The Scariens beatnik combo went under the name of Sneiracs during the late fifties to avoid detection by G-men. The Government suspected the Scariens of involvement with alien beings and the commission of various thought crimes. The snapshot above was obtained from the CIA by The wEakLy wHiRL kNEwZ through the Freedom From Information Act.

NASA received a mysterious digital transmission in 1993 from beyond the outer limits of our galaxy which was later decoded and translated by top scientists. The digital translation revealed a book written in the future about the legendary beatnik combo, Scariens. The book, SCARIEN NATION NOW BE ONE, authored by Dr. D. Sturbin, tells the story of how the world famous combo took on evil mutant aliens and the CIA in hopes of saving the world. You may read excerpts from the first two chapters below, or click above and read the entire book.


The summer of 1956 in Greenwich Village was fly time. Things were buzzing. There was something going on but nobody was hip to what it was.The gaggle of beat bohemians began to grow larger as more and more hipsters flocked to the Village from all points across the globe. Nobody had any real reason for falling in, other than the vibe that something was going to go down. Big. There was excitement. No one gave it any lip service, but everyone who came knew.

An eclectic group of musicians hung out around Bleeker Street. Strange music drifted in the breeze. Exotic aromas penetrated the exhaust fumes as reefers were passed, back and forth, to and fro.Droopy eyed cats squatted on the sidewalk, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, as they tapped out rhythms on dime store bongo drums. Wild eyed poets with ragged overcoats and thick goatees paced the sidewalks as jagged poetry flowed from their lips like a crazy discordant bebop serenade.

Wide eyed folk kittens sat cross legged slouched over their guitars with long straight hair draping over sandels. Sad eyed chicks with short hair, black slacks and shades, leaned against bricks and posed pensively. Cheap wine and reefers were shared by all, everyone acting as if there were some religious significance to their rituals. Holy communion for sidewalk sky pilots.

There was a little park on Bleeker Street where the serious hep cats would make the scene and lay down some riffs. Jam sessions would go on all night long. This was the place to be. As the night wore on, the poets, writers, and artists would begin to cut out. Usually, by 3 or 4 a.m., there were only several musicians left. They were the beatest of the beat and the hippest of the hip.


Rusty and Bud fell in at the coffee house on McDougal Street with their axes. They had a gig that night but were about 3 hours early. They were the only ones there except for the square hayseed waitress, who was new, and a poet named AL.

This little joint was seedy and didn't even have a name. It was bright outside, but this dive was darker than suicide. Candles flickered from Chianti bottles covered with wicker and rainbows of colored wax.

The tables had no table clothes and everyone used the floor for an ashtray. This was the place where all the heavies came. The L7 crowd stayed away from this joint. Junkies lurked around unlit tables. Hop heads and vipers stared into their java.People who never smiled stared down strangers with no mercy. This crowd came to think. To mull over dark secrets and deep thoughts. To be with their own kind.

Al read his poetry with difficulty through thick black frame glasses. His contorted legs wrapped around his stool. His contorted mind elevated much higher than the tiny stage he spoke from:

the sidewalk of translucent zombies
unnoticed x-ray vision mirrors reflect
the stainless steel jackets
with button down brains
reptilian subway surrounded by darkness
gently moves the bleeding cattle
through the mysterious lobby of the
in god we trust bank and trust company
the postman delivers the stained letter
from the merchant of atomic death
past lives peer at dad's new television
from the post future black fog
broken pens and needles
inject subtle venoms into empty spaces
the mailman brought dancing shoes
put them on your hands

The Scarien Organization