Too
many cows, too many unexplained mutilations. Too many
lousy songs on the alternative radio playlist. Rock'n'roll sucked
in a big way back in the summer of 1996, much as it does today
in the waning throes of spring 1997. Even more so in Santa Fe,
New Mexico, where lamebrain head-in-the-sand hippie retreads own
the streets, bars and clothing stores. Bad chords, worn-out cliches,
rasta dreads and pothead kulture - the stale, stinking, anachronistic
void of mediocrity now reeks on an entirely new level. Still,
somewhere amongst fields of cholla and sagebrush, could there
be signs of life? A rattlesnake takes for the shade of a Juniper
and a stag beetle hides under a thin film of Triassic topsoil.
Then there's the hairy, bearded, slow-thinker w/the Jerry Garcia
tee shirt who was wrangled from his commune's shack ten miles
north of Quemado, New Mexico. Abducted by alien visitors in the
middle of the night, the ones known as Reptilians (lizard-like,
ghoulish brutes), this poor schmuck had every orifice of his trunk
savaged, probed and implanted. He was introduced to his bearded
hybrid-alien children, then expulsed thru an exhaust tube from
the spacecraft's bowels. He hit the ground with a resounding THUD.
A palpable stench welcomed him home - a nefarious, necrotic putrescence
- and it swiftly seeped up nostrils that were now widely dilated.
His furry head filled rapidly and excavated the contents of his
stomach like flushed toilet water bound for the cesspool. The
smell of death was everywhere. No mistaking it, this was a bummer
of major proportions. WELL, it didn't just start with one cow
- or even two. The rancher in Truchas, New Mexico (Mellagro Beanfield
Wars) awoke to find a small herd butchered and drained. All the
damn plasma was gone, not a drop left to fry an egg in the hot,
unrelenting summer sun of the Blood of Christ mountains halfway
between Taos and Santa Fe. There were rectums removed. Testicles
and tongues cut out, surgically correct, beyond the technical
savvy of the best veterinary minds and hands. And what was left?
Just bloated beef viscera and bones to rot under the driving solar
radiation at 8000 feet. An explanation? No-one seemed to care.
So one was not offered. What did it mean? No-one had a clue. So
there were no clues collected. In the long range scheme of things,
none of this, though, makes any difference and the prospects of
continued, isolated outbreaks of blood-spattered cattle (siphoning
too), shall be regarded as high.
