs collapse and destruction. The party of truth, freedom, God and family is in a great moral struggle with the fascist party of Epstein, Obama, Diddy, Clintons, Weinstein.and Satan.”
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2025-12-16 17:34:38 GMT

HOW TO........
MAKE.....??? .. MMMM I FORGOT. https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1847718749013020672

2025-12-13 17:47:49 GMT

A GOOD QUESTION FOR NASA FANS - THINK ABOUT IT... 🔥
IT'S JUST COMMON SENSE, BUT THAT'S A RARE THING THESE DAYS. ... IT NEVER HAPPENED!!! Learn More Here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gv56n9FfAuE https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1846634900545986560

2025-12-10 15:36:57 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1845514805515919360
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2025-12-07 03:24:37 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1844243342821429248
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2025-12-06 16:25:08 GMT

🚨 JUST IN: BREAKING: Tim Walz is reportedly starting to ‘suffer from severe depression,’ saying he was ‘cyber bullied’ after revealing people were driving by his house and calling him ‘the R word.’
Walz thought he would receive more compassion and understanding from Conservatives, but was largely met with jokes about the situation.
Thoughts? 😜🫣
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2025-12-05 18:00:58 GMT

VIET NAM HERO
They called him Pits, but the men who served beside him had another name they used when he was out of earshot—
“the one you prayed was next to you when everything went to hell.”
On April 11, 1969, deep in the tangled jungles of Vietnam, that truth would be tested with terrifying clarity.
William H. Pitsenbarger was a 21-year-old Air Force pararescueman—one of the elite rescuers whose motto was “That Others May Live.” To him it wasn’t a motto. It was an oath.
That afternoon, Charlie Company walked straight into an ambush so violent that men fell before they even heard the gunfire. Trees erupted like grenades. The jungle floor churned into mud streaked red. Radio calls crackled in fragments of fear:
“We’re hit—heavy casualties—need help now!”
Pitsenbarger didn’t hesitate.
He volunteered—volunteered—to be lowered by cable from a hovering helicopter directly into the kill zone. The pilot warned him, “It’s too hot down there.”
Pitsenbarger replied,
“Those boys need help. Send me down.”
The canopy swallowed him as he descended.
He hit the ground already moving.
For the next several hours, Pitsenbarger navigated a living nightmare—rounds snapping past his head, explosions shaking the earth—but he wasn’t searching for shelter. He was searching for the wounded.
He dragged men to cover, ripping his own uniform into bandages. He splinted shattered legs with branches. He pressed canteens to the lips of the dying, whispering, “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
When an explosion tore a soldier’s arm from his body, others recoiled in shock. Not Pitsenbarger. He retrieved the severed limb, cleaned it as best he could, wrapped it carefully, and carried it with him—through mud, vines, and fire—because he refused to leave any part of a man behind.
The gunfire intensified. Helicopters tried to return, but the air was too thick with bullets. One pilot shouted through the radio:
“We can’t get in. It’s suicide.”
Pitsenbarger faced a choice: evacuate with the last helicopter, or remain with men who were running out of ammo, out of stamina, out of hope.
He didn’t even look back.
He waved the helicopter away.
A survivor would later say, voice breaking,
“He had a chance to get out. He stayed for us.”
As dusk closed in, the battle only grew more desperate. Pitsenbarger crawled from man to man, gathering ammunition from the dead and handing it to the living. When he’d exhausted his medical supplies, he fought—firing back at enemy lines, shielding wounded soldiers with his own body.
He was still helping others when a burst of enemy fire hit him.
Even as he collapsed, men swore they saw him try to push himself upright—still reaching for a wounded soldier who cried out nearby.
He died on the jungle floor, surrounded by the men he refused to abandon.
When reinforcements arrived the next morning, they found his body in a circle of scattered rifles, empty medical kits, and survivors who owed their lives to everything he had done.
One soldier said,
“If not for Pits, half of us wouldn’t have made it.”
Another added,
“He didn’t just save lives. He gave us the will to keep fighting.”
For decades, those men fought for him—writing letters, giving testimony, refusing to let his courage fade into silence.
In 2000, thirty-one years after his death, William H. Pitsenbarger was awarded the Medal of Honor.
As the citation was read, a veteran he’d saved whispered,
“He earned this a thousand times over. We’re here because he was there.”
Some heroes live long enough to hear the world thank them.
William H. Pitsenbarger gave his life so others could keep theirs.
And every heartbeat of the men he saved remains part of the legacy he never saw—
a legacy carved out of courage, sacrifice, and love stronger than fear.
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2025-12-05 18:00:12 GMT

A CHRISTMAS STORY FULL MOVIE
https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1843738917153542144

2025-12-04 16:16:03 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1843350315559030784
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2025-12-04 16:15:24 GMT

TONIGHT!
The final Supermoon of 2025 arrives on December 4th,
and we won’t see a Moon rise this high again until 2042.
This is more than an astronomical event —
it’s an emotional closing of a cycle you’ve carried for years.
This Supermoon brings:
• deep reflection
• sharp clarity
• truth rising to the surface
• release of old emotional weight
• a powerful ending before 2026 begins
It’s a rare moment where the sky mirrors your inner shift.
Because this Full Moon is in Gemini,
expect realizations, conversations, and decisions
you can no longer avoid.
This Moon ends what can’t continue.
And reveals what must rise next.
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2025-12-04 15:45:32 GMT

WWII TRUE STORY:
Gregory Pappy Boyington once stunned a roomful of Marine officers when he calmly pointed to a map of the Pacific and circled the most dangerous sector on it, then said he wanted to take the pilots no one else trusted and fly straight into the center of that airspace. The room thought he was joking. He was not.
Boyington never behaved the way a model officer was expected to.
He drank too hard.
He argued too loudly.
He broke rules with the confidence of a man who believed discipline mattered only if it served the mission.
But when he talked about air combat, every pilot in the room listened. He understood dogfighting with an instinct that looked closer to sixth sense than training.
Before the Marine Corps ever let him form a squadron, Boyington had already survived the brutal skies of China with the Flying Tigers.
He learned how Japanese fighters climbed.
He learned how their pilots reacted when surprised.
He learned that hesitation led to the loss of life faster than bullets.
He returned to American ranks carrying secrets and scars no manual could teach.
When he finally built VMF 214, the Black Sheep Squadron, he pulled together the pilots other commanders considered too young, too reckless, or too raw.
Boyington looked at them and saw potential.
He drilled them until they could fly in tight formation at impossible angles.
He pushed them until they could read his intentions from the tilt of his wing alone.
What the Marines had dismissed as misfits became one of the most feared air groups in the Pacific.
Boyington led by demonstration.
He attacked with frightening aggression.
He used altitude like a weapon.
He dove into enemy formations three times the size of his own and came out laughing.
Pilots described flying beside him as trying to keep up with a man who had already fought the battle in his mind before ever starting the engine.
In January 1944, luck broke.
His Corsair was hit.
He ditched in the ocean and woke to find himself aboard a Japanese submarine.
His war continued in a prison camp where food was scarce, disease was constant, and the days blurred into a long fight to stay alive. He watched men collapse from starvation. He watched brutality delivered with procedure. He held on by replaying air battles in his memory.
When the war ended, he emerged gaunt but unbroken.
He learned he had become America’s top Marine ace with twenty eight confirmed victories.
He received the Medal of Honor and the Navy Cross.
Crowds cheered the legend they had invented while he was locked behind bars.
Life after combat was not simple.
He battled alcohol.
He battled the memories that refused to quiet.
But he spoke to young pilots with honesty rather than glory, warning them that courage was not the absence of fear but the decision to keep flying despite it.
Gregory Pappy Boyington was never the polished hero the military liked to advertise.
He was something rarer.
A leader who could turn chaos into strategy, doubt into loyalty, and a handful of overlooked men into a squadron that rewrote the expectations of what was possible in the air.
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2025-11-29 01:21:23 GMT

The lawn chair cost $109 from Sears. Sturdy aluminum frame, waffle-pattern webbing, armrests that could hold a beer. Nothing about it suggested aeronautical capability. But Lawrence Richard Walters, age thirty-three, truck driver from San Pedro, California, had spent two decades convinced that with enough helium and determination, anything could fly.
Larry had wanted to be a pilot since childhood. At Hollywood High School, he'd done a science project called "Hydrogen and Balloons"—his teacher gave it a D. The U.S. Air Force rejected him for poor eyesight. He'd served as a cook in Vietnam instead of flying missions, then returned to civilian life driving trucks through Los Angeles traffic, watching planes overhead, nursing a dream that refused to die. At age thirteen, standing in an Army-Navy surplus store, he'd seen weather balloons hanging from the ceiling and thought: those could carry a person.
By 1982, the thought had become a plan. Larry and his girlfriend Carol Van Deusen bought forty-five eight-foot weather balloons from a surplus store, obtaining helium tanks from California Toy Time Balloons using a forged requisition that claimed the balloons were for a FilmFair Studios television commercial. He purchased the lawn chair. He gathered supplies: a pellet gun to pop balloons for descent, a CB radio, an altimeter, a camera, sandwiches, two liters of Coca-Cola, beer, water jugs for ballast, and a parachute—just in case.
He called his creation Inspiration I.
On the morning of July 2, 1982, in the backyard of Carol's mother's house at 1633 West 7th Street in San Pedro, Larry attached forty-two of the balloons to his lawn chair, filled them with helium, and strapped himself in. His ground crew—Carol and a couple of friends—watched skeptically as he donned his parachute, adjusted his supplies, and gave final instructions. The chair was tethered to his Jeep with three ropes. The plan was simple: hover at about 100 feet for an hour, enjoy the view, contact the FAA to explain what he'd done, then gently descend by shooting a few balloons.
When police had spotted them inflating suspicious quantities of giant balloons the night before, Larry had waved them off, claiming they were shooting a commercial. Now, on a clear Southern California morning, everything seemed ready. Larry sat in his lawn chair suspended beneath forty-two cream-colored weather balloons, gave the signal, and his friends cut the first rope.
The chair didn't drift lazily upward. It rocketed.
The remaining ropes snapped under sudden tension. Larry shot skyward at more than 1,000 feet per minute, the ground shrinking beneath him with terrifying speed. He'd planned for 100 feet. At 500 feet, he was already far beyond his target. At 1,000 feet, he began to panic. At 5,000 feet, he realized he'd entered the flight path of Long Beach and LAX airports. At 10,000 feet, the temperature dropped and the air thinned. At 13,000 feet, he struggled to breathe. At 16,000 feet—roughly three miles high, the altitude where small commercial planes cruise—Larry Walters in his lawn chair leveled off.
Below him, Los Angeles spread out in impossible detail. He could see the orange funnels of the Queen Mary. He could see Howard Hughes's Spruce Goose. He could see Catalina Island in the distance. The Pacific Ocean stretched blue and opaque toward the horizon. Up there, in the thin, freezing air, suspended beneath balloons in a $109 lawn chair, Larry experienced something close to peace.
"It was peaceful, beautiful, like nothing else," he would later say. The higher he'd gone, the more he could see, and it was awesome. The sea was blue and opaque. He could look up the coast like, forever.
Then a TWA pilot radioed air traffic control: "TWA 231, level at 16,000 feet. We have a man in a chair attached to balloons in our ten o'clock position, range five miles."
Air traffic controllers initially thought it was a joke. Then more pilots reported the sighting. A lawn chair. Balloons. A man waving. At 16,000 feet. In controlled airspace.
Larry grabbed his CB radio and contacted REACT, a citizens band radio monitoring organization. The recording of their conversation would become famous:
"The difficulty is, ah, this was an unauthorized balloon launch, and, uh, I know I'm in a federal airspace, and I don't know how to get down."
REACT: "What information do you wish me to tell them at this time as to your location and your difficulty?"
Larry's toes felt frozen. His teeth chattered. He was dizzy from thin air. His girlfriend's voice crackled over the CB, begging him to come down. But Larry had waited twenty years for this moment. "No way in heck," he thought. "After all this—my life, the money we'd sunk into this thing—just come down? No way in heck. I was just going to have a good time up there."
After forty-five minutes aloft—forty-three minutes longer than he'd planned—Larry finally accepted he needed to descend. He picked up his pellet gun and carefully aimed at the balloons in the outer ring, trying not to unbalance the chair. He fired. Pop. A balloon deflated. He fired again. Pop. Another balloon. Seven balloons successfully shot. The chair began dropping.
Then a gust of wind jerked the chair forward. Larry didn't fall—but his pellet gun did. He watched it tumble end over end toward the earth, taking with it his only means of controlled descent.
Now he had only the water jugs. He began slicing them open with his pocketknife, pouring out ballast, trying to control his descent speed through weight adjustment alone. The remaining balloons were slowly leaking helium from the cold altitude. Between the leaking helium and the dumped water, Larry descended—but he couldn't control where.
The chair drifted southeast from San Pedro toward Long Beach, covering about ten miles. After ninety minutes total flight time, Larry approached the ground faster than he wanted, the water jugs now empty, watching the earth rush up with no way to slow down further.
At 432 East 44th Way in Long Beach, the dangling cables from his balloons snagged power lines. The line broke with a sharp crack. The neighborhood went dark—a twenty-minute blackout affecting dozens of homes. Larry hung there, suspended a dozen feet above the ground, still strapped into his lawn chair, swaying slightly, alive.
He climbed down using a stepladder that residents brought. Waiting at the bottom was the Long Beach Police Department.
They arrested him immediately.
A reporter shoved a microphone in his face: "Why did you do it?"
Larry, still catching his breath, replied with five words that would define him: "A man can't just sit around."
The FAA inspector, Neal Savoy, was less amused: "We know he broke some part of the Federal Aviation Act, and as soon as we decide which part it is, a charge will be filed."
Larry initially faced a $4,000 fine for violating federal aviation regulations, including operating an aircraft within airport traffic areas without establishing two-way communication with control towers, and flying an unregistered aircraft. He appealed. The fine was reduced to $1,500 after the FAA conceded that lawn chairs don't technically require airworthiness certificates. The case made legal history: How do you prosecute a man for piloting a lawn chair?
Overnight, Larry became "Lawnchair Larry," a folk hero whose audacity captured imaginations worldwide. He appeared on Late Night with David Letterman ten days after his flight. He quit his truck driving job to become a motivational speaker. Timex featured him in a print advertisement. He received the top prize from the Bonehead Club of Dallas. The Darwin Awards gave him an honorable mention.
But fame was fleeting and unprofitable. Larry never made much money from his celebrity. He gave his famous lawn chair to an admiring neighborhood boy named Jerry—a decision he'd regret when the Smithsonian Institution asked him to donate it to their museum. He hiked the San Gabriel Mountains. He did volunteer work for the U.S. Forest Service. His fifteen-year relationship with Carol ended. He found sporadic work as a security guard.
"It was something I had to do," Larry had told reporters right after landing. "I had this dream for twenty years, and if I hadn't done it, I think I would have ended up in the funny farm. By the grace of God, I fulfilled my dream. But I wouldn't do this again for anything."
On October 6, 1993, at age forty-four, Larry Walters hiked into Angeles National Forest and shot himself in the heart. The boy who'd dreamed of flight, the man who'd achieved it impossibly, died alone among the trees.
Twenty years after his death, Jerry contacted Mark Barry, a pilot who'd documented Larry's story. The lawn chair was still in Jerry's garage, still attached to some of the original tethers and water jugs. The chair was loaned to the San Diego Air and Space Museum in 2014, then donated to the Smithsonian. Today it's displayed at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.—a $109 Sears lawn chair elevated to the status of historical aircraft.
Larry's flight inspired cluster ballooning as an extreme sport. Kent Couch flew 240 miles in a lawn chair in 2007. David Blaine reached 24,900 feet using balloons in 2020, with proper licenses and oxygen equipment. The 2003 Australian film Danny Deckchair told a fictionalized version of Larry's story. The musical 42 Balloons premiered in 2019. Pixar's Up, released in 2009, features a house lifted by balloons—an image that traces directly to Larry Walters floating over Los Angeles in his lawn chair.
Larry never got to be an Air Force pilot. He got a D on his balloon science project. He spent his adult life driving trucks through traffic. But on July 2, 1982, for ninety minutes, Lawrence Richard Walters flew higher than most small planes, looked down at the Pacific Ocean from three miles up, and lived a dream that everyone said was impossible.
The line between bravery and madness might be only forty-two balloons thick. But sometimes, when a man can't just sit around, that line stops mattering. Sometimes the only rational response to an irrational dream is to strap yourself into a lawn chair, grab some beer and sandwiches, and see what happens when you let go of the rope.
Larry Walters saw what happens. And for twenty years after his death, the world is still looking up, still laughing, still wondering—could I do that? And more importantly: should I?
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2025-11-26 16:06:13 GMT

Oh, Timmy boy, bless your heart—or whatever’s left of it after all the grift you’ve shoveled. You stand there in your pressed suit, flapping your gums about President Trump “distracting” from his problems? That’s rich coming from the guy who’s turned Minnesota into his personal ATM machine, siphoning off billions through your DFL mafia’s daycare scams, COVID cash heists, and election-rigging side hustles. Fraud cases? Those aren’t “isolated incidents,” you hack—they’re the tip of the iceberg you personally welded to the hull of this sinking state. And now you’re clutching your pearls over TPS for Somalis? Spare us the sob story about “civil war” in Somalia. We didn’t sign up to bankroll your imported vote farms and welfare pipelines, all while you let the real crooks—your donors, your appointees, your nonprofit parasites—pick our pockets clean. Trump’s not the distraction; you’re the damn arsonist lecturing the fire department on smoke signals.
As for you, Fox 9—wake the hell up. “Walz responds to Trump’s fraud criticisms: ‘He’s distracting from his own problems’”? What is this, a DFL press release with lipstick? That’s not a headline; that’s a sedative. Where’s the gut punch? “Walz Dodges Fraud Firestorm That Could Torch His TPS Tantrum”? Or “Governor Gaslights on Graft While Minnesota Bleeds Cash”? You’ve got the footage of this weasel squirming right there—use it to expose the syndicate, not tee up his deflection. Minnesotans aren’t tuning in for softball tosses; they want the truth hammer, not your kid-gloves fluff. Step up or step aside—your “unwillingness to confront hard facts” is just another enabler in the conga line.
This isn’t about race, Tim. It’s about racketeering. Behaviors. You and your crew exploiting every loophole, every loophole you wrote, to loot us blind. From the beginning—your “progressive” fairy tales were cover for the heist. Knowingly or not, you’re neck-deep in the harm now, and the suffering you’ve caused? It’s a ledger longer than your list of excuses. President Trump sees through your BS because guys like him built empires spotting snakes like you. Time to sweat, Governor. The whistle’s blown, the audits are coming, and 2026’s got my name on the ballot to dismantle your whole rotten network. Minnesotans deserve better than your thievery—we deserve justice.
For interviews or to get the real dirt on Minnesota’s crime syndicates:
• Phillip C. Parrish, Candidate for Governor of Minnesota 2026: [email protected]
• Campaign Manager Heidi Wanty: [email protected]
• Phone: 1 (612) 460-1717
Follow the fight: @phillipcparrish on X, parrish4mn.com, and tune into Freedom Talk with Phil @parrish4mn. Let’s drain this swamp—for good.
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2025-11-26 14:25:48 GMT

The Mission Beach Beauty Contest, San Diego July 1982
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2025-11-22 03:40:30 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1838811524307623936
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2025-11-21 13:35:43 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1838598927293620224
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2025-11-17 17:07:07 GMT

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1837202576754466816
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2025-11-16 15:36:21 GMT

- reply

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1836793009056784384?focusedCommentUrn=urn:comment:1836793009056784384:0:0:0:1836817345786535936
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2025-11-16 13:59:39 GMT

me ? = kiwf
https://www.minds.com/fs/v1/thumbnail/1836792924793217024/xlarge/?jwtsig=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJleHAiOjE3NjcyMjU2MDAsInVyaSI6Imh0dHBzOi8vd3d3Lm1pbmRzLmNvbS9mcy92MS90aHVtYm5haWwvMTgzNjc5MjkyNDc5MzIxNzAyNC94bGFyZ2UvIiwidXNlcl9ndWlkIjpudWxsfQ.0xL4nDZDqzGl6PS-WR-fKOBK8S-Ga9sD0qutNrlxb6U

2025-11-09 23:05:11 GMT

🚨 Dropping illegal immigrants off at rich liberals’ homes — let’s see how “open borders” feel now! 😤 The hypocrisy is staggering! | https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1834393582102908928

2025-11-09 14:33:00 GMT

#DogDay #DogDaySunday #SundayDogDay
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2025-11-08 14:52:37 GMT

Sophomore class officers of Marymount College, 1971.
which one got the job?
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2025-11-08 04:13:24 GMT

AMAZING PERFORMANCE COVER OF QUEEN'S BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY!
WOW! 😘 https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1833746370853462016

2025-11-06 17:24:11 GMT

ULTIMATE MEGA FAIL DARWIN AWARD WINNER COLLECTION!
https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1833220604304564224

2025-11-06 15:14:31 GMT

🌕 November 6 — The Moon and the Seven Sisters 🌕
Tonight, the heavens come alive in a rare celestial waltz — the Super Beaver Moon rises alongside the Pleiades star cluster, known as the Seven Sisters.
This luminous encounter bridges science and story — a cosmic alignment seen and celebrated since the dawn of time.
Across ancient myths, the Seven Sisters symbolized connection, love, and renewal — and tonight, the Moon joins their silent dance across the stars.
✨ When to Watch: Shortly after sunset
📍 Where to Look: Eastern sky
📸 Tip: Capture it with a steady shot — the Sisters will shimmer faintly beside the golden Moon.
🌌 Though separated by 400 light-years, their shared light reaches us together — a timeless reminder that distance cannot dim belonging.
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2025-11-01 21:45:48 GMT

LES PAUL
He built a guitar from a fence post in his garage—and accidentally invented the sound of rock and roll. Today marks what would have been the 110th birthday of a man whose name you might not know, but whose inventions you've heard in every song you've ever loved. June 9, 1915.
Waukesha, Wisconsin. Lester William Polsfuss was born into a world where music still meant orchestras, pianos, and acoustic instruments that could barely be heard past the third row.
Electric amplification was science fiction. Recording studios didn't exist. The idea that one person could layer their voice or instrument multiple times on a single track? Impossible. Young Lester didn't know he was supposed to accept those limitations. As a teenager in the 1920s, while other kids were playing baseball, Lester was in his garage building his own amplifiers from radio parts and telephone components.
He taught himself guitar by listening to records and slowing them down to figure out how the notes worked. When existing guitars couldn't produce the sounds he heard in his head, he started taking them apart and rebuilding them. His neighbors thought he was strange.
His mother worried he'd electrocute himself. He was just getting started. By the 1930s, performing as "Les Paul," he was playing jazz clubs and radio shows. But he had a problem: acoustic guitars were too quiet. Even with a microphone, they got drowned out by drums and brass. And the hollow-body electric guitars that were starting to appear had their own issue—they fed back and howled when amplified too loud.
So in 1941, working in his garage in Queens, New York, Les did something that seemed absurd: he took a 4x4 piece of solid railroad pine—basically a fence post—attached a guitar neck to it, mounted some pickups, and connected it to an amplifier. It looked ridiculous. Musicians laughed at it. He called it "The Log."But when he plugged it in and played, something magical happened. The sustain was incredible. The tone was clean. No feedback. No unwanted vibrations.
Just pure, amplified sound that could cut through any band and sustain for days. The Log was the first true solid-body electric guitar. And it sounded like the future. For years, Les tried to convince guitar manufacturers to produce it. They all said no. A solid chunk of wood with strings? That's not a guitar. Nobody would buy it. In 1952, after rival Leo Fender released the Telecaster and started selling solid-body electrics successfully, Gibson finally approached Les Paul. They asked him to help design and endorse their version of a solid-body guitar. The Gibson Les Paul was born.
Today, it's one of the most iconic guitars in history. Jimmy Page played one. Slash plays one. Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Gary Moore, Randy Rhoads—some of the greatest guitar moments in rock history came from that instrument. And it all started with a fence post in a garage. But Les wasn't done revolutionizing music. In 1947, he married Mary Ford, a brilliant singer and performer. Together, they started having hit records in the 1950s—"How High the Moon," "Vaya Con Dios," songs that sold millions of copies and topped the charts. But something about those records sounded... different. Impossible, actually. Mary's voice would harmonize with itself. Multiple guitar parts would interweave in ways that shouldn't be possible for one person to play.
The sound had depth and dimension that no one had heard before. Here's why: Les Paul was inventing multitrack recording in his home studio. He built his own 8-track recorder by stacking tape machines and synchronizing them. He pioneered overdubbing—recording one part, then playing it back while recording another part on top of it. He developed tape delay effects. He invented close-miking techniques. He experimented with phasing and reverb.
Every single one of those techniques is standard in every recording studio today. Every pop song, every rock album, every podcast uses methods Les Paul invented in his garage in the 1940s and 50s.The Beatles' "Sgt. Pepper"? Built on Les Paul's techniques. Every hip-hop track with layered samples? Les Paul's multitracking. That guitar solo that gives you chills? Probably played on a Les Paul guitar, recorded using Les Paul's methods. In 1988, Les Paul was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a performer. In 2005, he was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame for his technical innovations.
He's the only person ever inducted into both. Think about that. Celebrated equally as an artist and an inventor. A musician who could hang with the best jazz players in the world, and an engineer who held multiple patents for audio technology. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame's permanent exhibit about him calls him an "architect of modern music." That's not hyperbole. That's exactly what he was. Les Paul kept performing until he was 93 years old, hosting a weekly show at a jazz club in New York City where legends would drop by to jam with the man who'd invented the tools they used.
He died August 12, 2009, at age 94.But here's the thing about Les Paul: he never really left. Every time you hear a power chord ring out at a concert, that's The Log—his fence post guitar—echoing through time. Every time a singer records harmonies with themselves, that's Les in his garage, figuring out how to layer tape tracks. Every time a guitarist bends a note and lets it sustain into infinity, that's the solid-body design he pioneered. Most people who shaped the 20th century did it through politics or war or wealth.
Les Paul did it from a garage in Queens with a soldering iron, a 4x4 piece of wood, and an unshakeable belief that if he could imagine a sound, he could build a way to create it. He proved that you don't need a laboratory or a corporation or a fancy degree to change the world. You just need curiosity, determination, and a willingness to look ridiculous building a guitar out of a fence post while everyone tells you it'll never work.
Today would have been his 110th birthday. The best way to celebrate? Turn on any song you love. Listen to the layered vocals. The sustaining guitar notes. The way each instrument occupies its own space in the mix.
That's all Les Paul. That's his gift to every person who's ever loved music. Happy birthday to the man who taught us that innovation doesn't happen in boardrooms—it happens in garages, at 2 AM, when someone who refuses to accept "impossible" decides to build the future with their own hands.
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2025-10-30 14:13:22 GMT

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2025-10-30 12:39:30 GMT

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2025-10-30 12:28:46 GMT

War Of The Worlds - Original 1938 Radio Broadcast · Orson Welles
The War of the Worlds 1938 refers to a Halloween radio broadcast on October 30, 1938, by Orson Welles and his Mercury Theatre on the Air company. Presented as a series of simulated news bulletins, the dramatization of H.G. Wells' novel caused some listeners to believe a real Martian invasion was happening, leading to widespread panic! https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1830609546242953216

2025-10-23 18:38:10 GMT

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2025-10-22 18:34:35 GMT

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2025-10-22 18:34:18 GMT

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2025-10-19 20:17:50 GMT

HILTON hotels no longer take cash. Keep that in mind . The main shareholder is Blackrock.

2025-10-19 13:52:28 GMT

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2025-10-18 17:23:54 GMT

1970s girls. Not fat, not covered in tattoos, no phones.
What happened?
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2025-10-17 11:06:10 GMT

In 1968, during the intense and grueling battle near Khe Sanh, Vietnam, a U.S. Marine was photographed operating an M2 .50 caliber machine gun outfitted with a top secret scope—an uncommon but highly effective battlefield modification. The M2, nicknamed the “Ma Deuce,” was a powerful heavy machine gun capable of firing large-caliber rounds at long range, often used to defend fixed positions or provide suppressive fire.
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2025-10-17 11:05:07 GMT

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2025-10-15 14:11:53 GMT

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2025-10-13 01:36:42 GMT

Sydney Sweeney Has Great Jugs - Oktoberfest https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1824284851432329216

2025-10-12 14:27:08 GMT

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2025-10-10 14:09:16 GMT

KING CRIMSON - In the Court of the Crimson King is the debut studio album by English progressive rock band King Crimson, released on 10 October 1969, by Island Records.
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2025-10-06 13:57:58 GMT

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2025-10-06 02:18:18 GMT

THE GODFATHER
The life of Vito Corleone was loosely based on Lucky Luciano, known as "Don Turiddu" to his compari in his borgata.
Here are 12 examples to prove that Vito Corleone's life is about Lucky Luciano.
1. They both were from Sicily.
2. They both landed at Ellis Island when they came to America.
3. They both were diagnosed with smallpox upon arriving in America as children.
4. They lived in Manhattan's Little Italy neighborhood when they moved to America from Sicily.
5. They both were poor as children and even as young adults.
6. They both created America's version of Sicily's Honored Society.
7. Vito and Lucky worked with other ethnicities and were sometimes criticized for working with non-Italians by members of other families. Corleone made his Irish American foster son the Consigliere. Luciano worked with Jewish mobsters Meyer Lansky and Benjamin Siegel. Lansky was like a brother to Lucky.
8. They both put up with an evil Black Hand leader in their neighborhood. Those leaders viciously preyed upon innocent Italians. For Vito, it was Don Fanucci. For Lucky it was Don Masseria.
9. They both killed the evil Dons from their neighborhood.
10. They both were very intelligent.
11. Vito had a crooner that he helped reach to the highest level of stardom as an entertainer, and Lucky did as well. Vito had Johnny Fontane and Lucky had the Chairman of the Board.
12. They both were powerful leaders.
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2025-10-04 12:56:20 GMT

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666

2025-10-04 12:55:01 GMT

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2025-10-01 16:25:28 GMT

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2025-10-01 16:25:21 GMT

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2025-10-01 15:06:31 GMT

SPEAKER JOHNSON: "Democrats did something that is rather shocking to us."
"They prioritized taxpayer-funded benefits for illegal aliens over keeping the government open for American citizens." https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1820139996175142912

2025-09-29 21:46:24 GMT

BLACK SABBATH - Paranoid
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2025-09-27 13:01:10 GMT

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nasa is fake

2025-09-26 13:53:05 GMT

HEBOON & SHEBOON CHIMPOUT
Cam Higby 🇺🇸
@camhigby
·
Sep 24
This is the EXTREMELY civil discussion that the riot at Tennessee State (HBCU) started with.
In this video you watch the mob grow, begin shouting, destroying our stuff, possessing weapons, blocking our way out, and screaming racist epithets.
All because of this civil convo. https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1818309575669977088

2025-09-24 15:39:24 GMT

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2025-09-22 15:12:11 GMT

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Get rid of illegals, reduce prices, restore law and order, lower taxes and cost of living, stop men competing with women in all sports, restore manufacturing in the USA. And much more.

2025-09-22 01:19:08 GMT

PRESIDENT TRUMP Takes the Stage at Charlie Kirk Memorial - Watch Here
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2025-09-16 15:07:31 GMT

How Many #arianagrande ‘s Have There Been 😱
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2025-09-16 15:06:39 GMT

“NO MORE SECRETS. NO MORE SILENCE.”
Virginia Giuffre’s 400-Page Tell-All Memoir Is Coming Oct. 21 — And It Promises To Name Names That Power Has Spent Decades Protecting.
The announcement landed like a bombshell. Virginia Giuffre, the survivor who once brought Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell’s empire crashing down, will speak again — this time from beyond the grave. Her manuscript, locked away for years, is now scheduled for release.
Inside, sources say, are not just stories of abuse, but the names of “many friends” who once floated freely above suspicion.
The world froze. The countdown begins
On October 21, will the truth finally tear through palaces, politics, and Hollywood alike?
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2025-09-16 14:30:01 GMT

Napoleon Dynamite was filmed in just over 3 weeks on a $400k budget, earning $46 million, while star Jon Heder was paid only $1,000.
Napoleon Dynamite (2004) is one of the most surprising indie success stories of the early 2000s. Directed by Jared Hess and starring Jon Heder as the socially awkward yet unforgettable Napoleon, the film was shot in just 22 days in Preston, Idaho. With a budget of only $400,000, the filmmakers had to work with limited resources, relying on quirky writing, small-town charm, and eccentric characters to carry the story.
Despite its humble beginnings, the movie struck a cultural chord. It premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, where it was picked up by Fox Searchlight and Paramount. Word of mouth and its offbeat humor quickly turned it into a cult classic. Against all odds, the film grossed nearly $46 million worldwide.
Jon Heder, who had been a student at Brigham Young University before landing the role, was initially paid just $1,000 for his performance. After the film’s runaway success, he renegotiated for a share of profits, ensuring his place in one of Hollywood’s most legendary indie success stories.
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2025-09-15 12:00:33 GMT

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2025-09-07 14:50:59 GMT

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2025-09-05 12:12:37 GMT

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2025-09-05 12:12:24 GMT

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2025-09-05 12:12:08 GMT

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2025-09-04 21:21:08 GMT

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2025-09-04 21:18:49 GMT

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2025-09-04 12:10:07 GMT

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2025-09-03 00:45:34 GMT

Thomas L. Rosser entered history bleeding—wounded time and again in the Civil War, each battle threatening to end his story before it began.
Shot from his horse, scarred by saber and shell, he was the kind of officer who seemed to attract fire yet refused to yield. The Confederacy collapsed around him, but Rosser remained, a survivor who carried his wounds as both burden and proof of endurance.
When the frontier called, he traded gray for the dust of the West, taking his battle-forged grit into the Indian Wars. Out on the plains, where cavalry columns vanished into endless horizons, Rosser faced a new kind of fight—swift raids, sudden ambushes, and enemies who tested every trick of war he had learned.
He was no longer the reckless young general but a hardened fighter who had already seen too much blood.
He lived past the battles, his body scarred but his name still carried by those who remembered both the Civil War charges and the frontier campaigns. To some, Rosser was a symbol of persistence, a man who should have died under Confederate banners but instead endured long enough to fight under the wide Western sky. Was it stubborn pride that kept him alive—or the strange fate that marks men too difficult to kill?
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2025-09-03 00:08:16 GMT

The first McDonald’s restaurant was opened in 1948 in San Bernardino California.
Today we tend to think of McDonald’s as the pioneer fast food franchised restaurant. But by the time that first McDonald’s opened, there were already over 100 Dairy Queens.
In 1938 in Moline, Illinois, John Fremont McCullough and his son Alex developed a way to make soft-serve ice cream. They convinced a friend to offer the product at his ice cream store in Kankakee, Illinois, and it was an immediate smash hit with his customers.
Realizing they had a great business opportunity but needing a better way to dispense the ice cream, the McCulloughs soon discovered a freezer invented by Harry Oltz of Hammond, Indiana that dispensed a steady flow of ice cream. The rest, of course, is history.
The McCulloughs opened the first “Dairy Queen” (taking its name from the term the elder McCullough used for “cow”), in Joliet, Illinois on June 22, 1940, eighty-three years ago today. By 1947 they had over 100 franchised locations and just three years later they had over a thousand. Today there are more than 6,000 Dairy Queen locations, in 27 countries.
The first American fast food chain restaurants were White Castle, and that is a story for another day.
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2025-09-03 00:04:54 GMT

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❤️ get well fast!

2025-09-02 14:44:55 GMT

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https://europathelastbattle.net/

2025-09-02 12:12:01 GMT

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2025-09-02 12:11:20 GMT

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2025-09-01 16:36:51 GMT

most of you have no clue what this is
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2025-09-01 12:26:44 GMT

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2025-08-31 12:22:52 GMT

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2025-08-31 12:22:28 GMT

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