Owls, Whiskey, and the Lords of America

Inside the Freakshow at Bohemian Grove

Somewhere in the redwood-soaked belly of Northern California, beyond the granola trails and Bigfoot bumper stickers, there's a forest where the world's most powerful men strip naked, don robes, light fires under a giant stone owl, and pretend the world isn't burning.

Welcome to Bohemian Grove—the summer camp of kings, CEOs, presidents, and the puppeteers of the Western empire.

They call themselves bohemians, but don't be fooled. This ain't no commune. This is where Wall Street sings madrigals, where Pentagon brass piss on the ferns like wild men, where billionaires do improv theater in drag. Nixon once called it "the most faggy goddamned thing you could ever imagine, with that San Francisco crowd." That's not gonzo flourish. That's on tape—May 13, 1971, Oval Office recording. And you and I are most definitely not invited.

Every July, about 2,600 of America's elite kick things off with a little something called the Cremation of Care. Picture this: a hooded procession, Gregorian chanting, a casket labeled "Dull Care" hauled up to a 40-foot concrete owl—yes, an owl—and burned like a sacrificial to-do list. The idea is to "rid themselves of worldly concerns." Translation: screw guilt, let's drink.

It's half Shakespeare, half Eyes Wide Shut, with a dash of Burning Man for oligarchs. They say it's symbolic. I say it's spiritual Febreze for the morally bankrupt.

The Grove is split into 118 camps with names like Hill Billies, Mandalay, and Lost Angels. Each has its own decor, liquor stash, and power dynamics. Membership is invitation-only, often generational—with a typical 15-year waiting list for a fraternal inheritance of influence that money alone can't buy.

There's no press, no women, no accountability—just whisky, cigars, and the freedom to let your net worth hang out in the breeze. The urinals are trees. The clothes are optional. The conversation? Off the record, but dripping with subtext.

This is where Kissinger shares brandy with Rupert Murdoch while conspiracy theories about secret cabals swirl outside the gates. Where a speech on military readiness might be followed by a piano recital and a roast of Bill Clinton. Where Reagan networked his way through California politics and Nixon bitched about the whole scene on White House tapes.

The club's official motto? "Weaving Spiders Come Not Here"—supposedly banning business deals. But when you put 2,600 titans in the woods with unlimited booze, networking happens. Call it what you want.

They stage full-on plays featuring senators in eyeliner playing ingénues. Think Broadway meets the CIA's improv unit, complete with full orchestras and drag performances that would make RuPaul blush. The Grove Play is performed for one night during the final weekend, involving some 300 people, including chorus, cast, stage crew and orchestra.

It's power performing itself, laughing and lit and completely shielded from consequence.

Naturally, the secrecy has drawn conspiracy theories like flies to a gilded carcass. Alex Jones crashed the gates in 2000 and filmed the Cremation of Care like a kid sneaking into a haunted frat party. The footage went viral. The theories exploded: Globalist death cult? Pagan Illuminati? The birthplace of the New World Order?

Maybe. Maybe not. But you don't need reptilian overlords to see what it really is: a place where America's ruling class plays make-believe while the rest of us work, worry, and bleed. Where power bonds over shared rituals and reinforces its own mythology in firelight and shadow.

Bohemian Grove isn't where the world is run, but it's where the runners decompress and network in ways no democracy could ever vote on. It's a two-week retreat where titans of industry and government shed their public personas and perform an older, stranger version of American power—complete with pagan theatrics, bespoke cocktails, and the kind of access that makes a mockery of meritocracy.

Most Republican presidents since the 1920s have been members or guests, along with Fortune 500 CEOs and media moguls. The Grove is protected by sophisticated security year-round, using ex-military personnel, thermal cameras, and motion detectors.

In a world supposedly built on transparency, the Grove remains what it's always been: a summer sanctuary for empire, where the owl watches over rituals of wealth and influence that the rest of us will never be allowed to see.

So next time someone tells you America rewards merit above all else, remember: in the forest of Bohemian Grove, the only thing that matters is whether you're invited to piss on the trees.

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Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.