An excellent interview (once again) with the very excellent George Hansen on Paratopia. As host Jeremy Vaeni says, this is not your usual Hansen interview!
Paratopia as we know it is counting down; sad to say. But exciting to see what new form it will take.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Skeptoid Chatter on the JREF: McMinnville UFO Fest
I was surprised to find that the skeptibunkies at the JREF have created a thread devoted to the McMinnville UFO Fest.
Among the expected and usual, is this comment from “kittynh” (who likes to play UFO researcher; explore the history, if you have the inclination) on Travis Walton:
“Gord in Toronto” reassures that:
As I posted on UFOMystic a week or so ago, (A Ha! I Knew It; Skeptics Infiltrate McMinnville UFO Fest) the skeptics do intentionally infiltrate the McMinnville UFO conference, as no doubt they do all over the country at various UFO conferences. I hadn’t heard any skeptic questions asked during the Q&A this time, but I did leave while they were still taking questions at all three presentations. So it’s possible I missed something skeptoid wise. I know in years past they asked ponderous, pedantic and generally stupid questions, though entertaining.
Besides the skeptics not being overt this year, I also missed the religious zealots who like to sing and shout at UFO conference attendees. Maybe they were there and I missed them or maybe they decided to cool it this year; don’t know.
Related stuff:
McMinnville, Oregon UFO: Festivals and Hoaxes
Cross posted at Oregon L.O.W.F.I.
Among the expected and usual, is this comment from “kittynh” (who likes to play UFO researcher; explore the history, if you have the inclination) on Travis Walton:
TRAVIS WALTON is still raking in money on the UFO thing?Yeah, he and all other UFO researchers and witnesses are rolling in the dough, as we all know. That’s how we can afford our secret underground tin foil encased villa in the Mediterranean.
“Gord in Toronto” reassures that:
The UFO folks are "Mostly harmless"* and it's not likely that you'll be inducted into any cult.Of course there were a few members who posted this infamous link to the Trent UFO sighting (of which the McMinnville UFO conference/fest is in homage to) that rabid skeptoid Robert Sheaffer “debunks” the Trent case. Sheaffer is not only among the most loathsome of skeptics, he’s a raging misogynist.
As I posted on UFOMystic a week or so ago, (A Ha! I Knew It; Skeptics Infiltrate McMinnville UFO Fest) the skeptics do intentionally infiltrate the McMinnville UFO conference, as no doubt they do all over the country at various UFO conferences. I hadn’t heard any skeptic questions asked during the Q&A this time, but I did leave while they were still taking questions at all three presentations. So it’s possible I missed something skeptoid wise. I know in years past they asked ponderous, pedantic and generally stupid questions, though entertaining.
Besides the skeptics not being overt this year, I also missed the religious zealots who like to sing and shout at UFO conference attendees. Maybe they were there and I missed them or maybe they decided to cool it this year; don’t know.
Related stuff:
McMinnville, Oregon UFO: Festivals and Hoaxes
Cross posted at Oregon L.O.W.F.I.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Queen Regina Appearing Nightly in Vegas!
Don't know what was swimming around my subconscious last night, but I had the following dream and this is the perfect blog to share it. . .
The dream takes place in one of my many recurring dream-scapes; this one is my shabby, rather sad, dilapidated beach town setting. I work for a school, of sorts. It's more like a group of instructors -- of which I am one -- and we contract out to schools to teach everything from academics to arts, dance, sports, etc and also tutor. These classes take place at any time; before regular, "real" school or after, in the summer, and so on.
We're having a meeting inside a small conference room, at night. It's a little dim in here and shabby, like everything else in this town. In our hands is the sandstone colored paper with the agenda on it. I see listed all kinds of classes: painting, math, basketball, ... and, psychic. I think, "Psychic, that's weird, oh, they must mean physics of course, which is also a little weird, kind of advanced for us, but oh well ... "
Our supervisor is assigning the classes to everyone; "Joe, you'll do art, Cheri, you're doing the basketball camp, ..." and then, "Regan, you're doing the psychic class." What??!! I say I don't know how to teach a class and she tells me some things: one, tough, its how it's done around here as I well know, you take what you're assigned, and if I want a job, I'll take it. And two, I'll do fine, don't worry about it. Most of all, three, I'm not exactly teaching the class, I'm performing. As a psychic.
"In fact," she tells me. "Get ready, and buy something glitzy and bright and theatrical, because we're going to Vegas in a couple of weeks to teach."
That strikes me as odd; what kind of school travels to Las Vegas to teach? But I'm also kind of excited. This could be fun. Now I'm worried about the clothing part; I don't have the money to buy something la-dee-dah. But I'm good at finding things in Goodwills and the like. I end up finding a great multi-colored sequined belt that I wear with a black top and pants.
But before we get to Vegas, I do some "shows" on the beach. As it always appears in my beach town dream-set, there's a concrete or stucco wall, painted white, about four feet high, that runs along the sand between the houses and small buildings and the beach. The wall is crumbly and chunks of the stucco have fallen off, the paint is peeling...
I'm up on the sand. It's dusk. The audience sits in chairs on the wet sand, their backs to the sea. I have a member from the audience up with me, in a chair. Also with me is a new instructor, I'm teaching him the psychic ropes.
I whisper instructions and comments to this teacher; a young man, as I go along. the audience member is a man in his early forties, maybe. His name is something like Alan Landis, or Landley. I start off calling him "Mr. Landley" but after a bit, call him Alan. Then I ask him: "Is it all right if I call you Alan?" He nods. He's in a half trance like state.
I tell the instructor that this is part of the "game," -- using the "victim's" last name out of respect first, then when he feels comfortable, use his first name, to make both him and the audience feel cozy and like we're all one big family just having fun. I say other things to the instructor as I go along, bits of advice, explanations on what I'm doing. I make a joke to the audience, then say to the instructor: "Keep the audience in on it, in on the "joke" that's between you and them, at the "victim's" expense, who isn't aware of everything. Another thing I tell him is: "Keep the patter, keep going with confidence, and be quick."
I give my predictions and my insights, tell Mr. Landley what I see. The thing is, none of this is a lie, none of this is a hoax, or a deceit. It's all true. I tell this to the instructor: "It has to look like this is just a fun unreal game for the truth to get to people. We can't come out and be serious. Make it look easy, fun, and of no account as far as any useful meaning. The thing is, it's all utterly, completely really meaningful. As hell."
As I go along, and have the audience eating out of my hand, and Mr. Landley open and vulnerable to me, I give my more serious insights. I tell him things only he would know, and this astounds everyone. While I, we, are all having fun, it slowly dawns on most everyone out there this is real stuff.
Now I'm in Vegas. I've gotten really good at this stuff. I'm still a little nervous; not for the psychic part, but more mundane matters. I'm having anxiety over being out of my comfort zone, in a new town, and on my own. Where's the bus, where's the rest of my co-workers? I'm out in the boondocks of Vegas. Certainly not on the strip, but in some weird little dinky "theater" with about five people in the audience. I'm billed as Queen Regina. I do my thing. Even though it's in the middle of nowhere, and I'm a bit lost, and there's only less than a dozen people interested at all, it's good. I'm having fun, in my high heels and multi-colored sequined belt. Word is getting around about me; in a good way. Despite the carnival aspect of all this (after all, I really do come from circus folk) it turns out I am a very good psychic.
The dream takes place in one of my many recurring dream-scapes; this one is my shabby, rather sad, dilapidated beach town setting. I work for a school, of sorts. It's more like a group of instructors -- of which I am one -- and we contract out to schools to teach everything from academics to arts, dance, sports, etc and also tutor. These classes take place at any time; before regular, "real" school or after, in the summer, and so on.
We're having a meeting inside a small conference room, at night. It's a little dim in here and shabby, like everything else in this town. In our hands is the sandstone colored paper with the agenda on it. I see listed all kinds of classes: painting, math, basketball, ... and, psychic. I think, "Psychic, that's weird, oh, they must mean physics of course, which is also a little weird, kind of advanced for us, but oh well ... "
Our supervisor is assigning the classes to everyone; "Joe, you'll do art, Cheri, you're doing the basketball camp, ..." and then, "Regan, you're doing the psychic class." What??!! I say I don't know how to teach a class and she tells me some things: one, tough, its how it's done around here as I well know, you take what you're assigned, and if I want a job, I'll take it. And two, I'll do fine, don't worry about it. Most of all, three, I'm not exactly teaching the class, I'm performing. As a psychic.
"In fact," she tells me. "Get ready, and buy something glitzy and bright and theatrical, because we're going to Vegas in a couple of weeks to teach."
But before we get to Vegas, I do some "shows" on the beach. As it always appears in my beach town dream-set, there's a concrete or stucco wall, painted white, about four feet high, that runs along the sand between the houses and small buildings and the beach. The wall is crumbly and chunks of the stucco have fallen off, the paint is peeling...
I'm up on the sand. It's dusk. The audience sits in chairs on the wet sand, their backs to the sea. I have a member from the audience up with me, in a chair. Also with me is a new instructor, I'm teaching him the psychic ropes.
I whisper instructions and comments to this teacher; a young man, as I go along. the audience member is a man in his early forties, maybe. His name is something like Alan Landis, or Landley. I start off calling him "Mr. Landley" but after a bit, call him Alan. Then I ask him: "Is it all right if I call you Alan?" He nods. He's in a half trance like state.
I tell the instructor that this is part of the "game," -- using the "victim's" last name out of respect first, then when he feels comfortable, use his first name, to make both him and the audience feel cozy and like we're all one big family just having fun. I say other things to the instructor as I go along, bits of advice, explanations on what I'm doing. I make a joke to the audience, then say to the instructor: "Keep the audience in on it, in on the "joke" that's between you and them, at the "victim's" expense, who isn't aware of everything. Another thing I tell him is: "Keep the patter, keep going with confidence, and be quick."
I give my predictions and my insights, tell Mr. Landley what I see. The thing is, none of this is a lie, none of this is a hoax, or a deceit. It's all true. I tell this to the instructor: "It has to look like this is just a fun unreal game for the truth to get to people. We can't come out and be serious. Make it look easy, fun, and of no account as far as any useful meaning. The thing is, it's all utterly, completely really meaningful. As hell."
As I go along, and have the audience eating out of my hand, and Mr. Landley open and vulnerable to me, I give my more serious insights. I tell him things only he would know, and this astounds everyone. While I, we, are all having fun, it slowly dawns on most everyone out there this is real stuff.
Now I'm in Vegas. I've gotten really good at this stuff. I'm still a little nervous; not for the psychic part, but more mundane matters. I'm having anxiety over being out of my comfort zone, in a new town, and on my own. Where's the bus, where's the rest of my co-workers? I'm out in the boondocks of Vegas. Certainly not on the strip, but in some weird little dinky "theater" with about five people in the audience. I'm billed as Queen Regina. I do my thing. Even though it's in the middle of nowhere, and I'm a bit lost, and there's only less than a dozen people interested at all, it's good. I'm having fun, in my high heels and multi-colored sequined belt. Word is getting around about me; in a good way. Despite the carnival aspect of all this (after all, I really do come from circus folk) it turns out I am a very good psychic.
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