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11:05 a.m. - 2009-12-12
I love you, Rick James.

Last night Mick and I were discussing flying saucers, a typical topic of conversation for us because we're snazzy like that. He's reading a new (to him) book about flying disc technology, Tesla, the Nazis, Roswell, our sinister secretive government, you know, all the usual players in the fringe universe of UFO-logy, and this book's author actually has a hefty dose of skepticism about his subject matter. I'm delighted. Though a bit jut-jawed stubborn about it at first, Mick's come around to applying basic scientific method and stark logic to his beloved 'out there' stuff as I've encouraged him to. Rather than thinking applied logic is a sell-out as he used to, Mick is really enjoying dissecting the so-called evidence and theories put forth by the Bigfoot/Aliens/Nessie tribe in their self-published books and slightly demented websites. While still fascinated by the possibilities offered by Life's weirder phenomena Mick is no longer an easy convert and automatic True Believer. Makes discussions about this kind of thing much more enjoyable for the both of us. No more instant pouty face from him because I snort and say, "Some incredibly advanced people from another galaxy crossed billions of miles of space to come here and ream cows' asses and abduct rednecks? Riiiiight."

I've never been a one who needs to believe that humans are the sole recipient of God's grace to have a reason to get up in the morning. In fact I find the belief that Earth is the only inhabited planet and we humans are held up as the pinnacle of intelligence breathtakingly arrogant. Of course there's life on other planets, considering the sheer enormity of the universe the odds demand it. What I do not believe is that anyone from 'out there' has ever found this little mud ball. Let alone found it, beat up some cows, stuck turkey basters up rednecks' butts, carved some graffiti in Peruvian mountains, made crop circles, hovered over some reservoirs and then beat feet outta here again. What? Intergalactic pranksters? Gangs of alien Ashton Kutchers came by to punk Earth? C'mon. Let's be real here.

So anyway, last night's discussion was about human-made flying discs and the various methods of propulsion which have been theorized, tested, and experimented with to make such a craft a viable flying machine. Mick said the book's author offered up a theory on electromagnetic propulsion. I interrupted Mick, waved a hand toward his crotch and said, "The electromagnetic field necessary to counteract gravity and give a saucer controllable forward motion would be GINORMOUS! Best not to be wanting to have kids if you fly one of those things, your sperm would look like Spaghetti-Os."

Mick's mouth dropped open. Seriously. I thought he might faint or something. He gawped at me for almost a minute before slowly creaking his jaw back into place and saying in an awed sort of voice, "You. Are. The. Smartest. Person. In. The. World! How could you know that? Like right off the top of your head? The guy in the book said exactly that! Well, not the Spaghetti-Os part, but that women would have to pilot the craft as the effect on the male gonads would be severe."

I laughed. "Honey, everybody knows that!"

"No! No they do not! Good lord, is there anything you don't know? Far as I know, you've never read a single book about flying saucers. You never go to the sites on them when I send you links. Yet just now you hit on one of the biggest problems they've come up against when trying to make them work. How? How do you know all this stuff?"

Abashed as I always am when anyone gives me a compliment. Especially one I think is undeserved (which is mostly all of them) I wriggled around uncomfortably. "First of all, I am not the smartest person in the world. Not even close. I have a trash basket mind, you know that. That's all. Stuff just falls in there. I can't help it. Facts and theories and such just pile up in my head unbidden, I don't do anything biggety-brained at all. I cook. I clean. I write doofy shit about politics and manners. I garden in a half-assed way. I tend the kid and play The Sims. That's it. Not special. Not Wile E. Coyote- Super Genius."

Mick shook his head. "Baby, you are smart! Super genius smart. But boy, are you dumb when it comes to understanding yourself. What the hell did they do to you? How can you not believe what you are? Why don't you see it?"

Mick's questions were making me wildly uncomfortable. I didn't have any answers for him. Or for myself. "I don't know! Okay? I don't know. It's upsetting when you or anyone says stuff like that! It feels…dangerous. Bad. Inviting hurt. People are mean. They only put things up so they can knock them down. I'm tired of being knocked down. Especially for stuff I can't help. Things I don't do on purpose. So just don't, okay? Don't make me feel like a freak. I always end up paying for it with hurt."

"Baby, I didn't mean to upset you. Truly. I'm sorry. Let's go back to flying saucers, okay?"

"Yes, please."

"Other than Spaghetti-O sperm what else is keeping flying saucers from working right?"

"Well, there's the gap between Maxwell's theory of electromagnetism and the quantum electrodynamics founded on it and Einstein's incomplete unified field theory which so far hasn't been able to solve the problem of nullifying gravity rather than just counteracting it…"

Mick smirked at me.

"Oh shit, I did it again, didn't I?"

He nodded.

"Shoo! Go away! I don't want to talk anymore! I'm going to watch some You Tubes and then play with my Sims. Go! Go read your flying saucer book. I'll see you when I come upstairs. 'Young Frankenstein' is on AMC later. How about Mel Brooks, that's not weird, is it?"

"Shh…Baby. It's all good. Bring popcorn when you come up, okay?"

"Okay."


She's a super freak. Super freak. She's super freaky… ~LA


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