I will never forget being eight years old, on a long road trip across the desert from Texas to Arizona, seeing billboard signs for “The Thing?”
After every mile passed, the signs became more frequent – we were 100 miles away, then 75 and then 50. With each billboard, my curiosity grew; so too did the pleas to my parents for us to make a detour and see this thing that was obviously not to be missed. Finally, they relented and we exited off the highway. As we approached the obvious tourist trap, there were even more signs telling us how much this excursion would cost and where we needed to deposit our money before entering to see The Thing.
I remember hiding behind my mother and holding my father’s hand while we followed yellow painted footprints, looking at random old crap like animal skeletons and old vehicles. Being eight, museums did not hold my interest. The only thing on my mind was to see what The Thing could possibly be. This mystery had to be answered. The suspense was killing me. And then, there it was, looming before us in a concrete coffin. The Thing was a mummified corpse. I recoiled in both horror and disappointment. I had been hoping to see Bigfoot or a Chupacabra, or heck, even a jackalope – some mythical creature that had been found and transported into this desert mirage. This is how I imagine Phineas Taylor Barnum’s public felt when he hoaxed them time and time again. Read More…