Yesterday, I hopped in the car, and took my daughter through the lanes of my childhood nostalgia. Every now and then, I simply get a wild hair, and decide I want to see exactly how much of the past echoes with any warmth through my continually-aging mind.
The picture below, however is a cheap, lazy and dimensionally dubious diagram of some hi-jinx I was up to at precisely twenty-three years of age. I know this, because it was Easter Sunday of 1990.
And Easter Sunday of 1990, I was wearing an ape suit, and running through the headlight beams of cars flying down this road. That’s right, instead of celebrating the miraculous and universe-shaking cataclysm of the Resurrection, I was fomenting a second-string Bigfoot hoax in Happy Valley.
In short, I waited until nightfall, and would lay against the wall marked “X” and wait until I had at least 100 good feet of halogen twilight burning down the lane. Then, I’d do my best knuckle-dragging trek across the road to “Y”, and then roll down the cleft. My buddies, John and Dan were hiding in that cleft, trying not to wet their pants.
I was also trying not to get shot. Guns are legal. And plentious. Do the math, people.
I’m not sure what makes Sasquatch a continual fascination for me–not in the sense that I believe in him, but how much fun the idea of him existing is. And especially how much fun it is to invoke that in others.
See, to me, a bona-fide Sasquatch hoax is the TRUE–victimless crime. That was twenty-five years ago. I can STILL–hear the brakes squealing and people engaging in breathless, mid-road speculation while I tried not to evacuate my bladder in a borrowed simian skirt.
Funny thing is, I’m getting that itch again. Something feels incomplete. Like an unfinished adagio by a great composer.
I know. I know. I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be grown up.
But I’m not.
Reblogged this on Armchair Bigfooter.
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