By Keith May
(Originally appeared in OC Weekly)
“Does it take everyone this long to get into a Bigfoot costume before robbing a bank?,” my friend Jeff Beals joked as he prepared to surprise Big Gulpers at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Placentia and Nineteenth. But we weren’t there to rob the joint, Jeff was simply going to pose at the pay-phone and with day laborers tossing quarters. And ride a nearby kiddie-ride for flamboyant effect before heading to a few other locations before calling it a night. “I’ve been psyching myself up all day,” Jeff admitted. But when we walked into an indoor volleyball game, all eyes turned to the man in fur and we sheepishly walked back out. The limits of our bravery had been reached.
“What’s my motivation,?” Jeff often asked while trying to get into character. “You’re a Costa Mesa Bigfoot,” I’d respond.
And what’s my motivation for staging these Bigfoot sightings, you ask? Honestly, I have yet to find a reasonable answer. As a photojournalist, I do prefer working on things in the larger context of a series. Like riding a motorcycle across the country in search of Americana. Like traveling through California in search of working dogs. Like exploring the Mississippi Delta in search of Robert Johnson. Like exploring coastal beachtowns on a vintage dirtbike. And apparently, like staging Bigfoot sightings in Orange County.
I wouldn’t consider myself a Bigfoot-fanatic, but I was influenced by the broadcast of Leonard Nimoy’s “In Search of…” television series, which featured the big ape in 1977. For a puny kid who’s favorite book was Where The Wild Things Are and who related most to outcasts like Casper and Ziggy, the idea of this ultimate outsider hiding from his slightly evolved cousin stirred deep sympathy. I wanted to believe Native Americans still existed, too.
“Some anthropologists believe that the creature could have come to the Northwestern United States along with the Indians, across a land bridge that once connected Siberia to Alaska,” Nimoy offered. “Many people feel they must kill it to prove it exists,” he warned. “Bigfoot may well be waiting for some sign that we are ready,” he concluded.
Thirty years later, I was riding a Yamaha FJR1300 through Redwood National Forest headed for California’s Lost Coast. My only companion, a ukulele bungeed onto the duffle-bag which served as a backrest. Leaning in to the endless, sweeping curves on a beautiful October afternoon, I entertained myself with notions of Bigfoot hiding among the forest surrounding me and whimsical rhymes began to flow. By the time I checked in to a cozy motel in Ferndale, “Ballad of Bigfoot” was complete. The ukulele came off the bike and a melody soon followed. In a Minor Key, of course.
On the ride back home, ideas for a Blair Witch-style video for the ballad came to mind. Possibly finding someone to dance around in the Bigfoot costume while I performed the song at open-mics as “Skeeter Jackson.” But when I finally got around to ordering a Bigfoot costume, I posted the following request on my Facebook instead…
"Who wants to help stage Bigfoot sightings by wearing a Bigfoot costume and when are you available to do so? Kamikazi-style. Quick and painless. There and gone. Thanks in advance for your cooperation."
Many are thrilled to wear the costume but some flatly decline. “When was the last time you washed that thing?” One friend commented. Mention the idea to friends (or strangers) and an avalanche of ideas follow. “Surfing!” “Getting a haircut!” “Getting (or giving) a massage!” “Having sex!” “ Walking a dog!” “Playing drums!” “Shopping at Wal-Mart!” “Driving a school bus!”
What have I begun?
