Nicolas Cage Suing Kathleen Turner: Cage Meet his Match?

Call it 'low talker' versus 'slow talker'. Tranny-voiced has-been Kathleen Turner has apparently got actor Nicolas Cage, (who speaks slower than a phone sex operator with a thyroid condition), in her cross hairs.

"That stupid voice of his and the fake teeth! Honestly, I cringe to think about it. He caused so many problems."

Such invectives could just as easily be tossed Paul Anka's way, but it's 'problem-generator' Cage who doesn't come off too 'Super' in Turner's forthcoming autobiography, 'Send Yourself Roses', which also notes, while we're on the subject of physical appearance, teeth, etc:

"I was no great beauty. I was a skinny woman with long legs, almost no boobs, good hair and bad teeth . . . the studio had a fake cover made for them, which was awkward. It changed my lips and the way I spoke. It was uncomfortable, too."

In the soon-to-be-released tome, (which has nothing whatsoever to do with 'View' drunkard and War of the Roses co-star Danny Devito despite its similarly efflorescent title), Turner refers to working with Burt Reynolds as 'nasty' and she even accuses the aforementioned (and fellow hairpiece aficionado) Nicolas Cage of being in trouble with the law, and being arrested twice for drunk driving. And now, it seems, Mr cage is taking the matter to the courts.

Turner herself admits a fondness for the drink, and admits to using it to dull the pain of arthritis, which in retrospect was probably a better treatment option than Vioxx.

"I discovered that vodka killed it quite wonderfully. I didn't want to take painkillers because I didn't like the way they mucked up my mind, so I used alcohol instead", notes the star of Body Heat and Baby Geniuses.

We Shark Guys have covered comparably asymmetric celebrity squabbles here (no lawsuits yet) while Cage and Clooney's status is without question A-level, the jury's out as to whether a more powerful telescope is required to detect either a Turner or a Fabio's star power, at least until the Italian loses and/or cuts his locks or the former stops appearing nude on stage and getting sued by Supermen.

Drunk Driver Calls 911 on Self: Hello Wisconsin!

As we've noted in previous posts, to the point of smacking our heads repeatedly against the steering wheel in frustration, we unequivocally, in no way whatsoever endorse impaired driving---our Top Ten Greatest Drinking & Driving Anthems of All Time referring solely to the soundtrack of a drunken, Grand Theft Auto game in the confines of one's moldy basement.

That being said, we've taken great pleasure here in pointing out the folly of those who do get behind the wheel blotto and while this may not garner any favor with those who fly red ribbons from their antennae, we'd be hypocrites if we claimed otherwise---as authors of a sizable chapter in our book entitled, Contents May Shift in Transit: Drunk and on the Move.

In a subsection of the above, Chariots of Firewater no less, we noted a drunk driver in Germany who got sidetracked with a flat, and in a breach of male etiquette dictating that you change your own damn tire drunk or otherwise, decided to phone for help. In his compromised state, he unwittingly called police instead of roadside assistance, presumably missing the 'Hello---police', on the other end and then blurting out that a mechanic should be dispatched post-haste as he was very drunk and things would turn ugly for him if the cops arrived. Which they did.

In Wisconsin, a woman decided to call 911 dispatch while driving home drunk from a local watering hole. The following is a transcript of the conversation.

Caller: I just want to know if somebody can follow me home because somebody seems to think I can't drive home straight.

911 Operator: OK, why is that?

Caller: He seems to think I am too intoxicated to drive.

911 Operator: OK, and so you called 911, or he called 911?

Caller: Well, he wanted me to call 911 because he thinks I'm too drunk to drive.

The 'he' in this case was a boyfriend who'd consumed a 12-pack by himself, yet still had the wherewithal to point out the driver, who'd knocked back 6, should not be getting behind the wheel (and yet no foresight or judgment whatsoever to pass up a ride home).

The woman failed the Breathalyzer and was ticketed in her own garage, but not before earning the unlikely kudos from a county sheriff (possibly, a distant relation):

"I think a judge will look at her and say, 'You know what? You stepped up to the plate. You did the right thing. I think it's commendable."

Astronauts NOT drunk, says NASA: No 'Ground Control to Major Bombed'

Apparently that 'one small step for man', and all subsequent steps, (and we're guessing space walks too) have been taken in a straight line.

According to no less esteemed a publication than the New York Times (of 'all the news that'll fit between 13 inches of broadsheet' fame), there is "no evidence of crew members’ going on space missions drunk or impaired by alcohol".

This NASA decree, based on an anonymous online survey of 31 flight surgeons and 87 current astronauts done in the wake of the Lisa Nowak debacle, will finally put to bed any rumors of pie-eyed shenanigans where 'nobody can hear you scream', i.e, 'space' to the pop culture-averse. It's highly unlikely this, or any other announcement by NASA will phase conspiracy theorists though, who believe "astronauts" landed on a Hollywood sound stage and for all they know, might've been drunker than ushers at a monster truck rally while pulling their elaborate ruse.

Airline pilots are much more used to such scrutiny, to the point that many passengers would rather test the physical limits of their bowels on a long-haul bus or risk hitchhiking with a taxidermy enthusiast rather than hop on a commercial flight and risk their flyboys having indulged in too many 'Whoopie Wednesday' cocktails.

Recently, a Virgin Airways jumbo jet pilot was arrested at Heathrow seconds before takeoff on suspicion of boozing---and led away in handcuffs in front of 266 gape-mouthed passengers (including several who'd fallen asleep while the plane was still on the tarmac and had begun drooling) before investigators determined that it was only a severe case of halitosis.

As this was the second incident of asbestos-singeing breath in the span of a few months, Virgin is now, according to a spokesman, "seriously considering ordering our pilots to freshen up in the cockpit in terms of their hygiene. We might even be forced to include mints as part of our compulsory uniform."

Using breath mints to foil roadside spot checks is a well-known bit of subterfuge for the diagonal driving set, and in terms of effectiveness, a notch above checking if you share the same Alma Mater as the arresting officer (or more likely offering sexual favors upon finding out they went to police academy straight from highschool).

In other, 'he was supposedly wasted but might not be' news, it seems the driver of Princess Di's doomed ride didn't appear drunk that night, at least if you believe the account of the bodyguard who survived the fatal wreck. Trevor Rees, the sole survivor of the crash that killed Princess Diana, her lover Dodi Fayed and Henri Paul, said he would have stopped the driver from getting behind the wheel if he had thought he was drunk, thereby preventing Di from getting 'car pole tunnel syndrome'.
Next week, faithful readers, rest assured we'll resume showcasing the who’s who of the world’s worst-behaved drunks, rather than simply those that were mistankenly thought to be.

Drunk graffiti artist all washed up... and The Joker's Wild Life: Heath Ledger

[From the recently spit-shined, mahogany editor's desk:


This morning, we figured we'd steer clear of commenting on the early demise of the talented Heath Ledger as revelling in the morbid is more the province of the folks over at The Darwin Awards. So, we figured we'd focus on a different Australian-themed story, a 'near death' one in this case.



Hip hop is universal and responsible for much of the pop culture we do our best to shield our eyes from on a daily basis, ideally, with a ball cap pulled way down and a hoodie.

It's given us, among other things: over-sized duds for fat and non-fat alike, athletic footwear thrown onto overhead wires to mark drug territory (a stern warning against crack dealers bold enough to ply their trade in penny loafers) and seizure inducing ditties.

Purists often cite the four pillars that prop up the Temple of Hip Hop, which include DJing (of the type not done at your cousin's Bar Mitzvah when a drunk uncle yells out for 'Hotel California'), emceeing, breakin' (not advisable beyond, let's say, the age of 25, or for anyone with lower back problems) and of course-- graffiti.

A piss drunk Australian graffiti artist who might've been overcome by the fumes of his art or vandalism, depending on your aesthetic sensibilities, and inside a storm water drain no less (presumably so that the surf could wash out his aerosol handiwork, Etch-a-Sketch-style) was rescued when he himself was swept out into the bay and nearly drowned.

In eastern Sydney, teens with a nose for trouble and one that's apparently lost its olfactory powers too, have been known to body board, or "sewer-slide", inside the drain when there is no surf.

According to a local witness, "The young kids from the area are always in the drain every weekend. I don't understand what the fascination is."

Drunk teen and his massive bar tab! He's got it 'made in Japan'

Getting a fake ID from that guy who will, once you've drunk yourself stupid in various lenient bars, supply you with a bogus highschool diploma, is a common rite of passage for many young keeners.

More often than not these sorts of identification cards could not pass muster anywhere other than the All-blind and Half-smart Society's annual barbecue and booze-up, but the teens, long having exhausted the liquor cabinet of mom's secret stash of Baby Duck (for all our foreign readers, the worst plonk in the Great White North, unfit to scour sink basins in the southwestern part of France), go for it anyhow.

In Japan recently, a 16-year-old raised the bar (and nearly bankrupted one) for under-aged drunken antics the world over when he sauntered into a Tokyo hostess club in the guise of a rich young playboy and began whooping it up in grand style.

The teen, who the manager later said ordered drinks and spoke with hostesses as a man experienced in such matters would, and was presumably not asked for identification because of that (the minimum drinking age in Japan is 20, and rumoured to be lower if you're not a fussy drinker), sat down with the hostesses and over the course of the evening managed to order an astonishing 60 glasses of whiskey, beer and cocktails, along with two bottles of Dom Perignon Champagne.

A lover of the high life, the youngster had apparently not read the chapter in the con-man's handbook that says when you are in the midst of a deception, it is best to blend in with the crowd and not draw attention to yourself. It's unlikely that he could have made himself more conspicious given his heavy bar tab --- 370,000 yen (US$3,490) by night's end (!) -- and the fact that he repeatedly picked up the microphone to serenade the various karaoke lovelies with some jukebox faves.

Alas, all good things must come to an end (and how much better could they get than a night of high-end booze-up on the arm in some den of ill repute?) and end they did when the teen was presented with the bill. Rather than creating a distraction by, say, requesting some Kenny Chesney and then making a break for it, the teen stuck around until the bill arrived and once it did he announced that he had no money.

Staff kept him there until police arrived, and we, find it a bit disconcerting that the coolest person we can think of at this moment is a 16-year-old kid.(Full story here)

Low Rider: Man Arrested for drunk driving a lawn mower

Hustler, the company that makes lawnmowers, not the magazine known for more beaver shots than Canadian tourism literature, claims its 'Super Z' riding mower is the fastest production zero turn mower on the market.

Given that our subscription to Popular Mechanics has expired, we're going to have to take their word for it, not to mention the fact that we both live in high rise apartment buildings and require binoculars to see actual grass.

We imagine that you wouldn't necessarily want to go off roadin' with the missus on one of these bad boys, but for a mower it can certainly scorch rubber with nearly 30 horsepower. And with a top speed of 15 miles an hour, it's just powerful enough so that you can drag race a Segway scooter and leave it in the dust too, provided there is a mighty tail wind kicking up.

Riding mowers may be getting faster, but manufacturers may want to think twice about making cup holders standard, following the wasted antics of a New Zealander, who was stopped by police for generating not exactly G-forces at a whopping 5 miles an hour.

The man, who'd already had his real license suspended, had been using his riding mower to get around---which he won't any longer, as police impounded it for a month.

The blade runner defended himself, saying even bicycles went faster than his unorthodox chariot: "I've watched them go past me."

On a somewhat related note, Memphis-based Tiger Time Lawn care has been doing booming business with their low-cut bikini clad maintenance service since its inception last year.

For a 'slightly higher fee than a normal grass cut' the company will send over a woman hopefully not unlike those pictured in their promotional material so you can enjoy a beverage in the comfort of your lawn-chair, and not risk becoming another tragic, one man statistic.

Drink and exercise your way to a longer life: study.

Like a bird feeding its young, news media regurgitate press releases before flying off to crap on other stories (such as wild parties thrown by Aussie teens that necessite a police helicopter response). We Shark Guys, however, offer the kind of sober analysis typically seen just prior to pitchers of stale beer arriving at your table.

So, instead of focusing on that story, or some drunk who stumbled his way onto the property of English footballer Michael Owen and was chased by security personnel all over the finely manicured manor grounds of his 17^th century estate, we decided to spotlight physical activity of a different sort.

If the only exercise you get in a week is the mad dash to your PC when you’re instant messaged, you’re going to want to stamp out that cigarette (preferably on your tongue, just like in the movies), crack open a window a touch, breathe deep and take note as Danish researchers recently asked, “If you don't want to exercise too much, can you trade it for one to two drinks per day and be fine?” (a fine question indeed, replacing the one that was on our noggins this morning, "What did Amy Winehouse do with all the hair from her bee-hive?)

In the latest issue of the European Heart Journal, researchers looked at nearly 12,000 Danes in a 20-year study and we’ve distilled the results for you like a fine cognac which coincidentally, we're sipping this morning to go along with our breakfast oatmeal (the cheap stuff goes IN it).

First, the bad news, the 'something rotten in the state of Denmark' if you will: you still have to exercise, and according to the lead researcher, "there's absolutely no proof of a preventative and protective effect [of alcohol] before age 45."

The good news is though, that if you actually make it to this advanced age and aren't killed by the drink or a sedentary lifestyle, you can exercise and imbibe in moderation, extending your mortality to Keith Richards like proportions while at the same time lowering heart disease risk. There's even an added benefit: you can even outlive all those finger-wagging abstainers as study participants who didn't drink and didn't exercise (and who are likely contacting their lawyers right now to launch a lawsuit against the Danish researchers) had double the risk for heart disease as those who did exercise and drink moderately.

You know what they say, "abstinence makes the heart a goner".

Drunk bus fight, Toronto, or next stop Haymaker Street

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We Shark Guys hold two Canadian passports, which we’d be more than willing to part with if the right offer came along. Of course we kid and proudly fly the flag wherever we go, expressing our patriotism through the most underhanded of means—on the backpacks of our seeing stars and stripes comrades to the south to tourist hot-spots around the globe.

In addition to these important documents, (for which official photos now require that the applicant no longer smile, somewhat undermining our outwardly friendly and polite, if dull global image) we also hold two bus passes. Though only one of us resides in Toronto year round, (while the other stops by occasionally for an orthotic in-sole fitting, or to load up on airport souvenirs), we're both familiar with hopping a turnsti, er, paying full fare and experiencing those heady subterranean smells or brushing elbows with the great unwashed on a bus.

The Toronto Transit Commission, or TTC, which as youngsters we dubbed ‘Take the Car’, is responsible for ferrying around a million or so residents daily by subway or bus who cannot afford cars, all over the fair city, minimizing gridlock and ensuring that we do our part for Al Gore.

‘Drunk Bus Fight on the Vomit Comet’ (shown here) is pretty self-explanatory if you possess basic reading and comprehension skills and is one of a slew of videos showcasing the worst public transit has to offer, a cautionary tale of what happens when a surfeit of stinking drunk passengers is squeezed into a tight, enclosed space and why the authors, funds permitting, will hop in a cab and risk depositing an all day Mexican breakfast repast in the backseat.

In boxing parlance, a fight that takes place ‘in a phone booth’ (for younger readers, a box that used to enclose a phone attached to the ground) is one in which the combatants (as seen here) wail away on one another in the tightest of confines, with no room for movement and little or no fancy footwork. Though not exactly conjuring up the 'Louisville Lip', Ali in his prime (or even Will Smith's punch drunk mimicry in the eponymous film), the fellow with his back to the camera undermining our national reputation as peacekeepers and not heeding his girlfriend's piercing screams, seems to be getting the better of the two combatants down below.

Hair of the Dog: Drunk pooch stumbles into vet's office

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Thus far, the beastly behavior we’ve chronicled here has been solely that of the human variety. However, in The Shark Book we actually devoted an entire chapter, ‘Crapulent Critters’ to our cousins lower down on the food chain, who took to the booze with a particularly anthropomorphic vigor.

From an unscrupulous Royal footman who got the Queen’s Royal corgis hopped up on gin and whiskey (one of whom later met a grisly fate: mauled to death by Princess Anne's bull terrier--the corgi, not the footman, we should specify, given HRM's nasty streak), to Swedish elk trashing a retirement home drunk on fermented apples and a pet parrot tossed from a bar for taking sips of customers’ pints, we’ve certainly seen our share of fauna that’ve dulled their senses with the drink.

In a small North Austrian town, a concerned dog owner--a hunter-- arrived at the vet with a Labrador, ‘Dingo’. [Editor's note: Given that the country in question, is in fact Austria and not Australia, we insist that you show respect for your fellow cubicle dwellers and refrain from uttering that famous phrase, regardless of how spot-on you think your Aussie brogue might be].

Reports state that ‘Dingo’ was swaying heavily and unable to walk, and given the penchant for hunters to set their sights on targets of a more chilled, stationary and aluminum variety, the man quipped: "Nasty-minded people often say that we hunters are often drunk, but in my case it was the dog."

Indeed he was, after it was discovered that Dingo had devoured half a kilo of fresh yeast dough which had then fermented inside his belly. According to a vet, not referring to the hunter, “When I got him up on the table, it smelt like a distillery."

Woman, 110, credits her longevity to whiskey...For a taste of her whiskey, we'll give you some advice.

The life of London's Minnie Smith's has spanned the Spanish American War to the recent Vegas debut of the world's largest TV and New Hampshire primaries. In order to experience such a rich lifetime's worth of accumulated experience you'd have to either switch to a Soylent green exclusive diet, sleep upside down or develop a time machine.

Naturally, anyone traveling back in time will have to sign a release form guaranteeing they won't pervert the natural course of history and disrupt the future development of a time machine by say, telling Kennedy to duck or thwarting the Titanic ice-berg collision. The latter, for example, would excise the calamitous event from history books, add a few hundred souls who otherwise wouldn't have been conceived (if this vessel's a rockin', don't bother knockin') and remove any and all future references to the Titanic from the obits of very old people.

Minnie Smith, it should be said, is not dead yet, but 110 years young--her namesake on the tombstone pictured above an unfortunate coincidence and oversight we blame on a guest editor---we wish her many happy returns on her recent B-Day. According to the Independent, she was 14 when the Titanic set sail on its maiden voyage and her life spanned six monarchs, 21 prime ministers, nearly every Stanley Cup, the invention of the flashlight and annexation of the island of Hawaii (it should be noted at this point, that the relevance of each particular cultural touchstone varies according to region--though who doesn't like Hawaii?)

Smith, according to reports, credits her Grim Reaper-defying existence to regular drops of whiskey and boiled onions (not together).

The authors of The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death first noted the healing properties of whiskey while on a tour of the Jack Daniels distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee and credit going an entire year without a head cold to a 'walk slow, and breathe deep' injunction while ambling through the oak barrel storehouse where the hard stuff ages, so you don't have to, apparently.

[Editor's note: The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery is available in the United States on Amazon.com, today, January 9th, the birthday of Joan Baez, Jimmy Page, and Richard Nixon]

Robert Frost home vandalized by drunks: I shall be telling you this with a sigh

We've been known to spritz all over the blogosphere like an aerosol can and on occasion, our dedicated readership gets to inhale vapors of a more "culturally uplifting" variety, if you will—different from what they may choke on recreationally or use to tag the side of a bus.

The shrewder among you may have noticed our novelty bobble-head nod to simile and metaphor in the opening paragraph, a tribute of sorts, to the theme of this posting: not opening night at the ballpark, but verse.

For some, poetry is the ABCB rhyme scheme in a bathroom stall, the gentleman from Nantucket, a wedding toast limerick that embarrassed the family of the bride, or some throwaway snippet of pop music (for example, an ABBA disco rhyme scheme courtesy of ABBA). If you turned on the radio in the 70s for instance, or came upon a classic rock station whose play list had atrophied like gray matter in a police precinct, you'd have heard what is quite possibly the worst verse ever set to music in the English language, "Love Hurts", by Nazareth:

I really learned a lot,
Really learned a lot,
Love is like a flame,
It burns you when it’s hot.

For others, those who slogged through the Canterbury Tales or Beowulf in college before movie versions of either could hit the big screen as a study aid, as well as the general public, the name 'Robert Frost' is synonymous with man of verse, New England and Pulitzer hog.

Frost made the news recently, not because he came back from the dead to wow a new generation of freestyle rappers with stanzas, but because his former Vermont homestead was recently the target of drunk vandals as some 50 minors, taking the road less traveled by (actually, a dead-end road off Route 125), converged on the historic landmark for a raucous party.

According to police reports, "Empty beer bottles and cans, plastic cups and cellophane apparently used to hold marijuana were also found [and] vandals vomited in the living room and discharged two fire extinguishers inside the building."

According to a local sergeant, wicker furniture and dressers were smashed and burned, to provide heat in the unheated structure.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
We trashed the Frost home this Friday
How 'bout you?

Eyes Well Damned: George MacDonald Fraser (1925-2008)

Pardon a break from regularly-scheduled SharkBook.Com chicanery

One of the reasons that Chris and I decided that writing a book together might not be such a bad idea and why the experience was, well, a hell of a lot of fun (and why the next one will also be a tandem effort), is that while we each had our own reading interests, the list of our favourite books was quite similar: “The Ginger Man”, by JP Donleavy, (top on my list) , “Confederacy of Dunces,” by John Kennedy Toole, and the works of Charles Bukowski, and Mordecai Richler.

These writers never tried to come across as precious with what they wrote, and the stories they told were never hampered by artifice – among their works you won't find a single humorless 800-page family-saga bummer of a book. They wrote against and in the face of political correctness, puritanism, and pretence and their books found a home with audiences who welcomed this blast of frank talk on their bookshelves. Indeed, they were writing for readers who've heard dirty jokes before and are ready to laugh at the next -- so long as it's a good one.

George MacDonald Fraser, who died this week, at age 82, was among the best of them and his creation of Victorian-era soldier, Harry Paget Flashman, VC, KCB, KCIE (1822-1915), will go down as one of the most entertaining anti-heroes of all – a more well-traveled, though equally caddish Sebastian Dangerfield of Donleavy's Ginger Man, whose exploits were captured in 12 hugely entertaining novels that scored what to my knowledge has to be the only hat-trick in the history of the written word of top-notch historical accuracy, hilarity, and first-rate prose.

Fraser himself led a fascinating life – everywhere from Burma to Saskatchewan (and I think he might have went from summer to winter in both of those places, which makes it all the more impressive) – and was, like his character, a case study in how to make the bloody best of it by living life on your own terms, and damning the parking pylons -- i.e. Sir George speaking on his writing and offering advice to newcomers: "It may be tripe but it's my tripe - and I do urge other authors to resist encroachments on their brain-children and trust their own judgment rather than that of some zealous meddler with a diploma in creative punctuation who is just dying to get into the act."

A good obituary can be found here with more of that, but I thought it best to point to a bit of his writing for a true sense of Flashman, and the brilliant satirist who created him.

Harry Flashman is a Victorian-age colonel, undercover in native garb just prior to the Indian Mutiny. Here Fraser, as Flashy, helps show how the proselytizing efforts of British commanders undoubtedly played a part in the downfall of the Raj (From “Flashman in the Great Game"):

“I doubt if any commander in the old days would have done what Carmichael-Smith did in the way of preaching-parades either. I hadn’t believed it in the barrack gossip, but sure enough, the next Sunday this coffin-faced Anglican fakir, the Rev. Reynolds had a muster on the maidan, and we had to listen to him expounding the Parable of the Prodigal Son, if you please. He did it through a brazen-lunged rissaldar (major in the Indian army) who interpreted for him, and you never heard the like. Reynolds lined it out in English, from the Bible, and the rissaldar stood there with his staff under his arm, at attention, with his whiskers bristling, bawling his own translation:

“There was a zamindar (farmer), with two sons. He was a mad zamindar, for while he yet lived he gave to the younger his portion of the inheritance. Doubtless he raised it from a moneylender. And the younger spent it all whoring in the bazaar, and drinking sherab (strong drink). And when his money was gone he returned home, and his father ran to meet him, for he was pleased – God alone knows why. And in
his foolishness, the father slew his only cow – he was evidently not a Hindoo – and they feasted on it. And the older son, who had been dutiful and stayed at home, was jealous, I cannot tell for what reason, unless the cow was to have been part of his inheritance. But his father, who did not like him, rebuked the older son. This story was told by Jesus the Jew, and if you believe it you will not go to Paradise, but instead will sit on the right-hand side of the English Lord God Sahib who lives in Calcutta. And there you will play musical instruments, by order of the Sirkar. Parade – dismiss!”

George Macdonald Fraser is gone but Harry Paget Flashman lives on and, to borrow one of the best literary catchphrases I've heard, he shall continue to damn the eyes of the impudent!

The Hooch-Drinker's Guide to The Galaxy

There are those out there, largely tin-foil-hat-wearing asylum types (Editor’s Note: For more of this sort of thing, we suggest you check out this captivating investigative piece on little Green Men on a Mission entitled “Cattle Mutilations - Senseless Mutilation or High-Tech Examinations?”), who believe that extra-terrestrials have visited Earth – presumably swooping in on our planet to see the sights and probe the orifices of a few yokels before hitting the next stop on a celestial package-tour.

Neither of us would rule out the possibility that life forms from other planets have visited us (heck we’ve partied with some likely suspects), but one wonders why, like the Blessed Virgin who chooses to reveal her face in the more delectable pastries of the faithful, these sightings usually occur under wholly discreditable circumstances. Even the most popular of all flying-saucer myths, the Roswell incident, has been more or less discredited, with all but ardent New Mexico T-shirt sellers likely to tell you that it was really just a weather balloon.

Most UFO sightings do not get nearly the attention of Roswell or inspire as much debate because of one common attribute that its witnesses share: the fact that they were stumbling wild-eyed from a backwoods still at the time of the sighting (or, in more cosmopolitan areas, just plain drunk).

The Daily Mail, covered such an incident in July, where pub-goers assembled outside their local to witness a starry-happening (that was not the unrelated and more common mooning), and, just yesterday, as the world rang in 2008, SignsonSanDiego.com reported that locals there had also seen UFOs.

Three groups of friends, all partying on New Year’s Eve in the San Diego area, saw a combination of flashing orange-yellow lights in the sky about 30 minutes after midnight. One witness sought to curb speculation that his powers of observation had been impaired by the drink – the newspaper’s exact explanation reading, “Keegan said he and his friends had been drinking, ‘but we weren’t drunk being that it was Near [sic] Year’s”, which suggests the opposite is true, or that the reporter might want a bracing cup of coffee before typing her next story.

Another “amateur astronomer” said he and a dozen friends, who were welcoming in ’08 in his backyard, saw nine red dots that traveled across the sky slowly, followed by four red dots. He was quoted as saying, in hippy parlance : “It was really crazy. It wasn't fireworks."

Our guess? Fireworks.

Then again, who are we to question the National UFO Reporting Center, which said on Tuesday, that it had enough “similar reports from across the country [country, mind you, not county] to warrant an investigation”. Other folks celebrating the most firework-happy day of the year also reported seeing strange bright things in the sky in Santa Monica, the San Francisco Bay area and Canada.