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The 60s Without Apology, Telex Iran, Unsung Heroes of Rock ‘n’ Roll, and Wired

JUDY JACKLIN, JOHN BELUSHI’S WIDOW, chose Bob Woodward, a writer without a sense of humor, to memorialize her husband, who had his moments. Woodward found a few good stories, such as how Columbia turned the Belushi/Dan Aykroyd vehicle Neighbors, one of the great turkeys of our time, into a marginal money-maker; it’s not enough to make your day. A man who refuses to speculate, charting the disintegration of a man who refused to think, Woodward can testify only to the meticulousness of his research; the reader is left to ask the questions—or rather, dulled by the legal-archives research to the point of finding the story of how Columbia made money off Neighbors fascinating, to conclude that Belushi wasn’t worth a book. This stinking tale needs a writer with a sense of smell; it begs for a trash sensibility, for the trash Freudianism of Peter Swales or the trash poetry of Kathy Acker, and they

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