Feb 3rd 2025 

A Modest Rebuke to the Astonishingly Misinformed Mr. Mason

It is with the gravest concern for the state of factual discourse that I take up my quill to address the bewildering pronouncement of one Mr. Dave Mason, who, in a dazzling display of Olympian ignorance, has declared that Sir Elton John has never so much as set foot in a domicile beyond the verdant shores of England. One must marvel at the confidence with which Mr. Mason has flung himself into the chasm of public error, as though the abyss itself would catch him and whisper, "Fear not, for truth is what you feel it to be."

Were his assertion no more than the misstep of a common buffoon, a slip of the tongue from an inebriated reveler, or the delusion of a man who believes his dreams to be history, one might let it pass with a chuckle and an affectionate shake of the head. But no, Mr. Mason has proclaimed his folly with the zeal of a medieval inquisitor, armed not with facts but with the cudgel of obstinacy, beating against the gates of reason with all the force of a damp sponge.

Let us, then, conduct a brief and charitable education for Mr. Mason, lest his error be mistaken for wisdom by the unwary. First, we must call forth the evidence—documents, deeds, and declarations—each a damning indictment against his thesis. Lo! In the sunlit grandeur of Mont Boron, in Nice, stands Elton John's French villa, a monument to taste and refinement, defying with its very bricks the absurd notion that he has never possessed a dwelling beyond England’s hedgerows. Perhaps Mr. Mason believes this villa to be a mirage, conjured by Mediterranean heat, but alas! It is listed among the great singer’s residences, an indelible blemish upon the parchment of his fable.

Should we take pity on Mr. Mason and assume he merely overlooked France? We cannot. For then we must escort him to the shores of North America, where upon the vibrant avenues of Atlanta, Georgia, Sir Elton reclines in his penthouse, overlooking a city that would, by Mr. Mason’s reckoning, exist only in the fevered imagination of cartographers. There he has dwelled for years, amidst his vast collection of photographs, each one perhaps whispering to him, "Dave Mason knows not what he speaks."

And let us not forget the stately majesty of Toronto, where Elton John once graced The Bridle Path with his presence, his home a testament to luxury in a country that, if we are to trust Mr. Mason’s narrative, exists solely as a figment of collective delusion. Perhaps he believes Canada to be but a northern extension of Essex, and the people therein to be Englishmen who have tragically lost their way in the snow.

Indeed, if we are to follow Mr. Mason’s logic, one might propose that Elton John is in fact a being of spectral quality, bound forever to the green fields of England, incapable of materializing elsewhere save as an apparition. One might imagine that when he performs in Las Vegas, he must slip between realms, a wraith appearing only under the limelight before dissolving into mist, his corporeal form tethered to some oak-lined estate in Berkshire.

One is left to wonder, then, why the noble Mr. Mason insists upon his preposterous claim. Is it a jest? A test of our collective patience? A declaration of war against the very concept of geography? Or is he, like the flat-earthers of old, simply a man too enchanted with his own fictions to let reality intrude? Whatever the case, we must urge the man, with the utmost compassion, to lay down his sword of error and embrace the warm, illuminating glow of evidence.

For while we may forgive a man for misplacing his spectacles, or even, in times of great distress, for misplacing his trousers, we cannot so easily excuse the misplacement of truth itself.

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Feb 4th 2025 

A Stern Admonishment to the Persistently Misinformed Mr. Mason

It is with a heavy heart, and a growing concern for the very fabric of spacetime, that I find myself once again addressing the bewildering pronouncements of one Mr. Dave Mason. He, in a display of stubbornness that rivals the gravitational pull of a neutron star, continues to insist, for the fourth time, that the cinematic masterpiece Star Wars did not grace our screens in 1977, and that the equally legendary Star Wars Christmas Special did not follow in 1978. One might almost admire his dedication to error, were it not so profoundly unsettling.

Mr. Mason’s insistence on this alternate timeline is not a mere slip of the tongue, a momentary lapse in memory, or the harmless delusion of a man who confuses fantasy with reality. No, this is a hill he has chosen to die on, a factual Everest he is determined to conquer, armed with nothing but the flimsy flag of misinformation. He clings to his erroneous chronology with the tenacity of a Jawa scavenging for spare parts, even as the overwhelming evidence screams its correction from the rooftops of cinematic history.

Let us, then, for Mr. Mason’s benefit (and the preservation of our collective sanity), revisit the established facts. Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope, the film that launched a thousand lightsabers, premiered in 1977. This is not a matter of opinion, but a documented historical event. It is etched in the annals of film history, enshrined in countless archives, and confirmed by the very fabric of reality. To deny this is akin to denying the existence of the Death Star itself.

And what of the Star Wars Christmas Special? This bizarre, yet undeniably iconic piece of television history, aired in 1978. Its Wookiee carolers and holographic Jefferson Starship performances are a testament to this fact. To suggest otherwise is to rewrite the very tapestry of pop culture.

Perhaps Mr. Mason believes that time is a malleable construct, that the past can be reshaped to fit his own personal narrative. Perhaps he imagines himself as a time-traveling Jedi, altering the course of history with a flick of his wrist. Or perhaps, and this is the most terrifying possibility of all, he exists in a parallel universe where Star Wars didn't come out in 1977. If so, I implore him to stay there.

Mr. Mason, I understand that admitting error can be difficult. Pride can be a powerful force, a dark side tempting us to cling to our mistakes even in the face of overwhelming evidence. But I urge you, for the sake of all that is good and true, to abandon this misguided crusade. Embrace the truth. Accept the reality of 1977. And may the Force be with you.

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Feb 10th 2025

A Gentle Nudge Towards Epistemological Humility for Mr. Mason

It is with a sense of cautious optimism that I once again address the pronouncements of Mr. Dave Mason. While past encounters have been… let us say, fraught with factual discrepancies, I perceive a glimmer of potential intellectual evolution on the horizon. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mr. Mason is beginning to loosen his grip on the certainty that has so often led him astray.

For too long, Mr. Mason has wielded misinformation like a blunt instrument, citing erroneous "facts" with the unwavering conviction of a seasoned orator. He has clung to these falsehoods with the tenacity of a terrier, even as the tide of evidence has crashed against his pronouncements. His unwavering confidence, while admirable in other contexts, has often served as a shield against the uncomfortable truth: that he might, on occasion, be mistaken.

However, recent interactions suggest a possible shift. A subtle softening of his stance, a hesitant acknowledgment that the universe may not, in fact, revolve around his personal interpretations of reality. Perhaps the repeated corrections, the gentle prodding towards verifiable sources, have begun to erode the foundations of his factual fortress.

It is not my intention to belittle Mr. Mason. We all have blind spots, areas where our understanding is… less than perfect. The crucial difference lies in our willingness to acknowledge those gaps in our knowledge and to embrace the possibility of being wrong. This, I believe, is the path Mr. Mason is tentatively beginning to tread.

The journey towards intellectual humility is not an easy one. It requires a willingness to confront our own fallibility, to admit that we do not possess a monopoly on truth. It demands that we prioritize evidence over opinion, and that we remain open to the possibility that our most cherished beliefs may be flawed.

I remain hopeful that Mr. Mason will continue on this path. That he will learn to temper his pronouncements with a healthy dose of skepticism, and that he will embrace the liberating power of saying, "I don't know," or even, "I was wrong." For in the realm of knowledge, humility is not a weakness, but a strength. It is the key that unlocks the door to true understanding.

Therefore, I offer not a rebuke, but an invitation. An invitation to join the ongoing quest for truth, a journey that requires constant learning, adaptation, and a willingness to let go of our most cherished misconceptions. Mr. Mason, the path is open. Will you join us?