I am old enough to remember when flying saucers were fun.
Hundreds, thousands of people were seeing mysterious things in the sky. Not just lights, but metallic discs, cigars, and flying machines. Every now and then, there would be a close contact, as with the Florida Scoutmaster I read about in Boys Life. But even more fascinating were the intimate contacts with the pilots and crew of these extraterrestrial spacecraft: the kindly Venusians who took George Adamski on a tour of the solar system, or the less kindly nightmarish monsters with acid tentacles who stopped cars on lonely roads in West Virgina.
I liked the Venusians better. The eight-foot-tall slithering horrors were too frightening.
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