WHEN THE STUDENT SURPASSES THE TEACHER

Nothing had prepared me for that moment.  A flood of conflicting emotions washed over me.  I was simultaneously awed, jealous, proud, happy, a little sad, speechless, surprised and amazed.  Mainly I was happy, a little bit for me and a whole lot for her.  Let me back up and set the scene that had me so flummoxed.  The moment of my emotional chaos occurred in 2016, but its roots go back thirty-four years.

I met this girl, Jennifer, in 1982.  It was my senior year of college and my last semester; it was Jennifer’s first freshman semester.  I was on the cusp of obtaining my photography degree and she was just beginning work on hers.  As it goes with the usual college hierarchy, seniors and freshmen didn’t mix much, but I noticed her around the photo-labs and studios.  She’d be around during those impromptu photo-critiques that spontaneously occurred in the photo department; whenever I’d be showing whatever I was working on I’d see her among the other students.  While she was noticing my photographs, I was noticing her because she was pretty, really pretty, the fashion-model kind of pretty.  Since every senior-level photo student never has enough fashion-type photos in their portfolios, I talked her into modeling for me.  We spent an afternoon in the studio and I shot one of those very typical, early 80s post-punk/new-wave kind of photos that were so popular at the time.  We got to know each other, had a fun time, and I got a very nice (for the time period) fashion photo.  I made a big 16x20 inch print of her, put it in my portfolio, and graduated.

In 1983, a mere seven months after I graduated college and after being unceremoniously sacked from not one but two corporate jobs, I came to the realization that I wasn’t corporate material.  A friend of mine, who was not corporate material either, had been sacked shortly before me had taken a job teaching airbrush at The Art Institute of Houston suggested I apply for an open position in the photography department and made an introduction for me. 

So I applied for that teaching job and found myself doing the portfolio-dog-and-pony show for the Art Institute’s head of photography.  Since I’d been out of college for less than a year I had not yet had the opportunity to replace all the photos in my college portfolio with ‘new work from jobs’ so my portfolio was still about three-quarters college work, including that picture of Jennifer.

Flipping through my portfolio he stopped on the page with the picture of Jennifer.  “She’s a student here.” He said.

Not wanting to contradict the man attached to the ass I was kissing to get that job I simply stated: “I photographed her last spring at Sam Houston State University.”

“She’s taking photography classes here.”  He restated.

“Must have transferred.”  Was my only reply.

I got the job, a few weeks later classes began and, sure enough, Jennifer was in two of my classes.

I remember working really hard to impart as much knowledge as possible to my students.  Because it had been less than a year since I’d been a student myself, I wanted to be better than my professors, and they were very good.  My job as teacher was to teach my students the teachable things; techniques and procedures so the talented student would then have the necessary skills to express themselves.  I never tried to teach ‘talent’ or ‘meaning’ or ‘expression’ or any of the art-school things that screw-up students.  I never tried to direct their story-telling, I merely provided the grammar they would use to tell their own photographic stories. 

Regretfully, I don’t really remember any of my students’ work, but it has been thirty-plus years so maybe my faulty memory is excused.  What I do remember is that Jennifer was one of the few students who had a vision or personal style.  I clearly remember walking through the black and white darkrooms in the mornings before class began.  I’d look over all the prints on the drying racks and I knew which photos were hers. 

I also recall many Mondays, listening to my students’ stories about ‘partying all weekend,’ and then being asked what I did on my time off.

“I worked in the darkroom all weekend.”  Was my frequent reply.  Most students would just roll their eyes, probably thinking, nerd.  But, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was getting through to a few of them, not necessarily in classroom lectures, but by example.  It turned out, for some like Jennifer, it was what I did and not what I said that was the most influential.  It was this example that impacted Jennifer the most, but I wouldn’t know about that for another thirty-two years.

I really enjoyed teaching and was good at it but I got fired from that job after a year and a half.  I made the fatal mistake of being better than my boss, the department head, which is something detrimental to job security in academia.  So I moved on and Jennifer’s class graduated in 1984. 

By 1985 I had started my own studio and had lost touch with Jennifer.

Over two decades passed before I saw her again.  I’ve forgotten the exact year but it was around 2010-ish.  By then I was living in Arizona and she was living in Los Angeles (I don’t recall how I knew this, I probably Googled her).  I had to go to L.A. on business and looked her up.  We sort of picked up where we’d left off.  She was struggling somewhat (as I was too) and we talked and ‘compared notes’ and shared some of the high and low-lights of our bumpy career paths.  During our Chinese food lunch I recall thinking to myself, I’m not the mentor anymore and you’re not the student anymore, we’re both equals and we’re equally screwed in this weird business of art and photography. 

I saw her again a year or so later in Los Angeles and she’d made significant strides.  She’d produced a lot of very good work and she had a licensing agent and things were looking much more positive.  We stayed in touch but it wouldn’t be until 2016 that I’d see her again.

I’m glad we stayed in touch because that meant I knew she’d moved from Los Angeles to Palm Springs.  That also meant that I would see her again after I wrapped a photo-shoot nearby at The Salton Sea and Borrego Springs. 

We were enjoying dinner and drinks in the dark and moody bar at Mr. Lyons in Palm Springs when the conversation turned to art.  Jennifer spoke very enthusiastically about the new artworks she was making and I was anxious to see her new portfolio.  Out came her phone, a few taps and swipes later she’s got Instagram open (oh, Instagram again!) and here’s her new stuff.  I scrolled through her Instagram feed until I suffered a ‘cardiac event’ and felt my heart ripped in two opposite directions simultaneously.  

My heart returned to a normal rhythm and pumped just enough freshly oxygenated blood to my brain for me to form the thought: Oh my god, this is freaking brilliant!  I was truly blown-away.  Her new works were fully-formed and fleshed-out, it was clear that she wasn’t experimenting but had found her way with clarity and confidence.  The imagery was a clear departure from the obviously excellent works I’d seen in L.A. a few years prior.  Her new works were bright, colorful, smart, witty, thoughtful, unique, original and, for lack of a better term, freaking brilliant.  And they weren’t photographs, this was pure digital art.

Basking in the cel-phone-glow of her imagery I felt my heart shift directions and relocate itself one-hundred-eighty degrees and suddenly I felt instantly sad and, somehow, sorry for myself.  It was a fleeting feeling that didn’t last but a moment, but what happened to me?  What was this wave of sadness that just washed over me?

It was the sudden realization that the student had surpassed her teacher!  Looking at her portfolio I saw no hint, no vestige, no thread whatsoever that traced a line from these images back to anything I’d taught her.  What I was seeing was so new, so uniquely hers that I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness because nothing I’d ever said or taught was left in these images, she was now far beyond any influence from me.  My illogical sadness quickly passed and my heart swelled and I felt pride.  I had succeeded as a teacher!

Because the student should surpass the teacher!

And so we shared a wonderful meal and conversation that went long into the night.  We discussed the important things like life and art and she clued me into some things I never knew.  Way back in 1983 when I’d first interviewed for that teaching job I’d left my portfolio with the department head so he could ‘show it to the higher-ups.’  I don’t know if ‘the higher-ups’ ever saw my portfolio but Jennifer did.  Apparently the department head showed my portfolio to Jennifer who told him to, “Hire Dale, now!”  For all these years I thought it had been some guy in a suit up the hall who’d given the green light to hire me, but it had actually been a 22 year-old blonde chick in the Photo One class that got me the job!  Thank you, Jennifer!

As we reminisced about the 1980s she mentioned the One Thing that was the biggest influence.  It had been my throw-away line, my flippant response of, “I worked in the darkroom,” to the question, what did you do last weekend?  She’d heard that, and she’d been one of the party-girls that weekend, but when she heard my response it prompted a thought in her:  I should get to work.  And she did!

After thirty-four years it was she who taught me an important lesson.  For her it never was about the classroom lessons about f-stops, or shutter-speeds, or printing, or any of those things.  Sure, she’d learned those lessons but the real lesson she’d learned from me had come from example and it was a work ethic.

She saw me ‘doing the work’ and then she ‘did the work’ too.  That was it.  That’s all. 

I’ve been ‘doing the work’ for my whole life, and so has Jennifer.  Now, more than three decades after we were student and teacher, we stand together as semi-successful artists who did the work.  In academic circles teachers talk about ‘training the competition,’ but that’s a cliché.  The fleeting feeling of sadness I felt when reviewing her new works was a result of Western Societies’ competitive culture; for just a moment I saw her as ‘competition,’ and that’s wrong.  For a nanosecond I thought, she’s better than me!  And that thought was wrong too.  Her works aren’t any better than mine and mine aren’t better than hers, she’s simply the best at what she does and I’m the best at what I do.  She’ll always be better than me at making her pictures.  Her pictures are something I cherish and respect, her artwork shows me a world I cannot perceive, they’re a window into her world, a place I only visited through her eyes and art.  The only reason I (and others) can see the world the way she does is because she did the work.  I cannot claim any influence of her imagery whatsoever, that’s all her!  The only credit I can claim is providing motivation by example.  At the time I didn’t even realize that, “working in the darkroom all weekend” was a lesson, but I applaud Jennifer for getting it.

I think I’d like to acquire one of Jennifer’s artworks for my personal collection but she’s really good, and I don’t know if I can afford one.  Maybe she’ll be open to a trade?  I think I should offer two of mine for one of hers, she’s that good.

               

One final note, from a different perspective.

There was a time when I was the boy who exceeded his professor.  For me it came quickly and differently but since I’ve now experienced this from both perspectives it’s worthy of sharing.

Parental finances forced me to drop out of college in the summer of 1979 and it took me until 1981 to earn enough money to complete my degree.  During my time away from school I had a number of photography-related jobs, the most recent at the time in audio-visual production where I worked on large-scale slide shows (these were the pre-PowerPoint days).  In the A/V job I also became an expert in E-6 processing and I created optical special effects, which was a very specialized area of photography.

I returned to college in the winter of 1981 and during the re-enrollment process I met with my Academic Advisor, Dr. Emmette Jackson, who was also the head of the photography program.  He went over my freshman/sophomore transcripts (which were all A’s in photo-classes) and he spent a lot of time examining my new-from-work portfolio of optical special effects.

“You’ve made considerable advances during your time in the workforce, Dale, I’m having a hard time fitting you into classes where you’d actually learn something you haven’t already done, so I’m going to design some independent-studies specifically for you.”  Dr. Jackson informed me with a serious tone.

“Can I do that?” I wondered aloud.  “Is that legit?”

“Sure.”  He explained.  “You and I will design specialized independent-studies, I’ll approve the study, you’ll work directly with me and I’ll be the one determining your grade at the completion of the independent study.”

“So I don’t have to take the E-6 class?” I asked, incredulously.

“Oh hell no!” He laughed.  “You’d been souping E-6 film at a pro-lab while you were out of school, so you’re competent and up-to-speed.  I’m going to go ahead and give you three hours credit and an A for that class.”

And then he dropped ‘the bomb.’

“As a matter of fact, we’re offering side production this semester, since you’ve been doing just that you can teach the class, you know more about it than I do.”

What?!  Did I hear that right?  I know more than he does?

“Sir,” I asked cautiously, “Can I do that?”

“Of course you can!  Your resume tells me you’ve been producing optical effects, processing E-6 slide film, and programming six, nine, twelve and fifteen projector shows all synchronized with Clearlight computer-controllers.  All we have here is an ancient Wollensak two-projector dissolve unit, you’ll be fine.  I’ve never done any slideshows that big, you’re the expert.”

“I’m the expert?”

“Hell yeah, your resume and portfolio say so.  I’ll give you the syllabus, tweak it as you see fit, I’ll take attendance and the class is yours.”

And there, in an instant, direct from the mouth of the professor who intimidated the hell out of me as a freshman and sophomore, was a declaration that I knew more than he did.  I was surprised and honored.  Curiously, Dr. Jackson seemed completely unfazed by his words and my reaction to them. 

Professor Jackson’s response to me surpassing him was remarkably ego-free.  He wasn’t bothered a bit because his perspective was from the position of professional teacher and success to him was being surpassed by his student.  My momentary mixed feelings about Jennifer surpassing me was from the perspective of teacher and working artist.  My artists’ semi-erect ego was briefly punctured by Jennifer’s amazing artworks only to be re-inflated moments later by realizing that, as a teacher, I had succeeded.  Dr. Jackson had none of my mixed emotions because he was no longer working as a photographer but instead, purely as a photography teacher.  Although his Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees were in photography his PhD was in education, so his judgment of me was from the perspective of a professional educator and not a photographer.  To him it wasn’t a big deal, to me it was everything.

Emmette (we got to a first-name basis quickly and remain good friends to this day, thirty-four years after my graduation) actually taught me more by example than in the classroom, which is the same as it was with me and Jennifer.  I think there may be a correlation of teaching styles at play…

               

 

When the teacher does their job right, the student should surpass them.  Most students don’t because many students don’t finish what they start, they don’t do the work.  For those who do, it’s because they’ve taken all the lessons, both the formal lessons of the classroom and the informal ‘life lessons,’ and applied them to their own work, kept up that work, and eventually ended up in a place that surpassed their mentors. 

Professor Jackson provided me with a map.  He was fully aware that by the time I left that map he’d provided me everything I needed to blaze my own trail but not get lost.  I did the same for Jennifer, the only difference being when she left the map she found me at the periphery.  As she and I stood there, just off the edge of the metaphorical map, she smiled and said she’d used-up the map I gave her but that was OK, she’d traded it for a GPS, and we should go the rest of the way together.  None of us had really surpassed anyone, we got just what we needed to become who we are.

               

From Jennifer’s 2016 Artist Statement:

Jennifer majored in photography at Sam Houston State University. There, she met her first mentor, Dale O’Dell. One afternoon, she walked into the on-campus photo-lab and noticed a group of people all gathered around O’Dell, who had some of his new photographs placed in front of him. As Jennifer stretched over the crowd to see, she remembers commenting out loud; “That’s what kind of work I want to do.” She subsequently transferred to The Art Institute of Houston, where by another act of fate, O’Dell became her teacher. At that point, Jennifer knew she was on track, and that something special was happening to her.

               

Dr. Emmette Jackson passed away on July 16, 2016 at the age of 75.  I will forever miss him; to this day I still try to make photographs that meet the high standard he set.

RETURN TO AREA 51 or SHOOTING SELFIES WITH THE ALIENS

Everybody knows about the ‘secret’ air-base in central Nevada, Area 51.  It hasn’t been secret for a long time, in fact Area 51 is so well-known that it’s become part of the UFO Folklore.  But unless you’re some kind of super-secret, deep-back, military contractor, X-Files type who’s signed an ‘upon pain of death’ security oath/nondisclosure document, you have not been to Area 51.  Any ‘normal person’ including ufologists,  ancient-astronaut theorists, conspiracy-theorists or the general ‘paranormal tourist’ who says they’ve been to Area 51 hasn’t, they’ve actually been to Rachel, Nevada.  Rachel is a tiny town-oasis located along highway 375, aka, ‘the extraterrestrial highway.’  It’s the nearest ‘town’ to Area 51.  The hub of all human activity in Rachel is The Little A ‘Le Inn, a combo motel-restaurant-bar where the true believers gather.  If you’ve watched any kind of UFO program on TV during the past two decades, you’ve probably seen some ‘expert’ standing in front of The Little A ‘Le Inn espousing some theory about ‘back-engineered’ alien spacecraft or captured alien pilots held at Area 51.  These stories are garden-variety UFO folklore.

Nevada Highway 375, "The Extraterrestrial Highway"

It was the UFO folklore that motivated me to visit Rachel way back in 1996.  You can read all about that adventure in my book, Photographic Memories in a chapter called ‘Wide Awake at Dreamland.’  Without repeating myself too much, that 1996 visit was interesting; I met some ‘true believers,’ and I visited the infamous ‘Black Mailbox’ when it was still actually black.  In Rachel, aside from The Little A ‘Le Inn there was the Quick-Pik convenience store with a gas station and there was the bright yellow trailer that housed The Area 51 Research Center.  In short, Rachel was the Mecca for Ufology, and it was kind of a Big Deal just to get there, it was off the beaten path.

I returned to Rachel a couple more times after 1996.  I shot some background photographs that I used to create some UFO illustrations.  Another time I went with a ‘UFO hunter’ and we spent the night scanning the skies with night vision equipment.  We did our surveillance from ‘The Black Mailbox’ which by then had been painted white (fooling no one).  Aside from Rachel and The Little A ‘Le Inn, the black (white) mailbox is one of only a few manmade objects in the otherwise desolate desert.  It’s just a ‘UFO landmark’ twenty miles south of Rachel where UFO ‘enthusiasts’ meet.  Insofar as penetrating the base, I was never fool enough to try and never felt the need to drive the dirt road from The Black Mailbox to the sign that says if you pass it deadly force is authorized for trespassers.  There was no need for me to mess with the white SUV-driving ‘cammo dudes’ Area 51 security forces; they’d probably ID me from the highway anyway.

During the late 1990s there was a seriousness to the UFO folklore.  You really could meet an ‘aviation expert’ at the bar at The Little A ‘Le Inn and the ‘ufologists’ and ‘researchers’ were actually collecting data.  The people who went to Rachel, to the fringe of Area 51, meant to be there.  They weren’t lookie-loo tourons screwing around.

Twenty years later, in 2016, I returned to Area 51, or Rachel more specifically, and things were a lot different. 

My 2016 visit to Rachel was a side-trip and not my ultimate destination.  I’d been photographing in east-central Nevada and was on my way to Las Vegas, so the excursion to Rachel was just for fun, and lunch at The Little A ‘Le Inn.  Driving up the ‘extraterrestrial highway,’ 375, I wanted to shoot another photo of the infamous Black (or white) mailbox but didn’t see it.  I wonder what happened to it?  I’ll bet there’s someone at The Little A ‘Le Inn who knows.

Arriving at the sparkling metropolis that is Rachel, Nevada I first noticed that the ‘Area 51 Research Center’ was gone.  The Quick-Pik was also gone along with the gas station, I suppose the few Rachel residents must have to drive forty miles to the nearest gas station now.  The parking lot at The Little A ‘Le Inn was oddly full.  When I’d been there before there was never more than a beat-up work truck and car or two in the parking lot.  This day the parking lot was packed with cars, many of them rentals with Enterprise stickers on their back windows, and there were SUVs and minivans and, of course, beat-up work trucks.  My entry into The Little A ‘Le Inn was as dramatic as it was twenty years ago.  Upon opening the door of the restaurant the harsh desert light floods the interior of the dining room and everyone inside (and there were a lot of everyones this day) turns to the light to check out the new arrival.  Hi, hello, yes it is about ten f-stops brighter outside, shade your eyes, let me stop-down the aperture by closing the door.

The Little A' Le' Inn - Earthlings Welcome!

Holy crap!  The place was packed!  Every table was full!  There was a lot of activity for an out-of-the-way restaurant.  I headed straight to the ‘gift shop corner’ and picked out a few must-have souvenirs.  My souvenir shopping was restrained and I spent about eighty percent less than I had last time!  While paying for my UFO trinkets the lady at the cash register asked if I was staying for lunch to which I replied, “yes.”  She asked if I wouldn’t mind sitting at the counter since the restaurant was full; I slid over to the counter and she slid over and immediately took my order.

“Alien-burger with secretion (cheese), a soda and chips, please.”

The Little A' Le' Inn restaurant & gift shop

I surreptitiously shot a few photos of the restaurant and patrons with my little mirrorless camera and checked out the other diners.  All tourists.  There were a few gringos like me but we were outnumbered by Japanese, Mexicans and Australians.  I was trying to read a sign by the door when one of the Australians thought I was staring at him and struck up a conversation, every other sentence ending in ‘aye mate.’  He was enjoying his ‘adventure tour’ and looking forward to his next tour-stop at the ‘black mailbox.’

“And what’s the deal with the black mailbox?” I asked the waitress.  “I’ve seen it before but I missed it on the drive up.”

“It’s gone.” She said.

“Gone?  Really?” I was surprised.  “It’s probably the most famous mailbox in the world, definitely the most photographed.”

“The rancher painted it white many years ago.” She went on.

“I know that, but it didn’t fool anybody.”

“Yeah.” She laughed.  “It’s the only mailbox within twenty miles, so if it’s black or white, ya gotta figure it’s probably the one.  Now it’s a shrine to the old mailbox.”

“Uh, a shrine?”

“Yeah.” She continued.  “People were stealing the old mailbox.  They’d either dig it up including the concrete it was set in, or they’d show up with portable cutting torches and just cut the pole at the ground and steal the whole darn thing!  The rancher finally gave up and stuck a fake mailbox in its place.”

“Wow!” I said, thinking the real mailbox is probably enshrined in some UFO-geek’s basement.  “I guess the rancher has to drive to town to get his mail now?”

“Ya know, I have no idea.” She laughed.  “His ranch is right on the edge of Area 51, he probably gets his mail delivered by drone!”

“I’ll keep my eye open for a ‘mailbox shrine’ twenty miles down the road.” I said and finished my (pretty darned good) alien-burger.

I paid the tab, left a healthy tip, and went outside to shoot a few phots of the signage and stuff.  This didn’t even merit shooting with a ‘real camera’ so I shot a few selfies with my phone and posted them on Facebook just to make my Mulder and Scully wannabe friends jealous.  There was such a line of selfie-shooters at The Little A ‘Le Inn sign I actually had to wait to take my picture!  It was becoming apparent to me that Rachel and The Little A ‘Le Inn was no longer a Mecca for true believers, but rather, a destination for UFO tourists who really knew very little about the actual UFO phenomena.  They just want to visit ‘Area 51’ and get their picture taken outside The Little A ‘Le Inn.

Actually, it’s kind of sad.

Waiting my turn to shoot a selfie by the sign

I walked across the bright and hot parking lot back to my black car, started it up, and found my best friend, Max, which is the air-conditioning highest setting, and headed back southward the way I’d come.  I noted the odometer reading because in plus-twenty miles I should see that mailbox ‘shrine.’

Sure enough, almost exactly twenty miles south of Rachel, on the west side of the extraterrestrial highway I found the ‘shrine to the Black Mailbox.’  Oh, now this has gone from sad to pathetic…

In cop-parlance, I ‘exited the vehicle’ with camera in hand to examine… what the heck, I’m not quite sure.  There was a rinky-dink little mailbox that looked more like a children’s toy posted atop a bent and twisted pole.  It was surrounded by rocks, organized by…. someone.  On the rock were arrangements, ‘offerings’ of coins and pictures and a handwritten note that said ‘I want to believe.’  Seemingly the whole ‘shrine area’ was treated as if it were some mystical spot, a place of UFO-worship, and a place of reverence. 

In fact it’s nothing more than a wide spot on a desolate highway were one lonely rancher couldn’t even keep a rural mailbox from being stolen!  This is really sad.  All this means so much to those who know so little. 

Then a white SUV pulled up next to my car.  Well probe my ass and call me an abductee, I thought, it’s the Area 51 ‘cammo dude’ security forces!  But no, it wasn’t security, it was worse, they were ‘UFO Tourists.’

Extensive photography of the "mailbox shrine"

The black mailbox 'expert' (and tour bus driver)

A group of tourists (including the Australians) got out of the white SUV, cameras in hand, and began extensive photography of the ‘mailbox shrine.’  The SUV driver/tour-guide lectured the group, in low and serious tones, about the ‘history’ of the black mailbox, telling them essentially the same thing the waitress at The Little A ‘Le Inn had told me a half-hour earlier.  Someone made an ‘offering’ at the mailbox shrine and then the group piled back into the SUV.  There was a big ‘Sightseeing Adventures’ sticker on the side of the SUV so I asked the driver if he had a brochure.  He happily gave me a brochure (obviously hoping I’d become another tour-sucker in the future) and then he and his ‘UFO sightseers’ were off in a cloud of dust to take a picture of the sign on the border of the no longer secret base.

                                                              "I want to believe"

Another 'offering' left at the black mailbox

The dust settled and I found myself standing in the hot sun, alone by the shrine, reading the ‘Sightseeing Adventures’ brochure.

The ‘Sightseeing Adventures’ brochure advertised all sorts of daily tours out of Las Vegas.  Most were the typical ‘Vegas day-trip’ fare; Hoover Dam, Colorado River, Valley of Fire State Park, the Grand Canyon and, Area 51 – Top Secret Military Facility.  Seriously?  Twenty years ago, after doing a minimal amount of research, UFO ‘enthusiasts’ would just gas up the car in Vegas and head north to Rachel for their own personal ‘UFO adventure.’  Now they’re running tours out of Vegas!  For two-hundred bucks a person!  Again, seriously?  Hmm, what does a $200 tour get you?  According to the brochure: A trip to the Vegas airport to see the unmarked planes that fly employees to Area 51.  You get to see this through a chain-link fence (been there).  There’s a stop at the ‘Extraterrestrial Highway’ sign (seen that).  You also get lunch at The Little A ‘Le Inn, and a visit to ‘The Black Mailbox’ (shot that).  Two hundred bucks for this?  Oh, that includes the lunch and ‘bottled water and snacks.’  At least you get to ride in a ‘luxury 4x4 with other, like-minded UFO tourists.

This has all become commercialized in the cheesiest way!

If there’s a way to make a buck on something, people will find it.  Driving into Las Vegas from ‘Area 51’ a couple of notions popped into my tiny mind.  First is that the current state of ‘UFO folklore’ is stale, there’s not a lot of new things going on.  A lack of ‘newness’ is what leads things like ‘the black mailbox’ and The Little A ‘Le Inn to mainstream commercialization.  There’s nothing remotely ‘secret’ about a tour-bus destination!  UFO culture has been normalized (although the giggle-factor remains high).

My other observation comes back around to photography, and it’s what I’ll call the ‘Selfie-Factor.’  It seemed the most important thing on the minds of the ‘UFO tourists’ were getting their pictures taken in front of the ‘famous UFO sites’ like the mailbox shrine and The Little A ‘Le Inn.  It’s as if they signed on for a no-risk ‘adventure,’ got on the bus, and shot pictures of themselves to prove to their friends back home that they’d personally ‘been to the UFO promised land.’

Yeah, well, I did the same darned thing myself this time; I shot a selfie in front of The Little A ‘Le Inn sign, so I’m no better than the ‘UFO tourists’ except I did it for only fifty bucks.  Fifteen dollars for a half-tank of gas, another fifteen for lunch and twenty bucks on souvenirs I really don’t need.  I’ll take the $150 I saved and put it towards a ‘UFO adventure’ to another UFO hot-spot, Dulce, New Mexico.  What?  You haven’t heard about the alien base at Dulce?  Don’t worry, you will; it won’t be long before someone starts running tours there too, you know, so tourists can shoot selfies in front of a sign.