Gone, Forgotten, and Dismissed: Obit for a Colleague

DATELINE: Corona of Career

It’s minor and troubling to almost no one, except perhaps me.

A colleague of many years passed away not quite ten years after retiring. She was on the faculty of our small college for thirty years, same time and same length as I.

As Robert Frost once said, happiness reaches in height what it lacks in length. We were the disgruntled, unhappy “employees” of the College, even denied being called “faculty” by administration in our living and breathing careers.

The rank of professor meant nothing much, a professor emeritus was denied to us.

How much worse can it be when we die off?

The announcement of her death form the Human Resources Center came from a director who never knew her. It was a pithy two sentences saying she had “worked” at the college in Nursing Department for many years. Because of the pandemic, there would be no services. There was no additional information.

And apparently no other remembrances or comments. This was her final moment on the college register. No eulogy, no thanks, no appreciation, no nothing.

It shall be the same for me. In a tight-knit department like Nursing, she was anathema: disliked by her colleagues for being a stickler for the regulations, and not participating in the social life of fake camaraderie among those with whom you share no politics. So it was for me.

There once existed a half-dozen of us from differing departments who sat together, a huddled small group, at all faculty meetings. We recognized each other as pariahs of the school. If we didn’t sit together, no one would sit with us.

In the past decade we retired to no particular fanfare. Now we are dying to no particular notice.

I visited her at her office now and then, gave her copies of my books that were published, and she was appreciative. Two other faculty of that ilk have also died in recent years. We were a grim little group of despised faculty members: not by students, but by our fellow faculty.

If no department head colleague will do cheerleading of your credentials, hard work, accomplishments at the college at death, then there is nothing more to be said.

You are relegated to non-person, name stricken from the record, students never to breathe your name unless in curse for a low grade.

Thus, the end came for another kind associate. It made me hope the college will be one of those they say may close its doors in a few years: let all of them on faculty for those decades  share the same fate.

This memorial eulogy is anonymous for an unnamed, unknown faculty member from a breed of small liberal arts colleges that are fading away one by one.

 

 

Killer Kop Doppleganger?

DATELINE: America is Tanking, Thanks to Trump

Trump now wants to shoot protestors.

With Minneapolis in turmoil over the killing of a black man by an overzealous police officer, Trump has thrown fuel on the fire.  He wants to order military troops into the city and shoot citizens under the guise of executing looters.

Forget trials, arrests, or formal crimes charged. You are to be executed by order of a man without a shred of decency, legal sense, or compassion.

In fact, this type of action has precedence in America of recent vintage. Police and military started shooting American students at Kent State College in 1970. It was the unwinding of an era.

It will be the end of Trump and his pro-Nazi cronies in the United States Senate, including Moscow McConnell and Closet Queen Lindsay.

When a cop puts a knee on your neck for eight minutes, he might as well be the Boston Strangler. Even the poor victim realized it was his death knell. You cannot cut off oxygen for eight minutes and expect someone to live. Derek Chauvin, the killer kop, has a double, a Doppleganger who attends Trump rallies and takes orders via dog whistle.

There are no police strategies that recommend that subduing officers kill their suspects for forgery, let alone a violent crime.

Derek Chauvin (or his photoshopping double) appeared at the Trump rally, standing with Trump. The president refuses to acknowledge that he has given dog whistles to his K-9 cops to kill black people, seemingly part of the genocide that the COVID-19 is creating with its disproportionate deaths of people of color.

This neo-Nazi president is likely not done yet. He has yet to destroy the Constitution and demolish the presidential election, next goal on his mad agenda.

Tom Brady at Skinwalker Ranch

Tom Brady at Skinwalker Ranch

Brady’s Custom Spaceship Now for Sale!

Tom Brady continues to divest himself of all things New England. Latest is his used vehicle, a customized spaceship that brings heart-warming memories back to the aging quarterback.

It can be yours for $300,000. Not since the Aaron Hernandez Death-Mobile went up for sale on eBay has there been such a chance for Patriots fans.

Among the amenities, this vehicle is super re-enforced to protect Brady against bad New England drivers. You may not recall he was involved in a car crash on the way to Gillette Stadium early in his career. After that, he wanted super-reinforced electromagnetic, interdimensional protections.

Now we presumed he worried about terrorists and kidnappers against his family, but now living in Trump country where there are no taxes and Gulf Breeze is a familiar jumping off point, he no longer needs insured protection: unless it is against space abductions by rival aliens and lost time (an important commodity for Tom).

Yes, the vehicle exceeds all U.S. Crush and Crash Resistance Laws. Unfortunately, this gas guzzler will need plenty of fuel as it goes about 3000 feet on a gallon of high octane.

This vehicle has propulsion that can travel to the stars with stars: it’s not just another pimpmobile where Julie Edelman and cronies can pile in.

Yes, this vehicle can transcend warp speed and has even been seen emerging from orange portals at Skinwalker Ranch, lending credence to the notion that Tom Brady is a shape-shifter as well as a shifty guy.

The custom seating will accommodate Brady in whatever form he takes in his universal time travels. Oh, yes, this car exceeds the DeLorean abilities of going back to the future. Tom has maintained his youthful appearance by using the vehicle as a hyperbolic time chamber in his copper-fused pajama spacesuit.

There is enough headroom in this vehicle that the Apollo astronauts would be envious.

Though it has been deceptively created to appear to be a Cadillac Escalade, it is a vehicle once filmed by AATIP jet pilots on scramble over Catalina Island.

Among standard modifications are six-way electro-magnetic chargers that gently provide you with immortality while reclining in the electric leg rests.

“Parting ways with my UFO won’t be easy. From day one it became my sanctuary from the outside noise,” the Tompa Bay Buccaneer star is quoted as saying in the listing. He hopes that the next owner will feel like Superman, a strange visitor from another planet who may also use the disguise of an NFL GOAT to hide his true identity.

 

One Last Trip to Greece

DATELINE: Literary Road Trips

 Steve Coogan with Rob Brydon.

With great sadness we are saying goodbye to the highly intelligent, witty, charming series of movies with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. Their last is The Trip to Greece,all four civilized comedies were directed by Michael Winterbottom.

These have been four rarities of the modern age: witty as Noel Coward, beautifully locations, with amusing company. And they aren’t even gay. Two performers whose competition extends to out-imitating the other are sent on a fictional outing. Their job as journalists is to visit fine restaurants and write reviews.

The actors sort of play themselves in Brydon and Coogan (notable Oscar nominee for Stan and Ollie, as he was Stan). You often cannot tell where the fiction starts, as they play versions of themselves blending over into plot contrivance. Their litany of impersonations (Brando, Hoffman, Olivier, Caine, Pacino, Jagger) makes for a variety of dinner companions.

Four films feature hilarious riffs and impersonations over dinner and while driving around luscious countryside in Greece. Brydon sings the tune from Grease, and he crunches it to fit the country. Coogan is dutifully appalled.

They transform imitations of Laurel and Hardy over lunch into breath-taking jokes: Oliver Hardy morphs into Tom Hardy.

These little forays to gourmet restaurants have a price in this film (350 Euros).

The bittersweet last entry in the series showcases the performers to their greatest wish: Brydon becomes the epitome of the light comedian—and Coogan, as he likes, becomes the tragic actor of Shakespearean levels.

Their frictions and battles are nothing short of delightful wordplay. You don’t see that much anywhere in movies nowadays.

After visits to England, Italy, and Spain, this lap around the Aegean ends with a whimper. Brilliantly done, and hopefully there will be one more trip.

 

 

Hunt for Elusive Unitah Skinwalker

DATELINE: Pre-TV Series

 Knapp Time.

 Two years previous to the History Channel series, the “paranormal investigator” named Jeremy Corbell took on the subject with his viewpoint. He rounded up George Knapp who had done 20 years of research—including work with Robert Bigelow before he sold the ranch and its rights to the new TV series owner.

The film is called Hunt for the Skinwalker.

Skinwalker Ranch is a paranormal Disneyland, according to this movie.

Corbell intones like he is Rod Serling stealing Twilight Zone phrases in his narrative. He found his matchmate in George Knapp, aging and renewed UFO hunter for decades. Knapp has boxes of old videotaped interviews and paper documents. Korbell won fame by bringing Bob Lazar out of hiding a few years ago to give an updated opinion on Area 51.

This is George Knapp’s seminall life work, apparently never digitized nor copied for posterity. Videos were never made into DVD and audio tape look like you couldn’t find the proper equipment to play them. No one has looked at this material in years. Now, the Hunt for the Skinwalker will make an attempt. It’s clearly enough to spark History Channel’s interest in doing a series two years later.

Korbell likens the area to “Area 52” and largely lets dramatic Knapp do narration duty. He knows how to make mystery more bizarre, for sure.

Knapp related the story of how he tried to do everything to provoke the poltergeist, UFOs, ghosts, orbs, or other phenomena, to no avail, even doing some forbidden digging. He was attacked only by mosquitos. He also knew Robert Bigelow and reveals that the strange billionaire did not want the associated horrors beyond UFOs. He indicated that Bigelow was warned off the property—and sold it to Brandon Fuglar.

Fulgar shows up in this film, refusing to identify himself because it would hurt his business “empire,” which is Fuglar to a T. However, something changed his mind between making this Corbell movie and the History series.

Here the cattle mutilations and other worldly voices are given far more attention.

Neither Corbell, nor Knapp, has any participation in the TV series. And, the movie is far better than the Fuglar produced show.

 

 

Tom Brady: Oh, Say, Can You See?

 DATELINE:  Charitable De-pants of Brady

 Splitsville for Tom? Pulling an Elvis?

Tom Brady’s golf game has brought a split decision. It was a new low for the Super Bowl man without a pocket.

The big televised charity golf tournament with Peyton Manning, Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods, came apart at the seams during the match.

It seems Tom Brady bent over and found himself flying by the seat of his pants. How could a man so thin break the laws of physics? Or maybe he just broke the wind speed for a tee-off swing.

We haven’t seen such roughage to a wardrobe since Janet Jackson pulled her prank. Yes, Tom, we see you for all your worth. He needed his copper-infused pajama pants to play the rest of the game.

If we recall clearly, Elvis used to regularly split his pants in his final concert tour. Some believe it was sewn into the act.

Tom needed a diversion, and a pair of Sponge Bob’s pants fit the bill, harry, and tom. Underneath it all, there came a subpar moment in sports history. This seemed to parallel Spygate, Deflategate, and the general run of fake news.

Now this has nothing on Trump on Memorial Day, swaying in the breeze like the American flag. Supporters wanted to support the unsteady President who played golf the day before and showed his handicap: standing still.

In front of the Unknown Soldier during a ceremony, Trump looked like a man who had a few too-many swigs of Clorox before the game. He needed his club to act as a walker. We expect to see Trump split voters and pants, but never Tom Brady, his ardent supporter friend.

We gasped to see what color Tom’s undies might be: at least he wore undies, unlike some NFL players on Sunday games day.

Tom’s world tour of torn pants and broken promises will continue in Tompa Bay where the sea breeze will send a cooling cool to the Elvis stunt.

Spy Went Out Into the Cold

DATELINE: Not Sean Connery, or even Daniel Craig!

  Kim Philby in Moscow grave.

One of the most notorious real spies was a man named Kim Philby. He was a Cambridge, class-oriented Brit upper-crustaceon. Put James Bond out of your mind. This was a slimey limey traitor with charm and sociopathic standards. Spy Who Went Out into the Cold  is a nasty person

Back in the 1930s all his friends were in the spy business. It was a social means of fulfilling one’s communist principles. He was recruited by the Soviets and became an ultimate hypocrite. His friends became the right-wing aristocratic class. He fit in, and they all loved his wit and debonair attitude. He was a spy out of the Noel Coward school of blithe spirits.

Some claimed he was two people; how else could he betray his family, friends, and country? His attitude was that Prime Minister Harold Macmillan and other high rankers were simply idiots.

Kim Philby recruited his gay friends Burgess and McLean to be the bottom line of spy workers.

After World War II, it became bad business when the Soviets became cold war opponents. Burgess and McLean could not take the heat and defected, leaving J. Edgar Hoover to look for a “third man,” their enabler. It was Kim Philby, but his charm and friends helped him skate off in the coverup.

The film does a wonderful job in digging up old compatriots, finding photos and newsreels to depict Philby’s life of indolent drinking and fake journalism in Beirut for few years.

The truth was he was a despicable drunkard who had no scruples. When the authorities offered him a deal to continue to coverup and placate Hoover, he defected on a Soviet trawler. He lived his final years in Moscow, apparently unfazed by his low-life.

In the late 1980s with the Soviet Union crumbling, they dusted him off before burying him. He did not receive the justice he deserved: a firing squad.

 

 

 

Beast of Whitehall: Local Legend

DATELINE: Bigfoot Next to Champ

Brian Gosselin of Whitehall.

You might think it is some dark Viking who attacked Alfred the Great, but no, this beast is another Bigfoot wannabe who seems to reside in upstate New York, not far from Vermont. Whitehall is the “Home of the U.S. Navy,” so damn those torpedoes.

Yes, Whitehall is a sleepy New England town with charm galore, but it borders on paranormal, if not abnormal, creatures: Champ is the Loch Ness Monster of nearby Lake Champlain, and the Beast of Whitehall, (the Abair Road Incident)  has been skulking around the Adirondack Mountains since settlers first arrived. Now the local Chamber of Commerce seems to be cashing in.

We don’t know if Hawkeye and Uncas ran into them during the Last of the Mohicans, but if they looked, Bigfoot was behind one of the trees.

This short, interesting local documentary was put together, based on a key 1976 sighting in which 11 police officers, local and state, responded when three local teens ran into a seven-foot monster with red eyes.

Officer Brian Gosselin’s younger brother is no longer among us, and this film is a testimony to his encounter. Brian remains haunted by the meeting and suffered years of ridicule as a police officer. His logs have mysteriously disappeared, despite his painstaking recollections.

First sightings occurred when people showed up in the area in the mid-1700s. The national protected area is bigger than most other national parks, including Yellowstone. It also has the distinction of being a protected area—that is, they ban any hunting of Bigfoot. He is a permanent resident, but hasn’t cast any ballots we know of.

Most academics disparage the idea of a large primate living secretly in Whitehall, even today. Alas, too, many of the key witnesses from the 1970s have amazingly already passed away: Dan Gordon gave an extraordinary interview to Monsterquest and died in 2016, while Paul Gosselin died in 2015. It is hard to believe how fast time passes. Even Bigfoot’s grandchildren must now be secretly roaming the woods outside of Whitehall.

 

 

Warhol’s Salacious Classic Short

DATELINE: Nothing Ventured?

  Big Moment on Film.

All good things must come to an end, and there may be no more edgy way to end another collection than with our first viewing of Andy Warhol’s 1963 salacious film called Blow-Job.

No one knows whether this was pure acting, or impure acting. Since more orgasmic porno is faked anyhow, we are sure that Warhol was keeping his secret. There is more edginess here than in a modern 21stcentury real thing effort.

Don’t get your knickers in. a twist. This film is the 27-minute version, and it is silent as well as black and white. If there had been sound, we may have accused the star of over-acting his role center-stage.

The star was a 24-year old actor who resembled James Dean, perhaps a fetish of Warhol. DeVeren Bookwaiter went out to do Shakespeare on stage and even appeared in the legit movie The Enforcer. We aren’t sure how many jobs he won as a result of his Warhold notoriety. We never see the costar.

The film starts slow before its inevitable climax. We suspect that foreplay may have enhanced the length—er, of the film. We see the main character only from his shoulders up, in a stylish leather jacket standing before one of those ubiquitous brick walls of New York.

Occasionally he looks nervous like he may hear the police siren closing in. For the most part, he moves around the film frame, and Warhol does not. So, the star often ducks into facial shadow, so we cannot see his bliss.

This could be a farce, or just a sex romp.

Now and then he throws his head back into the light of ecstasy. You cannot hear him, but several times he seems to say the word, “Yes,” and near-on to 17 minutes he may shout out an epithet beginning with F.

The film goes in an out of a white blank, followed by the editor dots. It was either a second helping, or retakes by Warhol. His camera seems to be having more fun the actor in question.

You know you are approaching the end when he throws up both hands and rubs his head. The real tell-tale sign that our break is near, he lights up a cigarette. On the whole, the film is fairly boring. Perhaps you had to be there.

We think he said, “thank you,” near the end as smoke got in his eyes.

Well, that’s art for you.

Every Little Step:  Distorted Version of Chorus Line

DATELINE: One Singular Omission!

 Jimmy Kirkwood.

 

The little documentary made about a revival of A Chorus Lineis so warped by time and death that it is about as inaccurate as you can find when all the principals are long gone. Every Little Step  is really Every Big Omission.

Three of the creative forces behind the great musical play were Michael Bennett, Nick Dante, and James Kirkwood. They all died way too soon: and the survivors are allies of Michael Bennett (Marvin Hamlisch, Donna McKechnie, and Bob Avian). So, you have a slightly skewed presentation of the past.

I knew Jim Kirkwood—and he has been cut out of this film and you’d never know he had any role whatsoever for A Chorus Line (which happened to win him a Tony for writing and a Pulitzer Prize for good measure).

Cutting out Kirkwood from credit began while he was still alive. I can recall his complaint about how “hurtful” all this was—and he admitted to me he did have a physical altercation with Michael Bennett. I cannot imagine what that looked like—as Jim often advised me to “Kick’em in the nuts” to start and end any fight instantly.

Jim was proud of his contribution to A Chorus Line and even put the logo on his letterhead until someone complained to him about his “colossal ego.” He removed the line of dancers and went with plain stationery. I told him to ignore such idiots, but he was overly sensitive.

This documentary would send him up to the roof and we might never get him down.

A great deal is made of the 12 hours of tapes of dancers’ interviews that served as backbone of the libretto. Bennett recorded this one snowy December night in the 1970s, but Kirkwood insisted to me he never listened to a single tape. He read a transcript and had to give structure and order to it. He pointedly said to me, “There were no tapes. I never heard any tapes.”

What intrigued him was his show biz background and literary themes of his life fit right into the storyline. If you read his works, you find every concept in A Chorus Line in books he wrote a decade earlier, from the Big Joker in the Sky concept of the “Director” to small details.

Even the biggest decision to change the ending to improve the book of the show is not given to Jim Kirkwood. It is entirely the idea of Michael Bennett. At the 1976 Tony Awards, Bennett gave a speech in which Kirkwood is mentioned as he gives “thanks to Jimmy.”

The closing credits mention permission of the James Kirkwood Trust, but never is he mentioned within the documentary. Every Big Omission indeed. As a friend of Jim Kirkwood, I am furious about this distorted movie.

 

Dr. William Russo is author of Riding James Kirkwood’s Pony.

Skinny Dip at Skinwalker Ranch

DATELINE: Yes, We Have No Mutilations

 AlienCon Guests!

There seems to be some paranoia striking deep into Skinwalker Ranch, which is saying something. Already on alert about all things paranormal, an ersatz Area 51 and a Half, the crew does not need much to be at each other’s throats.

This week several interesting developments made us skeptical. First, while they were trying to determine if EVPs were occurring at one of the staff houses, they see a helicopter flying overhead. It has a camera on its bottomside and no insignias.

It is clearly not Brandon Fugal, their boss who has a fancy copter and arrives like deus ex machina. This unknown aircraft sets them into a frenzy. We thought it would not be beyond producers to hire a fly-by to add intrigue.

This matter is put on the back burner when we are cast into the opening show’s first sequence:  discovery of a dead cow on the property. Everyone scrambles, but the creature, dead for a few hours, is not mutilated, by dead mysteriously.

When they call their billionaire owner, he is so upset that he states he will drive over immediately with an expert in the subject of cattle mutilation. Suddenly he is not flying in his private copter from Vegas.

When he arrives with his “expert”, it is none other than Linda Moulton Howe, making her appearance his best decision in the series.

Surprisingly, her costar on Ancient Aliens, Travis Taylor, is not there to greet her.

She visits the dead cow and checks out footage and states the obvious: it’s not cattle mutilation, but the electro-magnetic aspect interests her.

Though the alpacas are in a protective cage, Linda points out that something could enter from above, which comes as a shock to several. Hunh? You mean they never considered the UFOs?

Oh, well, this was a better entry than the previous six.

 

Titanic’s Marconi Radio & a Spirit’s Reaction

DATELINE: Titanic Spirit

 New Book: Titanic’s Forgotten Movie.

You may have noticed the latest Titanic news: a judge’s ruling that violates the graveyard sanctity of shipwrecks in the name of historical preservation. The Titanic will now be drilled open like a can of sardines, and the Marconi radio will be extracted.

The arguments in favor of this are that the ship is collapsing and, if salvage does not occur immediately, all these historical items, lost for over 108 years will be lost forever.

My own personal interest in the topic may be tied to a couple of books I wrote about the Titanic (if you are interested, the latest is TITANIC’S FORGOTTEN MOVIE,which details the attempts to have Greta Garbo and Alfred Hitchcock join the movie manifest).

I also have a personal interest in that my home once belonged to several victims of the White family, who died during their first-class voyage to destiny.

Richard White was a 21-year old Bowdoin student coming home to graduate in 1912, but he only made it there for a memorial service. His body was recovered among the 300 or so, and he was brought home to a cemetery one mile from where I live and he lived. I often visit him there.

Some time ago, I discovered he was hanging around in spirit. Never believing in that stuff, I went to various psychics who confirmed he selected me to write his biography. I have done so, and he continues to visit me from time to time, a grateful spirit friend.

The preferred method of communication with someone on the Other Side for me is divining rods. He always responds quickly for me, and so I asked him what his opinion might be about the retrieval of the Marconi.

Richard’s response on the metal sticks was surprising. He is often strong in his responses to me, but there was a great great deal of ambivalence about this going into the ship for the Marconi. He had strong mixed feelings. I think he feels helpless to react to it.

His answer reminded me me of my own reaction to the coronavirus. What can we do? Profiteers want their profit.

As far as Titanic is concerned, I do think this opens the door to retrieving safety deposit boxes and the like. If you decide the ship is collapsing, they will take all they can out with that excuse.

By the same token, there is not much an oldster can do when the doors are open to ending social distance. Victims are always victims. Old people may be susceptible to the virus, but the greater need to have society continue on its merry way supersedes those whose lives are nearly over.

Richard White could surely empathize with a death that causes respiratory failure: fluid in the lungs killed him too.

Now the place where his father’s body was never recovered will be violated for profit and the higher motive of historical value. Those always take precedence over the life of an individual.

Richard White and I can only shrug at the latest turn of events.

 

Picking at Bones on Lost Gold

DATELINE: Billons 

  John Casey

 

At long last, half-way through the second season, the show returned to the promise it evinced last season.

Here, some real discoveries intrigue the viewer. We still think there are unfilmed events behind the scenes. When Bingo Minerva meets up with Dr. Chuck McDougall, he is too open and too ready to share his long-prized treasure maps from the Ferdinand Marcos archives. He was likely paid generously for this.

McDougall was dismissed as a “treasure hunter” with Robert Curtis in the 1980s, but he was a respected scholar with high level connections in the Philippines. However, President Corazon Aquino pulled his right to search after a short time. He warns Bingo that there are dangers—people will kill and steal the treasure. Well, a couple of billion dollars of bullion will do that.

Back in the Luzon area, some idiocy continues: like trying to move a heavy excavator across three miles of muddy road. Impossible.

The most interesting of all was finding teeth and bones in the pivotal tunnel. John Casey shuts down the operation immediately, and the miners were clearly uneasy at finding the remains. Whose graves might these be? Casey theorized Japanese left prisoners buried alive in these tunnels.

Bingo is authorized to make a deal with Dr. McDougall for his authenticated maps. He wants 1% of the treasure for his info. We cannot calculate how many millions that will be.

As a side-note, John Casey goes on a tirade in one scene and explains that no one and nothing will stop him in his quest to find this treasure. AT least now we know what happened to last year’s team. There is no comfort for his partners this season.

 

 

To Believe or To Investigate?

DATELINE: I Want to Believe! 

 Nicks Redfern & Pope

The documentary with the worst title so far this year is I Want to Believe! 

What a pity because it actually might attract more viewers with a better title. Of course, the opening credits undermine it further when the production company is misspelled as “Prodruction.”  Sloppy filmmakers.

Once the film starts, you realize that it is giving us some of the better Ancient Aliensexperts in a different light. Yes, there are our personal favorites Nick Pope, Nick Redburn, and Mike Bara. They are the true stars of this picture—and they dominate the interviews, though a few other lesser knowns offer opinions.

These three usually offer sound-bite one-sentence comments on a specific topic on Ancient Aliens.Here they are allowed to open up—and even explain a bit of their personal history and why they went into this crypto-journalism field of UFOs.

Make no mistake, they do think of themselves not as believers, but as investigators with an open mind.

The term UFO is widely disparaged as it is meaningless since anything unknown in the sky is a UFO. They also tend to respect “professional” witnesses over “abductees” because expertise carries some weight in their investigations. Bara disputes this and thinks the Travis Walton case is highly compelling because six witnesses passed multiple lie detector tests.

As theorists, they tend to lump all paranormal into one or two categories: either governmental disinformation for political motives, or the more interesting—interdimensional beings. Here, whatever culture you find, whether ghosts, orbs, little gray men, a Bigfoot. It is from a time-travel source in our past or parallel universe.

They do not dismiss the idea that an ancient civilization, now long gone on Earth, went to the Moon or Mars, and then eons ago came to an end. Their remnants may be our visitors.

We tend to agree that interdimensional explanations work best to include spirits who may have connections to ordinary people today whom they visit in one form or another.

As an adjunct to Ancient Aliens, we thought this was a more comprehensive consideration, with more attention to details than a fly in the ointment.

Trump Has Malaria?

 DATELINE: Whatever Ails You?

 Happy Halloween!

Trump has boasted this week that he is taking an anti-malaria drug, using it as a preventative for coronavirus. He now takes one pill of  hydroxychloroquine plus azithromycin every day.

He also admitted that the White House doctor did not “recommend” the treatment. Indeed, the FDA warns about its dangers. Yet, Trump is not most people—and he has a little button in his brain not known to science that compels him to act however he wants. Has someone pushed that button again?

We are amused that the White House doctor would take a chance in prescribing a pill for the president that could cause him to have rapid heartbeats or a heart attack. Thus, if Trump died, the doctor could be called an assassin.

Trump actually may be the first president to assassinate himself.

 Under the circumstances, we wondered if the doctor was giving Trump a placebo of aspirin, unbeknownst to the world leader.

Blithely used in a blind study, Trump then goes on his merry way.

His insistence on using a malaria drug comes out of some Fox News story he must have heard. In any respect, he started taking  hydroxychloroquine plus azithromycin right after a number of people in the White House started coming down with positive tests for novel coronavirus. It inspired Trump to try anything. His COVID came COD via his Veep.

Of course, there is a chance that Trump tested positive, and the White House lied to the press about the result. We are still not entirely satisfied he is healthy. He looks putrid lately.