On The 27th Anniversary of John Belushi’s Death

Nothing changes all at once. HydroxyCut would love to create the perception that overnight evolution is not only possible, but as simple as swallowing a pill with a Diet Coke and a side of Burger King onion rings. Progress is aptly named because it isn’t even close to instant. But there are seminal moments that act as a catalyst, something that gets you over the hump and towards the change you initially sought. The Battle of Stalingrad wasn’t the last of World War II, but it was undoubtedly the catalyst for allied victory. The Berlin Wall fell years before communism in Moscow did. GM didn’t close its doors and beg congress for money immediately after releasing the Lego-inspired Pontiac Aztek. But looking back on those moments, you can see their impact; their undeniable role as a massive turning point in history.

That’s the way we look back on John Belushi.

One could argue that it could have been anyone. The late fifties and sixties marked a yield of the old-fashioned artistic community to a new, youthful collection of upstarts. The Carlins and Pryors and Bruces of the world were already starting to kick down the barriers of obscenity and truth. The days of Setup-Punchline were on the way out.

Belushi slammed the door.

A lot of people were doing improv, and his class at Second City was loaded with talents, including Bill Murray and Gilda Radner. But Belushi didn’t operate by the same playbook. He was totally fearless, a hurricane of stream-of-consciousness that would make James Joyce blush. While so many of his predecessors and contemporaries acted like an exhibit on stage, Belushi never treated comedy as a passive action. He attacked the stage with a fury that carried over to television and later film. He’s become a type, with millions of copycats and a number of disciples who made their careers out of being Belushi-like. But the brilliance of Belushi was that he was the only one who could do what he did; no one else could be the Samurai or Bluto or Joliet Jake. Just ask the producers of Blues Brothers 2000. And while Murray turned in a great performance in Ghostbusters, imagine what Belushi would have done as the initial choice for Peter Venkman.

John Belushi died 27 years ago today at the Chateau Marmont in West Hollywood, CA. Seven years in the public eye was all we got. Like Jimi Hendrix, Janice Joplin, and Lord Byron, his self-destruction cut a brilliant life painfully short. But the hard and fast existence is almost fitting for someone of his stature. Just like we avoided Jimi doing life insurance commercials (say it ain’t so, Dennis Hopper), we dodged the bullet of the world’s greatest clown aging to the point where his Joe Cocker impression would result in a dislocated hip. In a way, we can remember Belushi at his absolute, ideally flawed peak. He’s frozen in time, suspended in the air with a bottle of Jack and one eyebrow mischievously raised, exactly the way we would like to remember him. And we can see traces of his work in the Will Ferrells, Sasha Baron Cohens, and Ricky Gervaises of the world.

One man cannot change the world overnight, but he can certainly do a lot in seven years.

In Memoriam. January 24, 1949 - March 5, 1982.