A Run-in with Spock

I watched a show on UFO's last night on the History Channel. Where in God's name do they dig these "experts" up. There must be a UFO Expert school somewhere in America where the only prerequisite for entrance is that you must promise to be bald, you must promise to grow and comb a large flap of your remaining hair over your shiny scalp. If you have no more remaining hair, then something resembling a large rodent, sideways, will do nicely. All these things, of course will help your credibility in the already skeptical world. Most of these Men I gather were hopelessly single in status. There was one “expert” who was married but the couple looked liked something from the Scientology black-list. The wife only opened her mouth to affirm her husband but it ended up usually sounding like “number 1” from Star Trek affirming the Captain.

In all honesty I would really like to see one, a UFO that is. Who wouldn't? Would it not be amazing to walk out your patio door in the middle of the night, maybe for some fresh air, or maybe for a smoke of your pipe, and look up and see something that you can’t explain, and if you tried even the people closest to you would not believe it. I have to admit… there is a possibility… that I have witnessed such an occurrence…

Okay, Okay, twist my arm no more! I’ll tell you. I wasn’t in a field somewhere in Indiana, or on some important flight with the president, (and yes I have those weekly) or out on a ship in the midst of a storm directly in the center of the Bermuda triangle. It was in a little college town in Middle America.

I was taking a walk in Springfield, MO with one of my friends at the time, conversing on the meaning of life and of course, women. Or was it the meaning of women? Anyway, while my friend was waxing on how this one particular girl was treating him like dudu in a garbage bag, (for the 300th time) and as I was giving him my occasional nod to make it seem as though I was giving a rip, for some reason, I decided to just look up. I can'’t remember exactly why I looked up. It was probably out of habit. I have been looking up at the stars since I was a kid. It was not until I was older and during a trip to Vienna that I found that looking up could benefit you in other ways. In America, if you'’re walking down a city street and approaching a large building, what you see in front of you is pretty much what you see 65434 stories up. In Vienna, if you look up at a tall historical building you might see glimpses of 4 to 5 centuries of architecture, and all of it dripping with beauty. Since that life-changing trip, looking up has become a part of my character. So, on that cool spring night in Springfield, MO, while my friend about to get to the part of his story where "SHE was just lucky that HE still loved her", I looked up and saw a chevron shaped object probably less than a thousand feet up moving at a rate that could not have been more than 30 miles per hour. It had small red lights surrounding the edges, not really that bright, and then inside that outer row of lights, another set of lights, the same color but a bit less luminous, and it was not making a sound.

I immediately informed my friend and to his utter dismay, he was unable to see this object because of his lack of contacts. Unbelievable. Not only had he been boring me comatose, he was now as useless as a rearhole on my elbow. My only witness was as blind as a bat. I was nearly frantic and so was he, me standing there jumping up and down and pointing, him just squinting and saying "crap! I can't see, I don't have my contacts man..."

The object moved ahead of us about a half of a mile then disappeared. Just when I thought it was gone it reappeared another half mile to the right, moving perpendicular to its original flight pattern. If I were to draw that flight pattern on a piece of paper, it would look like a right angle. I rushed back to my apartment to call the local airport (3:00 am) and ask if they had any other calls for something unidentified and flying. My question was very quickly followed by a click and a dial tone, which was followed by an uncontrollable urge to show my middle finger to the receiver. (Now, come on, we’ve all been prompted to use our anger management finger.)

There you have it folks. No where near the fantastic stories told by the members of the UFO-Comb-Over club, but its all I got.

Well, off to Super Target to buy my first suit in 10 years.

Live long and prosper