Musings on Scientology

The Scientology Celebrity Center! So close to my house, I can almost spit on it from bed!

The security guard outside The L. Ron Hubbard Life Exhibit is a weird guy. He often sings a bastardized version of "Tiny Dancer" when I walk by: "Pretty Baby / L.A. Lady / Come learn about Ron Hubbard!" He looks a little like Tony Shalhoub and I'm sure he sings to all the ladies.

The security guards have a Dianetics pyramid patch on their uniforms.

The other day I was walking by the Life Exhibit (just a few blocks from the apartment) when I saw some people standing around with signs. They said "OH-8s Can't Walk Thru Wallz!" OH-8's (or something like that) are the highest level you can reach in Scientology, and they are supposed to be able to walk through walls because all their brain aliens have been scraped out. I made that last bit up, but the guy holding the sign said that it cost $300,000 to be an OH-8 and at first I thought that was a lot but then I thought about how Scientologists are multi-millionaires so I think that guy was wrong about the cost of permeability. Also, his ear was gushing blood.

One time I tried to volunteer at a literacy center in Hollywood. There was no outward indication of it being a Scientological organization. I went in thinking "my, for an all volunteer run organization, this place sure is well funded!" It looked really nice. The lady who met me had crazy eyes, so I should have known right then. She showed me the book I would be working with and it was so stupid. Full of dumb, cheap cartoons that looked like they came off a bottom shelf store brand cereal bag in 1994. The book's author? L. Ron Hubbard. It was called Learning How to Learn but all I learned was that L. Ron Hubbard should have stuck to writing terrible science fiction. The woman held the book and showed me every single page. It was a bit like story time. I don't remember much about it, because there wasn't much to it, but basically it was about this kid who was trying to figure out what the word "run" meant. He went through all the stages of not knowing a word: embarrassed, frustrated, angry, sad. There was very little writing, and therefore very little for the crazy lady to read to me, so she pointed to every cartoon and commented on the current state of the child. "Look at him. Oh, oh he's sad! Look how sad." Turn the page. "Oh, look now! See how he is angry! Can you remember being angry about words? I can." On the last page a dinosaur told the boy to use a dictionary. THE END. Good job, L. Ron. They took me to a back room and tried to get my fingerprints. I, obviously, didn't give them my fingerprints. I also said my name was "Kelly."

Then there was the time I went to the "Psychiatry: And Industry of Death Museum" (run by the Scientologist front organization the People's Commission on Human Rights) and these Nazi youth looking weirdos told me I hated children because I would not sign their crazy petition, but I think that'll have to wait. Isn't that an awkward name? "Psychiatry: An Industry of Death Museum."