Monday, August 16, 2004

Gar Bahj

The governor of New Mexico, Bill Richardson, has written a foreword to a new book, "The Rosswell Dig Diaries," published in a collaboration between the SciFi Channel and Pocket Books, owned by Simon & Schuster, which is owned by Viacom, which owns the SciFi Channel. And this log-rolling conglomerate seems determined to re-ignite interest in aliens, even though "The X-Files" went off the air a while ago, and really really sucked during its last season.

Apparently Gov. Richardson wants the government to re-examine the Rosswell "controversy," which, as you may or may not know, involves a downed flying saucer (more, some say), and dead alien(s). The governor, a Democrat, is joined in his plea by the executive director of the Republican Party, who told the San Francisco Chronicle that he suspects the crashed object (s)of 1947 was "something more than a weather balloon."

It's so heartening when Republicans and Democrats can agree on something.

Spent the day unsuccessfully trying to recycle a bunch of beer and soda bottles left over from the Duck's Breath rehearsal process. All the recycling centers I found were closed. In San Francisco! It's a scandal. I dumped them curbside in an area swarming with homeless people.

In the Chronicle feature about Gov. Richardson's musings ("The American public can handle the truth - no matter how bizarre or mundane...."), Philip J. Klass was quoted. As a longtime flying saucer buff, I was heartened to see his name again. He's been a thorn in the side of ufologists since the fifties, a kind of professional debunker and skeptic. He told the Chron: "After more than a third of a century of research, I have found no credible evidence of extraterrestrial visitors."

He brings the same zeal to flying saucer debunking that flying saucer believers bring to their belief. He's kind of a zealous anti-zealot.

Which, come to think of it, is the tone I take away from most blogs.

We were doing a show at some junior college in Oregon, oh god, twenty years ago or so. The kid in charge of the theatre had apparently forgotten there was going to be a show that night, and had locked up the light booth, forcing us to perform under house lights.

The show was free, and the junior college catered mainly to young Samoan males, for reasons I can't quite recall, but related to football scholarships. Samoans are very large people.

Samoans kept wandering in and out of the show, talking loudly with each other, and their girlfriends. Onstage, we became furious and disgruntled.

After the show, as we were packing up, the promoter, a very chipper young lady, as most college promoters seemed to be, kept telling us how great the show went.

Great? They talked all the way through it. The lighting sucked. Nobody was paying attention.

No, she insisted, it went wonderfully well. The last time the school had booked a comedy group, it seems, the Samoans had beaten them up in the parking lot.

Rave in New York Times? Not getting beaten up by Samoans? Yes, in my mind, the two are still equivalent.


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