To sort of celebrate the Roswell UFO incident 61 years ago this week, I thought I would recount a drive along the Extraterrestrial Highway that I took earlier this year. It's been a while since a photographic travelogue has appeared in Brevity. (My apologies; these days, my only trips have been to weddings, and who wants to take pictures to remember those?)
Obviously, I don't live anywhere near Roswell, but the rough location of the alleged Area 51 is the next best thing. The truth is out there, and it starts about 2 hours north of Las Vegas.
(All photos taken personally. Copyright 2008.)
Even the GPS recognizes its uniqueness. No "Nevada State Highway 375" here!
Did anything strange happen? As a matter of fact, yes.
1. Within the first 5 miles, I suffered a nosebleed, NOT prompted by rubbing my face or sneezing or anything. Classic alien abductee material. While there is some health precedent for this, it was still very, very weird.
2. We came across an unusual natural phenomenon just off the road, on the eastern side. I remember saying, "Take a look at that smooth rock up ahead... no, that's sand, NO, that's WATER!" It was a small reservoir of perfectly milky, seemingly clean, tan-colored water.
3. Miles later, also on the eastern side, we saw a mini-sandstorm that looked like it would cover the sky, but as we got closer, it kept getting further away. Then, when we thought we had to be passing it, there was nothing there.
We eventually reached the town of Rachel, Nevada, the only (public) stop on the Extraterrestrial Highway. Not much to it -- some houses, no gas station -- but it does boast the Little A'Le'Inn. Total tourist trap, but I mean that in the nicest way possible.
We had no reservations about entering this fine establishment.
Though some species aren't as comfortable with exiting through the same door. (Note the American flag. Proof positive that the United States is now the most awesome country in the universe. Take note, Stephen Colbert!)
We took a bathroom break and scanned the souvenirs with amusement. While we took our leisurely time, we had to get back on the road. But I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving something -- or someone -- behind.
Semi-related note: last weekend I revisited The X-Files, specifically a two-parter airing on TNT. They were the Morris Fletcher episodes, in which a time/space rift causes Mulder to switch bodies with Michael McKean's character, an Area 51 government tool. The episode is set in Rachel, Nevada and showcases the Little A'Le'Inn, or a larger version of it.
I'd forgotten how funny it was. When it chose to be light in tone, The X-Files was the funniest show on TV. The closest thing we have to that now is Dexter, which is similar both in its haunting instrumental music and in its darkly comic approach.
Stranger things have happened. But not in Las Vegas.
No Archimedes moment here. My thoughts are with my relatives who still reside in the Motherland.
My parents are from the city of Surat, state of Gujarat, country of India. Surat's in the news this week because of the few hundred thousand residents who had to evacuate due to monsoon flooding. Gujarat is one of three Indian states most affected by the floods, and the rainy season can be a bit nasty, but this time I think it really hit home. My parents worry about their families there; there's no communication and little information.
The news reports vary wildly on the levels of water and the number of people displaced, but they all share one fact: Surat has a big diamond polishing industry. That's it. It's like some tidbit from an old press release. See, the correspondents aren't at the scene, so they describe the loss in terms of industry revenue. Normally I'd look to blogs for insider accounts, but I have a feeling the local bloggers have no electricity.
Welcome to India, the world's largest democracy.
55 Fiction Friday awaits those large ice cubes designed to stop global warming.Quincy's new shirt was an ugly gift from a cruel relative. He expected ribbing from his golf buddies. Instead, he got a job offer during an impromptu clubhouse lunch, and a date next weekend with a cute driving range instructor.
Fortune trumps fashion, Quincy realized. Now he had to develop a taste for bad taste.
If you're into schadenfreude like me, one of the pleasures of living on the West Coast is the casual attention you can pay to stories about hurricane season on the East Coast. Is it funny? Not at all. But I've lived most of my life in the South, and have endured more than my share of hurricanes and resulting property damage. It's very relaxing to not have your life interrupted by weather reports.
And now comes Katrina. Tropical Storm Katrina is bullying the Florida coastline and could touch land some day soon. And I've begun taking a slight interest, as my parents are visiting family on the East Coast this week. They're probably out of harm's way in Delaware, but it's a small reminder of how a natural phenomenon can wreak havoc on the nation's lower latitudes and only cause a minor inconvenience to those who live up north.
I'm convinced there's something karmic there, but I have no idea what the Caribbean islands and the American South did in the past to repeatedly take the hit on behalf of the Western hemisphere.
March of the Penguins: fun for the whole family? Uh, no.
Baby penguins! What you don't see in the ads, but do see in the movie, is the harsh winter that kills some of the adult and child penguins, and threatens all the others. The cold season is relentless, like hurricane season in Haiti, only with snow, darkness, and predators. While the film is correctly rated G, most kids (and some adults) may have a hard time dealing with that frozen reality.
The film chronicles a year in the life of the emperor penguins of Antarctica. Morgan Freeman narrates the kind of script that sounds good in his voice. "Get busy mating or get busy dying"? Well, not exactly.
Amazing observation: until the closing credits, you never see a camera, footprint, or any sign of human proximity. And the cameras are close to the action. It's like the penguins completely accepted the filmmakers' presence and went about their lives. A fascinating inside look, though you wonder if the camera operators ever helped a struggling penguin or just let nature take its course.
Note to self: keep musical entries down to a minimum. They can be quite draining.It's a rare rainy day here. In other words, a great day to stay in and finish drafting letters to my parents' store buyer and the useless attorney he rode in on. (See Monday's entry.) It's difficult these days -- my Dad feels compelled to pour his consciousness and heart into a letter, and then I have to make it sound coherent and businesslike. He has to appear resolute, not betrayed. Any lawyers out there? If so, does it feel different when you act on behalf of family?
Even the GPS recognizes its uniqueness. No "Nevada State Highway 375" here!
Did anything strange happen? As a matter of fact, yes.
We eventually reached the town of Rachel, Nevada, the only (public) stop on the Extraterrestrial Highway. Not much to it -- some houses, no gas station -- but it does boast the Little A'Le'Inn. Total tourist trap, but I mean that in the nicest way possible.
We had no reservations about entering this fine establishment.
Though some species aren't as comfortable with exiting through the same door. (Note the American flag. Proof positive that the United States is now the most awesome country in the universe. Take note, Stephen Colbert!)
We took a bathroom break and scanned the souvenirs with amusement. While we took our leisurely time, we had to get back on the road. But I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving something -- or someone -- behind.
Semi-related note: last weekend I revisited The X-Files, specifically a two-parter airing on TNT. They were the Morris Fletcher episodes, in which a time/space rift causes Mulder to switch bodies with Michael McKean's character, an Area 51 government tool. The episode is set in Rachel, Nevada and showcases the Little A'Le'Inn, or a larger version of it.
