Steve Bryant – Thoughts on Success, Music and Media

I have always believed that there is life on other planets. I also believe that if they have the technology to come here, they also have the technology to safely communicate with the leaders of the world. Of course, the government has been lying to us. They always do.

A couple of questions:

1. With todays amazing technology, why are all the videos and photos the government released all blurry? Those old disposable cameras took better photos than the ones they’re showing us.

2. If they are here, why would an advanced civilization that could traverse light years in a blink just get their jollies buzzing our airspace?

The answer to those two questions would reveal the truth. Sadly, the government thinks we can’t handle the truth.

I grew up about 2 miles from a major Nike Missile base in the 1950’s and 60’s. I was about 20 feet from a 20 foot in diameter seamless sphere that was hovering near the woods behind my home. It emitted a humming sound and then shot straight up out of sight in a few seconds. I was 13. I called the Nike base to ask about it and got a grand runaround. It was my only UFO sighting.

Years later, I did have a paranormal experience. A couple, actually. To this day, I don’t understand what happened, but I know these events dis take place. Submitted for your approval…

Everyone has at least one weird story. Whether it’s an encounter with a “spirit from beyond” or a simple UFO sighting, we all have a tale to tell. Here are two of mine. (Sharing wacky stories, another sure sign of my full-fledged ascension into old fartism.)

Back in the 1970’s, I was in college and doing a nighttime radio show on WMGM in Atlantic City from 7PM ‘til Midnight. I had a VW Beetle in those days and got a zillion miles per gallon, or thereabouts. It even had a reserve tank I could activate by throwing a lever. It was like a snooze alarm for running out of gas.

One night, I was too late for my airshift to stop and get gas on my way to work. It was a one-hour drive from Williamstown to the studio in Pleasantville. I was already on “reserve,” but the hamster-powered VW could go all day on that. I figured I could get gas on the way home. One problem, it was February. Route 40 and the Jersey Shore area was “closed up tighter than a bull’s ass in fly time,” as my Uncle Ed would say.

Driving home, I started to panic as all the gas stations, which were open on my way to work, were shut down. Running out of gas in the middle of nowhere in South Jersey was a most unpleasant prospect. I look way too much like Ned Beatty. I was at the traffic circle near the Weymouth Woods. There was a Mobil station and it was open.

I pulled in and a very bucolic-looking man came up to the car. “Fill ‘er up,” I said. I got out of the car to stretch my legs and he asked me, “Er ya hungry?” There was an aroma of grilled food coming from the side of the station. I told him I wasn’t.

“Too bad,” he replied. “Skunk got runned over tonight right there on the highway. We got it, skinned it and Charlie’s cookin’ it up on the barbecue. Good eatin’ skunk is.” I tried my best not to throw up. I thanked him for his offer, paid for my gas and headed home.

On my way to work the next day, I noticed that the Mobil station on the Racetrack circle was boarded up. I pulled in and it was obvious that the station had been closed for a long time. The nozzles were removed from the gas pumps and the station itself looked like it had been boarded up for a while.

I had never noticed the station before this and could not say whether or not it had ever been open when I drove by in the past. I contacted the local borough and they assured me the station had been closed for over a year. I even wrote to Mobil and asked them about it. They gave the same explanation as the borough.

Okay, so did I meet my gas guardian angels? Or I was so tired that I hallucinated the entire event. But if I hadn’t gotten gas, I would have coasted to a stop a few miles after passing the station. My Beetle had been on “reserve” for over a half hour. When I looked at my gas gauge in the lot of the closed station, it read nearly full, which is about right as the station was about 30 miles from my house. So when does the Rod Serling narration kick in?

Fast forward to 1988. It was late at night. I was driving to New Haven, Connecticut from Southern New Jersey. I was working for QVC on the weekends at the time and had just taken a morning drive shift on a New Haven radio station. I worked at the station Monday through Friday and on QVC Friday night, Saturday and Sunday. I did this for about a year before returning to QVC full time.

I was driving to Connecticut from West Chester, PA, after being on the air that afternoon. My body was really tired and the gas light on my current car, a Honda, was blinking. I had just completed the 3 ½ hour drive. It was late Sunday night and I knew if I didn’t get gas, I would never make it to the radio station the next day. I was in the hills just west of Hamden, the New Haven suburb where I lived. I spotted, you guessed it, a Mobil station.

It was déjà vu. They were the only open gas station and there was a guy grilling something on the side of the station. I asked “What’s cooking” and he told me it was roadkill skunk. He offered to share in their bounty and I again politely refused. As best as I could remember, they looked a lot like the guys from my New Jersey encounter. I asked the man pumping my gas if he ever lived and worked in New Jersey. He assured me he was a lifelong resident on Hamden. I asked him for a business card, but he didn’t have any. When I requested a receipt, he handed me a blank form and told me I could make it out myself. No name or address was printed on the blank receipt. I was too tired to argue. I went home and got a few hours of sleep before my radio show started at 5:30 AM.

The next day, I drove by the Mobil station after my airshift. Like my New Jersey encounter, it was boarded up and had apparently been so for quite some time. The entire station was overgrown with weeds and the lot was crumbling and full of potholes. The night before, while it wasn’t a showplace, it looked like a functioning gas station. My tank read nearly full, so I had obviously gotten gas the night before. But where? And from whom? What a stupid episode of the Twilight Zone this would make.

I haven’t had any encounters with the “mystery gas jockeys and skunk grillers” since the encounter in New Haven. No UFO sightings either. Maybe it’s because I’m much more careful about running out of gas these days. Or, perhaps it’s the aluminum foil hat I wear everyday.