Blah Blah Blog

This weekend I’ll be speaking at the Beyond Reality event at the Mt. Washington Hotel. I’m heading up early Friday morning to hike Mt. Washington (the highest peak east of the Mississippi) for the third time in my life. I haven’t made the climb in four years, but I’m so ready to rock that mountain. However, if my mind is more willing than my body, and I die on the mountain, I promise to come back and haunt the hell out of the conference — you’ll find my ghost near the bar. If I do survive, I’ll take pictures from the top.

Recently Matthew Whitton and Rick Dyer from Georgia have hijacked and held the headlines with their claim of a 500-pound, 7-foot 7-inch Bigfoot body in a freezer at an undisclosed location — almost to the point where Olympic swimmer, Michael Phelps was going to have to swim in a Bigfoot costume to turn the world’s attention back to where it belongs. When I first saw the photo, I admit, I said, “Wow! What if?” I’d love to believe that these two guys did in fact stumble upon this elusive creature. The photo made me want to believe it even more. There have been many Bigfoot claims in the past. Eyewitness accounts, some photos, and the most famous case involving the Patterson film from 1967 showing an ape-like creature lurking through the woods — but that was just film. Many have argued the authenticity of that film, both sides have made good points. But Whitton and Dyer claim to have a body — and here’s the picture to prove it! It’s been almost a week since the photo and story have been released, and so far we have learned very little — and therein lies the problem. I can understand keeping this amazing find in an undisclosed location. I can even understand hiring a publicist to manage the dissemination of information, however, something smells fishy here. Why do we only have one or two grainy photos of this body? And now there’s Tom Biscardi, the “Real Bigfoot Hunter” involved with the case. If he is a real researcher, he should have been able to better advise Whitton and Dyer. Step one: bring in a professional photographer to take about 1000 high-resolution images. Every moment is precious after the death of any creature. Decay begins in minutes, and if we’re going to learn something, time is of the essence. Next, take hours of high-resolution video of the creature from every angle. Allow the photos and videos to be viewed by both the media and scientific community immediately. Next, call one or two media outlets and show them what you have. Allow an independent (and hopefully impartial) eye to review your finding and present it for you — then go hide the body for safety. If Whitton and Dyer had taken these steps from the start, they would have a long line of legitimate scientists and researchers outside of their door who had seen the high-resolution images volunteering to study the creature and reach a conclusion. If (and that’s a big “if”) Whitton and Dyer do indeed have a body, they are undermining their own claim with the way the information is being released. Whitton, Dyer, and now Biscardi have done a wonderful job at plugging their Internet radio show and Web sites, but not in gaining credibility. From wearing baseball caps at their press conference to drawing out the release of information, each day that goes by makes this discovery less important and more likely to be a hoax. I wouldn’t be surprised if we soon hear an announcement from this trio that the Bigfoot body has somehow disappeared or been stolen. There are already cries of, “Put up or shut up,” echoing from the public, which leaves only three options: 1. Produce the body; 2. Admit the fraud; 3. “Lose” the “body.”

Last week USA Today ran an article called “10 great haunts for seekers of the paranormal.” The reporter interviewed me and asked me to pick out the locations. My objective was to pick sites across the United States (’cause the paper is called “USA” Today), and choose diverse paranormal phenomena found in those locations (ghosts, Bigfoot, UFOs, crop circles, etc.). I made a goof in my segment on Roswell, New Mexico. I mentioned in the original interview that that Roswell was known for an alleged UFO crash that took place there in July of 1947. I also mentioned that the famed “Area 51” was nearby Roswell. It’s not. The top-secret base is actually located several hundred miles away near Groom Lake in southern Nevada. My bad. I’m new to UFOs and obviously still have plenty more to learn. Thanks to all those alert readers who called me out on this fact. It’s nice to have a job where I have so much “backup.” -Jeff

Each day I make myself check lists of items I need to accomplish before I retire for the evening. Some items are easy, like: “Email John back about his Web site.” Other tasks are complex, for example, “Write new treatment for show idea.” I see on today’s list that I wrote, “Blog.” Check. Glad that’s done.

Most people would agree that humans are the top of the food chain here on Earth. Though there can be much debate as to where all the other animals, critters, and creatures who share our planet sit in terms of order, there can be no argument as to who holds the bottom rung: adolescent and teenage boys. I know this for a fact because I have the perspective of having been one of these bottom-dwellers, and the experience of evolving up a couple of rungs on the ladder since then. In speaking with other men around my age I’ve learned that some of the stupid things I did as a kid, those guys also did even though we grew up in different parts of the country. For example, any male I’ve ever met who lived in the vicinity of an electric fence has at one time or another touched said fence on a dare. I can’t explain what force in the universe compels boys to touch the exposed metal wire when we know we’re going to receive a somewhat painful jolt of electricity (and yes, Smartypants, I knew it was on because I watched two other guys grab the fence just before I did), but we do it. We have to. We have no choice. But in all my laughter-filled discussions about male adolescent stupidity, I have found only a select few men who knew the painful joys of a game called Red Butt. I did a quick Google search and saw that there are variations on the rules of Red Butt, and given that there’s no formal governing body that oversees the… uhh… sport, I’ll give the rules as we played them in Newtown, Connecticut back in the mid-1980s. Equipment: 1 large brick wall. 1 tennis ball 1 group of adolescent/teenage boys Tighty-whitey underwear (wearing boxer shorts could have devastating consequences) 2 much free time First, someone has to be “it.” A bummer, I know, but dems the rules. We would line up in a straight line facing the wall about 50 feet away. On “go,” we all sprinted toward the wall. The last to touch, was it. The “it” person then bent over directly in front of the brick wall with his butt facing the line of boys. The biggest/meanest kid would then take the tennis ball and everyone would line up at the 50-foot mark. The objective was to nail the bent-over kid in the ass with the tennis ball. If the thrower was successful in connecting with the buttocks of the “it” boy, there was no need for anyone to run. The “it” boy stayed it, and the ball was handed back to the same thrower to try again. If, however, the thrower missed the butt, it’s a free ball. If the bent-over kid gets to the free ball first, then the thrower is now “it” and has to bend over. If a different kid scrambles to the loose ball first, then the “it” boy remains it, and the kid who picked up the ball gets to throw next. This continues until someone runs home crying that he’s been “it” for too long and won’t be able to sit for a week, or until recess is over. Having been “it” more than once, I can promise that this game is aptly named. I recognize that Red Butt gives an awful lot of ammunition to people who support the creationism theory. I mean, if Darwin is correct, how the hell did so many men survive playing Red Butt (and those hits that connected just below the buttocks and between the legs) and then eventually procreate? The world may never know. Anyone up for a game? I have a tennis ball.

In my life I’ve had the opportunity to travel a pretty good distance from home. I’ve seen other countries, I’ve been all over the United States, and I’ve explored my own back yard. One thing I’ve discovered for certain is that we live on a very weird planet. To truly capture the odd folktales, ghostly legends, UFO sightings, and understand the cryptids lurking in a given area, you need to be local for a good deal of time. I was born in Massachusetts. I’ve lived in a few other states, but I came back. I know the locals and the locales. If I don’t know the history or the witnesses, I know who to ask. I spent most of last year exploring a bizarre place called Massachusetts. In my research I learned that life here in the Bay State was perfectly normal… right up until about 10,000 years ago. And then things started to get weird. Massachusetts has more than its share of ghosts; I knew that years ago. We’re old New England, we embrace our history, and we’re more apt to talk about our ghosts than some other parts of the country. But we also have our monsters: Pukwudgies, Bigfoot, the Dover Demon, Big Hairy, and the Thunderbird just to name a few. We have Salem — arguably the world capital of all things witchy. We have Cape Cod, full of sea tales, giant serpents, and Wampanoag creation legends. Every corner of the state has something unusual to share. Sometimes you just need to scratch the surface a bit. This was the most fun I’ve had writing a book. I crawled through caves, I trekked through swamps looking for cryptids, and I pored through history books discovering the oddities our forefathers believed in. In the past, I had the chance to contribute to other books in this series including Weird U.S. and Weird Hauntings, but this was my first opportunity to mostly take the reins on my own “weird” book. With the help of some invaluable contributors like Daniel Boudillion, Chris Balzano, and of course, Mark and Mark, Weird Massachusetts came together like a dream. I hope you’ll pick up a copy and enjoy the very weird Bay State! -Jeff

The phrase “insult to injury” is a writing cliché. But there are circumstances, times, and events where nothing but a cliché will do. It’s in these circumstances that we must forgive the writer for the use of tired phrases. This past weekend I had the opportunity to go to Volcano, California, to speak at the Ghost Rush Conference. During some down time at the event, I took a walk around town — a town with a population of 101. So when I say I took a walk around town I’m being quite literal. There’s a wonderful wooden structure in the village that begs further investigation once you get a glimpse of the building. It’s old, has a tin roof, plank siding, and no windows. I learned from one of the locals (and the plaque on the front), that this was Volcano’s first jail. It was built in 1871. Two men guilty of crimes were sentenced to construct the jail with two-by-twelve timbers on the outer and inner walls with boiler plate sandwiched in between. Once the construction was complete, the two carpenter criminals were told to get inside and get comfortable, because they still had time to serve. Yeah… insult to injury.

Dammit… just when you think you’re healthy, and everything is going along just fine… you get turned into a zombie.  Thanks to Brett of Bhold Designs for bringing out my good side. You can also check this sick puppy out on MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/bholdbrigade

Southwest Airlines. Their motto and enchanting ding tone are becoming as familiar as McDonald’s golden arches, as Budweiser’s Clydesdales, or as Nike’s swish logo. I discovered yesterday that their slogan is more literal than I ever would have guessed. Thanks to Southwest, in the span of a 15-hour period, I saw two oceans, Canada, the Great Lakes, the Great Plaines, the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, the Rocky Mountains, the Hotel Del Coronado, the painted dessert, and Mexico. It’s a funny story, really. My flight left Providence, Rhode Island, at 6:40 in the morning bound for Tucson, Arizona, with a layover in Chicago’s wind and wild weather. The flight took us to the edge of the Canadian border, over the great lakes, and down to Chi Town. The plane got in okay, but when I landed I saw that my connecting flight to Tucson was cancelled. In fact, any flight scheduled after 10:30 AM was cancelled. Oy. Now what? “We can send you to Las Vegas where you can try and get on standby for one of the three flights heading to Tucson,” the Southwest agent said. I knew staying in Chicago meant that I could be there for days depending on when the impending snow storm was going to let up. Okay. Las Vegas. Big buffets. Gambling. I could get stuck there. Our Sin City-bound plane was one of the very last flights to leave Chicago before the storm. They flew a southern route, so we got a great look at the Grand Canyon, snow rimmed, painted, amazing. As the plane neared touchdown I saw the famous Las Vegas strip. The Bellagio, the MGM Grand, and the Excalibur all beckoned from a distance. “All the flights to Tucson are completely booked,” the Southwest agent told me in Las Vegas. “But I can get you over to San Diego where you can catch a flight back to Tucson… the flight leaves in 40 minutes.” Okay, San Diego… nice weather. Good Mexican food. I could get stuck there. The flight was fast, and there was Mexico, Southern California, and the Pacific Ocean. Nice. “Yes, we can get you on the next flight to Tucson. It leaves in an hour.” Woo hoo! Tucson. I could get stuck there. At 5:30 PM the plane touched down at my final destination. At baggage claim I made another discovery. Not only was I free to move about the country, but so was my luggage. While I was checking out various oceans and national points of interest, my bag thought it would be fun to take some different flights, to see some other cities. So I hit the “Gas City” truck stop off of I-10 and picked up a “Gas City” t-shirt (so I could change clothes), and some toiletry basics. That night I’d be roughing it, I guess. Southwest called me the morning to let me know that my bag had indeed finally arrived. I asked the company representative (and my bag) where they had gone, neither said a word. However I saw lipstick stains on my luggage and it smelled like booze. So wherever it went, it must have had a good time. Between my bag and myself, we freely moved about the country, all in a single exhausting day.

Since the last football game of the regular season, the media has been running with a David (whichever team the Patriots are playing) versus Goliath (the Patriots) motif. Each week, Goliath has prevailed. The Patriots are now the first team to ever go 18 and 0, and they are one win away from a perfect, undefeated season — something that has only happened once before (back when you could only win 17 games in an entire season) in the National Football League. Of course, this Patriots team also broke a slew of records along the way: most points scored by a team in a single season, most touchdown passes thrown by a quarterback (Tom Brady), most touchdown receptions by a single receiver (Randy Moss), and most consecutive regular season wins (dating back to the 2006 season). This is the greatest team to ever play the game. That’s not opinion, that’s the numbers. No other team has won this many games in a row, or put up this many points. And here’s the hardest fact to accept: if the Patriots lose the Super Bowl, all of these accomplishments just become a footnote in NFL history. If they win, then the ’07 Patriots will be talked about for decades to come (just as the ’72 Miami Dolphins have been talked about for 35 years — something that will change if the Patriots win in two weeks). No matter what happens in the Super Bowl, the Patriots are destined to become an adjective. For you non-writing types, here’s a reminder: an adjective is a word that modifies a noun. It can enhance, qualify, specify, or diminish the noun. For example: That is a fat man. In this example, “fat” is the adjective used to describe the man. If the New England Patriots win the Super Bowl, their name will become an adjective synonymous with greatness, dominance, and perfection. As in: In Patriots-like fashion, Bertha Teidlebaum’s baking outshined all the others in the church bake-off. Or: The Red Sox looked Patriots-esque in last night’s game when they beat the New York Yankees 18 to 2. Shoot, even a modified version of the team name may take on a whole new meaning. Imagine the coach of the Indianapolis Colts trying to get his team fired up for the first game of next season by saying, “Now let’s get out there and be Patriotic!” (Suitable to, or characteristic of, the Patriots.) Every overly-dominant football team over the next decade or so will be described with the word “Patriots” in some way. Then there’s the flip-side. It’s almost too horrible to think about, but the reality is this: if the Patriots lose to the New York Giants in the Super Bowl, “Patriots” will come to describe something that is hands-down better than all of its competitors, but comes undone the one time it really counts. A horrible adjective indeed. Imagine a stockbroker saying something like, “I put in the order for 10,000 shares of GE just an hour before the stock price tripled on some great market news. But I totally pulled a Patriots and forgot to confirm the order so it never went through.” Any football team that blows a big lead will do so in Patriots-like fashion; Patriotism will come to mean something terrible; and any number one seed in any future playoff game will have to sit through pre-game speeches from coaches who warn them not to be Patriotic. Get it done. The Patriots are the better team. All the numbers prove it. But any sport fan knows that on any given game day, things can go wrong. The Patriots won’t make the mistake of under preparing for this game, they’re too well coached and disciplined for that. But on any given Sunday things can and do go wrong. Even David slew Goliath once. The Patriots are bound for immortality on February third. That’s already determined. Whether it’s fame or infamy now rests in their own extremely capable hands. Go Goliath! And for God’s sakes watch out for rocks.