Mushroom Beings – vs – Green Slime Beings

This piece is a continuation of A Nationwide INVASION of Art History. Click here to read the first piece.

Mushroom Beings – vs – Green Slime Beings

by José Rodeiro & Gabriel Navar

As night softly fell on Nigeria, a thin slice of silver-white moon spoke with three stars forming a radiant circle that glistened above Africa’s orange-&-violet-horizon.  This celestial conversation went on uninterrupted; despite the fact that few Africans along the beach-filled “Gold Coast” knew that far far away in California’s rocky “Gold Coast” Bay Area, an extraterrestrial attack had commenced the night before led by whirling hordes of silvery, hovering, and swirling fat (“yet sleek”) metallic disks, which chaotically wisped in hummingbird pirouettes, landing here and there, disembarking scores of emerald-skinned weird-beings: flying and leaping rubbery slime-green space creatures.  Their silver ships flew down, placing them on the ground around Oakland’s Lake Merritt tidal lagoon, where they ran around, climbing trees and rooftop, chaotically stealing everything shiny, flashy, or electrical; especially flatscreen TVs, and other appliances or electronic devices, especially items with elegant apple-silhouettes symmetrically imprinted.  Nor did any Nigerians in their urban glass-&-steel skyscrapers or in their rural thatch-roofed grass-huts  know that the entire US Southwest [(from the Rio Grande, (Texas); Roswell, (New Mexico); Phoenix, (Arizona) all the way to San Diego, (California)] was under a massive assault from beings and machines descending to Earth from Outer Space.

According to US TV (especially CNN, MS-NBC, & FOX) and Bloomberg Radio accounts, twenty-four hours had passed since the first US Pacific Coast attacks.   Forlornly, the US Military tried to fight the foreign space-invaders with conventional weapons (missiles, helicopter-gunship rockets, tanks, flamethrowers and poison-gas), but, sadly, to no avail.   Although, amazingly, a glimmer of hope existed because, a few brave bands migrant Chicanos were occasionally successful in beating back the extraterrestrial aliens (causing them to retreat back to their spaceships) using only rare and unconventional weapons (brooms, gardening-tools, baseball bats, fists, stick-ball sticks, nailguns, 38-specials, vacuum-cleaners, pool-sticks and clubs; but, it was so difficult for these courageous brown-skin-people to help defend the USA, because a few years ago several foolish and shortsighted rightwing ethno-racists politicians (who, we now know, were secretly alien-extraterrestrials disguised as politicians) in several Southwest legislatures and statehouses, apparently fostering all the  “hatred,” “jealousy,” or “fear” that greeted all Hispanics in the USA, as well as mischievously  wasting their constituents’ tax-revenues on miles-and-miles-and-miles of weird, meaningless,  obtrusive and “wall-like” 15 foot high chainlink or steelrod fencing topped with barbwire, which sadly ran for miles-and-miles absurdly blocking the energetic, heroic, and brave brown people’s  paths, as they valiantly tried to provide assistance, succor, and resistance against the determined swift-limbed, long-limbed green-aliens from a faraway galaxy —-  other Kripkean parallel or un-parallel worlds.

Yet, oddly enough; the invading green slime beings were only attacking the Earth, because they were looking for a staging area for their ongoing  “real”  or  “genuine” war with other technologically-advanced and powerful extraterrestrials known as the gray globular Mushroom Beings, who also (along with blue green-slime-beings) were clashing in a fierce intergalactic battle that had already lasted several millenniums; since both the “Mushroom Beings” and their hated adversaries (rivals)  the “Green Slime Beings” wanted to conquer the entire universe: the entire Earth’s Cosmos.   The gray globular Mushroom Beings had focused their attack on Africa; while the Emerald-turqoise slime creatures invaded North America.

Meanwhile, free from any concern over these vast mysterious epic cosmic struggles, a gorgeous young Nigerian woman named Mango had left her thatched hut and gone strolling at dusk through the jungle in a bright canary-yellow dress; in her imagination she pretended to be the Goddess Oshun; thus ala Oshun — enjoying all the exquisiteness of her divine beauty; she headed toward the River Oshun for a refreshing early-evening dip, as well as to play tag with hippos and crocodiles.   Each night, Mango arrived at her favorite sandstone slab promontory and jumped in splashing, frolicking, as well as riding on the back of her favorite “pet” hippopotamus “Chubby.”   After her extensive swimming with Chubby, as well as her vigilant fending-off of several frisky crocodiles, exhaustion overtook her.   Soon, after dressing in her bright canary-yellow dress, she collapsed upon the sandstone promontory to sleep.  As she slept on the flat smooth sandstone slabs that touched the shoreline forming a  jetty along the banks of the River Oshun,  Mango dreamed that she was Oshun, as she slept (deeply and soundly) unaware of the gushing ripples of babbling water, dripping and undulating all around her —   soaking her dress.


And so, asleep on silky ochre-colored rocks lay a beautiful young woman named Mango pretending to be the goddess Oshun; unaware that behind her were two gray globular Mushroom Beings, with a green fungus coating growing on their dull-skin, who knew intuitively that they wanted to capture Mango and take her onto their space-craft as a relic of human life to be treasured forever on their planet in a faraway galaxy —-  another Kripkean parallel or un-parallel world filled with infinite possibilities and variations.  Mango’s family had warned her to be cautious, to have eyes on the back of her head, to be aware of her surroundings. . . . . . . . . . (TO BE CONTINUED BY YOU: THE READER) !!!

Meanwhile, back in Oakland, California, a blue-green alien-being took on the guise of a human being that worked in the freight section of the local HOME-DEPOT.   But, his extraordinary manufactured scientific transformation to a humanoid entity had not gone 100% well; the face did not look sufficiently human!!  For that reason, the turquoise-emerald big-eyed spaceman was compelled to walk around the HOME DEPOT wearing a HOME DEPOT box on his/her (its)  head, even when interacting with customers, trying desperately to be as human as possible.  But, never actually 100% human, because the box remained on its head.


Both employees and “Bump-towners”  shopping at HOME DEPOT read this in two ways:  1). the Bay Area’s countless Marxist union members loved the box-headed being, because they believed he was trying to be egalitarian, just, unprejudiced, unbiased, and free, because by wearing a box as his head; no one actually knew (for certain) “his”/”her” race, ethnicity, gender, religion, and other traits that provoke Bergsonian stereotypical reactions that lead to typical revulsion, bigotry, and polarization, which often marked human interactions, e.g., the way that any “run-of-the-mill” neighborhood watchman might unquestionably, for instance, perceive any teenager festooned in a hoody.   Or, 2).  H.D. shoppers read the box-headed being as a person completely absorbed in, committed to, and becoming their job, which was deemed extremely apropos for anyone trying to survive “The Great Recession!”  Hence, both reasons, made it justifiable for the alien-being to remain hiding beneath the box 24 hours a day, seven days a week in the store —- thus, never going home from the HOME DEPOT!   It all made crystalline sense to anyone looking at the box-man objectively.  He belonged at HOME-DEPOT, because logically his box had the store’s logo on it.   This 21st Century HOME DEPOT box-man recalls the famous UT human “Bag-headed Man” in Tampa, Florida.   Long ago, in the 1960s, a true artistic genius of Performance Art, using only a brown grocery paperbag; had done this super smart-artsy action in fall 1969 at the University of Tampa, Tampa, Florida, as a brilliant manifestation of anti-racism as well as a protest against the War in Vietnam.  It was working beautifully, wearing the brown paperbag day and night; day-in and day out, brilliantly making everyone think about their intolerance of other people, until sadly, at last, the heroic Bag headed man decided to enter a bank to withdraw money.   Of course, the Dean of UT was called, leading to an “amateur psychological analysis” by the Dean, who just happened to have a degree in Psychology!!  The Dean asked, “Young man, why are you wearing a bag on your head in all your classes?”  “Why do you sleep with the bag-on; eat with it too?  WHY?”   Yet, this supreme act of genius remains misunderstood.

Meanwhile, back in 21st Century Oakland, luckily, the transformed alien creature wearing a box on his head at HOME DEPOT was in fact “secretly” an extraterrestrial, and therefore did not need to withdraw money from “any” bank in order to live, because he/she fed on plastic items that were abundant in the store.  Hence, box-man was eating the profits.   And, as a typical box headed extraterrestrial hiding in the HOME DEPOT, there was no need to leave the store ever.   And, people being as they are, he/she (it) would never be found out as long as the box remained securely upon its head.   But, the extraterrestrial donning human suits and human personalities did not merely hide at the HOME DEPOT, in fact, it was far more common, for several to disguise  themselves as sheriffs, Texas Rangers, border guards, and often as female governors of border states, other became myriad politicians, who all maliciously conspired as the horrid inhuman nonhuman monsters that they were “secretly” down-deep to keep out the only defenders with skills to stop the ever-escalating Space Invasion, these were, of course, the  brave bands migrant Chicanos, who, as mentioned above,  were occasionally successful in beating back the extraterrestrial aliens (causing them to retreat back to their spaceships) using only rare and unconventional weapons (brooms, gardening-tools, baseball bats, fists, stick-ball sticks, nailguns, 38-specials, vacuum-cleaners, pool-sticks and clubs.  Yet, as indicated above, it was so difficult for these courageous brown-skin-people to help defend the USA, because the space-attackers had sent  an advanced guard of aliens to take on the guise of politicians in several Southwest legislatures and statehouses, easily using Bergsonian stereotyping to scapegoat Latinos, painting them in hues of  “hatred,” “jealousy,” or “fear.”    The extraterrestrials inhabiting the politicians wasted their constituent human tax-payers’ funds on miles-and-miles-and-miles of weird, meaningless,  obtrusive and “wall-like” 15 foot high chainlink or steelrod fencing topped with barbwire, which sadly ran for miles-and-miles absurdly blocking the energetic, heroic, and brave brown people’s  paths, as they valiantly tried to provide assistance, succor, and resistance against the determined swift-limbed, long-limbed green-aliens from a faraway galaxy —-  other Kripkean parallel or un-parallel worlds.   Thus, these traitor politicians who were secretly space-aliens betrayed the USA, allowing the extraterrestrial conquest of America.

But, luckily, the green slime monsters overrunning the USA, were involved in a serious eternal war against the gray globular Mushroom Beings, who were currently occupying Africa, as a staging area, for their EARTH battle against the typical green extraterrestrials.  . . . . . . . . . .  (TO BE CONTINUED BY YOU: THE READER) !!!

Art used in this piece


A Poem by Alan Britt for the Aliens Are Us Project



He slides a flame beneath a strand

of Wallendas rope that snaps above the cavern.

The web billows: children tumble, Aunts, 3rd Cousins

& Las Lloronas who prowl on Magic Moons.


An RV made of oxygen & light descends

upon a gypsy camp in Manhattan. Out bounces

aliens with rubber arms and melaleuca breath—

when one alien takes this little Roma with black moons

for eyes & brown knuckles dipped in coffee.


The hour is palpable as the alien’s rubber fingers

vine the copper wrist of Ángelita

& blow a kiss into her brain, thus,

switching on lights in the barrio,

tugging cotton string & brass chain bulbs

in kitchens known as Hell, illuminating

every museum & cathedral, every gas station,

every city hall & boardroom of the bored,

each stitch in the throat of every mockingbird

that fell out of love, every pronoun soaked

in olive oil, each filament of astral

atom dancing down 185 in Oakland,

US 1 in Miami, 42nd in NYC,

while sweeping paint across every solid surface

in the known universe.


~Alan Britt…5/5/12…11:47PM

“There’s no title to it.”

“There’s no title to it.”

You know it’s funny, I think my first exposure to aliens and alienation happened in one synchronous moment.  I was about five years old and my parents took me to see E.T. at the movie theater.  Right away I felt some strong connection to the chocolate covered character.  I was completely enamored by his vulnerability, difference and loneliness.  At one point in the film E.T. is lying in some storm drain, sickly and gray, after running and hiding to avoid his persecution and inevitable dissection by human hands.  In the theater, quiet whimpers and sniffles filled the air of movie goers trying desperately to subdue their deep pain and emotion.  Suddenly, a loud shriek filled the air and my father jolted, turned to me and quickly evacuated me from the room.  Yeah, I think that’s where I got my first taste of it.  I was the alien, I wasn’t afraid to cry loudly, whole heartedly, unafraid.


Since that day, I have always known that I was different, estranged in my marriage to society.  To this day I alienate myself in booze, isolated with barbed wire for a heart.  I wonder how Einstein must have felt around his peers… second graders.  A hundred billion galaxies, how can we be alone?  E.T., my friend, we are all alone, and running from the ones who will inevitably make lab rats of us all.

-Michael Vaughan

“my truth was taken. my truth grew anew.”

“my truth was taken. my truth grew anew.”


i saw the light, too, my friend.  it was bright and came about in the night and i wondered what it was.  at first i marveled at its sight! and then i became afraid and got my black gun and loaded it.  i told my family to lock themselves in the bedroom and i would go out to see what had become among our sunless night.  i walked the streets until the trails and the trails through the hills until my feet were against the sides of more hills and shrubs along with weeds and trees.  i trudged along with my gun as a soldier for my family.  i was valiant in those hills that night!  i carried with me the spirit of Che in the Maestra.  and from one sole hill i stood and watched a ship in the sky and i knew the time to die may just come.  but i wouldn’t fight just yet and no i would not run, either.  i watched and i saw things which i now find hard to speak of.  these things made / make me so sad.  i saw politicians and famous ones, all under the ship of the sky.  they were sending messages to and from and i did not know why.  i drew a bead on a head and followed it along ready to pull the trigger and kill a human being.  i had no qualms over doing so… they took malcolm from me, they took martin from me! and oh, my gandhi, why did it have to end like that? i slouched with my gun and cried tears of russian blood upon california soil.


the day was supposed to come but it never did.  i thought of my family back home, locked in a room, all because of fear.  i dried my clotted eyes and adjusted my rifle as i sat on the ground still gazing at this ship and the well-knowns beneath it.  rage had become inside of me!  i did not truly understand what was going on… all my life i’d been told things and if what i was seeing was true then what i’d been told all my life would be lies which means my life in itself would be a lie; and i did not want to cry anymore in this endless night of sabbath. i wanted to be home but i had been taken from my home by an act of service to the cosmos and the loyalty to my family.  it was time to march down the hill and confront these folks.


i had no army, i was a lone guerrilla upon a land which i now realized was never my home, just a temporary moment of jaded hope; now dust, ashes, blasphemous smoke.  “Tell me of your business, compadre.” i demanded from one man.  he looked at me, did not speak, and then turned his cheek to me, still sending and receiving messages to and from this sky ship; “what a mind trip” i thought as my insides began to rot.  “keep them oppressed, this is the way it has always been and this is the way it will always be.  for this is ‘gospel’, can’t you see?” the celebrity took the written word in as gospel and then threw la nota into el fuego and walked away with serenity and determination but i did not want to believe what my eyes did see!  my gun slung from my back; i wished i could have turned back.  “tell me what you see!” i demanded of one man.  he looked at me, did not speak, and then turned his cheek.  I saw a list of names.  names of people who in our future would come to the fore for the people us common ones love and then they would be killed in a certain way.  i could only think of Socrates.


the ship left but dawn did not come.  the crowd had gone, no one had cared for a guerrilla standing there for so long; my face in this dark new night day was long; the barrel of my rifle long but cold, perhaps i should have shot. because as i read ahead and ahead from all these half burnt notes i saw so many things.

“do not help the low man, let him struggle.” “do not share wealth for the lord has bequeathed you wealth for a reason, hold onto it!” all i could think of was Shays Rebellion.  “explore new frontiers and you will persevere.” all i could think of was Columbus and Hispaniola.  “Kill the man who stands from a crowd of sitting pupils.” “keep them in fear to keep ‘our’ secrets.” “give them the illusion of ownership.” “give them the illusion of liberty.” “give them the illusion of opportunity.” “tell them promises for they believe promises to be something de verdad.” my eyes cried as i thought of the natives who stood on the very ground i stood;  my eyes could see so much when they were closed;  the blood saturated the ground, a peaceful tribe struck down, one by one! hundreds to thousands would all die….. just trying to protect their family, way of life, their liberty.


i knew then truth was in itself not true.  and so all the laws made by and for promises were created by a species so fallible they couldn’t be trusted any more than a lion.  but how could i explain this truth to my family when truth existed no more? my gun slung, my head hung, i walked back up the hill i had once marched down.  and through the hills to the trails until i hit the streets… no man or woman to be seen.  my front door did not look the same as it did before, to me.  i opened the front door and laid my rifle down for the first time in i cannot recall how long at all.  i unlocked the door to the room where my family was hiding and invited them out.  we hugged, embraced, and now i faced telling them of the truthless truth.  i watched them sit and lay… they were so tired and asking where in the world had day gone?  looking outside i still saw the night yet the sight of the light from the ship in the sky had gone.  my rifle sparkled to me from its resting place.  i felt anger, i felt hate, my godless god i was so saddened.  and i looked to my family in the living room and then i saw light.  i felt warmth, coming from their eyes.  i sat in silence before i said, “everything is going to be alright.”  they asked what i had seen and i told them it must have been a simple something… perhaps another test by the American D.O.D.  and they looked to me and i felt warmth.  I asked my daughter what a promise was, she replied “truth.”  and then i knew, if i was yellow, she was my blue.  my wife closed her eyes with serenity, my son hugged my leg and i put my hand on his warm head, his soft innocent hair.  the first new dawn began to come.  My family went back into the room and all fell asleep together.  i slung my gun across my back and walked  into the back of my yard and looked into the sky.  “you can take your truths and misconstrue them forever.  you can plan to take down the good man in the name of what i call evil. but i know as long as man exists, love will exist. and as long as love exists then good will exist.  so if you can never kill man you can never kill love, and therefore you can never kill the spirit… of the good.” and i thought quietly to myself, and whispered softly to the cosmos, “Venceremos.”


i went back into the house.  from that day on i never went too far from my gun.  i was tainted, stained more than Pollock’s shoes.  i was lost, but love was my northern star. and i lived long, and i died beside my family, my truth.


-andrew spearman blake

A Nationwide INVASION of Art History

Left: © 2012 Gabriel Navar 15” x 20” acrylic, pencils, ink & oil on paper.

RightHips Don’t Lie (“Sonora Dawn”) © 2012 Dr. José Rodeiro 40” x 30” oil on canvas.

A Nationwide INVASION of Art History

 There was, once again, for the fourth time this month, a fluorescent streak across the heavens… an obnoxious blinking of the heavens, along with clashing, jarring mixtures of hot pinks and orange… those carnival colors one finds in cotton-candy treats. Those sickening colors meant one thing… that they were coming down again all over the place.   It appears that those expensive, massive electric fences can not keep them out and away.  At first light, one landed in my backyard in Oakland.

I took a swing (several of us did)… no, a whack at it — (hoping to zap it where it stood) — with my funky stickball bat.  I ran inside, put on some of those reporting and often distorting TV channels to catch what Fox News or CNN state about the abnormally mad, weirdo-invasion!!!     CNN was broadcasting

from/along the Sonora Desert.    Above, in the early rosy-tinged dawn, they were maneuvering in their eerie fat flying saucers like chunky sonar-driven bats.   All I could fathom was my fear of a take-over…of our ways of life, our jobs, our nation, our world! a full-blown planetary invasion… heaven help us!!!

Where is Michelangelo and his Last Judgment Christ—NOW! — when we need him…? Charon… take away these doomed illegal souls with you on that watery journey.  Where are Goya and his Caprichos?  We need his help, especially now that our fleshy backs are against the wall!!! This feels like the Disasters of (impending) War and we could have his Saturn/Chronos devour these Aliens!

Suddenly, a bunch of generous and brave brown-skinned people came out to fight them;

but giant pointless walls and fences blocked their advance.    Luckily a blond, a spunky sexy

girl in a business pantsuit snuck the entire helpful crowd closer to two of them, who were

confidently already on the ground.    I never felt so scared, as I watched in Oakland my

TV on CNN with its constant news showing the horrors occurring in Arizona, in Alabama, Oklahoma.  What idiot put an expensive, ineffective fence-up??    They were landing in Texas and in San Diego. Those fences prevented the heroic, hard-working brown-people from confronting these monsters.  Those creatures, those foreign intruders… their phosphorescent-odor stung my nostrils.

Oh my sweet God, I hate these awful trespassers; these arrogant, imperialistic, and prying extraterrestrials who apparently desire our land…extra-land, extra-tierra, and sadly, extra everything… resources, our quality of lives, our very beings!    Where are the Tres Grandes when we need them to come down from their scaffolding, tirelessly painting miles of walls with Revolutionary spirit and the consciousness of rights for all people?   Where is Frida?, tell her that we sincerely need her soldadera spirit, her bomb tied around the passionate dove of creativity… we sincerely need their help; especially now that our fleshy backs are against the frayed metallic awkward fence-walls!!!

As evening falls, the sky is at once deep purple dissolving into black…. I turn the corner, walk past the local liquor store, graffiti-covered and smeared; approaching, with dark eyes the color of a black bull, is Picasso…. He is ready for war as he strides with his piercing gaze, his instrument of war, and approaches, with a funky stickball bat, an invader, dangling from a tree like a piñata of festive times, cotton-candy days gone by… I walk cautiously reaching for the iPhone in my coat’s pocket… this, I thought (again), needs to be filmed and posted onto You-Tube TM immediately…. This is precisely what I did…. Come to think of it, an app to zap these aliens is urgently needed….. I ran to my computer and started creating one….

-Dr. José Rodeiro and Gabriel Navar

Leftapp 2 zap aliens © 2012 Gabriel Navar 24” x 18” acrylic, pencils, ink & oil on paper

Right:  Aliens Crossing the Border at Mid-night  (Lou Dobb’s Worst Nightmare) © Dr. José Rodeiro  oil on board, 24.5″x19.5″     Collection of Sergio & Mariella Villamizar