| I never believed that those Georgia yahoos had found a Bigfoot because, deep down, I know they don’t exist. Within that rational, scientific abyss that sits in my mind like a black hole, sweeping everything into it and sucking all the atavistic joy out of weird, out-of-the-ordinary experiences, sits a critic who is cackling maniacally because I wanted to believe.
I really want a Bigfoot to be found. I want to have incontrovertible evidence of ghosts. I want Champ or Nessie to wash up on shore, aliens to land in Times Square and chupacabras to be displayed in zoos. I’d like telepathy to be scientifically verifiable, John Edwards to really talk to the dead and the Virgin Mary to appear on the Today Show.
This sad, emotional part of me curls into a little ball every time a hoax is revealed because it seems just a little more magic disappears from everyday life.