6 Degrees between Ted Kaczynski and Jeffrey Epstein: Part 1

In 2003, writer and director Lutz Dammbeck released the German documentary Das Netz (released in the US as The Net: the Unabomber, LSD and the Internet. The film goes into some of the many stunning connections between the burgeoning technology of information theory, computers, cybernetics, mind control, the counterculture… and how all of that ties into the story of Ted Kaczynski.

In this series, we will be exploring the “six degrees of Jeffrey Epstein” that connects the disgraced pedophile, trafficker and financier to Kaczynski by way of some of the primary figures in the creation of Silicon Valley as well as the creation of the counterculture in the 1960s and beyond.

Kaczynski, as the documentary points out, was convicted of mailing bombs to universities, scientists and airports over a period of decades. In fact, Unabomber, is actually a law enforcement designated shortening of “University and Airport Bomber.” One incredibly interesting thing about the documentary that was pointed out by David Livingstone, author of Transhumanism: History of a dangerous idea is the connection between the network that Kaczynski is alleged to have attacked and Jeffrey Epstein.

“Bear in mind that Epstein was funding a lot of science long before he had a (deservedly!) bad reputation to launder. It was a prior genuine interest.” Brand, (who had been seen with “Epstein’s girls” in photos multiple times) tried to claim.

Not everyone was buying Brand’s “smokescreen” story of how and why Epstein was able to go on for so long. Someone shares a photo of Brand with two young girls purported to have been flown in on Epstein’s “Lolita Airlines.” Brand is flanked by what appears to be two teenage girls. Not just Brand but other figures tied to this same current both in science and literature, such as Marshall McLuhan, cyberneticist Gregory Bateson and others.

Dammbeck also reaches out to John Brockman himself, an important figure in the intersection of the underground worlds of both the hard science of computers and the arts. Brockman would bridge many worlds, that of Brand and his Whole Earth Catalog hippies as well as that of what would become the geek masters of the universe of Silicon Valley.

Brockman was involved in “happenings” such as those put on by Andy Warhol that resulted in the Velvet Underground. He was like a connective tissue between various subcultures spending time with scientists as well as the likes of experimental music superstar John Cage.

When multimedia art became popular he found his role as the marketer of the “digerati” quite stimulating and profitable. Considering his closeness to Edge.org the Epstein funded science publication, maybe a little too stimulating… But what does all this have to do with the Kaczynski?

Dammbeck points out that it seems that the Unabomber’s stated victims are often connected to what he terms the “Brockman network.” Of course there are the likes of Kirby Sommers, who makes unsubstantiated claims about Epstein such as his supposedly being tutored by Kaczynski at one point. Despite a minefield of disinformation, there are some rather compelling links between these various circles, this network/net, Dammbeck explores in his documentary.

Brockman in his floppy hat and crumpled overcoat looks like some self styled Indiana Jones type. His “Expanded Cinema Festival” was highly important to the rise of multimedia art that would inspire some of the zine and mail art of the 70s and “video art” of the 80s and 90s. The confluence of forces that he managed to wield and market made him an indelible fixture on multiple scenes. It was John Cage who would hand Norbert Weiner’s Cybernetics book over to Brockman, in fact.

One aim of the multimedia philosophy was “rearranging the senses” which sounds similar to the aim of Rimbaud, using drugs, alcohol and decadence to “derange the senses” to create a reality that corresponds to one’s desires and will. Brockman friend and client Stewart Brand would be tied to Ken Kesey, the “acid tests.” He also coined the term “personal computer.” LSD guru and CIA asset Dr. Timothy Leary would also heavily push the computer current in the 80s and 90s around the same time that Apple’s Steve Jobs was experimenting with psychedelics.

Brand would also be responsible for the first ever alternative computer network, separate from the military network the Arpanet, centered around nodes at various universities long known to have worked with the military-industrial complex and intelligence. “The Well” it was called. This was a time of great techno-optimism that lasted on into the early 2000s carried along by the likes of Douglas Rushkoff.

Brand, like Kesey, had military ties. He had been a Lieutenant in the US army, stationed at Ft. Dix, New Jersey. On the weekends he would head to the lower east side of New York where he spent time hanging out with artists around 1959-1960. This would eventually lead to Brockman’s involvement in USCO (US Company, a group of artists and engineers, foreshadowing the role Brand would have tying these seemingly unrelated worlds together).

An apparent coincidence or seeming synchronicity led to Brand becoming involved with Kesey and the Merry Pranksters. Brand had been taking photographs at the same reservation that the chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was supposedly from. This, according to the tale told by Brand, is how he ended up with an in to meet Kesey via a mutual friend.

Next thing you know, Brand would be on the bus, Furthur, the iconic Merry Pranksters van was driven by arch-Beatnik Neal Cassady. The house band for the Pranksters’ “acid tests” were a little group called The Warlocks. They would later become famous as the Grateful Dead.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as the many weird and varied connections in this web of intrigue involving the world wide web, security state authoritarian tech, the rise of Silicon Valley and the Unabomber.

Stay tuned for part II.

Ghettoblaster, 2007: Special Report: Bewilderoo, TN

Still awaiting surgery, so since I can’t sit up and type out long form pieces for the moment, here’s a little blast from the past. I was lucky enough to get press passes to cover Bonnaroo every year between 2003 and 2009 on behalf of Get Underground, Ghettoblaster, AMP magazine and Spacelab. This is the first section of my attempt at gonzo music journalism, Summer of 2007 in Manchester, Tennessee. You can find the link to the full piece from Ghettoblaster at the bottom of the page. But without further ado, welcome to Bewilderoo…

SPECIAL REPORT: BEWILDEROO, TN

AUGUST 1, 2007

A not so common look at the not so common festival.

by Phillip Fairbanks

Though the festivities didn’t begin until June, my Bonnaroo story begins in March, when I got my confirmation that I would indeed be receiving press credentials and tickets for the big show. In a way, here in early July, I’m coming full circle as I put pen to paper in attempts to capture some literary tincture of that magic something, that “temporary autonomous zone” that for four days in Manchester, Tennessee is known as Bonnaroo.

The first elements are preparation and anticipation. March through June were a whirlwind of consciousness expansion including, but not limited to, ingestion of obscure, legal herbs from the Oaxacan, Mayan and Aztec canon, shadowboxing, glossolalia, yoga and failed attempts at emulating the painfully intricate moving meditation of Master Li Hongzhi’s Falun Dafa. At about the same time, I was working on a sort of counterculture Tony Robbins, a la Tim Leary and Robert Anton Wilson that resulted in pages of maps, models, schemas, tips, tricks, mantras and insufferably incoherent psychobabble based on anchoring intense states for ready retrieval. Here I was treading on dangerous waters. My roommates at the time, who had dealt with this quasi-psychotic behavior since March had had enough by the time May rolled around.

Armed with new and activated knowledge, or as Bob Wilson deems it “neuro-somatic knowhow,” I didn’t let this snag steal the momentum of the movement, but consciously down-shifted at this point. Besides, after a frightening Salvia Divinorum experiment gone awry, it seemed high time to arc down my emotional parabola.

Being a small town boy from a rural area, having something as big as Bonnaroo breeze through once a year next door, so to speak, is a dreamlike experience. Being at times, a pretentious performance artist for an audience of one, constantly crafting an opus I like to call, my life, the annual festival down on the farm down the road is always an ordeal, a crucible and a rite, not merely a convergence of people, art, music and drugs (though these are typical cornerstones of many ancient ritual festivals as well). Needless to say I got no sleep Wednesday night and word comes that they’re letting folks in to set up camp so we head to Manchester.

I get dropped off Thursday morning around 3:30 in the A.M. By the time sun comes up my tent is still unpacked. It’s hot and there are thousands of people surrounding me in every direction. I’m closed in. Bonnaroo has become overnight. A rush of adrenaline tinged terror wraps icy tendrils about me. I know that my notorious lack of direction will ensure that I will lose my site if I leave. After meeting Will and his group, I decide it might be safe to leave as long as I don’t get separated from them and lose all chance of ever rediscovering my campsite. Already I’m feeling that soft sadness that accompanies this small town boy’s Bonnaroo experience. It’s beautiful, like life, but like life its over before its begun, and I make sure to soak up every ounce of that weird tincture of emotions that infectiously spreads. Like Norman from New Jersey had corroborated earlier. The world is a strange and weird place.

I get dropped off Thursday morning around 3:30 in the A.M. By the time sun comes up my tent is still unpacked. It’s hot and there are thousands of people surrounding me in every direction. I’m closed in. Bonnaroo has become overnight. A rush of adrenaline tinged terror wraps icy tendrils about me. I know that my notorious lack of direction will ensure that I will lose my site if I leave. After meeting Will and his group, I decide it might be safe to leave as long as I don’t get separated from them and lose all chance of ever rediscovering my campsite. Already I’m feeling that soft sadness that accompanies this small town boy’s Bonnaroo experience. It’s beautiful, like life, but like life its over before its begun, and I make sure to soak up every ounce of that weird tincture of emotions that infectiously spreads. Like Norman from New Jersey had corroborated earlier. The world is a strange and weird place.

Read more at Ghettoblaster. 

Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”

Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”

from the tentatively entitled: “house of the yellow lichen” (to be a lovecraftian horror by way of burroughs/thompson in the vein of philip k. dick)

Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”


Consider it screwed:

you know though, it’s probably best not to take most of what i say without a dose of salt (and maybe a tablespoon of activated charcoal if you have any about). i don’t know what it is i’ve got but i’m pretty certain by now it’s contagious and it may very well spread as easily through thought as any other vector. orgonian overdose? mk-ultra? electromagnetic pollution? satellite array transmitted assassination networks (SATAN, for short), i dunno what it is these days but lately it’s like a constant headache, fog or else a mania. Feel my brain all tingly…I wonder if listening to black metal while generating new neurons will have any repercussions?


Better than my old buddy “big red’s” idea though surely: Huff raid, he said, it only kills the weak braincells


oh well, at least i’ve been recording/documenting all i’ve seen and thought i saw. all the connections i mined or imagined. I’m a goof, sure but sometimes I’m pretty sure that maybe deep down I could be great undifferentiated connective tissue, too…

i will never forget the first story i was told when i finally made it to the yellow house:
It was up here in Northern Cali, maybe Ukiah but I think probably more like Garberville, I knew a guy who would crystalize Raid by spraying it on an electrified screen. He would scrape it off and bag it up and sell it as speed. Apparently, the pyrethrins short circuit your nerves and create an amphetamine like sensation…as they DIE.


Well that’s a nifty recipe for a hot shot. I exhaled, remembering the ridiculous trek following Nathan (not the Nathan I had come to McKinleyville, home of the largest totem pole in North America to see, but it seemed portentous at the time, so I followed) that ended with me in the middle of nowhere, dressed in leather fringe and tight, paint stained purple denim, twisted ankle throbbing in Burbank cast off mock-moccasins). That needs to go into a story though, I thought to myself.

True story. He said. I watched him do it.
Whoof… I barked, just under my breath
Yeh…it was brutal. His old lady had a smack habit. Dope don’t buy itself. Caveat emptor..
Yikes, cuz what fun is fucking a girl to death when you could see her die so much more slowly by letting her boyfriend fuck HIM to death and let her live with THAT debt

Hey, you roll the dice, you takes your chances…

i need to get on with it though, at least draw together the important parts, let you make of it what you will. something about a psychedelic sentient lichen and that place they called the house near hootenannie where
the floor rotting in was nothing to the mist of must that gently constricted and tickled the inner soft fleshy palate of throat flesh
then there was
the society of seekers scene, only known as the society of seekers to hangers-on, “prospects” and the scant group of researchers who seem themselves nearly as cultish and obsessed. society members (most of whom manage to evade any public note apart from basic census data)

on your role, complete in every detail, the rollercoasterdips and dives
i’m getting off track again though, aren’t i. this always happened. the weird, wired way my brain worked, the way i thought in a sort of web, wrought with recursive loops. sometimes i drop the golden thread entirely, at that point i’m done for.


like, have you ever woke up, either from anesthesia, being knocked in the head hard enough to cause a concussion or the wrong combination of compounds? that first second, the sort of ether huffing, laughing gas “wah wah” that you get from good model glue, the warmth in the pit of your cheeks and then the brightness and a sense of overhwelming “okayness” followed by a swift and sharp panic, of “where am i, what just happened, hasn’t this happened before, who am i?”

TO BE CONTINUED (perhaps)