"I can tell you about the false pregnancy with my reptilian contact tomorrow," Pamela Stonebrooke promises. "I don't want to open that can of worms right now."
A self-billed "intergalactic diva" who was in SeaTac last month as part of the Northwest UFO Paranormal Conference, Stonebrooke's treating a smattering of about 30 people to her alien experiences and original songs, backed by a troublesome CD that keeps skipping ("Try not moving at all," she pleads with the makeshift sound crew seated next to the portable player). Her white chiffonlike evening dress matches a punkish hairdo, and her every move is followed by the "beautiful people" who constitute her two-man film crew.
Though apparently granted orgasmic visitations, even she couldn't tell you why 6-foot-tall, scaly alien creatures are sexually drawn to her.
"Cause I'm bitter and I'm old and I'm lonely!" she cackles, waiting for a punctuating rim shot that never happens, before adding, "Just kidding."
Stonebrooke, according to her Web site, has been ponied by reptilians who "have the ability to shape-shift . . . as well as to give tremendous pleasure through their mental powers," downright shaming those of us happy to settle for a reptilian who likes bagels and the Sunday edition of The New York Times.
"Reptilians are not a politically correct species in the UFO community," her site further acknowledges. "And to admit to having sex with one—much less enjoying it—is beyond the pale as far as the more conservative members of that community are concerned."
Meanwhile, there is the music, always the music, to build a bridge of peace between our two worlds.
"This next song is called 'Alien,' and it's written as kind of a thank-you to this channeled entity called Bushaar," she explains, slinking her pleasant, husky voice around lines of smooth jazz gratitude: "I got an alien this time/And he thinks that I'm/The center of the universe."
The short set winds down with a few devotees begging Stonebrooke to discuss her modeling experiences. She demurs with faux weariness, promptly rattling off a brief summary of her popularity in Japan ("some definite past-life stuff happening [there]"). A fleeting resistance to the notion of an encore leads to "The Dark," a tune that she says Francis Ford Coppola asked her to write as the theme song for Dracula but then plumb forgot about. No matter—she takes it, and her controversial role as shaman, in stride.
"We all have our own reality, essentially, anyway," she observes.