John Belushi Must Die

In 1982 commedian/actor/writer/musician John Belushi died from an overdose of heroin and cocaine. He was 33 and not even close to his peak of stardom. His death sent shock waves through America, which only had a handful of SNL episodes and four movies with which to remember him. Two decades later people are still asking "Why not Robin Williams?" Yet, one of the effects of his death was the casting of Bill Murray as Dr. Peter Venkman in the movie Ghostbusters-- probably the single greatest justification for the death of anyone, ever.

Ghostbusters has been making audiences laugh for more than twenty years. The catchy theme song, the T-shirt ready anti-ghost symbol, and hundreds of quotable one-liners have turned this film from box office smash, to cult classic, to a true piece of Americana. But an amazing piece of Hollywood lore is that the role of Peter Venkman, the main character of the film, was written for John Belushi. True, as Dan Aykroyd conceived the role, Belushi and not Murray was intended for the wise ass, dead pan hero.

But fate, or perhaps someone else, had other plans. On March 5th, 1982 Belushi, Robin Williams, and Robert Deniro had a little party time. Williams and Deniro would leave, but Belushi would be found dead from a lethal does of H and coke.

One has to wonder (and many probably have) what would have happened had Belushi lived. What would the world be like with a Ghostbusters starring John Belushi. Perhaps Robin Williams hogs all of the speedballs, Belushi lives, and the world is free of Mrs. Doubtfire, Jumanji, RV, Patch Adams, etc.. Yet, I think the world would be a sorrier place. As good as Belushi was, Peter Venkman was a role Murray was born to play. Murray's star was rising on its own with the success of Stripes and Caddyshack. But his performance in GB not only helped fashion one of the great modern American comedies, it made possible a body of work that has continually grown impressive.

Belushi had to die.

Would I, if I had the power now, bring him back to life? Just to be clear, I'm talking about a Jesus-like supernatural power to raise a human being from the grave and restore him to perfect health. But at a price? The price to bring Belushi back, to exercise this biblical power, and to restore a family a lot son and brother-- he must star in Ghostbusters. Murray is out. Think on this and its implications. A classic possibly ruined. Bill Murray never catches on and pursues a golf career. We lose a treasure trove of great performances. Two years later Belushi is burned to death smoking crack.

No, I would not bring Belushi back. He stays dead, his family still mourns, but the world rejoices. And I think God would back me up on this one.

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Dr. Heitnutts Lends Me a Finger

Thursday my company went on a 25 mile foot march. It was long. It was exhausting. It was painful. I might not have made it had it not been for Dr. Heitnutts. We were around mile 20. The blisters on my heels had opened up well before then and the pain had been deadening since then. However, my energy was running low. My legs, which up to that point had been fine, were starting to ache. My pace was slowing. I had not eaten since the afternoon before, and I was sweating water quicker than I could drink it. Many others were in the same situation. I knew that I could walk past the pain. The more I walked, the more it would just be ground away. But I was becoming sluggish. My energy was running very low and all I could think about was how tired I was. I had been up front the entire way but I had been gradually falling back. I was looking down most of the way. Our trail was covered with fist sized rocks and it was impossible to look straight ahead without stumbling or worse. After an hour of staring at the ground, putting one foot in front of the other, I had to look up. The background in my peripheral vision appeared to be moving forward, while the ground in front of me appeared to be going back. I felt like if I kept staring at the ground I would vomit or pass out. When I looked up, beside me was Dr. Heitnutts was beside me. He looked pale and worn. But his eyes were bright, and he seemed to be gaining strength with each step. I marveled at his new energy. Then I noticed the blood caked around his lips. He was chewing on something, and with each bite took a step equal to two of mine. He had food.

"Don't suppose you have any more?" I asked. I knew before I asked. He would not have more. More would be one more than what he would keep for himself, and such a thing could never exist. If he had 1,000 M&Ms, that would be the exact number he would have to have. If he found an extra on the floor, smashed and tangled with hair, then he'd need 1,001. But to my surprise he offered me his hand and said "Sure."

He curled his hand in a fist with just the pinky finger sticking out. He had been chewing on the ring finger. All that was left was a little nub that had been clotted by the dust kicked up by our march. I was speechless. I could not believe his compassion and generosity. I ate his little finger quickly. I couldn't control it. But I tried to savour it and revere it. It reminded me of eating chicken feet in China. It was mostly skin and bone with very little meat. But the act itself seemed to bolster me, and infuse me with some spiritual nutrition that would see me through the rest of the way. His finger nail got stuck between my teeth, but even that helped me. Worrying at it with my tongue kept my mind off the pain and the trail, and before I knew it were there. Finished.

So I take back some of the harsh things I've said about Dr. Heitnutts. He might not give you any fucking M&Ms, but he's still got 8 fingers to lend.

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Lebensraum

Many, many years ago I wrote a poem called "lebensraum" about a cockroach infestation I had in my apartment. I was Chamberlain. At the time, I had a sort of appeasement attitude toward the roachs. As long as they stayed away from me and out of sight I would leave them alone. But slowly their presence grew. I was seeing more brown skittering as I turned on the lights. I was finding more egg sacks. At night I could hear a billion legs marcing from the door jams to the bathroom sink. Room by room they advanced. They stood on the wall and said "this is my Led Zeppelin poster!" Then "this is my couch!" And "This is my stereo!"

One day I was cooking something in the microwave. Probably left over pizza a friend gave me, as I didn't have much money to waste on things like food. As I put the cook time into the microwave I noticed that the time didn't flash on the LED. At first I assumed that I "forgot" to pay the electric bill, or that that cheap piece of crap microwave had gone out. But then I saw stuck between the LED and the windowpane an inch long body, legs and twitching antenna. It was at this moment that I conceded my mistake. These things could not be reasoned with, and any gesture of good will I had made was just an opening large enough for them to scuttle through. I didn't stay in that apartment much longer. The battle had been lost and I fled.

Now I am faced with what I had thought to be a similar situation. The room I live in now has no screen on the window and there are no air conditioners in the building. The sun doesn't ever really go down and because of the latitude, it pretty much always shines on my side of the building. So the window has to stay up. And I've been slowly invaded. This time by bees.

When I was a child in elementary school my friends and I used to catch bees by their wings. We would lie down on the ground and wait for one to land on one of the little flowers the grew all over the recess grounds. Once the bee landed and began it's ritual of cross-pollination and gathering nectar, it would become calm. It's wings would stop buzzing, and so dedicated to its work, it would be oblivious to all that was around it but that flower. Then we would reach over. Slowly and carefully we would take hold of the bee by its wings and pull it away from the flower. We did this countless times, grabbing bees then shoving them in sandwich bags, jars, or whatever. I don't remember anything cruel being done to these bees, aside from the snatching. I think we just liked displaying our courage to the other kids and daring them to best it.

Then one day, as I snagged another, it somehow bent around and stung me on my middle finger. How it did so was just as much of a mystery to me as why none of them had ever done so before. But sure enough it did. And then, as I had heard it would do but had never witnessed, it fell lifeless to the grass and flowers.

My finger swelled to three times its normal size. I've never really known if this was an allergic reaction. But my bee-catching days ended there. I didn't want to risk a confirmation, and letting that bee fall for nothing seemed such a waste.

But now they come in my room. At first, I was giving them their space. I figured they would find nothing of interest and then be gone. But they kept coming. I thought of the cockroaches and my possible allergy and I knew I couldn't just let them come in here. I didn't know if they were building some hive and one morning I would wake up covered in buzzing honey. Or maybe not wake up at all-- dead from anaphylactic shock after accidentally rolling on one in my sleep. So I bought a can of Raid for flying insects. Every time one flies in they get a shot. Some zip right out of the window. Others crash to the floor and writhe around until I put them out of their misery. But they keep coming.

I've started watching them a little more closely. They don't seem to fly to any one particular spot. Some just sit on the wall. A few have been trapped in the light above. A few have made it outside after being sprayed. I expected them to warn the others "the Outdoor Fresh Scent is death!" But they still come. Nor have they come in huge numbers to avenge their fallen. I've murdered dozens of them now. But they still come. Their only provocation is their presence. So it has me wondering if I am the one being appeased. I've only lived in this room a few months. Maybe this is where they have been going every summer after the thaw. Am I the terrible force that brings only genocide but which they hope is somehow capable of reason? Are they giving me my lebensraum?

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The Secret Grace

Tomorrow is the 100th birthday of John Wayne. Walmart is calling it an anniversary on their dvd displays, which I like. Birthdays are so "me, me, me". An anniversary suggests that the event is a communal one. It is an event that we all share and celebrate. I think from now on I will stop having birthdays. Instead, each year I will have an anniversay of the glorious day that I graced the world with my presence. That way, it's not just about me. It's really the worlds day. It's a day you can celebrate, too.

So in the current issue of Time (May 28, 2007) they have a little blurb about three of the Duke's movies. One in particular struck me as idiotic, and just shows how little Time thinks of John Wayne Anniversary Day. The caption they have for The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance concludes with "This is pure Duke, showing a secret grace only the audience could see." Gee, why not say "This is pure Duke, showing a secret grace only people with eyes could see." Or "This is pure Duke, showing a secret grace only people watching this movie could see. Everyone else would see trees, cars, or whatever else they might be looking at at that particular time not The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance". Maybe the writer meant "This is pure Duke, showing a secret grace only paying ticket holders could see." And if you somhow saw The Secret Grace of the Duke outside a movie theater, some Hollywood goon would break your kneecaps and steal whatever cash you had on you.

I am just trying to imagine a secret grace that anyone besides the audience could see. I picture planes crashing, cars exploding, and mayhem errupting everywhere anytime someone turns on The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Just as American Airlines flight 2424 begins it's acent from LAX, John Smith puts The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance into his portable dvd player, thus causing The Secret Grace of The Duke Effect. Suddenly, a rough and tough Cowboy miracullously appears in the cockpit sending the pilots into a panic and the airplane straight into the ocean.

So on John Wayne Anniversary Day let us all be thankful that this secret grace can only be seen by those watching the Duke's films. For that, I recommend True Grit, Rooster Cogburn, and The Shootist. Rooster Cogburn also stars the Secret Grace of Katherine Hepburn. The Shootist also stars the Secret Grace of Jimmy Stewart. Opie is in it, too.

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Donnelly Dome: Yeti Attack Part II

... Continued from Donnelly Dome: Yeti Attack Part I

Donnelly Dome is a small hill set in a river valley near Delta Junction. Snow-capped mountains loom in the distance, and all around new green struggles up through the ashy remains of Alaskan fire seasons. When the fires burn and smoke fills the valley it looks like someone paved the woods with quick-crete and sod.

But the fires are still a ways off. The woods are thawing out of hibernation, and though the mountains still have their frosty crowns, down below it is muddy. Crystal lakes that mirror everything serve as watering holes for the local denizens. Evidence of these creatures habitation of the area litter the valley, no longer hidden by winters cover.

My team easily identifies the droppings of buffalo, moose, rabbit, wolf, black bear, and a single pile of brown bear. Yet one sample eludes classification. Twenty meters from the crystal pond is a giant boulder, possibly a chip once cleaved from a mountain by glaciers thousands of years ago. Atop the rock are the scattered remains of various animals. Here and there we pick out gnawed pieces of rabbit, fox and lynx. We've found someones kitchen, apparently. Nearby, Turtle discovers two smaller rocks which appear to be its latrine. The two rocks together are about a quarter of the size of the larger, and between them is a space no more than half a meter. It is in that space we find the hairy, unidentified scat.

Too be continued...

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Donnelly Dome: Yeti Attack Part I

When I tell people I live in Alaska I'm often asked about its beauty and its weather. I would say that Alaska has more beautiful days than any place I've ever been. Alaska has so many perfect days of windless and dry weather, temperatures in the mid-sixties, and clear blue skies but for a few white, fluffy clouds. That being said, the majority of the time, living in Alaska is a lot like being trapped in a frozen turkey with a bag of giblets as the only company. So it was with much anticipation that myself and several colleagues were to go to the field as the april thaw was in full swing.

My giblets for this trip were Turtle and Dr. Heitnutts. Turtle has many times proven himself to be an excellent companion. He is a first rate flunky, trouble-maker and instigator. His boyish charm and rascally looks have kept him in trouble and the rest of us entertained. But for the mangey stubble on his cheeks and appettite for south american transvestites, one could not place his home at the heart of meth country.

Dr. Heitnutts is a man of many faults, the least of which are his love for the worst chili to ever come out of Ohio, and his stingieness with M&Ms from a one pound bag. Despite the title of doctor he knows absolutely nothing about anything. I bring him along in the hopes that one day I might see him eaten by a bear.

... continued in Donnelly Dome: Yeti Attack Part II

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