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There was Ryne Huey, a wide-eyed blond in his mid-twenties. He told me about the time he was returning home from his girlfriend's house in rural Alabama. One moment he was driving along, listening to the Cowsills singing "Captain Sad and His Ship of Fools," the next moment he was strapped naked to a table of cold leather, bright lights shining in his face, being probed and prodded by beings with one large eye and no mouth. Then he was back in his car again. The Cowsills were gone and his radio was set to a black hip hop station he hadn't know existed.
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