I know it's been over a week since I posted. This sort of layoff is usually the first sign that a blogger is tired of blogging. The output sputters, tails off and eventually the blog becomes barren and unproductive, like a male-to-female transgender's womb or a Ron Paul campaign headquarters.
Let me assure you, that is not the case here. The reason I have not been posting for a week is that I have been on a most amazing journey. I am going to tell you about it, but first, a warning: you aren't going to want to believe what you read here. Some of it will be disturbing and some will simply be too incredible for you to parse. It's all true, though.
It began with a sasquatch. Specifically, a phone call I received from an old friend claiming to have seen one in the wilds of west central Minnesota. This friend (let's call him Tony) is not given to crazy stories or pulling pranks. He sounded sincere, and frankly, a little scared. So, against my better judgement, I headed out in the trusty F-150 to meet Tony in a little town called Eventyr. It's tiny; about 120 people. It's got a bar, a church, a gas station and road signs. That's it. That's the town.
So Tony and I sit down in a dusty corner of the town bar and, over a couple of Grain Belts, he tells me his story.
He's out hiking one afternoon and senses he's not alone. In a copse of trees off to one side he sees movement. A shaggy figure bursts out from between two pines and with a mighty "wagga-wagga" hurls himself at my friend. Terrified, Tony sprints blindly away, and the creature chases him. He doesn't remember how long he ran, only that he made it back to his Outback. As he drove away he looked back but didn't see any sign of the creature.
Now, the search for Bigfoot has been going on for decades. There have been some laughably bad hoaxes in that time. So, you can probably understand my reluctance to take this seriously. But in light of our long friendship, as well as the fact that he was buying the beers, I agreed to go with him into the surrounding hills to take a look.
We packed Tony's Outback with all the usual Sasquatch-hunting paraphenelia: camera, GPS, map, beef jerky, beer, and a 12-gauge shotgun. We got to the scene of Tony's earlier encounter about 2:30 in the afternoon. It was a cool but sunny day. We cracked open a couple of Coors Lights and headed into the woods.
I have to say I felt an odd sense of freedom and excitement. While this couldn't be real (could it?), I had a feeling we were going to find something out there. The trees beckoned us like a promise of great things to come: magic, maybe, or perhaps free porn.
The truth turned out to be far weirder and less hairy than a sasquatch. And there was no porn to be found.