So it came to my attention, like a truck coming dangerously close to hitting me as I'm walking down the street- that another one of those people I admire has died. This keeps happening to me. This one was not old.
The TV is one because my feet hurt because I wait tables after my day job and to relax I like the flicker of television. It's Thursday, and I know ER is on, so I flip to that channel. One of the cast members is giving a eulogy of the show's creator- Michael Crichton. What?! The man was only in his 50s. I don't understand.
At nay rate, the man has passed. he is no more, but here is a piece I wrote about him in a burst of silliness back in April of 2006. I wrote it out of respect and admiration. I hope people remember his talent.
My ramblings attached:
Do you ever look around yourself and realize that some people in this chaotic mosh pit we call life, just give too much of themselves? Now maybe I'm selfish, but I like to keep my creative genius to myself, sure I'll take it out at parties or something, hold it above my head like something sparkly and shiny and grab all you stoners' attention, but as quickly as I pull it out, I hide it away again, locked up in myself like Golem coveting his precious ring when he could have shared it with the world.
This is not about me.
This is not about Lord of the Rings, and for all you fantasy freaks out there, you can just stop reading, because I'm not into that pussy shit.
This is about the people who would slice into their shank to feed you during famine- who give so much that you wonder how there is enough crumbs at the end of the day to sustain them. Of course I'm talking about that particular someone- the ineffable Michael Crichton.
What? He's a martyreic genius. He is the fountain that keeps flowing, the gift that keeps giving, the loaf of bread that feeds and entire village.
Case in point 1:
Jurassic Park. Admit it. You loved it. You loved the science. Brilliant! Mosquitoes that have mooched off of the blood of dinosaurs, and then were unlucky enough to land in sticky amber- that poor mosquito, tiny heart pumping furiously, kicking his thread-thin spindly legs, caught! He'll die now- thinking of his mosquito family, waiting for him, hovering above their metaphorical dinner table (a triceratops perhaps, I hear they are crazy delicious), wondering to themselves in little buzzing whispers: "Where's Daddy? When is Daddy gonna be home?" Never my mosquito son- Daddy has given all he had, and will now die. But be comforted in knowing that a long time from now, your Daddy will be excavated like gold, his DNA carefully extracted from that of the dinosaur DNA found in daddy's liquid last dinner (oh I hope you enjoyed that mosquito daddy- I hope your last meal was great), and a couple scientists later we have an amusement park! Built for your pleasure! Watch the triceratops poop! She is ill! Examine her droppings; lay upon her ribcage as she struggles to breathe! Get in your garishly painted Jeep on its track, we will try and tempt the t-rex with a goat. Jurassic Park, a wondrous playground and scientific breakthrough, finally we can see the dinosaurs how they really were when they had flesh instead of bones stringed together and hanging in a museum somewhere. Oh but that sneaky Dotson and that fat guy who laughs like a squealing pig and steals dino DNA in shaving cream. It's okay- he gets his, slashed by a dylophosaurus after trying to make it fetch a stick. A stick! Like it was Fido instead of an ancient predator. Dumbass. He deserved to be slashed across the abdomen, trying to shove his entrails into his stomach and being aware of being eaten alive at the same time. In the movie they don't really show that, but the book is pretty graphic in detail. Remember, Michael Crichton was a doctor, trained at Harvard or some such up there school. There is a lot of running away from dinosaurs after that, and raptors run a muck, Jeff Goldblume breaking the tension every now and then with his sarcastic fatalistic humor- "insert witty Ian Malcolm joke here, there's too many for me to pick from". In the end, the people we like get away, and the last scene flashes to birds flying across a blue sky, symbolic of evolution and freedom at the same time. Tear. It was all so beautiful. What a gift you have given, Mr. Crichton.
Case in point 2: ER. The TV drama. The bustle of the emergency room, fascinating because one never knows if the people in these white rooms will do their intricate ballet- and it is a ballet, watch it, the passing of tools and instruments, the moving of patients, the cycle of ambulances (ambuli?), the shift changes- all exquisitely timed and choreographed- but I digress. Our fascination lies in our wonder if these people will ever shout "3cc's of gabapentin STAT! We're losing her! Defibulate! Now!" But Doctor, that could be dangerous. "I said do it!" Breathtaking. Michael gives us this accurate (and I've asked doctors, and though they look at me funny when I ask them if TV is like real life, they admit it is, and then tell me to turn my head and cough. Think about it), portrayal of life in the ER, and then, as if he hasn't given us enough, he throws in all these plot twisters. These people that work in the ER. Not only are they talented performers, but they do this while dealing with alcoholism, death, illness, marital problems, oh the list goes on and on... As a final gift from ER, MC gives us George Clooney, Noah Wylie, and Mikkai Phefifer, and more recently, Shane West, that exquisite Indian girl whose name I cannot pronounce- these beautiful creatures caring for all of our tired and weak, with a soft touch and five o'clock shadow (except for the girl). Now we almost want to go to the emergency room, if Mr. Pheiffer will lean over me to look into my eyes and ask me what is the last thing I remember about the accident, dressed in white, like the angel Gabriel sent down to grant me... well lust I guess. ..Chills. A profound love of doctors turned writers turned screenwriter turned directors of wonderful drama series. Oh, thank you MC.
Now, my captivated (okay, bored enough to read my ramblings) audience, now do you believe me? MC, he had given us so much, all he has. What a philanthropist. What an all around generous man. What an angel. May we all be like Michael Crichton.
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