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’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.