Mention of Firesign Theater down there somewhere reminds me of the time I met Phil Proctor at a recording studio in LA. We had cast him in a radio spot for the Virginia Lottery. And that's the sum total of my memory of that little clod of nostalgia. I have no recollection of the radio spot, or what I might have said to Phil Proctor, and what he might have replied, and whether that reply was made with disdain or pleasure or shock. My brain, a ruthless triage nurse, has decided to retain the bare fact that I met a minor celebrity, and that's that. Nothing I can do about it. I'm the captive of that fissured pulsating blob, and there's no point in looking out my eyeholes and screaming for help. He'll just shut off my vocal cords and slacken my facial muscles so no one outside my little hell has a clue what's going on. Remember all those old sci-fi B movies where a character {usually a beautiful woman scientist with her white scientist uniform shirt casually unbuttoned to reveal her heaving bosom--you know, the way scientists usually dress) accidentally knocks a beaker filled with questionable steaming substances onto the floor, and on impact the toxic stew begins to coagulate into an undulating lump, the whole business reminiscent of a Scottish cooking class? Well, it's no coincidence that this gray alien writhing lump with bad intentions is a dead ringer for the human brain! Somewhere deep in our subconscious we're aware of the insidious conspiracy of these monstrous organs which exert such maleficent control over the poor slaves encased in our ::&%$@O*:Mfwmoi48qry BIU#GRMK Hi folks, I'm so glad you could visit my blog. It makes me happy to think I might be giving pleasure to you fine people. You all have a nice day now. Bye-bye!