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The Caged BulliesBy Fay Funk I was a creepy child. You wouldn’t think so, from looking at the drawings on the walls and refrigerators of my parents and my aunts and uncles. There are clumsy attempts at drawing anime from when I was in middle school, and some decent acrylic paintings from my high school art classes. But history has been sanitized. My most elaborate art projects from when I was a young child have either been hidden away or have disappeared completely, and are rarely brought up, unless we are discussing how surprisingly well-adjusted I turned out, considering my high creep levels as a kid. I showed an interest in sewing when I was about six years old, and to foster my creativity my mother bought me a book on how to make dolls, along with sheets of flesh-colored felt, stuffing, yarn for hair, and colorful thread for embroidering faces. The sewing machine was off-limits for me at that age, so I hand-sewed all of my dolls. I was proud of them, ignoring that they looked nothing like the pictures in my book. My dolls were always either over or under-stuffed, leaving them with bulldog bodies and hunchbacks, or floppy pinheads. Six-year-old me could not grasp the subtlety of embroidery, so my dolls suffered with amoeba-like eyes and wide, crooked red smiles. Their yarn hair was ropey and witch-like, even when I unraveled the yarn like the book suggested. My parents were wonderful, praising my creativity work ethic, and very strongly encouraging to give the dolls away as gifts. The dolls did not appear again in my life until I was in college. I learned that my aunt, who had been given most of the dolls, used them to torture her partner. She would arrange them in a circle on the bed or hang them from the ceiling to scare him when he got home, or hide them around the apartment so he would occasionally get a disturbing surprise while looking for a snack. I hadn’t seen my dolls for years, but when I picked the Frankenstein-mermaid doll again at age 20 and examined it as objectively I could, I saw it. My dolls were pretty damn creepy. As unnerving as my dolls were, they had nothing on my Zoo. The cages for my Zoo were old shoe boxes with bars cut into the sides. Inside the boxes were dioramas featuring paper cut-out drawings of people who had hurt my feelings. The theme of their cage related whatever they had done to upset me. For example, a girl I overheard gossiping about my terrible swimming in the locker room after practice had a water-themed cage. She stood on a tiny island surrounded by shark and crocodile infested water. My fifth grade teacher definitely had a cage, and while I don’t remember the exact theme, it probably had something to do with math. A classmate who had been bothering me found herself trapped in a twisted play structure modeled after the one we played on at recess. My sister would have been in the Zoo, but my mother put her foot down on that one. I had about five cages in my Zoo before I stopped making them. Looking back on the Zoo I’m simultaneously disturbed by myself and in awe of my own creativity. As weird as the Zoo was, it was an effective way of coping with hurt feelings, literally locking away my anger. I don’t recall holding a grudge for longer than it took to make a cage. Maturity has made things so complicated. There is so much more to process, discussions to have, decisions to make. It’s never as simple as putting your feelings in a box. Perhaps that’s why artists have a reputation for being immature. They find the simple solution to a complicated problem, and move on. And as effective as that is, it’s weird. Really, really weird. #Makers #Creators #Dolls #Childhood
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Get yer plants and yer comix!There aren’t many stores where you can get a Venus flytrap and a vintage Marvel action figure in one trip. But that is certainly within the realm of possibility at Exotic Planetarium and Card and Comic Collectorama in Alexandria, Virginia's Del Ray neighborhood, not far from our nation's capital. This delightfully strange establishment is the brainchild of Dennis Webb, a native Alexandrian, trained horticulturalist and comic enthusiast, who set up shop in 1974. You’ll find comics organized by era and publisher or collection, with rare editions kept behind the counter. More about the business on Yelp.com. #Comics #ExoticPlants #Alexandria #OldDominion #GreaterWashington
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The Modern Witch's AbodeBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com A creepy house or an enchanted coven? Invite yourself over for tea to discover just which? Make sure you bring a slice of something homemade. #Scary #Weird #Wonderful
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He Played Pooh Sticks in Forest Hill ParkI had a good phone voice, folks told me. You should try narrating audio books for children, more than one friend had said. Since high school, I had found myself cupping the receiver a few thousand times. Two stints on a magazine call center alone had given me enough phone time to rival an operator. And yet that Wednesday morning, my voice temporarily vanished. I stared at the computer screen and picked at the split ends in my curls. A website that probably hadn't been updated since 1998 stared back at me. It was the official online presence for a one-hit wonder 1950s doo-wop group. There was no email address anywhere, only an address with a P.O. box located in a Southern city I had never visited. It was a Southern city I probably never would visit—and I say this as a charitable Southerner. I had to figure out the home phone number for the band's only surviving member. If my time as a reporter has taught me anything, it's this: WhitePages.com tells you much more than it should. I typed the singer's name into White Pages and guessed that he might be living near that P.O. box. His name popped up. It appeared that more than one man by his name was living in the same city. No problem because White Pages always gives you approximate ages for each search result. I chose the only person, biologically and historically speaking, who could be him. Then I did what I was supposed to do two weeks ago: I dialed. My voice is on the softer, more feminine side. When I'm scared, it gets too high. When I'm terrified, it disappears. As soon as the man answered the phone, I recognized his voice. I paused so long that he might've hung up if I hadn't suddenly recovered and introduced myself. Too squeaky and too fast, I explained that I had recently produced a short film that would be shown at art galleries and submitted to festivals. My director wanted permission to use his band's hit song. On our shoestring budget, we could not offer a royalty unless the film won a cash prize at a festival. “Why I'm flattered,” the man said, his voice wavering a little. “It's nice to think that after all these years, that song still means something to somebody, especially at 9 a.m. on a weekday.” The song had recently played on a major television show, but we didn't discuss that. Despite his age and famosity, he said that he was pleased that we wanted the song, that of course we could use it, and that my call was “one for the archives.” I chuckled, relieved. I asked if he would sign a release form, but he told me it wasn't “necessary for something like this.” As my confidence swelled, so did my voice and it became deeper and richer than normal. I started to tell him about the project, but he seemed more interested in where I was based. He interrupted me out of excitement: “You know, my whole mother's family is from there, the south side, across the river. I remember that much. I lived there when I was really young.” Then he paused. “Are you familiar with the Winnie-the-Pooh stories?” “Yeah, Christopher Robin?” “Right. You know the game Pooh Sticks? I used to play it in the park there. That's where I learned it.” I laughed, enchanted by the thought of this elderly man as a five-year-old throwing sticks in the creek and watching them float downstream with another tiny child. A park I knew from college adventures had been his Hundred Acre Woods. After I reconfirmed that we had permission to use his song, I thanked him and hung up the phone. But Pooh Bear remained on my mind for the rest of the morning. #WinnieThePooh #ForestHillPark #ChildhoodMemories #Nostalgia
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UnhealedI'm going to talk about something here that I rarely talk about. It's a disease I suffer from, and apparently it's pretty common, about 1 percent of the population, actually higher than Multiple Sclerosis, but you may have never heard of it. Why? Because people whom have it generally do not like to talk it. Partly because it's embarrasing, and partly because once you are done dealing with a flare up of it, you do not want this disease to take up any more of your time.
There are a variety of names for the disease: Verneuil’s disease, Acne inversa, but the technical term is Hidradenitis suppurativa. It's chronic, hereditary, and debilitating. And while there are steps to treat it, there is no cure. The disease works in the sweat glands around hair follicles. They clog up, and begin to abscess. The abscess is essentially a pimple, but much much larger, and instead of coming up through the skin, goes inside the skin. Hence the name Acne inversa. I first discovered the disease the day after a 12-hour continuous drive back from Chicago in 2008. I felt a little hard spot on my butt check. "Odd", I thought. And over the next eight to 10 days, I really can't remember the exact length of time, it grew into the most horrible thing I had ever experienced. I sat in the ER on that throbbing, painful abscess for five hours waiting to be admitted to find what in the hell was going on. I had never experienced anything like it. Upon being finally taken back, I found it burst when I moved my leg to hop on to the exam room table. They sat me there for an hour to let it drain, then gave me morphine, and proceeded to give me 12 antibiotic shots in the area. It was then packed with gauze and I was told I would have to change the packing every day. They assigned me a nurse to visit me and change it, but on weekends I was on my own. Luckily, a friend at my school knew a person at the free clinic and referred me there to have the dressing changed. I think back to this time with a smile, for two reasons: 1. That my wounds were being packed, which is painful, but it's also good care. And 2, the horror of my roomate's face when I asked him to help me change it. The only thing I took solace in was that this would never ever happen again. And then two months later, another one happened. And a month or so after that, another. And it kept like that for about a year, then went to one every three months and stayed like that for a while. But through this, I had no idea what the disease was. Doctors told me it may be MRSA, and so treated it as such, but it still came back. And every culture they took to check for infection came back negative for anything. So no bacteria, but still it acts like it's infected. Some doctors said I should take more regular baths, which was laughable if you know me, 'cause I'm pretty damn clean. But still no clue what it was. Then one day I went to a new doctor, and poof!, I had a diagnosis. I asked her how to treat it. She said there was no prevention of it, or cure, but that surgery could be arranged to remove the area that was effected. However, she told me I should wait until it's absolutely necessary, as these abscesses tend to come back, even after the skin is removed. So one would wonder why even bothering with the surgery? Well, as the area never fully heals, leaving a bit of raised skin, it can fall prey to Squamous-cell carcinoma, and that can kill you. Nice. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How People Like This Hold Back All of HumanitySo, this happened in the news again. Some white person made a crack or offensive remark about a community, race, or group of people again. Following in the footsteps of Justine Sacco and Stan Collymore comes Miroslava Duma, editor of Buro 24/7, a Russian fashion magazine, who published an article featuring the above photo in question on Dasha Zhukova, editor-in-chief of Garage Magazine, another Russian magazine. The logic has left most people offended and scratching their heads. A few questions come to my mind. For one, why did you think that was a good idea? I mean, even if you are an ignorant racist Russian woman, why in the name of all contexts to the word 'reason' would you think publishing that photograph would be a good idea? Second, what about the photographer, why did he take that photo? Or Dasha, why did she agree to pose in such a hapless photo? Why did three assumedly free-thinking individuals not ever once think that this could be offensive to, reasonably, a LARGE group of people? This raises not only questions about the prevalence and acceptance of racism in countries the world over, but also the intelligence of fashion magazine editors. There was a lot of twitter backlash, whatever good that does. Public shaming over something that, in this modern day and age, seems like a no-brainer. Whether one is racist or not is their own choice, but like a religion, please don't put it in other people's faces. And the photo is ugly, too. Dasha Zhukova has issued the following public apology: "The chair pictured in the Buro 24/7 website interview is an artwork created by Norwegian artist Bjarne Melgaard, one of a series that reinterprets art historical works from artist Allen Jones as a commentary on gender and racial politics. Its use in this photo shoot is regrettable as it took the artwork totally out of its intended context, particularly given that Buro 24/7′s release of the article coincided with the important celebration of the life and legacy of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I regret allowing an artwork with such charged meaning to be used in this context. I utterly abhor racism and would like to apologize to those offended by my participation in this shoot. Garage Magazine has a strong track record of promoting diversity and racial and gender equality in the worlds of art and fashion, and will continue in our mission to stir positive debate on these and other issues." And Miroslava Duma has issued this following public apology: "Dear all, Buro 24/7 and I personally would like to express our sincerest apology to anyone who we have offended and hurt. It was ABSOLUTELY not our intention. We are against racism or gender inequality or anything that infringes upon anyone's rights. We love, respect and look up to people regardless of their race, gender or social status. The chair in the photo should only be seen as a piece of art which was created by British Pop-Artist Allen Jones, and not as any form of racial discrimination. In our eyes everyone is equal. And we love everybody." To me, they're the same note. Both editors cover their butts by stating in a matter of fact manner that they are not racist, believe in equality, and that it is the OFFICIAL stance of their respected organizations to love and cherish everybody, also equally. If you believed in that in the first place, then why did you publish the photos? Furthermore, why did you take the photo? Further-furthermore, why did you even think the photo? Did anyone of the three+ people think, at one point, that this could be going the wrong way? So now we come to the grit of my op-ed, which is how instances like this fit into the public debate over the real issues. People like Miroslava Duma or Dasha Zhukova are an example of what I call serial apologists. They proudly display their own desires to be offensive, and apologize when the expected backlash comes their way. Is it a doubt in my mind that instances like this are done intentionally to create international buzz and draw attention to the magazine's being published? No. Do instances like this just add more problems to the public debate instead of offering solutions? Yes. Do these two individuals really care about what the offended individuals think? Probably not, because imagery like this that seems so obviously made to provoke is still being published without concern. Is it such a stretch of thinking for one person, before publishing, to think, "hmm, why this could be considered racist"? These people don't care. They want the publicity. They want the attention, even if it's bad. They want the press. Personal sensibilities mean nothing, and this kind of thinking holds all of humanity back. This is my two cents. Have a great day. #GarageMagazine #RussianFashionMagazine #WhiteWoman#BlackChair #Racism #Disgusting #Shocking The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
You Might Feel Dirty Eating ThisBy Claire LeDoyen QuailBellMagazine.com According to Jezebel, this year’s hot food trend is going to be… Dirt. A restaurant in Japan is featuring a whole menu starring black dirt soil, a special kind of dirt known for its incredible fertility found in Kanuma, Tochigi Prefecture. Check out the full menu here. The United States has a Black Dirt region as well, located in upstate New York and parts of New Jersey. I tried to reimagine the Ne Quittez Pas menu as an American cuisine, with produce and ingredients from our special Black Dirt region. So, without further ado, I introduce the Quail Bell Café Soil Specials: The first course is a house salad with dirt vinaigrette; fresh lettuce, tomato, radishes, carrots and shallots from the area drizzled with a vinaigrette featuring black dirt to cut the acidity. Tastes like a garden. Our award-winning onion soup is simmered for an hour and is peppered with the soil from onion retrieved from the earth just minutes before cooktime. Paying homage to Tokyo restaurant Ne Quittez Pas, our dirt risotto with bass is a succulent smallmouth bass from the Wallkill River (which flows through Ulster county, and the black dirt region) sauteed in soil and fried with burdock root flown in from a premier region in Japan. For wintry fare, try our root vegetable pot pie. We sprinkle soil into the thick pastry crust, giving a full and earthy aroma and taste. With onion, sweet potato, parsnips and carrots this is a perfect entrée for the fall and winter. We also have handmade sun-dried tomato Polish sausages with dirt, served with black dirt onions and bell peppers on a roll. Our lamb shoulder is a mouthwatering cut of meat covered in an onion sauce inspired from our famed onion soup. A must try for a special occasion! For dessert, try our brown butter spice cake. This cake is loaded with flavor, and a surefire pleaser after the pot pie or lamb. With acorn and winter squash and the rich soil that comes with them, this spice cake is packed with everything from cinnamon to pepper and garam masala. Topped with walnuts and brown sugar crystals. According to Time Magazine, eating dirt is also known as geophagy. Some believe that it can boost your immune system. Dirt has also been considered a healthy food item for pregnant women. Dietitians like Rebecca Scritchfield, in Washington D.C., reportedly told Yahoo! that dirt is not suitable for ingesting. But you decide—it's your stomach. #Soil #Dirt #Food #WeirdEats #Culinary #AcquiredTaste #Nasty #Um #Digestion #Dining #Restaurants The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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I Never Poop at WorkBy The Sparrow Goddess QuailBellMagazine.com She was the girl your mother or your aunt or someone else obsessed with propriety expected you to be: clean, organized, well spoken, stylish yet conservative and one to go with the status quo. She dressed in J. Crew, but never chose bold colors, except occasionally bright pink, which she only wore in accents. Her hair was shiny, combed and usually worn back. Her make-up, though there, appeared nearly transparent. She mostly spoke when spoken to and always chose the right words. One day, after the boss’s dog had taken a crap on the office floor for the third time that week, she started complaining about the smell and ended her whining with, “I never poop at work.” “Ever?” I asked. “Ever. That’s for my own toilet in the privacy of my own home.” How uptight do you have to be to not so much as allow yourself to loosen your own bowels? Little Miss Perfect Uptight. I asked her what she did if she had diarrhea. She did not answer the question. You know what I have to say about that? Shit wherever you want. Just clean up afterwards. #Poop #Crap #Shit #Toilet #Bathroom #Bowel #Diarrhea #Gross #Ew #WTF? #Strange #Yuck The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Brit Rock—But Not BowieFowberry Excavation Site 6 submitted by SolarMegalith. Cup with penannulars on Fowberry Excavation Site 6 panel (photo taken on October 2013). Rock Art in Northumberland, England—The largest and most extensively decorated panel in the Fowberry (meaning 'fortification of the foal') Excavation site group is adjacent to the Bronze Age burial cairn. Among the motifs there are cups with multiple penannulars, grooves and a cup with two rings. More on ERA... Fowberry Excavation Site 6 submitted by SolarMegalith. General view of Fowberry Excavation Site 6 panel (photo taken October 2013.) Get your local dose of archeology at the Alexandria Archaeology Museum. ***This post originally appeared on The Megalithic Portal and was republished here with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Buy Your Headstone HereBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com 1301 East Market Street in Charlottesville is a teeny lot with a teeny building but LOADS of character. It is the site of W.A. Hartman Memorials, which specializes in B2B masonry, historical monuments and, er, tombstones. Feel free to walk around, but don't you dare trip on a slab of granite. That'll probably bring you some kind of curse.
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Exploring Space Between Individuals & the CollectiveArtist George Pfau believes zombies are an irresistible cultural force. But while most of us limit our interest to binging on Walking Dead episodes, or perhaps taking part in a Zombie Walk, for Pfau the study of zombies makes up a huge part of his art practice.
His most recent project is the Zombie Index, a website that explores the ever-expanding breadth of possibilities of what a zombie can be. “Zombies inspire me because they provide a fascinating middle zone between alive and dead, individual and collective, inside and outside,” Pfau explained. This particular nature of zombies is reflected in the website, which allows visitors to zoom in to focus on individuals, or zoom out to view the group as a whole. The website also features a collection of names of people who inspired the work, as well as network of links embedded inside various pronouns scattered throughout. The drawing itself was made on paper using graphite, ink, acrylic and watercolour paints. Pfau elaborates on why zombies are worthy of closer examination: "Zombies span the shambling former-loved-ones on The Walking Dead, to the synchronized dancers of Michael Jackson’s Thriller, to the proletariat rising up against the elite of George Romero’s Land of the Dead, to countless other iterations. They are labeled: zombies, infected, ghouls, walkers, skels, undead, unliving, deadites, hostiles, stenches, revenants, victims, patients, vectors of contagion, etc. To some they are sub-human others killed for sport, to others they are a race of under-recognized people seeking acceptance and rights. The zombies in the drawing cover many aspects of this vast category. Emphasis is placed on the amount information needed to portray a humanoid figure, and thus figures range from detailed and recognizable, to iconic stick figures, or from black-and-white outlines to rendered colorful paintings. I see the word zombie as a constantly mutating entity, defined by its constant use throughout our popular culture. From one film, book, video game, artwork, news report to the next the rules and parameters change." Explore the zombies for yourself at ZombieIndex.us. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Shooting Down History In an odd coincidence, historic sites in both D.C. and Richmond recently suffered mild damage as a result of stray bullets. The Richmond Railroad Museum opened their doors Dec. 21 to find evidence of bullets in the old Southern Railway Passenger Station. I happened to be there to get some pictures for the article I was writing about the museum at the time. The museum volunteers called the police to show them the damage. It seemed to be mostly a hole in one door with a corresponding hole in the plaster wall of the hallway, plus a broken window pane in the stationmaster's office. The incident in Richmond seems tame compared to an intense shootout that happened in D.C. on Dec. 26. The African American Civil War Memorial and Museum was in the middle of a volley of 60 or so shots. Bullets damaged the surrounding area, with one bullet even striking a panel listing the members of the 121st Regiment Colored Infantry. Fortunately, none of the names was damaged. Extra fortunately, no one was hurt in either of these incidents. Historic sites pale in importance to human life. But people need to be more careful with guns. Someone could have gotten hurt or killed. Stray bullets are a big deal. Tighten up D.C. and Richmond! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Jefferson Hotel Reveals Santa's Big Secret I know the big issue right now is Fox news vehemently claiming Santa is white. Shawn Everett Jones wrote about the 'black Santa debate' for his recent essay on Quail Bell. But no one is talking about another Santa scandal that has been ongoing: the merry man's cookie addiction. A visit to the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia to check out their annual holiday decorations ended up revealing Santa's secret (or not-so-secret) addiction: As you may know, traditionally, American families leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk out for Santa on Christmas Eve. It's always seemed like a nice gesture, nothing more.
Well, if you check out Santa's sleigh, which they have on display at the Jefferson Hotel, you will see why it is VITAL to keep Santa sated on plates of cookies. Santa's sleigh is made out of gingerbread cookies and candy! Specifically, 350 pounds of gingerbread cookies and 400 pounds of frosting. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Jewelry for Your WordsIf you could rename Black Friday—a bizarre & uniquely American cultural phenomenon—what would you call it? Tell us here and you could win these fairy earrings designed by Red Lintu—one for you and one for a friend! Just comment on this post and like Quail Bell Magazine on Facebook for a chance to win! Winner will be announced December 1st. Please share this post, and happy holidays!
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Our Alien LiaisonFor Orfeo Angelucci, his strange career as a spokesperson for the aliens watching Earth reportedly began on August 4, 1946 with an amateur science experiment. Born in Trenton, New Jersey to a working-class Italian American family, Angelucci was a sickly child with a history of childhood illness. Diagnosed with “constitutional inadequacy” as a child, his poor health left him with recurring migraine headaches as well as a peculiar sensitivity to thunderstorms. Despite having to leave school early due to poor health and family financial problems, he continued to study science in his spare time until a complete physical breakdown forced him to give up his job. After nearly two years in hospital, he eventually returned to work and resumed his amateur science experiments. While his experiments may have been somewhat offbeat, there was no doubting his enthusiasm. Angelucci had a particular fascination with how electricity and thunderstorms affected humans and even wrote an enthusiastic letter to then-President Franklin Roosevelt about his discoveries. In the letter, he insisted that the “range paralysis” he saw in chickens was related to atmospheric static conditions and suggested that this might be relevant to the treatment of polio. He never received an answer. In the fateful 1946 experiment, Angelucci tried to launch samples of the fungus, Aspergillis clavatus, into the upper atmosphere in a homemade weather balloon. He hoped to study how the fungus was changed by atmospheric conditions but the balloon broke away from the mooring and was lost along with his fungus samples. As he would later describe, Angelucci and the family members who had gathered to watch the balloon launch saw what appeared to be a flying saucer hover overhead. When the balloon went up, the saucer apparently followed it until both were lost from sight. No trace of the balloons or the fungus samples were ever found. After moving to California (where he heard there were fewer thunderstorms), Angelucci attempted to break into the movie industry by writing his own script about a trip to the moon (no studios expressed any interest though). He finally went to work for the Lockheed Corporation doing fabrication work while continuing scientific research in his spare time. Along with self-publishing a thesis titled “The Nature of Infinite Energies” describing his theories on “atomic evolution, suspension and involution," he also wrote several letters to Linus Pauling outlining his theories on biology and nuclear causation. Pauling wrote several letters back politely thanking him but adding that he had no comments he could make on these theories. With the advent of the “flying saucer” craze in 1948, Angelucci became fascinated with the various sightings being reported. His own flying saucer event occurred on May 23, 1952 after he left the Lockheed plant early in the morning (he was working the night shift.) In the statement he later wrote about his experience, he began experiencing “prickling sensations” while driving home that felt as if his old medical problems were returning. Angelucci then saw a “red-glowing, oval-shaped object” in the sky which he decided to follow. On a deserted part of the highway, he saw two smaller objects detach themselves and approach his car. A clear voice told him, “Don’t be afraid, Orfeo, we are friends” and instructed him to get out of the car. The two smaller objects were apparently meant for communication. After reassuring him of their friendly intentions, he was told that the aliens had been watching him ever since his 1946 balloon experiment. The voice then told him to “drink from the crystal cup you will find on the fender of your car, Orfeo!” And, sure enough, there was a goblet on his car fender filled with a liquid. Angelucci reported, “It was the most delicious beverage I had ever tasted. I drained the cup. Even as I was drinking a feeling of strength and well-being swept over me and all of my unpleasant symptoms vanished.” The goblet vanished after he replaced it on the fender. |
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