QUOTE
Heisel: Bigfoot believers get another cold shoulder
By Scot Heisel - Online Editor
Dozens of journalists gathered in a small room in Palo Alto, Calif., a few weeks ago, hanging onto at least a sliver of hope that they’d landed the biggest story of the year — heck, maybe the century.
Bigfoot. Dead. In a freezer. And this time we’re serious.
Two Georgia men — police officer Matthew Whitton and his buddy Rick Dyer, founders of a business called Bigfoot Tracker — had graciously handed over one of the most pursued carcasses on the planet to renowned Bigfoot hunter Tom Biscardi for a modest sum (later determined to be $50,000).
Were there any true believers among the press corps that day? Probably no more than a few, if any. But even if the odds are monumentally against you, someone has to win the lottery, right?
The guest of honor maintained its reputation of legendary elusiveness that day. No carcass. No freezer. Just a handful of photos and some fishy stories about how the creature finally and forever had been captured.
Another stack of lottery tickets tossed to the ground in disgust.
Sure enough, a few days later Biscardi announced to the world that he’d just paid 50 grand for a frozen gorilla suit.
Oddly, Whitten and Dyer were no longer returning Biscardi’s or anyone else’s calls.
Believers everywhere shrugged their shoulders and soldiered on like fans of a perpetually pathetic sports team.
Doubters everywhere basked in their superiority over those simpletons who would believe in fairy tales.
Such shenanigans ought to be a crime, and in this case they very well may be.
Biscardi has filed a theft complaint, Whitton was fired from his job as a cop, an Indiana “promoter” has emerged as another player in the farce, everyone’s pointing fingers at everyone else involved and we’re left with a sad plot of lawyers bickering through the media over a rubber suit.
Meanwhile, Bigfoot ponders the ramifications of yet another public relations disaster.
Ah, but that’s the thing. No amount of ridiculous hoaxes will ever tarnish the allure of the Sasquatch legend.
He is the Teflon Monster.
Yes, it’s ridiculous to believe that a whole band of 7-feet-tall hairy creatures with their skunk-like odor could elude modern mankind in a world filled with satellites and GPS gadgets and 12-year-olds at every corner hoping to make the YouTube Hall of Fame.
It’s ridiculous to think that in our celebrity culture such a captivating creature could be so camera shy. That’s just unAmerican.
Then again, what are the odds that each and every one of the thousands of reported sightings spanning centuries were either a lie, a hallucination or the result of someone being duped? Isn’t it reasonable to think at least one was the real deal?
And why do some people who have nothing to gain, and others who are willing to sacrifice plenty, devote so much time and energy, and in some cases their lives, to tracking down the Elusive One? Surely they can’t all be kooks.
In the end, the best we can do is wait for THE press conference. The one where Bigfoot emerges from the Northwest forest with Bigfoot lawyers on either side carrying Bigfoot brief cases. “All right, already,” he says on the steps of City Hall. “I’m here, OK? Take a photo. No autographs. This is a one-day appearance. I’ve got a restraining order against your entire species, so don’t mess with me. Got it?”
Then he grabs a raspberry milkshake and a Big Mac on his way out of town and disappears forever.
Crazy, to be sure. Completely nuts. Never happen.
But wouldn’t it be cool?
And isn’t a world in which something completely odd and amazing just might happen so much better than a world without wonder filled with lawyers bickering over rubber suits and money?
By Scot Heisel - Online Editor
Dozens of journalists gathered in a small room in Palo Alto, Calif., a few weeks ago, hanging onto at least a sliver of hope that they’d landed the biggest story of the year — heck, maybe the century.
Bigfoot. Dead. In a freezer. And this time we’re serious.
Two Georgia men — police officer Matthew Whitton and his buddy Rick Dyer, founders of a business called Bigfoot Tracker — had graciously handed over one of the most pursued carcasses on the planet to renowned Bigfoot hunter Tom Biscardi for a modest sum (later determined to be $50,000).
Were there any true believers among the press corps that day? Probably no more than a few, if any. But even if the odds are monumentally against you, someone has to win the lottery, right?
The guest of honor maintained its reputation of legendary elusiveness that day. No carcass. No freezer. Just a handful of photos and some fishy stories about how the creature finally and forever had been captured.
Another stack of lottery tickets tossed to the ground in disgust.
Sure enough, a few days later Biscardi announced to the world that he’d just paid 50 grand for a frozen gorilla suit.
Oddly, Whitten and Dyer were no longer returning Biscardi’s or anyone else’s calls.
Believers everywhere shrugged their shoulders and soldiered on like fans of a perpetually pathetic sports team.
Doubters everywhere basked in their superiority over those simpletons who would believe in fairy tales.
Such shenanigans ought to be a crime, and in this case they very well may be.
Biscardi has filed a theft complaint, Whitton was fired from his job as a cop, an Indiana “promoter” has emerged as another player in the farce, everyone’s pointing fingers at everyone else involved and we’re left with a sad plot of lawyers bickering through the media over a rubber suit.
Meanwhile, Bigfoot ponders the ramifications of yet another public relations disaster.
Ah, but that’s the thing. No amount of ridiculous hoaxes will ever tarnish the allure of the Sasquatch legend.
He is the Teflon Monster.
Yes, it’s ridiculous to believe that a whole band of 7-feet-tall hairy creatures with their skunk-like odor could elude modern mankind in a world filled with satellites and GPS gadgets and 12-year-olds at every corner hoping to make the YouTube Hall of Fame.
It’s ridiculous to think that in our celebrity culture such a captivating creature could be so camera shy. That’s just unAmerican.
Then again, what are the odds that each and every one of the thousands of reported sightings spanning centuries were either a lie, a hallucination or the result of someone being duped? Isn’t it reasonable to think at least one was the real deal?
And why do some people who have nothing to gain, and others who are willing to sacrifice plenty, devote so much time and energy, and in some cases their lives, to tracking down the Elusive One? Surely they can’t all be kooks.
In the end, the best we can do is wait for THE press conference. The one where Bigfoot emerges from the Northwest forest with Bigfoot lawyers on either side carrying Bigfoot brief cases. “All right, already,” he says on the steps of City Hall. “I’m here, OK? Take a photo. No autographs. This is a one-day appearance. I’ve got a restraining order against your entire species, so don’t mess with me. Got it?”
Then he grabs a raspberry milkshake and a Big Mac on his way out of town and disappears forever.
Crazy, to be sure. Completely nuts. Never happen.
But wouldn’t it be cool?
And isn’t a world in which something completely odd and amazing just might happen so much better than a world without wonder filled with lawyers bickering over rubber suits and money?
