Friday Magazine, published by Cleveland Plain Dealer, May 29, 1991, page unknown
Just after 6 last Saturday night, the faithful were let in out of the drizzle into the Smart Bar. As promised, the first 100 people got free magic classes and looked like new arrivals from a cartoon planet as they filed into the smoke-filled room. They had come to take part in a "Rant," a liturgical celebration service of the Church of the SubGenius.
Though you may not be familiar with the church or its teachings, almost everyone has seen the face of its exalted leader, the mythical J.R. (Bob) Dobbs. His visage, which looks like a young smiling Ward Cleaver with a pipe in his mouth, has been plastered on walls and street signs everywhere.
In its papers of incorporation, the organization is described thusly: "The Church of the SubGenius is an order of Scoffers and Blasphemers dedicated to Total Slack, delving in Mockery Science, Sadofuturistics, Megaphysics Schizophreniatrics, Scatalography, Morealism, Sarcastrophy, Cynisacreligion, Hypnopediatrics, Sardonocology..." -- you get the idea.
This crystallization of crankpotology was brought into being back in 1980 in Dallas, where a small group of humorous miscreants thought it would be a kick to invent a fake religion. The movement spread and actually began making money with the publication of "The Book of the SubGenius: The Sacred Teachings of J.R. (Bob) Dobbs." To date, the book has sold 30,000 copies and inspired many to send $20 to join the church.
It's all a great in-joke, and the church boasts among its members William S. Burroughs, Pee-wee Herman, Ken Kesey, Todd Rundgren, Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo, Jello Biafra and Jonathan Demme. The only true SubGenius celebrity Saturday night was the Rev. Ivan Stang, one of the church's founding members.
I was standing at the bar talking with Jim Klar, who would be playing "Bob" as he gave me a rundown of what would happen that evening.
"What's with the magic glasses all these people are wearing?" I asked him.
"They're like prisms," he said. "They break light up into rainbows."
He pulled a pair out of his pocket and let me try them on. The Smart Bar was dark, and a smoke machine had lightly clouded the room with a weird mist. The glasses did provide a sort of low- rent special effect, but the real joke was that people looked weirder wearing them than anything did looking through them.
My mission that night was to get a handle on the SubGenius crowd. From appearances, they were hard to figure. At first glance, they looked hippiesque. But there was also a nerdy quality to them and it was hard know if the dorkiness was intentional or not.
They looked like the result of a genetic experiment that crossbred Deadheads with Star Trekkers. Many had long hair and bangles, but there was also a science fiction scent about them. It looked like a self-help meeting of Rockers Who Read Too Much.
The Rant began, and the Rev. Ivan Stang stood on a stage in front of podium giving a Jimmy Swaggart-like sermon about the Church of Bob. The bespectacled Stang wore a white suit over a T- shirt bearing the face of "Bob." He railed against the "Normals" who comprised the "Conspiracy." Normals were also called "Pinks" or "Pink Men," who made people go to work at stupid jobs they hated. He exhorted the crowd to seek the holy state of "Slack," which can only be found through knowing "Bob."
The gathering might have numbered almost 100 people who shouted "Praise Bob" whenever Stang stopped to catch his breath. Any time anything spontaneous happened like a stage light going on or off or Stang found a piece of paper he was looking for he shouted "It's a miracle!" And the crowd cheered all the louder.
A local woman sang "Bob" folk songs and SubGenius videos played on screens all over the club between performances. Several SubGenius sacraments were advertised for later on in the evening. Stang promised to "launch the bleeding head of Arnold Palmer," smash his watch to "Kill Time," and perform a mass marriage in which anyone could marry anyone or anything for 24 hours.
One floor below was the Psychedelicatessen, where a cheesy maze created by hanging plastic sheets was set up. There was also an area for people to sit and experience a "mind machine" (again more glasses that messed with light before your very eyes) and a table set up where books and tapes regarding SubGenius and leftover hippie mind expansion literature were for sale.
A little bit of this went a long way. After a couple of hours, I felt pretty stupid and must have looked that way because Smart Bar proprietress Angela Ver Duyn came over and gave me a Smart Drink on the house. I walked back to the lounge area of the bar where I spoke with "Gobi," a longstanding devotee of the SubGenius cult. She offered a synopsis of the SubGenius personality.
"They're intellectual misfits," she said. "Some of them may in fact be geniuses, but they're so messed up, they can't make use of their genius. They're the kind of people who have never fit in anywhere and, as a result, have spent a lot of time alone making video or audio tapes, playing with computers, doing postal art, reading science fiction or watching 'Star Trek.' Deep down inside, they're really messed up because of something that happened to them a long time ago when they were kids."
"Something really traumatic?" I asked, suddenly full of compassion.
"Or not so traumatic," she replied. "Like having to wear glasses."