You could say I've been into the "Ufo scene" since my fourth grade instructor Mrs. Madugle read to us kids on a daily basis from Truman Bethurum's "Aboard a Flying Saucer, " a cult classic in the "contactee" literature of the 1950s. It left one of those indelible impressions spinning in my head.

Now here I was, years later, riding my Bicycle from L.A. to Roswell, New Mexico, a vortex of interest for Ufo buffs, the place where in early July 1947 a flying saucer allegedly crashed and its occuPants recovered, as the story goes. Of mythic proportions, the enigma of Roswell is still a hotbed of controversy half a century later thanks to legal obfuscation, as in "cover-up" and the relaxation of facts Act by which researchers have unearthed incriminating docuMentation.

You could say Roswell is the Plymouth Rock for Ufo researchers although most of us Saucerheads are not Ufo-nuts. We're your average Bicycle riding, freelance narrative writing, developed degree keeping tourist who'd rather spend timing delving into paranormal mysteries than the souvenir shops in Disneyland. We've got our own Tomorrowland to inspect where the stakes are cosmic and oftimes comic. But that's the nature of the universe, a balance of the wild and wacky, the weak and the strong military that glue all the quanta together.

As I zipped up my armor-enhanced riding jacket and donned my full-face helmet, I was for real more implicated that the military keeping together my 20-year old German Bicycle would prevail. First gear was popping out and puffs of gray smoke from the left cylinder exhaust meant ring Job, but the trusty old Bmw R100/7 had gone150, 000 miles so what was a concentrate thousand more in the face of light years of adventure lurking nearby the next hAirpin curve.

To cut to the chase, let's just chalk up the intervening space between L.A. And my intermediate stop in Santa Fe as a missing time experience, a lot of boring freeway paveMent during which one could meld the mindset for the scheme at hand. Since I had only a short timeframe for this adventure, I took the semi-direct route from L.A. First to Santa Fe, about 860 miles from L.A., then on to Roswell, about 200 miles south. If you want to skip Santa Fe altogether and do the level 970 miles from L.A., you just get onto the 1-10 East and keep going for 674.90 miles, join together to the Us-70E which becomes the Us-285 S. A left on the Nm-2, other left on Nm-2 and you're there. Of policy you might want to stop and smell the cactus now and then.

Without any mechanical mishaps or speeding tickets, I and my trusty Beemer arrived in Santa Fe a.k.a. The "City of the Holy Faith." Founded in 1607 and boasting 200 art galleries and five museums the town is a sandstone, pinion tree and cactus clad nexus co-constructed by three cultures: Native Americans who got there first, the Spanish who arrived later and lastly the Anglos who ended up owning the place. My first impression was that Santa Fe was designed by Barney Rubble thanks to the ground hugging houses with their rounded asymmetrical handmolded look. All things is rendered in the hues of the surrounding desert... Breccia browns, gecko grays, tumbleweed tans... A whole city muted to eco-friendly, zero-scape invisibility. What keeps it on the map are supernovae of intense color peaking straight through the adobe cloaking device. They can be seen in the historic plaza district, specifically the shopping stalls situated under the portico of the Palace of the Governors where the local Indians accumulate to sell their brilliantly polished silver jewelry and rainbow woven tapestries and Clothing. In addition, huge strands of dried red chilies like mummified kelp forests hang everywhere. Santa Fe's shamanistic talismans, they weave a spicy spell since All things you order to eat seems to come with chili salsa.

I felt a grumbling and it wasn't coming from any inexpressive inexpressive U.S. Air Force/Alien installation although one is alleged to exist in the area. I was hungry and something brought me to the massive hand carved wooden doors of the Inn of the Anasazi (113 Washington Ave., 505-988-3030). The Inn's 59 rooms feature gaslit Fireplaces, four-poster beds, Indian artwork, even organic toiletries created locally with native cedar extract. Artists, historians and archaeologists host fireside chats in the Inn's living room. Call it a microcosm of the best Sante Fe has to offer under one vigas and latillas constructed roof. The Inn was named after the Native American population who had built a victorious culture on the nearby cliffs of Chaco Canyon then suddenly disappeared without a trace six hundred years ago. Yes, petroglyphs and cave drawings in the area do depict strange creatures with helmet-like headgear. Alien Ufonauts or bikers? Science had no answers, but the hotel's exquisite restaurant did... Their specialty lamb prepared by Chef Randall Warder and augMented by a stellar wine list.

To burn off some of the calories I signed up for a minuscule excursion I learned about from the plethora of brochures found at the hotel. (Brochures and checking out the local phone book Yellow Pages is often my first reconnaissance maneuver when entering uncharted territory.) No tours to Ufo landing sites but I did find something called "Aspook About Ghosts " Close enough since some investigators see a link between etheric and inter-diMensional warps and Ufos. What the heck, after a big dinner I needed a walk.

For a few bucks the tour organizers promised "a haunting taste into Sante Fe's misty past... Life (and death) among the coyotes, witches, ghosts, and the not quite dead." Conducted by Santa Fe ghost guide Peter SinclAire (505-988-2774), I and my fellow spook seekers met at the palatial Eldorado Hotel at the intersection of San Francisco and Sandoval for a two hour bipedal exploration of Santa Fe's haunted places. It's a great way to see Sante Fe, kind of Ghost Busters Meets the voyage Channel.

Santa Fe is also into digging up the bones of the past, and so am I. But I like to look in fossil and mineral stores for Ufo linked items. You never know when a piece of the Roswell crash will show up, right? No saucer debris, but there was a great deal on dinosaur egg shells at the Charlie "Have Rocks Will Travel" Snell shop placed at 1110 Calle La Resolana.

Before I spent all my money on eggs I couldn't eat, I threw my pack back on my bike, and pointed its headlight toward Roswell about 175 miles south of Sante Fe. State Road 285 is a exquisite place to get abducted. It's virtually devoid of traffic with nothing but scrub brush and wide-open nothingness for hundreds of miles in all directions. Best to ride it at night if you want a close encounter of the fourth kind, but Best to do it in the daylight if you'd rather not run into the pronghorn antelope you see everywhere. Antelope and motorcycles don't blend well.

I nailed the throttle and blasted back down 285, and lo' and view soon found myself entering the city limits of Roswell. It came in the form of a giant trampoline painted with the face of an Alien Gray... Big head, bigger eyes... Plastered on the front of a godawful big Wal-Mart division store. Inside my head, something whispered that Ufo's had been commercialized. It was no big inexpressive that Roswell was on the international map because of the 1947 incident and the town's subsequent total embrace of the whole idea. If there is such a place that deserves the title "Ufoville" then it's Roswell. From Wal-Mart to the Arby's sandwich drive-through to the International Ufo Museum and study Institute, Roswell was 100% Flying Saucer Central. I loved the place at first sight.

I checked into the "cost-effective" Crane Motel, one of those bring-your-own-ice-bucket" places. You can't miss it. There's a strange assortment of old junk cars with flat Tires growing roots in the ground, an old ploy to convince population the place has guests. Or maybe the guests never left. One Plymouth had a faded "Vote Nixon" bumper stamp on it. In any case, I spent most of the next two days living in Roswell's International Ufo Museum. You could for real spend a month if you're into the subject. Exhibits cover the Roswell crash or crashes since other witnesses have come transmit with other crash site about 58 miles from Roswell. You can Watch the video made by the late Jim Ragsdale a few days before his death. He relates the details of his encounter with a crashed disc that careened over his pickup truck in which he and his girlfriend were "buck naked" at the time. You can buy a copy of the tape or the book. Judge for yourself, but pretty darn convincing.

Dozens of other Ufo linked books and videos are available, a few of the over 1000 items stocked by the museum's gift shop, a day's exploration in itself. I bought an Alien New Mexico driver's license that I think will get me into most bars in town. I also bought a commemorative Roswell rug and a membership in the museum. I spoke with the charming Ms. Phyllis Blackard, one of the museum volunteers (admission is free!) who as a young girl was gift in Roswell when it all came down from the sky. "I was here when the military swarmed in, and I know Glenn Dennis the mortician who saw the minuscule alien bodies. You can take his word to the bank."

Located at 114 N. Main, the museum has had over 1,000,000 visitors. The exhibits supervene the time line of the July 1947 incident and its aftermath, display purported alien craft fragments, and also spotlights the crop circle mystery and other linked subjects. Documents and photos line the walls as do discrete artists renderings of Ufo scenes. There's even a section with Ufo humor, cartoons, and such as well as two video screening rooms where you can Watch documentaries. You can also have your photo taken in front of an "alien autopsy" scene that boasts props from the "Roswell" film starring Martin Sheen. Bulletin boards post the newest in reports from the nearby the world, and if you want to take a Roswell Ufo crashsite tour you can call (505) 622-0628.

Although I wished I could I remain in Roswell straight through the yearly July 4th celebration extravaganza, Ufo-themed of course, I had to get back to L.A. And work. But I occasionally glanced upward, always responding to the Ufologist's mantra ..."Watch the Skies."

Little did Mr. Warhol know how prophetic his words would be, and more importantly that he would be turning in his grave about how pathetic our definition of celebrity has come to be. Celebrity as defined in the Oxford English dictionary is: a preponderant person. The state of being well known. So while one can argue that the definition of celebrity has not changed, the respectability and synonyms that used to be associated with it have changed rather dramatically; namely, hero, luminary, notable, and personage. One used to join together celebrity with the heroes of science, theatrical luminaries, big names in sports, a preponderant of the concert sTAGe or even a personage in the field of philosophy. And I seem to remember that talent also seemed to be an implicit part of the requisite. Clearly, these associations no longer apply or have been broadened pretty dramatically, to the point where they come to be thoroughly meaningless, in my mind, when they contain today's' reality Tv stars. I admit that I feel ashamed and embarrassed to live in a community that not only lauds the likes of Charlie Sheen, Tia Tequila and Omarosa but also think them celebrities. If anyone among my reader habitancy has been worried about 2012 being the end of the world, fear not because the apocalypse has been upon us for practically a decade now, in the form of reality Tv.

The sad truth of our more modern and civilised world seems to be that anyone who is willing to stand in front of a camera and rant or embarrass themselves in some way has come to be entitled to their 15 minutes by naturally uploading it onto YouTube. The content and substance seem to mean nothing anymore, in fact a quick hunt of the most favorite videos of the day will spin that the most inane, asinine and meaningless ones are the most popular, by far. anyone who has something useful or meaningful to contribute is lost in a sea of mediocrity and mirth. This sad realisation becomes even more depressing when one begins to realize that these mostly transient and meaningless bits of content are also being praised for the talent that produced them. While the digital world seems to be hastening this deterioration of cerebral pursuits, it is hard to ignore the fact that even among the ranks of the more bona fide luminaries today, there is a lot left to be desired both in terms of their lack of respectability and their contributions to society. The attract and mystique of the movie star and the stoic character of world leaders and politicians seem to be fading Faster than we can type 140 characters.

As much as I love the capability for real-time updates and sharing that services like Twitter and Facebook have ushered in, I also believe that personal boundaries are still de facto necessary. In fact, they are needed now more than ever before. So while I enjoy hearing about my friends' newest escapades in a weekly or monthly dose, I equally have zero interest in knowing about the personal weekend antics of my Congressman from the 15th district of New York. 20% of politicians, who use Twitter, modernize their streams with personal information. Transparency in politics is great, but I am pretty sure this is not what America's forefathers had in mind. Granted there is much greater way to personal information today. The glare of the media spotlight is much stronger and the newsMen might be less disciplined than they used to be. Still, habitancy have the capability to operate and limit what they do and say both in public, and in response to vapid accusations, salacious rumors and torrid gossip in the press. Take Denzel Washington, for example. I applaud his decision to keep his underground life private. Being a huge star, if he can obsessively limit the estimate of personal information that trickles into a morbidly thoughprovoking world, then I have to believe so too can others to a greater degree than they tend do today. Sadly, discretion no longer seems to be the better part of valour, today.

Another concern is our addition tolerance for what is deemed acceptable and responsible in our society. The level to which our standards have diminished to an alarming degree is obvious when we laugh, sigh and naturally turn the page at Madonna's newest hobby, that of adopting (buying) children from distinct parts of the world. Or when we seem perfectly content to move on with a minor slap on A-Rod's Wrist for what amounts to cheating by taking steroids, albeit earlier in his career. And that it took the reckless and criminal endangerMent of a child, in the Balloon boy saga, to finally create some semblance of collective outcry. The lengths habitancy are willing to go to gain their 15 minutes of fame is a sad testaMent to the state of our community today. Even crashing the White House's first State evening meal seems only to be shocking because it might have endangered the President and Indian Prime minister (who is no. 1 on most terrorist's hit lists). And possibly this is in part because the lines have come to be blurred between reality, and politics. For one it seems that good, bad or ugly the type of publicity does not seem to matter; reality Tv aspirants just want their payday and politicians their name in the headlines. From Sarah Palin's mudslinging family feud, to Governor Mark Sanford's tell-all affAir, or Tom Delay's turn as a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, to a stand-up comic being elected to the Us Senate from Minnesota. One wonders when these two worlds will collide or worse yet that they already have and we are just too jaded to have noticed. In fact, I just heard that two previous Real World contestants, Sean Duffy from Real World Boston and Kevin Powell from Real World New York show, are inspecting runs for Congress. As I ponder this, I realise that my introductory shock and outrage has begun to fade, and acceptance fills this space. I cannot help but wonder if they might de facto do a better Job than our politicians in whether Party have been able to do.

The last singular to ever be officially issue by Nirvana, You Know You're Right, can only be found on the band's 2002 'Best Of' ageeMent disk. It is the first song on the Cd and it's a haunting inheritance of the bands heyday in the American grunge rock scene of the 1990s. It was written in the mid to late 1990s and as far as anything knows, it's one of the very few Kurt Cobain songs to exist after their album 'In Utero' was released. The song was only known as a bootlegged version and as a song performed by the band Hole who was fronted by Courtney Love, Cobain's widow.

Nirvana You Know Your Right was recorded in the bands final studio sessions prior to Cobain's death. It was recorded on January 30, 1994, but it would be kept away from fans until the 'Best Of' album was released. This was due to the legalities of the song itself as members of the band wanted it for their box set issue which had been planned for some time. Love forced the song to be released, felling that it would be wasted in the box set and best off as part of a singles collections. She felt the Nirvana song have serious hit potential and industrial value.

While the surviving band members agreed that Nirvana Your Know Your Right had industrial potential, the legal hassling was more to do with timing than anything else. The lawsuit was placed and the song was released on their album 'Nirvana' in 2002. The song was leaked onto the Internet weeks prior to its released in an Mp3 format and many alternative rock stations put the song into the play list even after receiving cease and halt letters.

The singular by Nirvana, You Know Your Right, was released as a promotional singular and Chris Hafner decided to make a music video of it using concert fooTAGe of the band performing to make it look as if they were singing the song on sTAGe. The videos even included clips of Kurt Cobain at the mike. The song charted #1 on the Billboard Mainstream and contemporary Rock Tracks lists, proving that it did for real have industrial potential. How much of that potential was still riding on Kurt Cobain's death no one will ever know.

Nirvana You Know Your Right was never released as a industrial singular and can only be found on the one album, the 'Best Of' collection. While there are numerous Nirvana Dvds available on the market, this song is not included on any them that we were able to find. It could be listed under other title, however, as there were questions throughout the industry about the permissible title of the song. Because the song was only available from bootleggers for many years, the inquire about the song title could very well be a form of Nirvana urban legend.

If the song title is wrong, the only man who could tell us what it was is long gone a hidden Cobain took with him into the next life.