"Roots," Boots, and Big Galoots

No matter how bad it gets for the tall guy, things certainly could be worse. Maybe we provoke curious stares on the subway and startled screams in dark alleys, but there's one thing that we can count on for reassurance: it'll cool down considerably once we're dead.

This was far from the case in the past.

Just a few short years ago, a tall man's calendar wasn't cleared by something as trivial as dying. Those Tall Man Fans who stared openmouthed as we blithely wandered Main Street were more than happy to fork over their hard-earned cash to see our corpses. Death, in fact, made the crowds larger. Now that we were preserved, we couldn't escape. We couldn't protest. We couldn't bitch-slap some sense into their peabrained heads.

While the modern-day giant can look forward to an eternity of peace under a luxuriant carpet of grass, his predecessors were busier than Liza Minnelli. They were mummified whole or their skeletons were boiled clean, and they were strapped to the cabooses of circus trains or stapled to the wall of libraries. Maybe lying motionless at Gentle Breezes Family Cemetery doesn't strike you as a great way to spend a Saturday, but it beats the hell out of being pinned spreadeagle next to the skeleton of a two-headed chipmunk, and an endless line of tourists muttering, "Whoa! That dude was freakin' tall!"

Inspired by "Roots," "The Immigrants," and "Gangs of New York," I decided to go in search of my own heritage: those brave men who in their own time were also flamingos in a world of sparrows. While the average person researching their family history will trek to their country of origin and explore ancient homes and graveyards, our quest leads to freak shows and the dusty backrooms of obscure museums. Over the next few days I'll write a bit about some giants I discovered, and where you can pay your respects.