The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #304

#304: "I Wonder" (2006) - Kellie Pickler

Music cannot exist in a vacuum. Geoge Lucas might not have known this, but Stanley Kubrick did. The producers of American Idol did (and do), too. One of the reasons millions of Americans (proudly including me) watch the reality show is because of the human interest segments they produce on select contestants. One of the best of these segments was Kellie Pickler's, showing her back on her grandfathers' farm in Palestine, North Carolina. Pickler had lived with her grandparents ever since she was two, when her twenty-year old mother abandoned her, and she was left to live with her paternal grandparents (her father was/is an alcoholic, drug addict, and convicted violent criminal).

In her interviews and performances, Pickler came across as the sweetest naive little country girl you ever did see, and her obvious love and devotion to her grandfather (and little brother) was as heartwarming as the story of her mother's abandonment was heartbreaking. Pickler's aww-shucks charm won the judges over, even snooty Simon. Alas, Pickler didn't win that year (though she finished in the top twelve); however, she has since found major success in Nashville, where her debut album went gold and won her an ASCAP award for her songwriting (as she co-penned half the album). Her first single, "Red High Heels," reached the top twenty of the country charts, and the video of that song made it to #1 on the GAC Top 20 Countdown.

I didn't find "Red High Heels" too exciting; it had its charm (Pickler's vocal, mainly), but it didn't seem special, and it blended in with the rest of Music Row's cookie-cutter country. The album's second single--"I Wonder"--didn't stand out from the pack either, production-wise. It harbors the typical Nashville sound. The sheen could not, however, completely gloss over the story within. It's a story as good as the ones in Dolly Parton's classic"Coat of Many Colors" and Loretta Lynn's recent "Little Red Shoes" and Patty Loveless's "You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive" (though Pickler's music isn't anywhere near up to the likes of those legends). It's a bittersweet story, heartbreaking and triumphant, sad and victorious, and in Pickler's vocals we hear those emotions conflicting. She doesn't oversing the song (trying for that big Celine Dion moment); she doesn't treat it as treacle, blubbering and whispering throughout; and she doesn't treat it as a harsh homily or an admonition. She's proud of what she's become, yet we still hear how truly sad she is--how much she's missed having her mother around--even in the last line she sings. This tragic underpinning helps give the song--and Pickler herself--a sense of true glory.

NOTE: This record was originally much higher up the charts (somewhere in the top 100), with a much longer explication and explanation of its merits, stardom, and American Idol. However, just this week I realized that tomorrow is my mother's birthday. I browsed through the songs that were left on my chart, and nothing really fit. This one comes close, though.

My mother neved abandoned me; in fact, she's been my most ardent supporter in (just) about everything I've ever done. She was there for my prom, cheered me on at football games (okay, I was in the band...but still), and all the stuff that Pickler's mom was never there for. My mom is most decidedly not Pickler's mom, and that's why I'm dedicating this song to her...and also, I think my mom would probably like this song (at least more than 95% of what's on my chart).

So, I'm putting "I Wonder" right here, on the day before my mother turns fifty-nine. This one goes out to you, Mom. Happy Birthday. I love you.

Andy

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #305

#305: "Je Ne Te Connais Pas" (2004) - Prototypes

All attitude, seriously sassy, minimalist electro pop funk, tambourine, handclaps, yeah yeah yay, skip-rope chorus, immediately catchy, rooted in New Wave and Devo and Francoise Hardy and the B-52's and the 5.6.7.8.'s, don't know what the lyrics mean and don't care, get tired of listening to it after the 305th consecutive spin while trying to think of something meaningful to say about it or for some clever introduction, some car company should use this in a commercial, and that's all I got.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #306

#306: "Disaster" (2007) - The Besnard Lakes


This past Saturday night, my wife (and son, begrudgingly) and I watched Michael Phelps win his record eigth gold medal (in the 4x100 relay) in the Olympics. A few minutes before the competition began, NBC ran a brief piece about Mark Spitz's 1972 (then) record seven gold medals. In the short video, they showed footage of Spitz--and his mustasche.
Almost immediately, faded-Polaroid visions of shag carpet, plaid polyester pants, and chevy vans appeared before me, and Mark Spitz began to transform into James Taylor.

Then, I saw fire, and I saw rain, and I began hearing '70s AM pop/rock music playing somewhere in the distance, my aural dreams weaving like golden hair right down the line back to days when my grandfather was still working as a carpenter, when I'd spend my bread at Conn's, when the sunshine always seemed to be on my shoulders.

"Andy? Andy?" my wife asked.

"Huh?" I asked her.

"What're you doing? What are you thinking about? Are you okay?" She leaned in, concerned.

"Why must you look at me that way?" I asked her.

"It's over," she said. I looked at her strangely; I didn't know what she was talking about.

"The relay--it's over. We won. American won. Phelps won his eighth! Didn't you see it?"

"Sure," I said. "Looks like it's over." I rose and left the room. I came down here to my office, turned on the computer, opened up iTunes, and caught myself listening to "Disaster." Sure, it was recorded only last year, but the opening 1:54 sound like they were created thirty-something years ago. The electric (but not distorted) guitar strummed, David Gates started singing lyrics Bernie Taupin wrote after Robert Plant slipped him a tab, and Chicago's horn section chimed in at the end of the verses. B.J. Thomas picked out a few simple chords on a mandolin (or was that a ukulele?), and Elton John's (and Carly Simon's and Harry Nilsson's) producer Paul Buckmaster brought out his string arrangement. A summer breeze blew in through the window above my computer, and I was completely transported back to my childhood, the music blowing through the jasmine in my mind.


Then...BUZZ! Startled out of my reverie at the 1:55 mark, a distorted guitar started chopping quarter notes, and then the string section went Psycho, as either Bernard Herrmann (or John Cale) must have taken over for Paul Buckmaster after they sliced him to pieces with a butcher knife. David Gates kept on singing, though, just like he did when Bread disbanded. Another voice sounded, though, chanting a warning of "Disaster/They've got disaster on their minds." A flute flew in, but I think it was running from the crazy mishmash of eras, as the early '90s alternative/noise pop band My Bloody Valentine crashed through the studio, creating havoc, and scaring the nostalgia out of everyone involved, as the hippies all left the studio. My Bloody Valentine started their victory chant, but, suddenly, from out of the dead body of B.J. Thomas came Duane Eddy, who quickly dispensed with My Bloody Valentine using his twangy tremeloed guitar. It was a frightening sight and sound. I can still hear the echoes, and I still feel the reverberations of last Saturday night.

...and the Besnard Lakes--whoever they are---do, too.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #307

#307: "Go!" (2005) - Common

Common's been a critical darling from the get-go. He's renowned for his intellligent lyrics, his ever-burgeoning sociological and philosophical themes, his willingness to experiment with form, his positive statements about hip-hop and the African-American lifestyle, and his taste. I think it's his taste that puts me off. For most of his career, Common has created tasteful rap--coffee shop hip-hop. I've had a hard time warming up to his music (even his wildly experimental 2002 album The Electric Circus claustrophobic, the Neptunes' rock-heavy production muddling the entire affair), and I think that's because he doesn't have a strong knack for melody, and he/his producers haven't crafted many compelling hooks. Common's music has always tried to push the boundaries of rap, but Common seems so concerned about integrity, that most of his music lacks life; there's rarely any sense of freedom or fun or excitement. It all seems boxed in.

In the single "Go!," Common's new producer Kanye West brings a strong sense of pop to the proceedings. The record (and most of the album from whence it came, Be) is confident and assured and laid back, but West doesn't overburden it with too many layers (as the late J. Dilla often did); he provides a lush romantic background using only an electric keyboard (sample from "Old Smokey" by early '70s London r&b/singer-songwriter Linda Lewis) and an uptempo drum beat (and maybe shades of a tambourine, too). West and John Mayer (!) provide background vocals, with West himself propelling the chorus himself with his rhythmic "Go, go, go, go" chanting. Common provides the verses, fantasizing about women he's had (or wish he's had) in clubs, complementing the '70s softcore vibe by dropping lines about sexual positions and astrological compatability. It's refreshing, this record. It's also so seventy-one, and that's alright with me.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #308

#308: "I Can't Go Back to Austin" (2000) - Doug Sahm

The original cosmic cowboy, Doug Sahm is perhaps the most influential musical artist Texas ever produced. Melding Texas blues, Bob Wills western swing, Tejano accordion and one-step rhythms, traditional country steel guitar and two-step rhythms, a pinch of Cajun spice, a dash of Polka flavor, and a dollop of rock and roll drive, Sahm--more than any other American artist--brought Tejano music (also known as Tex-Mex) to prominence around the nation and some other parts of the world, popularizing (without diluting)the art form for the massess...and for other artists, too.

Sahm directly inspired Sam the Sham & Pharoahs ("Wooly Bully") and ? and the Mysterians ("96 Tears"), whose big hits were not only influenenced by Sahm's sound, but whose path to #1 (on the Billboard single charts) was paved by Sahm's first hit single. Without Sahm, we wouldn't have had prime-career, Red-Headed Stranger era and after Willie Nelson; nor would we have had the wonderful mid-career onward music of Dwight Yoakam; nor would we have had the wonderful mid-'70s country songs from Freddy Fender (whom Sahm brought out of retirement); nor would we have (probably, though this one's possibly a stretch) the full sonic glory from Elvis Costello & the Attractions, who copped their organ style and sound straight from Sahm's bandmate Augie Meyers; nor would we (possibly) have the batsnot crazy but brilliant mid-career records from Roky Erickson (as Sahm helped produce and release Roky's first two songs ("Starry Eyes" and "Red Temple Prayer [Two Headed Dog]") after Erickson was released from a four-year stint in an insane asylum. Suffice to say Sahm's music is important and vital; in fact, Bob Dylan once said his band was one of the three best in the world.

Sahm began his career in San Antonio as a child country-music prodigy, singing along with Hank Williams (Sr.) at one point, performing at the Louisiana Hayride as Little Doug and [his band] the Bandits. Heck, even the Grand Ole Opry offered the nine-year-old boy a permanent spot on their roster to perform on their roster (though Little Doug's mother had to turn them down).

Eventually, his music evolved as Sahm grew older; in the late '50s, he had his first regional hit(actually, it was more a local hit than regional...but still....) with a Tejano-style song, he started playing guitar in black blues clubs in San Antonio, and a few years later, he started adding elements of the music he heard at some of the local Tejano and Cajun bars, till he soon developed his own form of Tejano music. He formed his own racially integrated band (before Sly Stone ever did), and in 1965, (when Sahm was twenty-four), he recorded an album for the Crazy Cajun label. The album's producer Huey Meaux convinced Sahm and his bandmates to grow their hair long (well, Beatles-length), wear matching mod suits, and name themselves the Sir Douglas Quintet, all to capitalize on the British Invasion mania that was sweeping over the pop-rock world.
The Quintet's first album (pictured above) contained the marvelous song "She's About a Mover." The song was a hit (#12 on Billboard's pop chart, and #25 on Billboard's country chart), and Sahm and band toured to support it. Finishing his tour the next year, Sahm returned home, flying in to Corpus Christi, and once he landed, the feds busted him, charging him with possession of marijuana. He was arrested and jailed. He didn't have to stay in jail too long, though (and he got a much better sentence than his buddy Freddy Fender did for the same crime, about the same time, back in Louisiana), and when he was released, he cursed Texas for all it was worth and left the state, swearing he'd never come back.

He set up shop in San Franciso, where his (now) long-haired look (and he'd let it grow longer, too) and chemically-enhanced lifestyle made him fit right in. His music didn't quite jive, though, so he adapted, adding some psychedelica to the mix. A couple of years later, in 1969, he recorded the second biggest hit of his career, "Mendocino" (#27 on the pop chart, though the song's been covered countless numbers of times, much more so than "She's About a Mover"). After '69, he disbanded the Quintet, and he hopped record labels solo, and he played as a session musician every now and then.

Eventually, he grew homesick, and in 1971--five years later--he returned to Texas, where he recorded a couple of country/Tejano albums, including one with guest stars (Bob Dylan, Dr. John, and Tejano accordion legend Flaco Jimenez). He recorded a couple of albums with the reformed Sir Douglas Quintet, had a minor hit with "(Is Anybody Going to) San Antone?" and he acted in a couple of Hollywood joints.

In the '80s, in one of the oddest tangential career moves I've ever heard of (the success of which is the truly odd part), Sahm and Quintet organist Augie Meyers decided they needed money, so they signed a record deal with a company in Sweden (!), released a platinum-selling single ("Meet Me in Stockholm" in '83, one of the best-selling singles the country's ever had), toured the country (fighting back the panty-throwing women from the edges of the stage) and Europe as well, raking in the dollars.

In 1990, inspired by the success of the Traveling Wilburys, Sahm formed his own supergroup, this one with a Tex-Mex flavor. Sahm enlisted Augie Meyers, Flaco Jiminez, and Freddy Fender into the Texas Tornados. The Tornados recorded their debut in both English and Spanish, and won a Grammy for their song "Soy de San Luis." They recorded four albums over the next six years (all-in-all including some of the best songs of Sahm's career), going on hiatus sporadically

so that the individual members could record (or rest) on their own.

In '94, Sahm received his second Grammy (first solo) for his album The Last Great Texas Blues Band, featuring Sahm's own blend of big-band blues. He recorded his last solo album in 1999, finishing it just in time to travel to New Mexico and die of a heart attack, alone, in a motel room. The album, The Return of Wayne Douglas, released the following year, features Sahm singing (again, his style of) Texas country and western music, much of it (five songs) a paean to (Sahm's romantic image of) Texas itself. The album is solid and satisfying, but the song "I Can't Go Back to Austin Anymore" remains a bittersweet two-step, the music sumptuous and lively and lazy, the singing ever-so-slightly forlorn, and the effect is tragic. Doug Sahm loved his home state, loved it for its great expanse, and he hated it for its close-mindedness. He adored Texas for its cultural diversity, and he despised it for its casual racism. Here was a man who once--okay, more than once--swore never to go back to Texas, and yet felt homesick when he left. Here was a man who returned home, was later greatly applauded and appreciated by his fellow Texans, yet recorded a song entitled "I Can't Go Back to Austin Anymore," flew away to New Mexico, and died, never being able to return home one last time.

Doug Sahm can't go back to Austin anymore now, no; yet, as evidenced by his music, he never truly left.

Mavis Staples and the Blind Boys of Alabama

As I mentioned a couple of posts down the line, my wife, my parents, and I went to the Silver Star Convention center Thursday night to watch the Blind Boys of Alabama and Mavis Staples. We arrived about thirty minutes early, just enough time for my wife to take a picture of herself before we all went in and sat in our great twelfth-row seats (thanks, June!). After chit-chatting for a little while, the lights dimmed and someone walked to the stage in a Silver Star vest and jumpsuit to tell us in his ridiculous announcer voice that we were, indeed at the Silver Star. I'm sure someone was wondering.

The Blind Boys of Alabama were then introduced (by someone else, thankfully), and they--all bedecked in their mustard-yellow suits--proceeded single-file, one arm on the shoulder of the man in front, to the stage, led by their drummer. The three members were each placed in-between their chairs and their mikes, and then Jimmy Carter--the sole founder still actively touring with the group--introduced the group himself, rousing the audience, using good-natured humor to hawk his group's CDs (which were on sale out in the lobby, carefully guarded by my good friend Mona Moore-Stribling-No-More) and remind the crowd that the Blind Boys (who've been around for sixty-nine years) have won four grammys in a row recently, and how they'd like to win their fifth for the album they released in January of this year, the Dixieland Jazz-based Down in New Orleans.

The Blind Boys then sang "Down by the Riverside" from that album. Carter and Ben Moore stood and sang (the other vocalist--and sometime drummer--Dr. Ricky McKinnie sat for the first couple of songs), with Carter shaking his arms both to the heavens and at the audience, dancing around (well, as much as he could). The audience responded in kind, singing aloud, clapping in rhythm, some dancing in their spots, some dancing in the aisles, as their entire show seemed less like a concert and more like a highly-spirited revival. The three Blind Boys kept the energy level high throughout, singing wonderful gospel-fueled renditions of '60s pop/rock hits "Spirit in the Sky" ("Is that Norman Greenbaum?" my mother asked me when the song started. "Used to be," I told her) and Percy Mayfield & the Impressions' "People Get Ready."

They sang a song folk/jam band artist Ben Harper wrote (and recorded) for them, "There Will Be a Light," and they performed their signature take of "Amazing Grace," sung to the tune of the Animals' "House of the Rising Sun." They ended their show with a fifteen-minute call-and-response version of "Free at Last," bringing the entire house to its feet...and Carter, too, as he walked out down the aisles amongst the audience (he had help, though).

Woo, buddy! Now, that was a concert; that was a show. If we'd had have to have left then, I would have been fine; fortunately, we still had one show to go. After a thirty-minute intermission, Mavis Staples and her band entered the stage. She introduced herself, said she was finally glad to be back home, joked about this being the first time she'd ever been to the...(deliberate pause on her part) Convention Center, and the band began playing "Eye on the Prize," a song from her fantastic 2007 album We'll Never Turn Back. After that one, she and her band launched into "For What It's Worth," the old Buffalo Springfield song (the one with "Stop children/What's that sound/Everyone look/What's goin' down" in the chorus) that the Staple Singers once recorded. Both songs were good, sung and performed well, but something seemed to be missing. The energy that the Blind Boys brought just wasn't there. Maybe it was the slower tempo of Staples' first two songs. Dunno. The house pepped up during Staples' third song, an uptempo funk-gospel throwdown of "Wade in the Water," and many of the crowd (all of whom--except for my wife and me--were over fifty) started singing along, started moving, started clapping and throwing their hands. After she finally had the crowd fully with her, Staples slowed it down, way down, and she had everyone's rapt attention. She performed "Waiting for My Child to Come Home," a tune written and (first) recorded in 1963 by the Miami-based gospel duo the Consolers (who were the top gospel-selling act of all time when they--Sullivan Pugh and his wife, Iola--were in their prime), a song I'd heard (at least) snippits of before, but not in, oh, about twenty years. In the Encylopedia of American Gospel Music, Sullivan Pugh stated that as the Consolers "traveled, people would ask if they had seen their children," and this inspired him to write this song. Rather than ineptly summarize the story, I'll just print the lyrics:

I was talking to a lady a few days ago,

And these are the words she said.

If you see my child somewhere as you travel here and there,

Tell him I am waiting for my child to come home.

Lord my child may be somewhere in some lonely jail,

Is there someone to pay his bail?

Lord my child may be somewhere lost in sick bed,

Is there someone to rub his aching head?

I am waiting and waiting for my child to come.

I am waiting and waiting for my child to come.

If you can't come home can you please send me a letter?

A letter would mean so much to me.

If I only knew which town my child is in,

I would be there on the early morning train,

And no matter what the crime,

Lord you know this child is mine,

Lord I am waiting for my child to come home.

With only a guitar accompaniment, Staples sang the song slowly, pausing in-between verses longer than on any other versions I've (since) heard of this song. She sang it as if she were the mother asking about her child, as if she were the one in pain. She'd sing a line, and then bend down, as if she were wretching and writhing in heartbreak and misery, and the guitar player would stretch a string, mirroring the emotion. Oh, but the ache and need and desperation she conveyed. The audience surely felt it, as sniffles were audible, and I noticed many of the audience wiping their eyes. I nearly did myself.

Staples next covered the Band's song "The Weight," which the Staple Singers famously covered in The Last Waltz. Staples let her male background vocalist take the verses, and doggone if he wasn't a ringer for Pops. Sounded just like him. She and her sister Yvonne--the other backup singer--then went to the back of the stage, sat down, drank some water, fanned themselves, and patted the sweat from their foreheads as the guitarist, bassist, and drummer worked up a ten-minute instrumental take on the old spiritual "Wayfaring Stranger." The musicians were tight and talented, but I can only take so much of jamming, and I was ready for Staples to start singing again.

She walked back to the mike, sang the Staple Singers' second biggest hit "Respect Yourself," and then she asked the crowd to sing to her. The band started playing "I'll Take You There," and Staples instructed the audience on when to sing. After a few rounds of this, she launched full force into her biggest hit (with her family's band), and she and the band played around with it for about ten minutes. She then walked the edge of the stage, clasped a few hands, and left. The band finished out the song, the lights came on, and people started filing out of the convention center. I wanted to go talk to the band, congratulate them on a job well done, but it was late, my family was ready to go, and I was worried about the sitter (because Georgia has been so fussy lately); so, we left.

Got home, and the sitter told us Georgia had been fine. Never fussed or cried once. Sigh of relief. Saw two great shows, the kids had been good, the kids were in bed, and it was time for me to do the same.

Something Cryptid This Way Comes

A few days ago, I read about a Texas school district's decision to allow their teachers to carry firearms in classroom in order to defend themselves against intruders. My wife and I began discussing this circumspect judgment when I saw the news item about the deputy from another Texas town capturing footage of el chupacabra:


...and then it hit me--the real reason the school district is allowing their teachers to carry firearms isn't so that they can protect themselves and their students from school shootings; it's so that they can protect themselves and their students from el chupacabra! In that one Texas town, there have been two sightings of el chupacabra two consecutive years, back to back, in a row! A woman from Cuero, Texas discovered el chupacabra last year, only to have her finding debunked as a mere coyote. What's interesting to note about the coyote classification is the scientists' statement that the beast's DNA is nearly identical to that of the coyote. Nearly. Meaning, not exact. Not scientific. In addition, the scientists could not explain the complete loss of hair.

One more item to ponder: the video footage above was shot in Dewitt (Hey, Grandpa, how you doin'? Thanks for those tomatoes you and Grandma left on top of my truck the other day) County. Guess where Dewitt's county seat is? No, Penny, it's not in the driver's side of my grandfather's RV (and no, Nicholas, we can't buy an RV this year); it's Cuero! My opinion on this matter: it's a cover-up, people. It's Area 51, Texas style.

Ooh, snap, just deduced something else. El chupacabra originated from Puerto Rico, the first documented sightings occuring in 1974 (though the first widespread pictures and reports began in 1995). Somehow or another, possibly by some tourist believing the creature was just too cute to leave
on the island and deciding to smuggle a couple of them back home, el chupacabra began attacking farm animals--goats, predominantly--in Mexico. The first documented American sighting began in 1996. What happened, then, between '74 and '96? Migration. From Mexico up to Cuero, Texas, the bloodsucking critters have traveled. Harrold, Texas--where sits the gun-toting Texas teachers--is only 450 miles north of Cuero, and I believe the school board knew that it was only a short matter of time before el chupacabra traveled up their way, and thereby enacted a pre-emptive strike: let's shoot 'em before they get us, and let's shoot 'em before the pesky media ever uncovers any evidence. Nothing to see here, m'am, 'cept my gun. Looks all nice and shiny, don't it? Wanna take a closer look? Here's the barrel!

By the Pricking of My Opposable Thumbs...

This upcoming week at school, my senior English students and I will be studying and discussing the Anglo-Saxon era of Great Britain (which is before it became Great Britain; previously, it was known as Not-Quite-Great-Yet-But-Still-Pretty-Good Britain), and in our lesson, we'll cover the changing mores and beliefs of English society, from the Celtic polytheism to the Roman invasion and subsequent establishment of Chrisitan monotheism, and how some of those Celtic (and Anglo-Saxon) paganistic beliefs and rites still survived (and some even became embedded and intertwined with Catholic rituals) despite the onset of civilization, which--over time--strips away any remaining bits of culture proven (or deemed) too impractical (or that runs counter to the beliefs of the invaders), so that society can run more efficiently (why have multiple gods when one will do), civilization can progress, and the ruling patriarchal party can continue to rule.

Eventually, science and technology start to benefit mankind, enabling its great thinkers to better explain the world in which we live in and--eventually (said Galileo)--whisk away the cobwebs of superstition, issuing forth a reality that can be observed, identified, and explained by functional methods predicated on pragmatism and empirical evidence rather than on supposition or foolish fancy, all hopefully leading to an advanced civilization that lives longer and fights less, more live and let live than live and let die.

Old notions die hard, though (just ask Bruce Willis). Last week, my wife alerted me to an article about the South Asian country of Bhutan (listed by the United Nations as one of the least developed nations in the world) and its elders' reluctance to let go of their old (some would say archaic) beliefs, even in the face of the impending advancement of their civilization. In that ancient Himalayan country, the Yeti is becoming increasingly rare. The younger generation have relegated him to the backwoods of folklore; to them, he's just a tall tale, a story to scare young children away from the woods.

Now that Bhutan is finally allowing industrialization and tourism to flourish (just a little bit, though), many of those woods are no longer there; therefore, there's very little forest for the kids to be afraid of. What will happen when the woods are pushed further and further away from the towns? What will happen to the Yeti? Will he disappear with the woods? Will civilization and industrialization and science triumph? Will the Abominable Snowman slink off to the North Pole with the other misfits,

never to be heard from again?

Unlikely. Just two weeks ago, three Georgian gentlemen discovered the body of Bigfoot. We as a nation anxiously await the autopsy. Once and for all, this scientific examination will prove the skeptics wrong. Or it won't. Once and for all, this scientific examination will prove these simplistic, uneducated hicks and hillbillies and rednecks wrong. Or it won't. People will believe (or disbelieve) what they want to believe.

No matter what secrets are or are not unearthed by the scalpel, belief in Bigfoot will continue, moreso now than it has in forty-one years, since the still-controversial (because as of yet not completely disproven) Roger Patterson footage of Bigfoot in the northern California forests from 1967.

This footage did more to authenticate cryptozoology in the minds of the general public than any legitimate finding (the platypus, the okapi, the giant squid, the fresh water seal, the white Orca, the coelacanth) ever did, and stories and movies (remember The Legend of Boggy Creek and its sequel?) and hoaxes populated the country like never before. Within the past five years alone, Bigfoot has been a star in three separate (and relatively successful) comic books: Proof, the Perhapanauts, and, of course, Bigfoot. Ironically, it's the advent and progression of technology that has made these legendary creatures more prominent now than ever before. It's definitely not as if they're anything new. Sure, some crytids such as the Jersey Devil, the West Virginian Mothman, the Dover Demon, the very recently discovered Montauk Monster, and el chupacabra (more about this critter in a later post) are contemporary developments, but other such beasts such as Raw-Headed Bloody Bones, Lickum, Thang, and the crockogator have been witnessed in America since before Charles Fort ever prompted study into the strange and supernatural. Older still are the Native American legends. The one's I'm familar with are Choctaw: the Bokpoli, the Nalusa Chitto (also known as the Nalusa Falaya), and the half-man/half-horse creature (I forget the Choctaw term for it) number just a few of many. Those are just the Choctaw creatures; the other Native American tribes all have theirs as well.

And I believe they always will. I think that the more and more techonologically advanced society becomes, the more exact the science becomes, the more interconnected (and thus smaller) the world becomes, and the more naked (where we see everything that's out there, where nothing is hidden anymore) civilization becomes, then the more mankind will innately create or propigate or cling to what little there is left of the unknown. We now have evolved (or progressed, take your pick) to where we not only want progress, but we expect it. We know society will move forward, and we push for it. We've developed the need to connect moreso than ever before, so we develop means of connection: the internet, the iPhone, the YouTube, the MySpace. We google, and we wiki, and we try to discover the hence undiscovered, to know the unknowable (to dream the impossible dream...whenever my high-school graduation song, "The Impossible Dream" from Man of La Mancha, starts sounding in my head, I know I've grown long-winded and pompous, and I must soon stop), and the more we know, the more we want to know. Why? We want mystery. We need it. We push for it. We develop it. We photoshop it. We invent it. All to stop the woods from receding any further than they already have.