Japanese Happiness Soup

Robin Williams died recently. He committed suicide in his home, alone, he was 63 years old. At least that's the word on the news. Apparently he struggled for years and years with addiction, he also struggled with depression... probably for much longer. One could always picture him doing himself in. He was the type, after-all; a blazingly intelligent, manically comedic, tremendously talented performer who could conjure hilarity and heartbreak in the same role. There was a humanity in his performances that nobody could ever fake, not even himself. A humanity that only comes from within. In interviews with the likes of James Lipton and others, one could tell that Robin Williams struggled to fake a kind of Hollywood superficiality. He was a real person, even when he played a role.

Robin Williams ended his life as so many comedians do, either intentionally or not. It's been speculated that Laughter is mankind's original coping mechanism. So what does that say about comedy? What pain and insecurity can drive comedy, especially when it becomes a person's career? What happens when you can't laugh anymore? Where does the funnyman find solace? Where he find cover from him, or her, self? The late John Belushi probably fell victim to the same. He was a master of laughs but could not cope with himself, so he found shelter in excess that ultimately killed him. Ironically enough, Robin Williams (a close friend of Belushi) was one of the last people see him alive on that day in 1982. John Belushi's death supposedly convinced him to go cold turkey and fight-on, which he did until Monday.

Contrary to popular belief, suicide is not a short-term crisis. Normally the idea sparks many years in advance and as one grows older and rambles on through life it either diminishes or blossoms and grows up the walls of the heart and mind and becomes realer and realer. In short, people seldom commit suicide because of one bout of depression or one major letdown. It's a long build-up of a lot of little things. Little disappointments, little addictions, little things that people say, the sun growing a little dimmer everyday. Most likely, the pain and disillusion that made Robin Williams so brilliantly funny and so humane both on stage and in life is most certainly what he could no longer handle.

According to the latest statistics, Lithuania has the highest rate of suicide in world at 28.6 cases per 100,000 people. South Korea is second at 26.3 cases per 100,000 people. China and India beat-out Japan. Of course Japan is the best known country for suicide. Aokigahara, or "Suicide Forest", is a 30-odd kilometer expanse of forest at the base of Mount Fuji known as a hot spot for suicides. People go in and never come out. It's a problem that the Japanese seldom address, either because they consider suicide a legitimate way out or because it is simply too negative to think about. Japanese thinking strives towards happiness. Suicide isn't happy.

All anyone can do is talk about it. Unlike the advice of certain doctors named Phil, nobody can stop a suicide. There's no jumping into action, family intervention, or breakthrough moments. People will do as they will do, for better or for worse. All we can do is talk about it, and think about it, and talk about it some more. All we can do for those who struggle is to be there and to listen. All we can do is remember the laughs they left us with.

Jimmy Hoffa, the Mafia, and Morbid Curiosity...

It's been 39 years since Teamster Union Leader and folk anti-hero, Jimmy Hoffa, went missing. It was a balmy summer day in 1975 when Jimmy Hoffa told his wife that he was going to meet a friend at a Detroit area restaurant, got into his Pontiac Grand Ville, drove off and was never seen again. It's one of the most famous missing person cases in the history of the world.

Now, he was most definitely murdered by enemies... or possibly friends... among the nefarious and notorious cast of characters whom he had developed ties with over many, many years in the labor movement. There are a million theories as to who killed him, why he was killed, how he was killed, where the body is or isn't, and some speculate that he wasn't killed at all. Some theories make more sense than others, and many make no sense at all. A death scenario was portrayed in Danny DeVito's 1992 film, "Hoffa", in which he is killed in this extremely elaborate plot involving, ironically, a semi truck. Now while it was well shot and interesting to watch, Hoffa's death was most likely FAR less poetic.

Over the many decades, a number of Teamster officials have been murdered and disappeared, but none have gained the attention that Hoffa's death has. There was something about Jimmy Hoffa -- who had gone to federal prison and upon his release found that he had been ousted by his own following -- that fascinated people, and his death tantalizes, even to this day, that dark place in the psyche. This, despite the fact that if we knew how he died, we would probably be repulsed.

Part of Hoffa's legend, aside from the fact that he broke heads on the picket lines and faced-off against Prince Kennedy, is that he played with demons. He had ties to organized crime syndicates. His legend is part of the larger, greater myth. That myth of bootleggers and silk-suit clad urban bandits... the Mafia. There's a morbid place in our psyche that attracts us to the idea of the Mafia, despite that is really is -- if it ever really existed -- less "The Godfather" and more of a twisted urban feudalism. The idea of living beyond normal society and its rules is a turn-on for some. A social order driven by personal relationships and money, and defined by a swift and brutal sense of justice can lure our imaginations and entice our dark side. Hoffa was part of that legend and that world, and I think that ideal even enticed him... despite reality.

People, even flag-waving federalists, are inspired by the legends that form around certain kinds of folks. Just as some countries have their legends of poet warriors and ravishing damsels, America has cowboys and gangsters. It was an idea about Hoffa, just like an idea about Al Capone, or an idea about Billy the Kid that cemented him into the consciousness. The truth about people, especially dashing, daring, fearless people, is often far less romantic and far more heartbreaking than the man of faith can bare. And it is true that we see what we want to see and we hear what we want to hear.

So, the FBI looks and listens for tips as to where Hoffa's body is. They dig holes and file reports and come-up with nothing. Not many personalities could lure the FBI into chasing phantoms. Hoffa's legend endues, even after his body is long gone. Calcium oxide (quicklime) can destroy the flesh, but it can't destroy the idea and the imagination.