by JULIET WATERS

Ah Bigfoot. It seems like only yesterday that everywhere we looked, there he wasn’t. Whether it was on The Six Million Dollar Man, or in the emerging genre of cheap, lame Amazing Mystery documentaries, people were forever puzzling over his massive footprints and glimpsing his huge furry bum as he scurried into the forest. Then, mysteriously, sometime in the ’80s, his mysterious disappearances just... well... disappeared.

Given he was always a creature more animal than human, expectations for Me Write Book: It Bigfoot Memoir weren’t high. Fortunately, Graham Roumieu’s brilliantly funny illustrations do much to fill in the inevitable gaps. It is, however, quite impressive that Bigfoot would have the self awareness to point out that “Bigfoot career been in hole lately,” even if there seems to be more than a tinge of self pity in statements like, “I famous for ability to not be see but don’t think I not notice you not notice.” It may be true “if Bigfoot give stuff away like Santa I be everybody hero.” It does not, however, entirely follow that “Santa is fat, pandering bastard.” This may not be as obvious to creatures as it is to us, but there are fundamental differences. Santa doesn’t stink. And he doesn’t chew people’s heads off.

Still, even if Santa has always had the greater ability to re-invent himself, my guess is his autobiography would not be half as entertaining. Seasoned practitioners of the mock autobiography may even have something to learn. I enjoyed Bret Easton Ellis’s Lunar Park but I got more genuine belly laughs from Me Write Book.

There are, it turns out, intriguing similarities between Easton Ellis, whose career as a brat-pack writer began its ascent just as Bigfoot disappeared for good. Their circles may indeed have intersected: “When career going good money no object. Throw crazy party for A-list friends every night of week. Morris the Cat, Andrew Dice Clay and Emilo [sic] Estevez. We rip it up like the care free, young god we was... Andy D. kill 3 hobo. He call judges mom awful things during trial. Jury think it fresh and funny and acquit him. Madness.” Then again, life of the alpha celebrity male never seems too original: “Bigfoot sometime get called rolling stone. Called irresponsible. Have bad debt. Trail of bad lady relationship. No can help. I a hunter gatherer... And maybe just a bit of an asshole.”

At the same time, there do seem to be more than a few historical discrepancies. “Chet [Baker] Bigfoot friend. He good with the ladies. Used to party with Chet 24/7 120%. We was the shit. I admit he dominant on in relationship. I fetch him drinks, wax Mini, sound edit home pornography, frost tip of Chet hair blonde. One day he get out of line though and say, ‘Dude, Chet like Han Solo and Bigfoot Chew bar... I wake up next day in ditch with Chet scalp in mouth. Seriously, I not Chewbacca. Dude.”

This said, Bigfoot’s life is one of surprising richness and variety. Sure, there is the inevitable foray into ’roids (“Destroy Ponderosa Restarant [sic]. Only stop when simultaneously liver fail and penis rot off into tub of cruton in salad bar), the stint in Japan (“Walk down street everybody whisper Bigfroot! Bigfroot!”) and the flirtation with New Age, resulting in an earlier book, The Outwardly Violent Book of Inner Peace. But who knew Bigfoot’s pivotal role in the creation of Sesame Street? Oscar only began living in a garbage can after Bigfoot broke his spine in a rage over losing the part of Snuffleufagus.

In the end, however, Bigfoot was probably better off away from the limelight and especially kids. “When young fan come up to Bigfoot and say ‘you inspire, want be just like you!’ it warm me heart. Then I reach into pocket, pull out fist size rock and smash they skull in. No want the competition. It a tough world, Junior.”

Me Write Book: It Bigfoot Memoir by Graham Roumieu,
Penguin, hc, 125 pp, $21