The Roswell UFO Museum is, without a doubt, the kitschiest thing I've ever seen, and I came to this realization before I even stepped through the door. I suppose this is the downtown district, and earlier when I said that this town embraced the whole alien culture, I had no idea what I was in for. Plastic alien heads adorn the street lamps. Every shop within the four or five blocks surrounding the museum features an alien of some sort in the front window, whether painted on or in the form of mannequins selling everything from cowboy boots to Coke.
At the corner of a major intersection stood the International UFO Museum and Research Center in all its glory. At this point, I couldn't not go in. Of course there was one catch--a five dollar bill was mysteriously abducted from my pocket. I suppose I shouldn't be too scornful, though. I'm sure they have bills to pay.
The place was packed with people, even though it was still mid-morning. To tell the truth, that made me a little sad. I'd just come from an art museum, where the culture of mankind was on display for all the world to see (or at least all the people in Roswell), and yet it stood empty while this celebration of extravagant exaggeration was taking place in another sort of museum.
I looked around the large open room that made up the bulk of the UFO Museum, and sure, most of the people looked normal--tourists passing through town who were too curious for their own good and that sort. But I could pick out the stereotypes, too--the lonely conspiracy theorists with their nervous ticks staring far too long at each display before moving to the next, the science fiction fanatics with their desperate faces trying so hard to believe in something other than the suffering they face on this planet, the slack-jawed yokels talking loudly in packs about how they saw something exactly like those saucers in the displayed posters flying over their trailer parks. Thank God the room was dark. I didn't want to see anymore of these people than I'd already seen. I'd hate to have seen what they looked like underneath, and yet I am curious. They ponder the existence of little gray and green men and of worlds far beyond their grasp, choosing instead to ignore the world around them. They worship fiction. These aren't aliens, these scrawny, bug-eyed little bipeds that they adore and fear so much. I wish I could show them real aliens. I wish I could turn all the lights on and show them the things I've seen. It's us. We're the aliens.
I don't know why I'm so angry. I realize that they're all just people who want to believe in something more to the universe than what they see around them, but it pisses me off. I believe in something more, too. I believe in higher powers and distant intelligences. I believe that things come to our world from other places, visiting in flashes of bright light. I've seen them, after all.
Maybe that's it. That's why I'm so angry. Because I looked around this room, and I saw people that were exactly like me. They were all empty, unfulfilled, searching for something--anything--to give them meaning. They were exactly like me. I hate them because I hate myself so much.
Thank God the room was dark.
At the corner of a major intersection stood the International UFO Museum and Research Center in all its glory. At this point, I couldn't not go in. Of course there was one catch--a five dollar bill was mysteriously abducted from my pocket. I suppose I shouldn't be too scornful, though. I'm sure they have bills to pay.
The place was packed with people, even though it was still mid-morning. To tell the truth, that made me a little sad. I'd just come from an art museum, where the culture of mankind was on display for all the world to see (or at least all the people in Roswell), and yet it stood empty while this celebration of extravagant exaggeration was taking place in another sort of museum.
I looked around the large open room that made up the bulk of the UFO Museum, and sure, most of the people looked normal--tourists passing through town who were too curious for their own good and that sort. But I could pick out the stereotypes, too--the lonely conspiracy theorists with their nervous ticks staring far too long at each display before moving to the next, the science fiction fanatics with their desperate faces trying so hard to believe in something other than the suffering they face on this planet, the slack-jawed yokels talking loudly in packs about how they saw something exactly like those saucers in the displayed posters flying over their trailer parks. Thank God the room was dark. I didn't want to see anymore of these people than I'd already seen. I'd hate to have seen what they looked like underneath, and yet I am curious. They ponder the existence of little gray and green men and of worlds far beyond their grasp, choosing instead to ignore the world around them. They worship fiction. These aren't aliens, these scrawny, bug-eyed little bipeds that they adore and fear so much. I wish I could show them real aliens. I wish I could turn all the lights on and show them the things I've seen. It's us. We're the aliens.
I don't know why I'm so angry. I realize that they're all just people who want to believe in something more to the universe than what they see around them, but it pisses me off. I believe in something more, too. I believe in higher powers and distant intelligences. I believe that things come to our world from other places, visiting in flashes of bright light. I've seen them, after all.
Maybe that's it. That's why I'm so angry. Because I looked around this room, and I saw people that were exactly like me. They were all empty, unfulfilled, searching for something--anything--to give them meaning. They were exactly like me. I hate them because I hate myself so much.
Thank God the room was dark.
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