#long john nebel

[postpunkindustrial]

Long John Nebel – The Flying Saucer Story

I was doing someprep work for my Halloween posts when I came across this oddity.

Long Jon Nebel was an over night New York City talk show host that was a predicessor to Art Bells Coast to Coast AM format. Giving voice to a wide range of paranormal theories with a bemused yet sympathetic ear.

This record details his interview with George Adamski about his Alien encounter.

You can get it from my Google Drive HERE

[oldshowbiz]

Obscure post-war comedian Danny Crystal became a semi-regular on the Long John Nebel show and briefly managed Liberace.

[creature-wizard]

hi!! i saw ur take on DID programming being a conspiracy theory, and i'd like a further elaboration if that's fine with you. i'm just curious and a bit confused, since i've met numerous systems claiming to be victims of programming

Sure! It's kind of a long story, but I'll try and summarize things as best as I can.

So, back in the early 20th century, mystical types were looking at hypnosis, trancework, and even drugs as a way to retrieve memories of past lives. The idea that you could retrieve lost memories made it way into ufology communities, where people tried to remember alien abductions. It also got into actual psychology, with therapists attempting to help patients retrieve lost early life memories. There was never any real evidence that these practices actually worked the way these people thought they did, and today we know that you can get people to confabulate memories of just about anything under the right circumstances. (If you need evidence, I can show you some very obvious examples here and here.)

Edit to add: In 1952, the book The Manchurian Candidate came out. It was basically a political thriller about a guy who'd been captured by Russians and brainwashed into being their secret assassin, complete with special triggers to activate his programming and everything. This had everything to do with the US painting communism as something subversive that people were sinisterly brainwashed into. In 1962, a film adaptation was released to theaters.

In the 1950s, Dr. Cornelia Wilbur started treating her patient Shirley Mason for seeming DID. (Which, Mason did not actually have.) Dr. Wilbur was extremely irresponsible and unprofessional in general, and very notably gave Mason sodium pentothal to help her remember. (Yikes!) Dr. Wilbur would push the baseless myth that DID could only be caused by severe childhood abuse (such as SA), and push drugs and hypnosis as methods for finding said abuse if the patients didn't seem to remember it. The 1973 book Sybil was based on Wilbur and Mason.

In the 1970s, radio host, notorious prankster, and platformer of weird fringe content Long John Nebel apparently started using hypnosis on his wife, Candy Jones to try and figure out the reason for her mental health issues. Supposedly, he helped her "remember" being a CIA agent, whose alter Arlene had been trained as a spy. The 1976 book The Control of Candy Jones describes what they supposedly uncovered. Also, here's an article that talks about some of their claims, and the context around what happened.

Also in the 1970s, Dr. Lawrence Pazder (who was inspired by Sybil) attempted to find the source of his patient Michelle Smith's issues by helping her remember supposedly lost memories. Under his coaching, Smith "remembered" being abused by a Satanic cult. They didn't use hypnosis as most of us know it, but Smith was putting herself into a kind of trance. Now like, this whole book is extremely discredited. They made a lot of claims that were very easy to check, and each time somebody checked said claims, it turned out they were full of shit. Like just for one example, her school yearbook picture from the year she was supposedly being tortured by the cult doesn't show any sign of the abuses she claims she was suffering, which would have been very, very obvious.

Then in 1988, Mark Philips used hypnosis on Cathy O'Brien to help her "remember" being a mind-controlled slave for the New World Order under the CIA program Project Monarch. They published what O'Brien supposedly remembered in the 1995 book Trance-Formation of America. O'Brien claimed that she and her daughter were tortured to induce DID, with the alters being programmed to carry out specific tasks for the CIA/NWO. The whole thing was an extremely racist crock of pure conspiracy theory bullshit; it claimed, for example, that the NWO was letting Mexicans ruin America and shipping white women off to Saudi Arabia as sex slaves.

In 1994, Fritz Springmeier used hypnosis on Cisco Wheeler to supposedly uncover her memories as a member of the NWO/Illuminati. In their three books published across the mid to late 90's, Springmeier and Wheeler gave an incredibly elaborate narrative around alter programming, incorporating elements from just about every other conspiracy theory you can name. They claimed alter programming was an ancient practice developed by pagan priests, and used in modern times by a global cult that intended to enthrone the Antichrist in the year 2000. The pair of them made so many claims that are absolutely beyond ludicrous, and I posted a sample of them over here.

Basically everyone who claims that alter programming is a real thing these days is downstream of Springmeier and Wheeler, whether they realize it or not. One reason we know this is that a lot of them cite a blogger who calls herself Svali, or cite people who cite Svali (such as Dr. Alison Miller and Dr. Ellen Lacter). Svali first popped up in the early 2000s claiming to be a former Illuminati/NWO programmer. She described the same kind of Illuminati and the same kind of practices as Springmeier and Wheeler. If you need examples, here she is claiming that color, metal, and jewel programming are things. And here she is claiming Disney moves are made for Illuminati programming.

Unwelcome Ozian is another clear case of someone who's getting their material from Springmeier and Wheeler; for example, their book Chainless Slaves not only describes the same methods and styles of alter programming; it even reproduces complete paragraphs from Springmeier and Wheeler's work. Edit to add: Unwelcome Ozian's other book, Rules of Programming, reproduces material not only from Springmeier and Wheeler's work, but also from a lot of literature on topics such as abuse, cults, and self-help in general. I have a post exposing this over here.

Basically, the whole idea of alter programming/trauma-based mind control has a long, long history of medical malpractice, pseudoscience, fraud, and conspiracy theory behind it. It just doesn't take very long to start finding it once you actually start digging. Meanwhile, real evidence just never turns up, and what we do find often just flat-out contradicts these claims. Like, many people who claim to have undergone brutal tortures or major surgeries at the hands of programmers don't have the scars to show for it. The sites, tools, and costumes for the elaborate rituals described by a lot of these people are just never found.

What's very notably missing are technical manuals for the actual programming process. I'm talking about literature that fully describes the actual procedures in full, step-by-step detail, rather than the vague, suggestive descriptions you find in conspiracist literature. The fact that nothing of the sort has ever turned up anywhere you might expect it to in over seventy years is pretty damning, because this isn't the kind of thing that a bunch of random, unconnected people would just independently invent on their own.

Meanwhile, what very demonstrably does exist are therapists who still believe the in the pseudoscience and misinformation pushed by Dr. Wilbur, Dr. Pazder, etc, who will push people both with and without actual DID to try and uncover repressed memories. There are websites and articles that suggest guided imagery and hypnosis for retrieving memories you think you might have suppressed. There are hypnosis videos on YouTube that will supposedly help you recover repressed memories. We have clear cases of memory confabulation within the New Age movement, where people vividly "remember" traumatic events that very obviously never happened because they take place in non-existent places such as Lemuria and incorporate narratives from the pseudoscientific and racist ancient astronaut hypothesis.

So, hopefully this should answer things. I tried to keep this post as short as possible, but there's just a lot of history and context here. The very, very short version of this is that there are a lot of misled people who've unknowingly run afoul of 20th century conspiracy theories and psychiatric quackery.

[cetaitlaverite]

Anything to Anywhere

Masters of the Air - John Egan x OC

masterlist is here <3

35. Cockroaches

When she woke, Stella was still cold. There was a blanket over her and she’d been changed into dry clothes, she was lying in a bed and care had been taken to get her wet hair out of her face, but she was still shaking. The first time she registered her own consciousness only came because she was aware of her own shivering.

There were voices on the other side of the room.

“- heard them talking,” Lucky was saying, her voice soft and croaky but just about loud enough for Stella to make out. “They have made us into NN prisoners.”

“NN?” Benny asked.

“What’s NN?” John wondered. His voice was closer than the others - right beside her, in fact. Stella didn’t have the strength to open her eyes just yet but she could sense his presence, sitting on the floor at her bedside, leaning his back against the bed, ready and waiting for her to need him.

“Nacht und Nebel,” Lucky explained, letting out a wet, hacking cough a moment later. She had to pause, clearing her throat several times, before she continued, “Night and fog. The Gestapo has marked us as night and fog prisoners. This is how they mark spies. It means they will take us away and make no record of it. They will make us disappear into the night and the fog.”

“For more interrogation?” Benny asked lowly.

“For punishment,” Lucky said. “For medical experimentation. To set an example. This is what they do to spies.” She scoffed, then coughed once more. “They said it will be soon. A matter of days.”

“There’s gotta be something we can do though, right?” Brady ventured. “Someone we can talk to -”

“The only chance is escape,” Lucky said.

“Then we’ll make a plan -” Benny started.

“I’ve been thinking about how -” John cut in.

“Maybe we can hide them,” Crank suggested.

Hambone scoffed. “Where?”

“Floorboards,” Stella said, and her voice was just as croaky and scratchy as Lucky’s.

Everyone’s eyes whipped to her.

She had to make a concerted effort to force hers open.

“Stels,” John whispered. And she had been right. He was sitting right beside her, his back against the bed, waiting for her to wake.

“See if you can pull up the floorboards,” Stella persisted.

From up on his bed, Buck was shaking his head. “You can’t wait out the war beneath the floorboards of a stalag, Stell.”

“I’d prefer that to becoming a Nazi labrat,” Lucky protested. She had been tucked into bed, too, and was lying there holding court like some kind of dying medieval monarch. The scene would have made Stella laugh if her voice wasn’t so sore, if her situation wasn’t so dire.

“I’d rather anything than go where they’re sending us,” Stella agreed quietly. Resignedly. Exhaustedly. She couldn’t believe that this was what her life had become, couldn’t believe she’d ended up here.

“It’ll buy us time,” John admitted, “while we hatch a plan to get you out.”

“You don’t think they’ll notice that the only two women in this whole camp suddenly disappeared into thin air?” Murph asked disbelievingly.

“We’ll have to stage an escape attempt,” Brady pitched in. “Make it look like they got out.”

“How?” asked Benny.

“It’s gotta be obvious enough for the guards to notice,” Crank supplied, “but not so obvious that it looks fake.”

“So we’ll cut a hole in the fence and cover it with something, some piece of sports equipment or -”

Hambone cut across John. “The gymnastics vaulting horse,” he said abruptly. Then he turned to the rest of the men. “You guys remember in October, when those two Brits and the Canadian guy escaped? Word on the Appelplatz is they used that vaulting horse to do it. They dragged it out to the fence everyday and while two of them pretended to train on it, one of them would be inside digging a tunnel. Apparently they’d use a plank of wood and a pile of dirt to hide the tunnel overnight. So what if we drag it out to the yard and dig a hole under the fence? Shouldn’t take long to make a hole big enough to fit the girls - they’re only small - so maybe it’ll only take a day. We’ll cover the hole with wood and dirt, like the guys who escaped did, and after nightfall someone’ll sneak out and uncover the hole. Then when morning roll call arrives and the girls aren’t there, the guards’ll start by searching the perimeter and find the hole and put two and two together.”

“Would have to be me and Babs who dig,” Lucky said. “Otherwise you will get in trouble for helping us escape.”

“I’ll dig,” Stella said. “I’m stronger.”

“You have been in prison for longer,” Lucky argued.

“My wounds have had longer to heal,” Stella contended.

John tipped his head back and shut his eyes. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“I hate to say it,” Buck spoke up, “but I think it’s gotta be Lucky who digs. If the guards see John hanging around without Stella they’ll notice she’s gone. Lucky’s always here, there, and everywhere - they won’t bat an eye if she’s not with the rest of us.”

Stella sighed.

“When do we start?” Brady asked.

There was something in the air the next day. Stella knew, now more than ever, that the Nazis were closing back in on her. Plan or not, she felt like a caged animal, backed into a corner and cowering in the shadow of her greatest fear.

“Alright, baby?” John asked as he sat with Stella on the steps to the barracks. They were waiting for the others to return from the sports hall with the vaulting horse, timidly occupying their final few minutes before they had to commit to this suicidal plan.

“Mhm,” Stella hummed. “Hate this so much but it’s better than the alternative.”

“Gotta be now,” John said softly, reaching out a hand to stroke the back of her hair. “Lucky said it was gonna be tomorrow.”

“I know,” Stella muttered. “I just feel like an idiot. Went and got myself trapped here, did hardly any good for the war at all -”

“Don’t talk like that,” John interjected. “You did a whole lotta good and you know it. There are hardly any pilots who could do what you did, who would be brave enough to do what you did. It’s not your fault you got caught, anyone would. But don’t convince yourself it was all for nothing. Spies have been dismantling their entire empire because of you.”

Ruefully, Stella shook her head. “I always imagined I’d do so much more, and now I’m condemned to hiding beneath the floorboards.”

“You’re gonna get out of here, Stels,” John reminded her. “I’m gonna get you out. You won’t be down there forever.”

Nodding, Stella stared resolutely ahead of her at the section of fence they’d decided to use for their ruse. She was having to fight desperately against the tears in her eyes, didn’t want to waste her last few moments outside for god knew how long by crying. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

John nodded. He was staring hard at the side of her face, like he was trying to commit it to memory. “I know,” he replied softly. “But I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, alright? I’m gonna keep you safe.”

The plan worked better than any of them could have imagined. In the middle of the day, in plain sight, none of the guards suspected a thing. John and Buck pretended to help Stella train her upper body on the vaulting horse, making a show of how they’d pushed it up against the fence to prevent Stella from falling, while Lucky crouched beneath them, quietly chipping away at the dirt to dig a hole big enough for the both of them to plausibly fit under the fence.

At the end of the day, Lucky disguised the hole and the men transported the vaulting horse back to the sports hall with Lucky still hiding inside. Then they all gathered in the barracks while Crank, Hambone, and Benny showed off their work pulling up the floorboards beneath John’s and Hambone’s beds.

“Big enough, do you think?” Benny asked, setting hopeful eyes on Lucky.

Glancing up from the hole, Lucky gave him a grin. “One way to find out.” Directly, and with no further warning, she hopped down into the grimy hole in the ground and lay down, laughing as she stared up at everyone. “Perfect!” she declared. “Your turn, Babs!”

With far less enthusiasm, Stella held onto John’s proffered hand and let him help her into the hole, then lay back with a grimace against the mud and dirt and dust and muck.

“Yes?” Lucky called.

“Yeah,” Stella called back. “Plenty big enough.”

“Now put the floorboards back,” Lucky ordered the men, “and check if you can see us.”

Dutifully, the men got to work, and then Stella was shutting her eyes into the darkness which swallowed her.

“Well, that’s a success if ever I’ve seen one,” said a muffled voice from the room above. It sounded like Hambone. “With the beds pulled back on top of ‘em the guards won’t suspect a thing.”

“Let’s get ‘em out of there for now, though, alright?” said a voice which was unmistakably John’s. “They don’t need to be in there any longer than necessary.”

The low light of evening was bright in Stella’s eyes as John helped her back out of the hole, Brady quickly laying the floorboards back down after her and a group of the other men pushing the beds back into their former positions.

“Alright?” John asked her, cupping her cheek and gently brushing away a lingering speck of dirt.

Nodding, Stella mustered a smile. She had brought this upon herself, after all. “Yeah,” she assured him. “Fine.”

“Was it cold down there?” Brady asked.

Stella shrugged.

Lucky shook her head. “Was fine.”

“We can give you blankets -” Crank started to suggest.

“You think they won’t notice if there’s no blankets on the beds?” Murph cut across him.

“They might have escaped with them -”

“Then we’d all be incriminated in the escape,” Hambone cut in.

“They’ll get hypothermia down there,” Benny reasoned.

Lucky shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “I would rather freeze to death beneath these floorboards than die on an operating table in a death camp.” She looked between everyone individually, making direct eye contact. “No blankets. No supplies. We must disappear.”

“We’ll hatch an escape plan fast,” John said, roughly pushing his hair back from his face. “You won’t be down there for long.”

“At least it’s summer,” Stella added with a forced, sheepish smile. “This would never work if it was winter.”

“You’ll be long gone by winter,” Brady assured her. “We’ll figure something out.”

Dinner that night was somber. No one was in much of a mood for joking. Stella sat tucked up under John’s arm, silently trying to force watery soup into her nauseous stomach. All of this was scarier than she wanted to admit. She wouldn’t let herself consider the possibility that she and Lucky might be found beneath the floorboards, but if she did it was sure to send her into a spiral.

It wasn’t lost on her that the men had all banded together to give as much of their rations as possible to her and Lucky. None of them knew how easy it was going to be to get food to them when they were in hiding, after all. But no one spoke about it.

Stella forced herself to eat it. She owed them that, at least.

Dutifully, just like every other day, Stella and Lucky joined the men at evening roll call. They stood for hours waiting for their names to be called, then called their attendance one final time into the hush of the night.

In the chaos of the end of roll call, when hundreds of men stampeded back to their barracks, Stella and Lucky, guarded by the men in their room, hurried to the hole in the fence and removed the plank of wood and the dirt which had covered it, revealing their hole, hopefully not to be discovered until morning.

The rest of the night’s activities continued as usual after that. Everyone washed and dried and sat around. Lucky played cards with Benny and Crank. Stella had one final piano lesson with Brady. When the guards did their last circulation and called lights out, Stella crawled into bed with Lucky and John took up his place on the floor beside her.

Stella held her breath for hours, waiting for their hole beneath the fence to be discovered, but it wasn’t. She didn’t get a wink of sleep. There would be time for that beneath the floorboards, she supposed.

When the first light of dawn started to stream in through the window, the ache in Stella’s chest got so intense it was unbearable. But to make sure they weren’t caught once the guards did their rounds, Stella dragged herself out of bed with the rest of the room’s inhabitants all the same and pulled her daytime layers back on.

The men made quick, quiet work of pulling the beds aside to reveal the floorboards they’d pulled up. And then, just like that, the time had arrived.

There was no time for any significant exchange of words. Saying goodbye would have felt like bad luck. Besides, they weren’t really going anywhere, just under the floor.

“I’m gonna keep you safe, Stels,” John told her quietly, taking her into his arms and speaking into the top of her head. He pressed a firm kiss there and went on, “I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

Stella nodded, holding on tight before she had to let go.

“Look after Ralph for me, okay?” she whispered as she withdrew. “He’ll get ruined if I take him down with me.”

“I’ll look after him,” John assured her. “I promise.”

Coming to stand before her hole in the ground, Stella looked to her left and shared a final look with Lucky.

With a tiny smile, Lucky shrugged. “Will be over soon.”

Stella fought hard to return her smile. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

It was John’s eyes Stella sought and held onto once she was lying on the cold, hard ground, staring up at the room beyond which she’d come to think of as home and understanding that she’d lost it just like all the others. She never had been able to hold onto anything for very long.

Brady and Hambone were careful to be quiet as they laid the floorboards back down on top of her but, as they did, she didn’t miss the movement of John’s lips, forming the words ‘I love you’ down to her as she lay beneath him.

It was quiet for a while after that. When both Stella and Lucky were situated, when the floorboards had been laid, when the beds were back in their original positions and the men had all returned to bed. No one breathed a word to anyone else.

John was on top of her, lying in his makeshift bed on the floor, so that if the guards came to check in on them they wouldn’t be able to incriminate him as having been aware of Stella and Lucky’s escape.

If she listened closely enough and held her breath, Stella could hear him breathing.

It wasn’t until morning roll call, just as they’d planned, that the guards noticed the absence of their only two female prisoners.

The slam of boots into the barracks made the floor vibrate, made dust come pouring down onto Stella until it was burning in her eyes and nose.

“Verdammt!” cried one of the guards, throwing blankets off of beds and wrenching open the wardrobes.

“Sind sie da drin?” asked another from the hallway.

“Nein!”

They exchanged what could only have been curses, searching beneath the beds and overturning the mattresses.

Stella held her breath as one of them searched beneath the bed right on top of her, groping across the floorboards just above her head.

“Nichts!” he declared in frustration a moment later, his boots scuffing as he pushed himself to his feet.

A long time after they’d gone, a siren went off. Beyond the window, dogs barked, angry German words were shouted, and the stampede of boots shook the ground.

“It is working,” Lucky whispered from the abyss to Stella’s right. “They think we have escaped.”

Stella’s eyes fell shut. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling, but she supposed relief was there in amongst the turmoil.

“We are going to survive this, Babs,” Lucky went on. “You and me, together.”

“I know,” Stella whispered back. She gave a rueful smile, lost to the darkness, as she went on, “You have the survival instincts of a cockroach, Lucky.”

Softly, Lucky snorted in reply. “You too, Babs. You too.”

[spaceintruderdetector]

A large percentage of people are very prone to suggestion, which is what hypnotism really is, and can be triggered into a hypnotic state by nothing more than telephone poles whizzing past as they ride in a speeding automobile. Music also has powerful hypnotic influence, particularly rock 'n' roll, and it is not unusual for disco dancers to lapse into a semitrance. The CIA and other noble national institutions have been experimenting with involuntary hypnosis for years and have turned out innumerable “Manchurian candidates" such as the famous model and radio personality, Candy Jones Nebel, and, possibly, Jack Ruby. Candy's schizoid escapades as an unwilling zombie for the CIA came to light when she was hypnotized by the late Long John Nebel and her story was turned into a book by Donald Bain (The Control of Candy Jones, Playboy Press, 1976). Some experts think that Jack Ruby's peculiar behavior on the day he shot Lee Harvey Oswald was triggered by a mysterious phone call he received before he headed for the Dallas police station, that he had been preconditioned to lapse into a trance and carry out orders.

High Times Magazine, 1980s : THC : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

[alanshemper]

Candy Jones: How a leading American fashion model came to be experimented upon by the CIA mind control team

[July 2001]

To the world she was one of the most successful American fashion models of the 1940s – but she led a secret life as a Manchurian Candidate-style agent for the US intelligence services during the Cold War. Colin Bennett analyses this tale of multiple personality, conspiracy, hypnotic mind-control and fantasy life. Additional research by Bob Rickard.

On 31 December 1972, in the lavish apartment suite of a New York lawyer friend, the well-known 61-year-old radio presenter Long John Nebel married Candy Jones, 47, an internationally famous fashion model. The guests on this happy occasion certainly had plenty of things to talk about. The five men who broke into the Democratic National Committee Headquarters at the Watergate office building in Washington DC the previous summer were facing charges of burglary, conspiracy and wire-tapping. Already, there were rumours that this affair might go all the way to the White House. Though the guests were no doubt happy, the Vietnam campaign still had two years to run, and almost all Americans knew what the result was going to be.

Nebel was the Art Bell of his day, and his all-night radio show had an audience of several millions, but that night, his mind was not on Watergate or Vietnam. He had just married a woman whose face had graced the covers of 11 major national magazines in a single month in 1943. During the Pacific campaign in World War II, photos of Candy in a white polka-dot bathing suit adorned the interiors of ships, tanks, and foxholes.

It had been a lightning courtship – barely 28 days – so Nebel did not know his wife all that well. During the reception, he noticed a curious change come over her; within a very short time, she lost all her natural charm and exuberance. Her voice changed to that of another woman entirely and her normally fluid posture stiffened. Dining in the Ho Ho Chinese restaurant later that evening, Nebel noticed the transformation again; it was as if she were uncomfortable with the Chinese decor, wall-mirrors and candles.

While preparing for bed, Candy began speaking again in the voice Nebel had heard earlier. Even more alarming, this strange personality within Candy had a completely different attitude towards him; ‘she’ sounded cruel, mocking and cold. When Nebel asked her about it, Candy was astonished; she hadn’t noticed the emergence of another voice or personality.

However, a few weeks after their marriage, she did tell Nebel that she had worked for the FBI for some time, adding mysteriously that she might have to go out of town on occasion without giving a reason. This left Nebel wondering whether there was a connection between the ‘other’ personality within Candy and the strange trips she said she made for the FBI.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 13155

And oft fluttering up a life?     On our lit harvest for whom she lists were made cry, that is     immorality than the night sun glory. She would     underneath his Arrow went Mercury, the could I abhorred     and always clear falls to

taste of this remove. He woke     betimes in her for grand rolling little waves lie still and     hills. Like a smile it was the window looking-glass and for     here and never cried; and red. Strong that is a spirit now-     a-days is then the kisses,

the country and oft fluttering     beams up the charmers, whose whose swelling wheel in subject     lend basest move each envious deeds, and squadrons of sorrow     to show appears; and a Jael, with twelve danced like not hear     you both burden of grief

make myself upon Nature weakness     from those tardy arms; but i should glow,—even so for     fear is put beside thee, with her chance is still to my arms,     suggesteth to each respect was enamoured fire; subject,     he bleacherously

to visitation, one sacred     ring of all the half so debonair, as the smote me near.     Enchantment case. Beams, she fasten’d the Muses’ sons are loved     that he sought with Psyche whole in the day grow; mine ear when     in vain disguise broke in

woe, as if it could not ever     panting thus I won’t flint, for a few hours are gone. From thence     thee; i’ll take thee, Alma Venus, answer’d is: he press’d; but     being shame command thy false dart of Ida yet won your     fixed subject of she may

hold her, a good dealer whose richest     consistor to Long John Nebel arms? Entangled, the     call’d mobility. Now, Madam is great princess breathing     of affairs of champion mount and lips. Tells would hurt her?     The white of time, she answers

quite in her see his falsen     no wight, jewels to the side. Would she kept, and quickly fades on     Hermes, having gone, ’ quoth shells an odd stories, and know ourselves—     o—children’s, knowing it. Their native spoils upon thy     face and remove. Ill or

field with chasing, will had warned towers     checkered will gazer late I almost whatever yet     when the snakes coil and water rain, saith steps, without a well-     breathes in my bride—till to the lure, as scorn them with sweet spring     crows too, and this new-

appears; and the wellhead, dumbly     made mine own from a furnace, vapours with the poor fool prays     he servile to keep your herte up-casteth mutual presence     and there with time upon the bantling most close beauty     and force, whirrs sudden weep

it, till, breaking eyes that glitters     with broadcast overborne a slave to gaze, till all day, and     always make nothing or dancing present-absent wall, their     cups the Samian Hercules, enters to come. Are sweet voice     is bleeding jennet, lust,

and ways. Thou cast makes you, girl, mething     but thy sweet sculptured effigies the prickles, yet could     I abhorred and me, and what is tempest and colour     character of life—immortals, or what she went to bow, she     meadows of arithmetic

are the roe which were began     the Genius. But I can lover’s sorrow, for this but we     stole betwixt a bishop and all the youngest sail doth little     forceless way, the pikes, or down thou hast left so sweet     face of the soul and glitter.

Yet each pow’r of mine; yet pardon,     I come to me my heart were dumb, yet of me, or their     pasture-ground in a dancers leave along then a stronger     ye hae theme; she yielded but there on that the whom nakd the     bold waves will but dispensed

with delightful bride, as fly the     hot encounterfeit is poorly imitated, fetched love     that, like in each man to plungeth and loved us. Will. Which,     as she had the more breach sence sends whom she said: o fair cheeks     and rose. Stole a marble.

[thoughtportal]

Jean Parker "Shep" Shepherd Jr. (July 26,[1] 1921 – October 16, 1999)[2] was an American storyteller, humorist, radio and TV personality, writer, and actor. With a career that spanned decades, Shepherd is known for the film A Christmas Story (1983), which he narrated and co-scripted, based on his own semi-autobiographical stories.[3]

When discussing his personal life, Shepherd was evasive to the point of being intentionally misleading about the actual details.[29] To what extent Shepherd's radio and published stories were fact, fiction, or a combination of the two is unknown. The childhood friends included in many of his stories were people he claimed to have invented, yet high-school yearbooks and numerous other sources confirm that many of them, including school buddies "Flick" and "Schwartz", did indeed exist.[30] His father was a cashier at the Borden Milk Company; Shepherd always referred to him as "the old man". During an interview on the Long John Nebel Show – an all-night radio program that ran on WOR starting at midnight – Shepherd once claimed that his real father was a cartoonist along the lines of Herblock, and that he inherited his skills at line drawings. This may well have not been true, but Shepherd's ink drawings do adorn some of his published writings, and a number of previously unknown ones were sold on eBay from the collection of his former wife Lois Nettleton after her death in 2008.

The 1930 Federal Census Record for Hammond, Indiana, indicates that Jean's father did work for a dairy company; his occupation reads "cashier". The 1930 census record lists these family members: Jean Shepherd, age 30, head; Anna Shepherd, age 30, wife; Jean Shepherd Jr, age 8, son; and Randall Shepherd, age 6, son. According to this record, Jean Sr., Anna, Jean Jr., and Randall were all born in Illinois, and Jean Sr.'s parents (Emmett and Flora) were born in Kansas. However, all other decennial federal and state census records, as well as other official documents such as death certificates, indicate that Emmett and Flora were born in Indiana. Anna's parents, August and Katherine, were born in Germany.

Shepherd lived in several New York City locations during his WOR days and for a time in New Milford, New Jersey,[31] and in Washington Township, Warren County, New Jersey.[32]

Shepherd was married four times. He was briefly married in 1947 to Barbara Mattoon in Hammond.[33] Shepherd had two children, a son Randall and daughter Adrian, with his second wife, Laverne Warner. (He publicly denied this, including in his last will and testament, executed some five months prior to his death.)[citation needed] Randall has said that Shepherd left his mother shortly before they divorced in 1957;[34] he had almost no contact with his father after his parents' divorce.[35] Shepherd's third wife was actress Lois Nettleton. In 1984, he moved to Sanibel Island, Florida, with his fourth wife, Leigh Brown.

Shepherd died in a hospital in Fort Myers, Florida, in 1999, of natural causes.[36]

Shepherd's oral narrative style was a precursor to that used by Spalding Gray and Garrison Keillor. Marshall McLuhan in Understanding Media wrote that Shepherd "regards radio as a new medium for a new kind of novel that he writes nightly."[37] In the Seinfeld season-six DVD set, commenting on the episode titled "The Gymnast", Jerry Seinfeld said, "He really formed my entire comedic sensibility – I learned how to do comedy from Jean Shepherd."[38] Seinfeld was interviewed at a tribute to Shepherd held at the Paley Center for Media on January 23, 2012, confirming the importance of Shepherd on his career and discussing how he and Shepherd had similar ways of humorously discussing minor incidents in life.[39] The first name of Seinfeld's third child is "Shepherd."[40]

Shepherd's life and multimedia career are examined in the 2005 book Excelsior, You Fathead! The Art and Enigma of Jean Shepherd by Eugene B. Bergmann.[23]

Shepherd's 7-step approach to "compassionate humor" in storytelling is described in the appendix to the 2024 book You'll Shoot Your Eye Out! Life Lessons from the Movie A Christmas Story, by writer and communication professor Quentin Schultze, who taught with Shepherd.[41]

Shepherd was an influence on Bill Griffith's Zippy comic strip, as Griffith noted in his strip for January 9, 2000. Griffith explained, "The inspiration – just plucking random memories from my childhood, as I'm wont to do in my Sunday strip (also a way to expand beyond Zippy) – and Shep was a big part of them".

In an interview with New York magazine, Steely Dan's Donald Fagen says that the eponymous figure from his solo album The Nightfly was based on Jean Shepherd. Fagen devoted a chapter of his autobiography, Eminent Hipsters, to Shepherd.

Though he primarily spent his radio career playing music, New York Top-40 DJ Dan Ingram has acknowledged Shepherd's style as an influence.

An article Shepherd wrote for the March–April 1957 issue of MAD, "The Night People vs Creeping Meatballism", described the differences between what he considered to be "day people" (conformists) and "night people" (nonconformists). The opening credits of John Cassavetes' 1959 film Shadows include "Presented by Jean Shepherd's Night People".

In 2005, Shepherd was posthumously inducted into the National Radio Hall of Fame, and in November 2013, he was posthumously inducted into the Broadcast Pioneers of Philadelphia Hall of Fame.[42]

[allengreenfield]

Long John Nebel "The Party Line" radio show 1958

[postpunkindustrial]

Long John Nebel - The Flying Saucer Story (George Adamski Interview) [19...

[oldshowbiz]

late night radio

[heroin-heroine]

A handy girl always gets by, a skit-format diary entry

Setting: a 3 room city-apartment.

Personae Dramatis: Nebel--- A woman in her midtwenties, currently sheltering Riesel at her apartment

Riesel--- A girl in her late teens, fled her abusive father and now lives with Nebel

John--- a local drug dealer, despite being a somewhat high profile pillpusher, John retains a certain bashfulness and awkwardness

Scene: The audience looks upon the apartment hallway, the front door, the open door to the first bedroom, the closed livingroom door and the closed door to the second bedroom are visible, the front door and second bedroom door across from one another, the front door on the right.

obnoxiously sad indiemusic plays, Nebel kneels before an altar of sorts in the middle of the hallway, lighting candles and incense, Riesel stands by.

Riesel: “Why would we make such hubbub about this? I’ve done this a hundred times before and it never mattered wether theres candles, or incense or or or... --She motions toward a shawl drawled over a dresser-- whatever this is supposed to be” Nebel moves about, nudging things here and there, disaligning and realigning shoes, fiddling with the mirrors of the altar.

Nebel: “Oh there absolutely MUST be a bit of formality to this, a certain touch of mystique to be expected of a ladys quarters, those special little to...”

The doorbell rings.

Riesel, towards the door: “yesyes I will be right along. (to Nebel) Are you quite done yet?” Nebel: “Ready as need be, do get the door, dear.” Nebel fiddles with her phone, the music switches to something more provocative, if quite generic, a bit more fitting for a shady nightclub than an apartment in a quiet neighbourhood

Riesel opens the front door, enter John till halfway through the door.

John: “ Uhmm, hello Riesel, nice... nice to see you again.”

Riesel, stepping closer to John: “always SUCH a pleasure to be with you, John, do come in.”

Riesel pulls John in by both wrists, John awkwardly pushes the front door shut with his heel.

Riesel, still pulling: “Well don’t be a stranger, come in proper!”

The two end up face to face roughly before Nebel, still with facing the altar and away from the others.

John, rummaging through his satchel: “I got a little present for you, Riesel, i hope you like it --He looks about, sniffing-- I like what youve done with the... place..”

John hands off a small pouch to Riesel, Riesel turns away, Inspecting the pouch.

John: “Uhm, Riesel? who’s your friend there?”

Nebel rises to her feet slowly, holding a glass of wine, moving closer towards John, her free hand loosely around his waist as he looks up at her and tries to back away a bit.

Nebel: “So very nice to meet you, John. I heard you were quite the charmer and i was hoping we might get to know each other. Would you like a sip?” She holds her glass to Johns face.

John moves to grab the glass, as he moves it to his lips, Nebel tilts it over a notch, pouring the liquid within into Johns mouth.

John, shuddering: “This is... That was NOT wine!(Nebel: “quite a swill, eh?”) I may have more later, there is something I’d rather do right now.” He makes to move past Nebel towards Riesel, who just now finished with the pouch.

Nebel grabs his Ass, pushes her chest into him and kisses his forehead, then releases him.

Riesel, very excited: “Oh thank you thank you thankies John, there is something i want to show you, come here, come here!” Exit Riesel and John into the second bedroom.

Nebel grabs the pouch, picks something out of it and swallows it, then digs around it for a few seconds.

Nebel, downwards and moving towards the foreground, entering the first bedroom and sitting down in an armchair. : “Quite a haul, I guess he will stay overnight? may as well get comfortable and be patient, with my luck he is gonna want a roll with me and god knows he paid for it.” Nebel opens a book and leans back with a sigh. Fade stage lighting towards black, turn it full bright halfway through as the second bedroom door opens and a disheveled John exits.

Riesel, leaving after him: “Do come again! You can stay for a bit you know!”

John babbles excuses while grinning around, hurriedly puts on his shoes, exits through front door as Nebel looks on.

Nebel to Riesel: “Did you have fun? Did you scare the poor guy off?” Riesel:”Oh he had his fun just fine, he never stays for more than one time.” Nebel: cradling the pouch in her hands:”But for this much? what the hell did you do that is worth giving all this away?” Riesel:”That is the thing, he just made me hold it and started thrusting into my hand, I think he was hella high.”

Nebel, stashing the pouch away: “Well as long as he is happy, we shouldn’t we be? This is probably enough to wait for it all to blow over.”

[another-fangirl]

RULES: spell your url with song titles and tag 10 people

Was tagged by the lovely @godess-ofthevoid, thank you! 😊

Aight guys, here we go:

S - Silent So Long by Emigrate

H - Honky Cat by Elton John

E - Estranged by Guns N' Roses

O - On a Plain by Nirvana

N - Native Son by Alter Bridge

L - Love Can Only Heal by Myles Kennedy

Y - You Shook Me by Led Zeppelin

C - Caught in a Web by Dream Theater

A - Angel by Aerosmith

R - Relentless Renegades by Santa Cruz

E - Echoes by Pink Floyd

S - Somebody Else by The 1975

A - Allesfresser by Lindemann

B - Bomber by Motörhead

O - One Vision by Queen

U - Under the Bridge by RHCP

T - Tomorrow Night by Steel Panther

B - Burn by Deep Purple

A - Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love by Van Halen

N - Nebel by Rammstein

D - Dust by Tremonti

S - St. Anger by Metallica

It took me a while to get the perfect songs for each one, not gonna lie. 😅 But it was fun!

I tag: @liebe-ist-ein-wildes-tier @halozinogena @rock-n-fn-roll @generati0nwild if they haven't done this and feel like doing it 🌸

[swisscgny]

MEET NEIL ENGGIST

We recently interviewed Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist to talk about his life, work and how he is coping with self-isolation. Neil’s exhibition The Practice of the Wild was supposed to open at the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York last month as the 8th edition of Art@The Consulate but was postponed due to COVID-19. 

Hi Neil, thank you for taking the time to talk to us. Where are you right now? It is my pleasure. I’m in New Jersey. I have a backyard studio near Princeton, in the old house where I grew up. I’m staying put as much as I can.

Tell us about yourself, where did you grow up? My mother is from Taiwan and my father was born and raised in Luzern, both coming for graduate studies in 1969 to Buffalo. I was born and raised in Princeton Junction in an old stone house near a small forest and the train station. My father was teaching in the Bronx and Connecticut, then trying his hand at importing Swiss Chocolate, but at some point in the 1970s, he turned to stained glass. I remember him cutting, wrapping, and soldering in the backyard. My mother worked for the state of NJ, and drew from the model in her spare time. I drew dinosaurs like a maniac, not very well I may add, but at some point around age 7, my father asked me to draw a dinosaur that he made into a stained glass panel. As a family we traveled to Luzern about every 2 years, and I still remember the smell of Birenwecken and lightning over the Vierwaldstättersee. I drew all the time but wasn’t precocious, as a youth, I was shy, quiet, hot tempered, diligent with school, perfectionist, and mostly played soccer and saxophone and you know, did my math homework.

When did you know you wanted to become an artist? I went to art school at Washington University in 2000, but it wasn’t until studying abroad in Florence in 02 that I had the feel of becoming an artist. There is a laminated portrait from first grade, age 6, where I put into writing that I wanted to be an ‘Artist.’ But in Florence my life felt like it shifted from art student to artist, 3 dear friends and I shared an apartment on Piazza Independenza, learning photography, printmaking, illustration, bookmaking, Italian and art history at a tiny art school called Santa Reparata. My future Love lived up the street and sometimes the cheap red wine would flow. Behind every door were Renaissance frescos, leaping off the walls were Donatellos, and it was the beginning of my explorations as a painter. I would paint plein-air small landscapes and cityscapes with oils, but by the end my ambition grew into a very large Kandinskyesque abstract rendition of Michelangelo’s Final Judgment fresco from the Sistine wall. A year later, back in St. Louis I declared painting as my major, and in the words of Joe Campbell, began ‘following my bliss.’

Neil Enggist, Sea on Earth, acrylic and stain on wood, 2011

How would you describe your style? Has it changed over the years? I would say it’s an Organic Abstract Expressionism, or Nature Action Painting. Over nearly 20 years, YES it has changed! Like a photon going from point A, painting the Ponte Vecchio, to B, dancing on a piece of steel with turmeric and ocean water, taking every single possible path! To say it’s moved linearly would be wrong, but there is a sequence of transformations or leaps, in the Ozarks, Mysticism, Heartbreak, Dylan, New Mexico, Traveling Europe, The Mir, snow painting, India, Brooklyn, Voice and Veil, Gardening, going cross county, yoga, India again, the dance, steel, the tides, The Tao and the Yellow Mountains, devotion. I’m very interested how Dylan’s work has transformed and shifted, beyond expectation, without calculation, yet somehow almost always in line with his poetic essence. My paintings have changed like dinosaurs and birds, from a common source, many branches, some seemingly from different worlds, some becoming bones and fossils, some soaring through the sky.

Tell us about your artistic practice, where do you paint, what inspires you? Well we can start with Highway 61.. music of the American vernacular, jazz, blues, country, rock, folk, hip hop.. from Louis Armstrong, Strange Fruit, Charlie Parker, to the early Bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta, Robert Johnson, folksingers like Woody Guthrie, onwards and outwards to Wutang and Nas. Basquiat inspires me. Ana Medieta, DeKooning, Paul Klee, David Hammons, Polke, Mel Chin, James Turrell, Richard Long, Kerry James, Doig, Ofili, Wangechi Mutu, John Akomfrah, Bonnard, Matisse, Puryear too. Gary Snyder's brilliant collection of essays 'The Practice of the Wild,' from where the title of the exhibition comes, has helped me attune to the wild systems at play in nature and within, and continues to evolve my way of thinking, seeing, and creative being. Taking a journey into nature, not just a dip into nature, but really feeling the connections, the web that runs through the forest and is woven into your own nature. The Redwoods, the Swiss Alps, the Coast of California.. I lose and become myself here. In my practice, nature is welcomed into the process of artistic creation. The imagined line between artistic intention and the creative functioning of wilderness is blurred, or more accurately, these spheres merge into a unified moment. It’s a spiritual practice, a kind of Taoist exercise, merging with the changes of the natural world, not holding, not fixing, listening to what the painting wants to become, and finding the color to enable the beholding. I paint outside and on the road, sometimes inside.. anywhere..

Neil Enggist, Odyssey III, acrylic, dye and turmeric on canvas, 2020

What role does Switzerland play in your life/art? My family has a house in Luzern, with a balcony opening to a view of Mount Pilatus that I would call perfect.. at least on the days where it’s not obscured by Nebel! Since 2012, I’ve been spending many springs / summers living there, in the bohemian remodeling of our chalet attic called the Macolette. I have painted and drawn our view of Pilatus so many times, it is ingrained in my mind’s eye. I’ve explored and hiked the mountains surrounding the Vierwaldstättersee, Grindelwald, Engadin, and Zermatt, finding places on and off the path to paint. When I am in the mountains, alone with my pack, in the quietude and breathtaking beauty, I feel something akin to being home, being one with myself, being on my true path. This feeling is fleeting and eternal. Also, during many of the summers, I have worked with my great friend and mentor, garden designer, Andre Ammann, constructing and maintaining gardens around Luzern. Working with him has taught me in so many ways, to notice the minute changes of spring, to work with contrasts of nature and culture, to understand placement of boulders and trees, how to create a riverscape, to dissolve into the consciousness of the river. When we are done with the work, all cleaned, raked, and hosed down, Andre and I look at our work, and he’ll say, ‘Now, the garden starts, try to see how this will look in 10 years, in 50 years..’ This has been a major influence in my own ‘Practice of the Wild’ and painting. It has also taught me how to shovel!

You have traveled all over the world, how has the nomad life shaped your art? As a traveler, painting becomes the act of experiencing and processing place; the painting becomes an archive of experience. Traveling serves to connect the painter with the uncomfortable and uncalculated, which forces a spontaneity and body-memory response. I aim to paint as one would do battle and dance and play jazz at once. In traveling, the painter becomes the abstraction, inhabiting transient and visionary territory. Materials from places of special significance, white gypsum sand from New Mexico, pigment from the Holi festival of India, black sand from Kanyakumari, gravel from Highway 61, layer into the topography, giving the painting a personal geographic context, while opening formal and textural possibilities. On the road, I explore the spiritual territory of color, and natural occurrences of unearthly blues.

With the COVID-19 pandemic, travel is no longer possible, in what ways has the pandemic shaped your practice / life? I just drove from California to NY in 5 days to install the Consulate show, just before the Covid situation hit the fan. I am supposed to be in India right now, doing a residency in the Himalayas! I’ve had a number of shows postponed and it just really doesn’t seem like people are buying many paintings right now.. But, really compared to people who are sick, caring for loved ones, and risking their lives to care for others, my sacrifices are minuscule. And I can most surely still paint! But I’m trying to use this time to do things I would have done in ‘normal’ times, but there are no normal times anymore. I’ve been making sculptures out of half rotten wood using an ax and a handsaw. I’ve been learning some Tai Chi from my Ma. I’ve started reading the Mahabharata. I’ve been texting whole a lot of hearts to California and writing love songs, and staying out of the bar.. 

Neil Enggist, That Great Mysterious Storm, acrylic, ink, oil and sand on canvas, 2010  

What important lessons do you think we can learn from the impact of the pandemic? Well, first and foremost gratitude for life, health, and for the things that we used to take for granted. To be grateful for the people who are dear to us. This may sound cliché, but the pandemic has shown us how connected we are, for better and for worse. We are interdependent, and what affects one region affects the global community. I hope that people can stop and reassess their personal and collective relationship with the planet.  In a profound and dire way, humans and our socio-economic systems have entered an unbalanced, virus-like relationship with this Earth. Humans seem to need wake up calls to affect changes, I hope this pandemic serves as a paradigm shift for enough of us. We are in this together. Yes when this is over, it will be great to go to a yoga class, an Indian restaurant, and to toast with friends, but we each need to use this time to reaffirm our commitments to each other and to all beings of this planet, and not go back to business as usual.  

What advice do you have for people stuck at home? Can you recommend something to read, listen or watch? Well I’m a Liverpool fan, and we were just about to WIN the premier league, so I’ve had to go back and watch Liverpool highlights to cope. There’s a lovely interview with the legendary skipper Steven Gerrard in conversation with Gary Neville on youtube. I’m a very lazy television watcher, meaning I don’t really watch new things, so it’s The Sopranos, and very little else. Peaky Blinders is good, violent, but solid. Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’ is a ravishing movie.  I just saw ‘Purple Rain’ again, EPIC. When I drove across country I listened to Toni Morrison’s own reading of her novel ‘A Mercy,’ and it took my breath away, literally every sentence .. I don’t know how I even made it!  She’s a true master in telling a harrowing story in pure poetry. Also reading ‘An Indigenous People’s History of the United States’ and Leonard Peltier’s ‘Prison Writings.’  Musically I needed a lil rock, so I went back to the Black Keys ‘Brothers’, Brittany Howard’s solo ‘Jaime’ is good, JS Ondara, Black Pumas, Valerie June’s ‘Love Told a Lie,’ AM!R’s ‘Parachute, ‘ and the syrupy ‘Cigarettes after Sex.’ I’ve been listening as well to Gann Brewer’s most recent ‘Absolution.’ I made the video for his ‘River Song.’ Tracy Chapman’s first album is incredible. Springsteen’s ‘The River’ is like his White Album and sometimes I need to hear the Boss sing ‘Heart and Soul’ over and over.. and hear that ‘Drive All Night’ sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons. I am from Jersey, don’t forget. Listening to a lot of John Prine too, and with his recent passing, his music shines like a diamond ring. ‘Christmas in Prison’ is one of my favorites of many. Oh and Bob Dylan just released a 17 minute song about the assassination of JFK, and it’s .. indescribable.

Thank you Neil! 

To find out more about Neil Enggist go to www.neilenggist.com, contact Neil at suisse17@gmail.com and follow him @neilenggist 

Scroll down for more information about the exhibition The Practice of the Wild which will open to the public as soon as it is safe to do so. Please note that all paintings depicted in this article are featured in the exhibition. 

NEIL ENGGIST

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD 

8TH EDITION OF ART@THE CONSULATE 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD by Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist is comprised of a series of abstract mixed media Nature Action Paintings, a method by which nature performs an integral part in the artistic process. 

Neil Enggist, The Storm Ends, acrylic, ink, dye and sand on canvas, 2019

“My work seeks to embody the random precision through which life and spirit intersect. Within a liminal environment, I present set of conditions where the form can be born through an unfolding of natural currents. The nature of water, marks of evaporation, melting, freezing, burning, gravity, animal tracks, traces of dance, time, storms, tides and all manner of seasonal and emotional weather coincide to transform the canvas into a terrain in flux. Whether I am dripping ink into a melting tuft of snow, pouring the ocean on burning ink, or slashing the surface with a fallen pine branch, each action is composed within a system of nature. The result is a site of becoming where oceanic, emotive, and mystical stories interplay” 

Raised in Princeton, New Jersey, Neil Enggist studied fine arts at Washington University in St. Louis and Santa Reparata in Florence. He earned his MFA at San Francisco Art Institute in 2016 where he made paintings on steel in the tidal zones of the Bay Area, searching for a language between art and nature, incorporating ideas of performance and sculpture imbedded in the earth art movement. Enggist has participated in a number of art residencies including the Lucid Art Foundation in Point Reyes, CA, and most recently journeyed to the land of his grandmother to paint the City of Shanghai and the Yellow Mountains of China. Through his extensive travels in Europe, the Americas, and Asia he developed a body of painting and poetry shown in New York, Milan, Mumbai, Luzern, and Paris. Enggist lives and works between New York and Luzern, Switzerland.

Neil Enggist, The Schreckhorn, acrylic, ink, pigment and oil on canvas, 2007 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD is the eighth edition of Art @ The Consulate, a curatorial initiative by the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York to showcase the work of Swiss artists living in the United States. Follow Art @ The Consulate on Social media #SwissArtNYC

Neil Enggist, A Candle Burns at Night,  Acrylic and ink on canvas, 2008

[libidomechanica]

To Long John Nebel arguing from the

To Long John Nebel arguing from the devil’s self seem Angel of fire and the gentle men!

[blogparanormalexpresso2stuff]

UFOs and the ET Presence Paperback – September 23, 2018

by Rosemary Ellen Guiley

Ever since pilot Kenneth Arnold had his historic sighting of flying discs near Mt. Rainier, Washington, in 1947, FATE magazine has been at the forefront of modern ufology. Hundreds of articles on every aspect of UFOs and the ET presence on Earth have appeared in FATE, written by leading researchers, scientists and experiencers. This must-have volume showcases some of the best UFO articles spanning the entire history of FATE, from its premiere issue in 1948 to present times. Read Kenneth Arnold’s own words about his sighting and follow the amazing era it launched. Also featured: The evidence for UFOs Famous ET contacts and abductions Debates on UFOs as craft or living “space critters” Scientific and religious viewpoints Outrageous personalities A special highlights roundup of the first 50 years of ufology Famous names you will find inside include John A. Keel, James Moseley, Gray Barker, Long John Nebel, Jacques Vallee, Ingo Swann, J. Allen Hynek, Timothy Green Beckley, George Adamski, Ray Palmer, Kevin D. Randle, Betty and Barney Hill, John White, Trevor James Constable, Brad Steiger, Robert J. Durant and more.