The Mexican Cowboy Burial Grounds, Bakersfield Aliens, Crashed Spaceships and the Giant Haus Burger - By N.L. Belardes
For those of you who don't know, I'm a contributing creative non-fiction writer for Brad Listi's TheNervousBreakdown.com. My latest topic melds family history with cowboys and aliens. It's not to be confused with the recent Bakersfield UFO sightings (Likely a hoax).
The Mexican Cowboy Burial Grounds, Bakersfield Aliens, Crashed Spaceships and the Giant Haus Burger - By N.L. Belardes
His ashes were scattered on an alien landscape near the place where sand once fused to a nuclear sky. A few days before his ashes were strewn, an explosion of color filled the desert forest in between Lees’ Canyon and Mt. Charleston: a rare desert bloom...
Himself, he was Mexican cowboy who dreamed of wealth: St. Ignatius hidden desert caves filled with gold and glowing gems, and a royal flush on a well-rigged slot machine. He was a gambler and addict.
He died in his truck, holding his glow-in-the-dark rosary, his chin dipped to his chest. The gasoline odor around his truck meant a spirit had touched this a holy place.
***************************************
He looked like a science teacher with his crew cut; reading glasses slipped down his nose a little. He peeked above his glasses the way a professor might gauge the intellectual stamina of his classroom. Then he ordered a cup of coffee at a Barstow, California Burger King. This wasn’t the Mexican cowboy.
This man wore a flowery pink Moo-Moo.
A desert alien? Maybe. A father bet his son five bucks to ask the alien why we wore a dress. The kid refused and so the mystery remains...
***************************************
In an Eastern Las Vegas trailer park, near the giant Mormon Temple that pokes from the base of Sunrise Mountain like a giant tooth, a Mexican truck driver swam in a community pool. His arms were dark, blackened from the sun, while his legs poked white from the water as he dove, making him appear more like a red-and-white fishing bobber than a tough cowboy. The fact that he had a large stomach made him appear less graceful, like that fisherman’s multi-colored buoy, able to float, unable to reach into the pool’s depths, holding steady as if on a magical line.
No, he wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat; just his swagger when he stood up. In the pool he spoke to his second wife: a large white woman who wouldn’t take out her turquoise earrings even when in the water. Flailing, she scissor-kicked and looked like the crashed mothership that every local expects to be resting sideways in the hidden desert.
She also wore a giant straw hat. Moles on her arms were like constellations. She herself was distant, starry—you didn’t want to go there—but listening to her and the truck driver speak, you’d think that alien invasions were true.
“I’ve been watching TV shows about aliens,” she said. It wasn’t any kind of comment out of the ordinary for a Las Vegas trailer park swimming pool. Stepping in the warm desert waters anyone could watch Tankbusters and F-16s zoom overhead from nearby Nellis Airforce base. Military aircraft were always a good conversation starter for locals to talk War of the Worlds.
The truck driver held onto the side of the pool and listened as if she were some kind of CB message beaming into his ears. He could relate to that.
Jets roared overhead.
“Aliens, Area 51, lights in the sky. It’s all real,” she went on. “The TV shows aren’t wrong. Though I get tired of repeats. They tell the true story of what happened.”
“Roswell? Bakersfield?”
“Everything. Presidents hiding secrets. Alien metals stronger than the gravity of the moon. Stealth technology. The near invasion that penetrated deserts but not our cities.”
This was a typical discussion by locals. You could hear such talk down the street at the Jack of All Trades Casino off of Lamb Blvd. It was about as big as a burger stand, and it was home of the Haus Burger. If you could eat two in a half an hour you’d get your photo onto their wall of shame. There were lots of big guys on the wall. Except for the grand champion. He didn’t have a triple chin. In fact, he was skinny; he topped other records by more than five minutes. He’d eaten both burgers in twelve minutes and seventeen seconds. The truck driver didn’t mind eating there. He could gamble while he ate.
(Read the full article and see photos of alien fur!)
The Mexican Cowboy Burial Grounds, Bakersfield Aliens, Crashed Spaceships and the Giant Haus Burger - By N.L. Belardes
His ashes were scattered on an alien landscape near the place where sand once fused to a nuclear sky. A few days before his ashes were strewn, an explosion of color filled the desert forest in between Lees’ Canyon and Mt. Charleston: a rare desert bloom...
Himself, he was Mexican cowboy who dreamed of wealth: St. Ignatius hidden desert caves filled with gold and glowing gems, and a royal flush on a well-rigged slot machine. He was a gambler and addict.
He died in his truck, holding his glow-in-the-dark rosary, his chin dipped to his chest. The gasoline odor around his truck meant a spirit had touched this a holy place.
***************************************
He looked like a science teacher with his crew cut; reading glasses slipped down his nose a little. He peeked above his glasses the way a professor might gauge the intellectual stamina of his classroom. Then he ordered a cup of coffee at a Barstow, California Burger King. This wasn’t the Mexican cowboy.
This man wore a flowery pink Moo-Moo.
A desert alien? Maybe. A father bet his son five bucks to ask the alien why we wore a dress. The kid refused and so the mystery remains...
***************************************
In an Eastern Las Vegas trailer park, near the giant Mormon Temple that pokes from the base of Sunrise Mountain like a giant tooth, a Mexican truck driver swam in a community pool. His arms were dark, blackened from the sun, while his legs poked white from the water as he dove, making him appear more like a red-and-white fishing bobber than a tough cowboy. The fact that he had a large stomach made him appear less graceful, like that fisherman’s multi-colored buoy, able to float, unable to reach into the pool’s depths, holding steady as if on a magical line.
No, he wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat; just his swagger when he stood up. In the pool he spoke to his second wife: a large white woman who wouldn’t take out her turquoise earrings even when in the water. Flailing, she scissor-kicked and looked like the crashed mothership that every local expects to be resting sideways in the hidden desert.
She also wore a giant straw hat. Moles on her arms were like constellations. She herself was distant, starry—you didn’t want to go there—but listening to her and the truck driver speak, you’d think that alien invasions were true.
“I’ve been watching TV shows about aliens,” she said. It wasn’t any kind of comment out of the ordinary for a Las Vegas trailer park swimming pool. Stepping in the warm desert waters anyone could watch Tankbusters and F-16s zoom overhead from nearby Nellis Airforce base. Military aircraft were always a good conversation starter for locals to talk War of the Worlds.
The truck driver held onto the side of the pool and listened as if she were some kind of CB message beaming into his ears. He could relate to that.
Jets roared overhead.
“Aliens, Area 51, lights in the sky. It’s all real,” she went on. “The TV shows aren’t wrong. Though I get tired of repeats. They tell the true story of what happened.”
“Roswell? Bakersfield?”
“Everything. Presidents hiding secrets. Alien metals stronger than the gravity of the moon. Stealth technology. The near invasion that penetrated deserts but not our cities.”
This was a typical discussion by locals. You could hear such talk down the street at the Jack of All Trades Casino off of Lamb Blvd. It was about as big as a burger stand, and it was home of the Haus Burger. If you could eat two in a half an hour you’d get your photo onto their wall of shame. There were lots of big guys on the wall. Except for the grand champion. He didn’t have a triple chin. In fact, he was skinny; he topped other records by more than five minutes. He’d eaten both burgers in twelve minutes and seventeen seconds. The truck driver didn’t mind eating there. He could gamble while he ate.
(Read the full article and see photos of alien fur!)
Labels: Alf, aliens, Bakersfield conspiracy, Brad Listi, Lords of Bakersfield, Lords Part One, mexican cowboy, Robert Price, The Nervous Breakdown, UFOs
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Thursday, May 10, 2007.
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COOL!
I'm... just... that was cool!!!
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