The clock is tick-tick-ticking off its judgments. Tick – stupid. Tick – Hey, stupid. It’s new. I bought it for six bucks at the local five-and-dime. La Virgen de Guadalupe smiles serenely from its face, held aloft by angels.

Black Swan, White Swan... Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

Formal logic might be the blackest of magics (and it makes for the most excruciating of reads). Just try figuring out the Black Swan Problem. Read a ton of obnoxious articles by formal logicians – who I imagine wear capes and brood in towers while they go about their dark art of turning language into math – without pushing your thumbs into your eyeballs until they pop.

Donald Duck: High Priest of the Illuminati

Conspiracy theorists are dreadfully thorough, but I guess most of them missed this one: Donald in Mathmagic Land, the 1959 Disney featurette starring Donald Duck which teaches us about the Pythagorean cult, the pentagram, the Fibonacci Sequence, and the Golden Ratio.

Jack Kirby And Comic Book Mysticism

You may not recognize the name Jack Kirby, but if you’ve ever argued with your friends over who gets to be Cyclops when you were playing X-Men in your backyard, then you’ve been touched by his creations.

Eye of the Skeptic

Those “I’m always right” types absolutely need faith, or else those vicious doubts start creeping in. Not only will you find faith in the religious mind, calling God a fact, you’ll also find it lurking in the atheist, saying He isn’t. Come to think of it, anyone who uses the word “fact” so easily must be pretty faithful, at least when it comes to their own nonsense.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

ROSWELL Part 2: Giftshop Autopsy -Sitting Now

Read Part 1..
Turning thirty-one is a dirty punishment for living.  Too young to know what the hell is going on; too old to pretend you do.  I was celebrating my thirty-first birthday in Roswell, New Mexico- the spiritual motherland of the X-files and Coast to Coast AM.

I wasn’t sure why I’d chosen Roswell to to take my first steps into seniority, but it sure wasn’t curiosity.  After two decades of filling my own head with stories of alien abductions and government coverups, I already knew what I’d find there: little green bumper stickers and ash trays at bargain-basement prices.  I was an Adult, dag-blast-it!

But sometimes the mountain calls the Prophet, and all that.

It was 4:30 PM on Valentine’s Day.  My wife and I had just left the world-famous International UFO Museum and Research Center, and Main Street was strangely calm.  Here and there, a few families could be seen taking photos.  On the other side of the street, a cadet from the nearby New Mexico Military Institute, wearing his dress uniform and clutching a dozen roses, charged along at full clip with a determined focus that only a sex-starved soldier-to-be can carry.

Come July, the street where traffic was lazing along will become packed with thousands of tourists from all over, here to see the UFO Festival.  Brightly-colored costumes will choke the road and the smells of street food will fill the air.  A trail of alien footprints would be hard to spot in the midst of such revelry, but on this clear winter day, they stood out conspicuously.

I was itching to get over there and investigate, but I was trying to play it cool.  “Why don’t we cross over here?” I asked my wife.

“Are you crazy?”   She fired a look at me.  Was she suspicious?  Could she tell that her husband had become one of those madmen we all hear about?

“I am not getting a jay walking ticket in a strange town.”

In answer, two police cruisers drove by in succession.