9/11 MEMORIAL SCAMS

The notion of 'thousands of victims' was crucial to generate universal public outrage. However, having 3000 angry families breathing down their necks was never part of the perps' demented plan. Our ongoing analyses and investigations suggest that NO one died on 9/11.

Postby simonshack on October 24th, 2009, 2:05 am

No picture (not even a candle) - and no tributes for "Mr Danz" on the CNN MEMORIAL (after 8 years).

http://edition.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2001/me ... /3608.html

Not a very popular man, father, son, cousin or husband, I guess...
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Postby stevenwarran on October 24th, 2009, 2:22 am

Actually, Simon, there are 24 pages of tributes for Ganz on the Legacy.com page---many of which can bring a tear to even my jaded eye.

http://www.legacy.com/gb2/default.aspx?bookid=104516

My problems with these tributes however:

1.) The widow talks to Vincent in the first person

2) Year after year, and the tone never changes, never matures.

3) Now the kids are writing to dad in the first person, as though he were listening.

4) Is there something about the Catholics I don't know about?

John 15:13,14 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'
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Postby simonshack on October 24th, 2009, 10:24 am

stevenwarran 4 Oct 24 2009, 01:22 AM wrote: Actually, Simon, there are 24 pages of tributes for Ganz on the Legacy.com page---many of which can bring a tear to even my jaded eye.

http://www.legacy.com/gb2/default.aspx?bookid=104516

My problems with these tributes however:

1.) The widow talks to Vincent in the first person

...

3) Now the kids are writing to dad in the first person, as though he were listening.




Steven,

I've spent untold hours reading all the available tributes on the CNN memorial (and elsewhere). Don't feel sorry for me - I've been kept in gales of laughter throughout the readings! :lol: I've made no statistic of it (yet) but I'd say - on the top of my head - that as many as 30% of the tributes are written in the first person, as if the dead were able to read it online from Heaven - or Hell ( or do we all drift into cyberspace when we pass away? :huh: )

Then, of course, we have "Derek James Statkevicus" ...
http://edition.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2001/me ... /3107.html


"God bless your wife and children. Your story has deeply touched me and I hope that God blesses your wife with a new son! I hope that he takes care of her and your son and new son!"
Derek James Statkevicus




Perhaps Derek James is addressing this message to his wife's new husband, wishing him good luck with his marital duties?...
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Postby fbenario on October 24th, 2009, 2:42 pm

Yesterday, in a post above, I raised the spectre (purposeful double-meaning) of William Caswell. Here are the two comments about him on the CNN list, the first of which to me is nauseating in its fiction-ness (notice she mentions War Of The Worlds - wonder why she had that on her mind?):


I used to think that planes were beautiful. It always seemed such an amazing thing to fly - to soar above the world, in a way, free from the reigns and problems of the earth. Now I can only see death when I look at planes? I see pictures in my head of planes crashing through buildings?I see videotapes from the morning of September 11th, when it just seemed like a horrible dream or a sick joke by some young movie director inspired by Orson Welles’ “War of the worlds”. Little did I know, when I first saw those images, that one of the planes had crashed into my family as well; and we would never be the same again. It wasn’t until my father’s phone call when he simply and almost, calmly said “I think we’ve lost him” that I immediately let out a strange cry, but it was unlike any cry I’d ever experienced. It was almost a gasp or a scream, more intense than any cry before or since. It was obvious to me then that a violence had been done? .to me. I wasn’t scraped or bruised?.no broken bones, in fact, to look at me I looked normal?.except for the puffy eyes and the sullen expression. But I was no longer normal, I had some invisible appendage that I had lost and could no longer function as before. I would see the media coverage of the rubble, twisted steel and concrete which were once the twin towers, the pentagon or the planes. What people can’t see are all the families of the victims trying to put the broken and twisted pieces of their family back together?but because they are so damaged and not all the pieces are there?they just don’t fit together anymore. The families are splayed out and crumpled just like the wreckage of the buildings and planes. And that wreckage will take a lot longer to clean up.

Julia Caswell Daitch, sister

Our lives barely touched; I know your sister, your mother taught me art. Your family is in my prayers.

Sharon, friend of family



Here is another obituary:


It was an unusual feature of life in their family, which Caswell's parents described as very warm and close-knit. The Boston-born Caswell, 54, was very close to his wife, also named Jean, and to her son from a previous marriage, Sean O'Connor.

And nothing mattered more to him than the education of his 17-year-old daughter, Jennifer, a senior at a Silver Spring, Md., magnet high school with a specialty in science. Together, the two had been looking into colleges for her.

http://www.legacy.com/Sept11/Story.aspx?PersonID=91744



Wouldn't you think such a close-knit family would have left some tributes to him on the CNN site?

So, now he seems to be clearly a vicsim.

Unfortunately, there is an entry for him in the SSDI. What do all of you think about actual entries in the SSDI - that they are just falsehoods which are entered for backstopping purposes? If so, why didn't 'they' just enter false SSDI info for ALL of the 3,000 'victims'?
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Postby fbenario on October 24th, 2009, 2:51 pm

Following up on my post of 5 minutes ago, since Caswell is in the SSDI, would it be appropriate to think he did actually die that day - just not in the Pentagon 'airplane'? Might they have murdered him for other reasons, and decided to use 9/11 as a cover? There would thus be an actual death, and a legitimate entry in the SSDI.

This would make him a real-life murder-victim (not a vicsim), just not from any part of the 'actual' 9/11 'events'.
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Postby hoi.polloi on October 24th, 2009, 3:48 pm

fbenario 4 Oct 24 2009, 01:51 PM wrote: Following up on my post of 5 minutes ago, since Caswell is in the SSDI, would it be appropriate to think he did actually die that day - just not in the Pentagon 'airplane'? Might they have murdered him for other reasons, and decided to use 9/11 as a cover? There would thus be an actual death, and a legitimate entry in the SSDI.

This would make him a real-life murder-victim (not a vicsim), just not from any part of the 'actual' 9/11 'events'.


fbenario,

I believe that the lack of someone's name in the SSDI is always suspect. I also think its inclusion is always suspect.

Writing "Homer Simpson" on a piece of paper and giving him a number does not make him a living breathing person - either alive or retroactively dead.

The onus is on those who care about these "dead" to prove they existed.

We - on the other hand - should be watching the movement of funds through these names. They were used in scams, banking deals and insurance fraud.

Perhaps each "victim", each "family member" and each "terrorist" in the simulated 9/11 world represents little more than a portal through which digital dollars have passed.

The scams and ID fabrication continue on a daily basis. Perhaps they found a way to create IDs that proved much easier and fail-proof than ID theft. If so, 9/11 was not the start of it and we are certainly just seeing the beginning of it.

Now, let's put a stop to it!
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Postby hoi.polloi on October 24th, 2009, 3:51 pm

MOHAMMED ATTACK!
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Postby brianv on October 24th, 2009, 7:34 pm

stevenwarran 4 Oct 23 2009, 06:53 PM wrote: Thanks Simon, for pointing out my broken links. They're fixed now. I think it was internet incompetence on my part, and not some nefariousness that was at cause.

EXCEPT for the suppressed Irish Independent article, which is, well, suppressed. I am sure it contains many juicy anomalies. We need a Dubliner with access to a hard-copy archive to search and seize.

P.S. I've been able on a scatter-shot basis to retrieve cached copies of certain 911movement.org pages, but when I tried putting the URL into archive.org I come up with a Robots.txt Query Exclusion.


We're sorry, access to http://74.125.113.132/search?q=cache:Xd ... =firefox-a]http://74.125.113.132/search?q=cache:XdG_5...lient=firefox-a has been blocked by the site owner via robots.txt.



which means a highly deliberate effort at suppression, so THANKS A LOT KILLTOWN!!


Steve, I think this is the article!

http://www.independent.ie/opinion/analy ... 92468.html

Wednesday September 11 2002

Corkman Ronnie Clifford was in the World Trade Center when the first plane flew into it. Through a combination of extraordinary circumstances he managed to escape with his life. It was only when he reached home that he discovered his family had not been so fortunate.

Corkman Ronnie Clifford was in the World Trade Center when the first plane flew into it. Through a combination of extraordinary circumstances he managed to escape with his life. It was only when he reached home that he discovered his family had not been so fortunate. Hampton Sides reports.

ON September 11 last year, the day of his daughter Monica's 11th birthday, Ronnie Clifford woke up almost giddy with excitement. There had been a thunderstorm the night before, with power outages across northern New Jersey, but the storm had swept to the east, leaving everything tingly and cool. Ronnie put on a blue suit and a yellow silk tie. He'd bought them just for this day.

He was not due in his New Jersey office but he wanted to look sharp for a business meeting he had scheduled with a group of Chicago software executives. The stakes were high: he was 47 and, if all went well, the meeting would profoundly change his business life, launching him into the brave new world of 'edu-trainment', a specialised niche of the internet that uses the web to train employees of large firms.

Clifford's younger sister Ruth, on whom he always called for fashion advice, had helped him pick out the suit and was especially keen on the yellow tie. "You always need to stand out," she told him emphatically a few days before.

The meeting was supposed to take place at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square but early that morning Clifford was told there had been a last-minute change. They were meeting at the World Trade Center Marriott instead.

Clifford kissed his wife Bridget goodbye and took the commuter train to Hoboken. Then, realising that he had time to spare, he decided to board the ferry. The Hudson air was bracing. "Manhattan was breathtaking," Clifford says. "Before a meeting it's always important to feel good and I felt great."

Ronnie is a fair-skinned man with thinning red hair, thick fingers and freckled arms. His eyes are blue and squinch into crow's-feet whenever he laughs, which is surprisingly often. Because he didn't leave the family farm in Cork and head for America until he was 27, his accent is strong.

At around 8.45am, Ronnie walked into the lobby of the Marriott, which was connected to the lobby of the north tower by a revolving door. As he was checking his yellow tie in a mirror, he felt a massive explosion, followed several seconds later by a reverberation, a warping effect that he describes as the "harmonic tolerance of a building that's shaking like a tuning fork". He peered through the revolving door into the lobby of the north tower. It was filling with haze. People were scurrying to escape what had become a "hurricane of flying debris".

Then the revolving door turned with a suctioning sound followed by a hot burst of wind, and in came a mannequin of the future. A woman, naked, dazed, her arms outstretched. She was so badly burned that Ronnie had no idea what race she was or how old she might be. She clawed the air with fingernails turned porcelain-white. The zipper of what had once been a sweater had melted into her chest, as if it were the zipper to her own body. Her hair had been singed to a crisp steel wool. With her, in the gust of the door, came a pungent odour, the smell of kerosene or paraffin, Ronnie thought.

Then the mannequin became a person, crying for help. Ronnie had little idea what had happened to her, or where exactly she had come from, but he knew that whoever she was, she was his responsibility now.

With no medical training, Ronnie Clifford scarcely knew what to do with the helpless woman who stood before him. He sat her down on the cool marble floor, then dashed into the bathroom and ran water into a clean black garbage bag that he found. He hurried back out and dribbled the contents over her body. Then he sat down on the puddled floor and tried to comfort her. Despite her condition, she was lucid.

He took out a pen and notepad and jotted down her information. Her name was Jennieann Maffeo. She was Italian-American, from Brooklyn, single, 40 years old. She worked for USB PaineWebber. She was an asthmatic, she said, and had an extreme intolerance to latex. She could not adequately describe what had happened to her.

She had been standing outside the north tower next to a man she knew, waiting for a bus, when she heard a loud crash above. In an effort to protect them from falling debris, a security guard herded everyone inside the tower's lobby. Suddenly, she told Ronnie, something bright and hot enveloped her, a vapour maybe. She thought it could have dropped down the elevator shaft. She was worried about the man who'd been next to her. Surely he was dead, she feared.

Periodically Ronnie yelled for a paramedic, but no one came. People were streaming through the revolving doors now and scattering. Ronnie didn't know what to do, what to say. His new suit was soaking wet, and wisps of skin clung to it.

He sat close to Jennieann, but didn't think he should hold her, for he feared that the germs on his hands would cause a fatal infection. He thought about his strong-willed sister, Ruth, and wondered how she would have handled this. She had once run a European day spa in Boston and had made skin health her professional and personal concern.

She knew what vitamins to take, what salves to daub on burns, and she always coached Ronnie to take care of his skin. She would have known what to do. Jennieann turned to Ronnie and looked beseechingly at him through her half-closed eyelids. "Sacred heart of Jesus, pray for us," she said.

Sitting in a pool of water, alone in the swirling stampede, he whispered the Lord's Prayer in her ear.

Ronnie Clifford was still whispering the Lord's Prayer in Jennieann Maffeo's ear when the second plane hit. The whole edifice rumbled and groaned and swayed, then the floor beneath him buckled hideously and seemed to raise him off his feet. Pieces of the building began falling around him. Ronnie knew then that they absolutely must get out.

"Jennieann," he said. "Can you stand up?"

"I'll try," she answered.

Ronnie removed his new suit coat and draped it over her front so that she wouldn't have to walk out of the building naked. A nurse who worked for the Marriott arrived with a bottle of oxygen and a mask, which she held over Jennieann's mouth as they shambled across the hotel's crowded lobby.

Drawing closer to the door, Ronnie heard someone say, "A plane hit the tower," and then someone else say, "A second plane hit the other tower," which was the first time he had an inkling of what had happened. He was growing more frustrated and alarmed. The crowds weren't moving fast enough through the bottleneck at the door. Jennieann was in excruciating pain. Finally, Ronnie held her arm and pushed impatiently through the throng.

"Out of the way!" he screamed in a voice he didn't know he had. "Make way!" When people turned to look, they shrank in horror, and suddenly Ronnie and Jennieann were able to file straight out, as though the waters were parting before them. "It was like I was taking Frankenstein out of the building," Ronnie says. When they emerged onto the street, Ronnie looked up and saw a lady plummeting toward the ground, clutching her purse. "I keep thinking about that," he says. "I can't get the image out of my head. Why was she worried about her purse?"

Even in her state, Jennieann was self-conscious about her nakedness. Ronnie understood that his suit coat wasn't enough. Then, out of nowhere, a huge gentleman appeared with a clean white tablecloth and gently wrapped it around Jennieann, like a shroud. It was as though he had foreseen her predicament. The man smiled and helped Ronnie get her down the steps.

A fireman was standing on the street corner, grimacing at the burning buildings, which were breaking apart. Ronnie could hear the sound of them cooking, the sound of rivets popping, the sighs steel girders make when they bend. With wild gesticulations, the fireman screamed at the lingering crowds, "Run, run! I'm telling you, just run."

"Can you run, Jennieann?" Ronnie asked. "I think so," she said. She looked at her feet. The rubber soles of what had once been her running shoes were melted to her feet.

"Let's try, then," Ronnie said. He took her arm, and in a tentative, shuffling gait, they ran.

Running from the buildings, Ronnie Clifford and Jennieann Maffeo found an ambulance beside a green knoll across West Street, near the World Financial Center. He spirited her, still wrapped in a table linen, into the hands of the paramedics and gave them the notes he'd scribbled that described her vital facts. Then the ambulance took off for the Weill Cornell Burn Center, uptown.

Ronnie called Brigid, his wife, from a pay phone. "I'm all right," he told her in a voice she would later describe as "close to panic". There was a long pause. "I've just gone through something terrible," he said. "I'm alive. I'm okay. I love you."

Ronnie hung up and tried to get his bearings. He turned to look again at the towers. The infernos were raging even more fiercely than before. People were still occasionally leaping from above, while firemen were marshalling in large numbers and marching into the buildings.

He tried to call his sister, Ruth, in Connecticut, but couldn't get through. Ruth lived in an old mansion beside a lighthouse on Long Island Sound. But then Ronnie remembered that she wouldn't be home. She was on a trip to Los Angeles to take her 4-year-old daughter, Juliana, to Disneyland and to attend a seminar by the New Age self-help author Deepak Chopra.

Her best friend, Paige Farley-Hackel, was coming along. Ronnie was certain they were in California by now. Whatever Ruth was doing, he hoped to God she wasn't watching CNN. Ronnie wasn't sure what to do next. He felt he ought to try to help people evacuate, or volunteer at a hospital. Then he thought about Monica, his daughter. He remembered that it was her birthday and that they'd planned to have a celebratory dinner that night.

She was turning 11.

Reversing his course from earlier that morning, Ronnie Clifford boarded the ferry to Hoboken. The ferry operators weren't even bothering with tickets; they were simply ushering people aboard. During the ride across the Hudson, Ronnie stood at the stern of the boat and watched the buildings burn. His begrimed jacket was slung over his shoulder, a memento of a business meeting that was not to be.

Then, at 9.59am, just as he reached the creosoted piers of New Jersey, the south tower collapsed. In a terrific, thunderous implosion, the 11 became a one.

Ronnie Clifford took the commuter train home from Hoboken. Next to him sat a lady who was deep into a bottle of booze. The cars were overcrowded with people on cell phones bawling to their spouses. Someone nearby had a BlackBerry, a wireless Internet device, and was receiving chilling updates on the tiny screen. Another one's hit the Pentagon. Another one's down in Pennsylvania. Another one's heading for the White House.

As the train hummed and clacked west toward home, Ronnie's thoughts drifted back to Jennieann. It seemed that she had saved his life, just as he had saved hers. If he had remained in that building much longer, perhaps helping other people, he'd be buried now. If the horrified crowds in the lobby hadn't instantly made way for them, he might still be trapped. In the queer way fate had worked, Jennieann had been his ticket out. He prayed for her.

When Ronnie Clifford arrived home in the late morning, he embraced Brigid and then climbed upstairs straightaway for a shower. More than anything else, he wanted to rinse off the residue of his morning. At least he had his daughter's birthday party to look forward to. He paused to think about what this would mean for Monica as she grew up, to have turned 11 on September ll, 2001. Monica was across the street at school, innocent, for now, of what had transpired in the city.

Ronnie, it turned out, was innocent, too. He had assumed it was only fair, after witnessing so much, after doing his part as a good Samaritan, that he should sail away on the Hoboken ferry, unscathed. But then he received a piece of news by phone from his brother-in-law that, with a bit of work on the Internet, he confirmed. Among the ticketed passengers on American Airlines flight 11, the first plane, the one that hit the north tower, had been Paige Farley-Hackel, his sister Ruth's best friend and a close friend of his.

A little later in the afternoon he was able to verify an even more devastating fact: Ruth and her four-year-old daughter, Juliana, had been on the second plane, the United Airlines flight from Boston.

Ronnie had somehow lost track of when Ruth and Juliana were supposed to fly to Los Angeles. He thought they'd gone out the day before. Paige took American, Ruth took United, but they both ended up in the hands of hijackers, friends in separate missiles aimed at the same target. Ronnie tried to imagine Ruth's last moments on the plane. Most likely, he thought, she would have been sitting calmly in her seat as they banked over the Hudson.

And in the seconds before the plane hit, she would have been holding little Juliana, and singing a song in her ear.

Later in September, Ronnie Clifford went to visit Jennieann at the hospital. She was wrapped in gauze from head to toe, save for narrow slits for her eyes and her mouth. Although Jennieann was heavily sedated and could not talk, her sister said she was aware of visitors.

Ronnie sat with her for a while, and urged her to be strong. Before he left, he placed his yellow silk tie on the pillow beside her, the tie he'd been wearing on the 11th, the one Ruth had coached him to wear. Ronnie wasn't sure why this gesture had occurred to him. He just wanted her to have something to remember him by. Something that stood out.

Jennieann was in the hospital for 41 days, drifting in and out of consciousness. The mounting infections, the skin grafts, the side effects of her medications, it was all too much for her system. On October 21, she died of kidney failure. That same day, workers at Ground Zero located Ruth's remains. The family had already held a service for her and Juliana a month earlier.

More than 1,200 people had showed up. There had been long, bittersweet remembrances and a Celtic bagpiper. Ronnie organised a huge party afterward on Ruth's front lawn.

As soon as he got home from the funeral, Ronnie collapsed in exhaustion. "My emotions were swimming around," he says. He was a nervous wreck. One time, Monica and a friend were horsing around on the hardwood floor and made a sharp thumping sound. Ronnie lost it. All he could think of was falling bodies, the woman with her purse.

Finally, recognising that the problem was "far greater than anything I could deal with," Ronnie went to a psychologist's office. Doug, the therapist, sat back in his reclining chair and invited him to talk about his life. He asked Ronnie to keep a journal of his dreams. He put him under mild hypnosis and had him relive every sight and smell and sensation of that horrible day. What started out as six hours a week has since fallen away to one hour every other week.

The first time Ronnie went out sailing after September 11, it was as though he'd never been on the water before. He's been a sailor ever since he was a boy in Cork, and in recent years he's kept a 26ft fiberglass boat in a slip in the Bronx. Now, though, he was unsteady, indecisive, skittish. He was reluctant to heel her over in strong winds. He was nervous about every piece of the rigging. Whenever the boat made a shudder, his heart raced.

But Ronnie kept at it. Every weekend, he was out there on the Sound. As the fall progressed, the winds grew stronger and he began taking more risks. One day, he was out in 25-knot winds and he realised something extraordinary was happening: He was smiling. Even the hole in the skyline ceased to prey on him as it had before. He scarcely even noticed it.

Sitting in the library of his house in Glen Ridge, I ask Ronnie if he thinks he'll ever find meaning in September 11, the day his daughter turned 11, the day his sister and niece smashed into a building at the very moment he was reciting the Lord's Prayer into the ear of a horribly burned stranger.

"Meaning?" he says, turning the word over in his mind. "It was so horrible, so horrendous, there's got to be goodness afterward. To me, the trade towers represented positive and negative. Before and after. Good and evil. Two ones."

"For me," Ronnie says, "the meaning is the rest of my life."

/edit

Jeannieannennenn Maffeo http://www.legacy.com/gb2/guestbookentr ... kId=118285

A paltry number of same old comment spam type messages.


April 14, 2002

I only knew Jennieann from the magazine accounts while she was still in the hospital. Our names were so much the same I began praying for her survival. I was devastated when I saw her name on the list of dead in the Los Angeles Times. I am a native New Yorker but I moved to California when I was 21. That was 50 years ago.My heart is in New York still and my prayers are with Jennieann's family and all the families who lost loved ones. All the transplanted New Yorkers I know here are with you in spirit every day. God bless. ~ Ann Maffeo



December 13, 2001

I didn't hear about Jeannieann Maffeo until a few weeks after 9/11. Because my last name is also "Maffeo" I was told by an acquaintance that Jeannieann's story was in Time Magazine. When I read about her fate, my heart broke for this young and innocent woman who thought her morning was just like any other morning. Every time I hear of such a tragic event, I always hope and pray that shock has instantly and mercifully lifted the victim beyond pain.

May Jennieann's soul rest in peace.

Angela Maffeo
Everett, Massachusetts
~
Angela Maffeo


I pointed the Angela's before. Dantz's wife is Angela, as is every other second commentor at 'legacy'. Christine is a big hitter too!!
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Postby stevenwarran on October 24th, 2009, 8:00 pm

Wow brian, that is intense.

New info:

flaming miasma hits her in the North Tower lobby and she spins into the Marriott from there.

The Laying of the Yellow Tie on the Pillow came before her death on day 40 (Biblical reference?)

Jeannieann Maffeo has a sister (unnamed)

Clifford has a wife named Bridget. (Duh.)

What's with all this high-toned stuff? "His library?" "Ruth lived in an old mansion beside a lighthouse on Long Island Sound?" He emigrated off a farm in Ireland at age 27 and he sounds like Irish trash.
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Postby brianv on October 24th, 2009, 8:03 pm

stevenwarran @ Oct 24 2009, 08:00 PM wrote: Wow brian, that is intense.

New info:

flaming miasma hits her in the North Tower lobby and she spins into the Marriott from there.

The Laying of the Yellow Tie on the Pillow came before her death on day 40 (Biblical reference?)

Jeannieann Maffeo has a sister (unnamed)

Clifford has a wife named Bridget.

What's with all this high-toned stuff? "His library?" "Ruth lived in an old mansion beside a lighthouse on Long Island Sound?" He emigrated off a farm in Ireland at age 27 and he sounds like Irish trash.


Yes all that and Irish trash? I'm Irish trash!

See the on edit!
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Postby stevenwarran on October 24th, 2009, 8:07 pm

So am I! That gives me the right to say it! I made my granny a grandmother when she was only 33! Definitive characteristic of white trash: youthful progenitor!

Thanks brian! For the Christology and Angelology.

Now go find us the Time Magazine article!

(Sorry. I don't mean to sound like I'm issuing orders, but I'm high on the IT article find.)
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Postby brianv on October 24th, 2009, 8:23 pm

To my knowledge Mr Ronald Hans Clifford has never appeared on Irish TV nor has he been interviewed by any of the media. His brother John was interviewed by the BBC.

I don't believe this person exists in the real world!
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Postby hoi.polloi on October 24th, 2009, 8:26 pm

I know this isn't in Steve Warran's list of people to confirm, but I thought I would go ahead and search for the photographer of the McCourt article. As so much 9/11 story-telling focuses on Boston, Boston University, MIT and MITRE corporation, I thought the most probable Patrick Whitemore was this one:

Patrick M Whittemore
possibly
Patrick Michael Whittemore
Age 34

Previous residences:
Manchester, NH
Quincy, MA
Norwood, MA
Belmont, MA

With ostensible relatives:
Jr Charles r Whittemore
Kelli A Whittemore
Charles Jr Whittemore
Chas R Whittemore
J Charled Whittemore
Kristine S Whittemore

Really? There's a Charles r, Jr., a Charles Jr. a Chas R and a J Charled???

Either some Internet searches aren't as fruitful or "reality confirming" as we might assume they are, or this family has a serious creativity problem with naming children. Nevertheless, he does get hits, apparently there's a south Boston connection for this person who only does photos for the Boston Herald (yikes!).

Or perhaps it's the Patrick S Whittemore of Newbury, MA

Anyway, strange photographer and strange "guard" - the New London Police Union?

I am not sure but I still call a fake until there is better, spookiness-free evidence.
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Postby SmokingGunII on October 24th, 2009, 8:36 pm

Great post, brianv!

I lost count of the "11" references, the religious connotations - even a shroud - and they even managed to squeeze in a grassy (green) knoll reference.

Boy, do these people have a warped sense of humour.
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Postby stevenwarran on October 24th, 2009, 9:03 pm

Kathleen Nicosia - AA11 Flight Attendant

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Help! I know this is off topic but I can't help myself! Doesn't Kathleen's hairdo look like Marie Antoinette meets The Flying Nun meets Attila the Hun meets John Travolta in Grease? Is it time for me to start insulting Greek woman? Does she use Clariol "Black Hole," or does only Ritz and her washing machine know for sure?

Can you imagine her UNDERARM HAIR????? I hope she flew wide-bodied 757's! I'd charge her an extra-luggage fee. Can you picture her whipping that mass around quick: "Did you say Diet Coke? Want some extra nuts?"

http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=w ... AR7VjZBdKw
stevenwarran
 

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