Salon—my own editorial home, folks—has gone there. They have done it. They—we?—have published on the topic that is on all of our minds, plaguing all of our quiet moments, haunting our sleep, undermining our faith in science, in authority, in reason itself. Why will no one tell the truth about the yeti?
I know that my half-man cousin liveth
Well, here we are. Chalk it up to my influence at the magazine, and my longstanding interest in the topic, guys. When I first became aware of this article, tonight, at the same time as the rest of the general public, I thought to myself, I made this happen. I willed it. That’s why it appeared. In a sense, articles about the yeti are similar to the yeti itself: they exist because we want them to so very badly.
Here it is. Marvel at it. Understand that the yeti is as real as the Himalayas, Appalachians, Sierras, and suburbs it calls home, as real as dead Paul McCartney, as real as the narwhal (actually, more real; everybody knows the narwhal is a hoax). As real as we want it to be.
