One of my many nephews was born the day John Belushi died. Well, he got married today, in a near-perfect ceremony and reception. The bride and groom are honeymooning in Sonoma/Napa so we got them a gift certificate for the Indian Springs Spa up there, just in case they feel the need to take a mudbath.
I did not encounter Belushi’s ghost in the bungalow where he died at the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood the time I stayed there. It turned out to be a night of negativity and we checked out early to stay somewhere else (this was in like 1995ish), but I heard some pretty good ghost stories at Greystone Mansion on Thursday while I was screening the painting applicants for this October’s Beverly Hills Affair in the Garden. Apparently that place is ghost central. Perhaps Belushi made the mile trek from the Marmont to the estate and is one of the moaning stompers encountered there by so many.
I tried to explain to someone that while I do not necessarily really believe in ghosts, I absolutely WANT there to be ghosts and all of that kooky halloween shit, I want there to be an afterlife and life on other planets and astrology and psychics and bench players who hit homeruns when you least expect it.
I don’t waste time looking for them or worrying about all this, but I would much rather live in a world with all that unprovable stuff than one with people who remind you that the five senses are all we will ever experience as real. So listening to a good ghost story is the least one can do as a leap of faith toward a weirder world.