I always had the general impression that radio shock-jock Alex Jones was a huckster—basically an entertainer, as opposed to a serious person.  I’d never bothered to listen to his broadcasts, and all I knew about him was secondhand.  My recent encounter with Jones gave me the chance to find out the truth for myself.

The occasion was the Casey Research 2014 Summit, held over a long weekend in San Antonio, Texas.  Douglas Casey is the author of Crisis Investing: Opportunities and Profits in the Coming Great Depression, The International Man, and a half-dozen other best-selling investment books, all written from a libertarian perspective.  I was surprised—and flattered—to be invited as one of the speakers, since this is essentially a conclave of top-notch investment experts, which I most definitely am not.  Yet the Casey Research people had not only invited me but given me top billing.  And the honorarium was nothing to sneeze at.

Still, I was tempted to refuse the invitation, for two reasons.  First, I hate going anywhere.  If it isn’t on my little half-acre of paradise, then I’m usually not much interested in it.  And second, the presence of Jones on the platform, I feared, presaged disaster.  Known as a wild man who would say practically anything, not to mention his decidedly weird “Truther” views on the question of the September 11 terrorist attacks—he thinks they were an “inside job,” as the Truthers put it—Jones is the archetype of the “extremists” about whom respectable types are always warning us.  If there’s a conspiracy theory he hasn’t embraced, then it’s probably because of an oversight on his part.  Establishment pundits are constantly trying to tie Jones in with libertarians, even though there is no real connection.  Whenever Ron Paul or Rand Paul appears on Jones’s radio show, the eyebrows go up, and the guilt-by-association attacks begin.  As the editorial director of Antiwar.com, my life doesn’t belong to me, and I have to be careful with whom I appear on the speakers’ platform.  Thus, I was faced with a conundrum: Would cowardice or curiosity win out?

In the end, my curiosity got the better of me.  What, I wondered, would Jones say?  What is he really like?

I would soon find out.

The event was held at a resort on the outskirts of San Antonio.  On 300 acres of the former Rogers-Wiseman Ranch, totally self-enclosed, with two pools, a 27-hole golf course, and a man-made river, the place is a paradise of leisure and enveloped in a silence broken only by the keening of birds and the cries of kids cavorting in the pool while their parents look languidly on.  I spent most of my time at the water’s edge, reading the collected short stories of Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette and—reverting to my 12-year-old self—floating down the Ramblin’ River on an inner tube.

The hypnotic peace that settles over these resorts like a narcotic cloud had me in such a reverie that I almost missed the banquet at which Jones was scheduled to speak.  I dashed from the pool, put away my book, and ran upstairs to get dressed, barely getting to my table in time.  Jones was just starting, and his speech was promising.  He invoked the names of Murray Rothbard and other libertarians, as he cited examples of the federal government’s depredations: war, government spying, tightening regulations, etc., etc.  So far, so good.

But then his tone began to change: Jones began to sweat profusely as he spoke, and his voice started to boom, echoing off the walls and assaulting the ears.  His fist began pumping up and down, as if his arms were pistons, and he a noise machine—up, down, up down . . .

That’s when the crazy talk began.

He began speaking about the 28 pages redacted from the report of the Joint Inquiry on 9/11 compiled by the intelligence committees of both houses of Congress.  Rep. Walter B. Jones (no relation) has recently started a campaign to make these pages—which detail the involvement of foreign governments in the September 11 attacks—public.  Alex went on to claim that Representative Jones—who has read the mysterious 28 pages—told him what they contain, strongly implying that they revealed the Saudi government’s involvement in September 11.  Jones, of course, is forbidden by law to reveal anything about those pages and would be charged with a felony if he ever did so.

Ranting and railing like a caricature of the archetypal demagogue, Alex mopped his face with a handkerchief, and for a moment I wondered: Is he consciously trying to imitate Hitler?  At the same moment, the person sitting next to me turned and said, “Well, he’s doing quite a Hitler imitation, don’t you think?”  Those around me were all on the same wavelength.

Alternately accusing the Saudis and the U.S. government itself of being behind the terrorist attacks, his voice rose higher and higher, until he was literally screaming with sweaty rage, mopping his brow and shaking his fist heavenward.  At this point, I saw several people walk out.

And then it was time for questions from the audience—and I just couldn’t resist.

“You say Walter Jones told you what was in the redacted 28 pages,” I said, rising out of my seat, “but if that were true he would be charged with a felony, and since he hasn’t been so charged—”

I had no intention of making this into a big confrontation.  But Alex Jones had other ideas.

His reaction was swift and loud.  He started screaming all sorts of accusations at me.  I was a “plant,” I was blind, I was challenging what everyone knew to be true!  His voice got louder as he spoke, and he was shaking his fist at me.

What, I wondered, is wrong with this guy?  Is he crazy?  To ask the question was to answer it.  He has a loud voice, and he was yelling, but I managed to make myself heard above the din: “You say on the one hand that the Saudis are responsible for 9/11, but then on the other hand you also say the U.S. government was directly responsible—so which is it?”

His answer was that “all the Western governments” knew about September 11 in advance.  Yes, every single one of them.

A low groan seemed to rise up out of the audience; a few more people walked out.

If Alex Jones didn’t exist, it would be necessary for the Establishment to invent him: He mixes right-minded common sense with the flakiest nonsense imaginable, in one breath denouncing the depredations of Big Government and the endless wars, and in the next breath “exposing” the alien reptiles who have supposedly taken human shape and are leading us into the abyss of the “New World Order.”  This kind of talk is interspersed with shameless flattery of his audience and numerous commercials for the paraphernalia of paranoia, all prepackaged and available for order on his website.

In the real world, things aren’t always what they seem to be.  In Alex Jones’s world, nothing is ever what it seems to be.  Jones’s view of the September 11 attacks has made him the veritable pope of the “Truthers”: It wasn’t anything so simple as two airliners plowing into the World Trade Center that brought those buildings down, but “controlled demolition” enabled by a Vast Conspiracy engineered by Dick Cheney (with the alien shapeshifters no doubt playing an important role).  When the brothers Tsarnaev terrorized Boston, Jones was claiming it was all a government plot to get us ready for the coming imposition of martial law.

If everyone else says X, Jones says Z—no matter what.  And everything—absolutely everything—is a conspiracy: Truth is never straightforward; it’s always a twisting maze of illusions and dark secrets.

If I were a member of the Establishment who wanted to discredit anyone who questions the conventional wisdom, I would find such a person as Alex Jones invaluable.  I would do everything possible to promote his career as a spokesman for “antigovernment” sentiment.  A preening, sloppy, irrational loudmouth—what better symbol for the libertarian-leaning segment of the population could the Establishment possibly hope for?

Sitting there, watching him go through the paces of his well-worn act, I wondered: How could such an obviously crazed person get such a huge following?  How could he have risen out of obscurity to become one of the most popular radio talk-show hosts in the country?  How could such a convenient figure—convenient, that is, as a symbol of kookery—have achieved such prominence?

Inevitably, my mind began to take me in an Alex Jonesy direction: Is this man the real conspiracy?

Fortunately,  however, I caught myself before I could begin to answer my own question.