The Wizard of Ass Has Spoken!

An acquired taste, the show nonetheless has its fans and even groupies, many of whom call in. Those who prove themselves to be expert ranters are allowed to ramble, sometimes for the entire program. Dumb or boring callers are either verbally tormented or ratcheted down so low in the sound mix by Wellman that they register as little more than a murmur.

One fan, San Francisco neon sign repair shop owner John Law, once called in and was patched through to another caller. It was San Francisco performance artist Michael Pepe, who was on the other line fictitiously threatening to commit suicide. Law talked Pepe out of it on the air, with Robins officiating. Others have called pretending to be lunatic stalkers, which was encouraged by the hosts, until Robins attracted a real stalker.

---

For many, the appeal and explanation of Puzzling Evidence lie in its connection to the Church of the SubGenius. The hosts are core members, and Drummond was one of its founders. Much of their obscure humor is lifted from Church "doctrine."

The Church began in Dallas, in 1979, when Drummond and his neighbor, Doug Smith (aka Ivan Stang), dreamed up their own religion for fun. It was conceived as a giant spoof of organized religion and a way of poking fun at mass consumer culture. They chose as its figurehead and "Personal Savior" a fictional salesman named J.R. "Bob" Dobbs, an everyman type represented by a clip-art image of a 1950s Dick Van Dyke-lookin' guy smoking a pipe. The sect's first fire-and-brimstone-style tract read in part:

"If you are looking for an inherently bogus religion that will condone superior degeneracy and tell you that you are "above' everyone else

--If you can help us with a donation -- then The Church of the SubGenius could save your sanity!"

SubGenii were encouraged to reject the 9-to-5 work ethic and instead acquire more "slack," the part of your life outside your job, where interesting and creative things happen. Similarly, the consumption of low forms of art -- bad movies, TV, and pulp fiction -- was encouraged at the expense of "high" culture. SubGenius blessed eccentricity and sloth, and deplored the earnest overachiever. In the Church of the SubGenius, anybody could be an ordained minister. It both advocated, and was itself, art for art's sake.

Robins' involvement began in 1980, when Stang and Drummond sent their first tract to the San Francisco-based Rip Off Comics, where Robins was working in the production department. Stang and Drummond hoped to entice Rip Off to publish SubGenius-themed books and other fake-cult reading material. The boss threw the tract in the trash, but Robins' co-worker, fellow cartoonist, and roommate, Paul Mavrides, rescued it, and declared it the funniest thing he'd ever seen. Robins agreed. They became members, and struck up a friendship with the Texas founders.

Robins, aka Dr. Howland Owll, quickly assumed a major role in the Church. His psychedelic drawings and satiric writing appeared in the SubGenius books that were eventually published. In one poster, Robins depicted the SubGenius version of the seven levels of hell, with MTV personalities, music industry executives, and health nuts being roasted in eternal flame. (Fornicators and liars looked down on them from a heavenly perch.)

For a while, first in the 1980s and again in the 1990s, the Church of the SubGenius achieved anti-authoritarian hipster status along the lines of Shepard Fairey's "Obey Andre the Giant" postering campaign or the Napster music file-sharing system. Although it's not currently the cool thing on college campuses, SubGenius continues to percolate underground, attracting people of all ages, genders, and professions who share a disdain for mainstream popular culture and a love of the ridiculous. Each July, hundreds of SubGenii gather for what's known as "X Day," in Brushwood, New York, to observe what has been famously prophesied each year by the fictional Bob Dobbs as the apocalypse. In September, Robins is being flown out by a local SubGenius group to preach at a "Devival" in Indiana. And in San Francisco, occasional SubGenius events persist.

---

Robins lives in the Mission District with his caustic roommate and fellow underground comic book artist Paul Mavrides. On the walls of their two-bedroom apartment, reaching up to the high ceilings, is the collected ephemera of a 20-year friendship. (They are, as Mavrides jokes, "trapped together by rent control," paying a total of less than $1,000 a month.) Framed comic book art, colorful plastic squirt guns, and a dusty altar crammed with little robots and monsters and dinosaur casts and fossils all function as bachelor pad décor.

The hallways are gloomy; both men keep nocturnal hours. Robins' small bedroom is a worm's maze of book piles. Many volumes are old and gilt-trimmed. The piles move and grow, at times blocking access to his bed. He researches arcane topics and draws with his fountain pen until he goes to sleep at dawn.