Elvis vs the Body Snatchers

 

In late 1978, a remake of the classic science fiction thriller Invasion of the Body Snatchers was defying expectations. The movie, which starred Donald Sutherland and Leonard Nimoy, was a box office hit and to some degree helped legitimize the remake in cinema. The tense and paranoid film overshadowed the movie on which it was based, which came out in 1956- the same year Elvis Aaron Presley released his first full length album with RCA Victor. The year before the term "body snatchers" came back into the cultural fore in reference to aliens, Elvis had allegedly passed away- and contended with some all-too terrestrial body snatchers of his own.

Clipping passed along to me by the one-and-only Tim Binnall, who insisted I do a deep dive on it...

The broad strokes of the story, as presented in the above clipping, raise a few questions- even the headline seems dubious, in its presentation of the "police claim". One wonders about the identity of the arrested men, and that of the informant; further, how any of them had expected to pull off such a scheme. In looking for answers, the saga of Elvis vs the Body Snatchers can either become a sprawling, mind-bending web of conspiracy or it can simply be the machinations of a few hackneyed criminals and their tall tales. Our narrators are unreliable, our facts are unsatisfying. All of it is, however, very interesting.

The story begins on August 16th, 1977, when news broke about the death of the King. He had apparently died while reading a book about the Shroud of Turin in Graceland, his Memphis estate. Theories about his death being faked began almost immediately afterward, while those presumably more accepting of reported facts were already angling to cash in on the rock star's death. After a funeral he was interred at Forest Hills Cemetery, in a copper coffin inside a mausoleum. The men were arrested for the attempting corpse-napping on August 28th, and by October 4th the charges were dropped in favor of a lesser charge of trespassing. What happened in the gaps of this timeline depend on whom you wish to believe. Those charged were Ronnie Lee Adkins, Bruce Nelson, and Raymond "Bubba" Green- all crooks between the ages of 25 and 30. The fourth man, mentioned in the article as having been arrested at the hospital, seems to have been released without charges. Nelson seems to have been an accomplice. Adkins and Green then will be our star unreliable witnesses.

Ronnie Lee Adkins played the role of the police informant who tipped off the cops. Within a week and a half of the arrests, his credibility was called into question with the police telling the press that the bodysnatching attempt was little more than an elaborate hoax. They had previously considered him reliable enough as an informant, and had helped Memphis law enforcement bust low level offenders over the course of a few years in exchange for reduced time at a penal colony, where he had been held on burglary convictions. Just how much the police had been strung along on Adkins' bogus claim, as they characterized it, is unclear- but by Ronnie Lee's account, which was published in newspapers at the time, the police had encouraged him to go along with the plot in order to catch the ghoulish crooks involved. Adkins spins a yarn about a mysterious man who had offered $40,000 to the four men in exchange for Elvis's coffin and remains; this was to be ransomed back to the Presley family for $10 million. This part wouldn't involve the body snatchers. Initially, Adkins claimed, the plot was to steal the remains of the King from the funeral home prior to the service at Graceland. In cooperation with police, he allegedly entered the funeral home and hot-wired a hearse; Green and Nelson were supposed to take it from there. Both being criminals out on bond, however, they were spooked by a squad car in the area and got cold feet at the last minute. This meant they would have to wait, and dig up Presley later.

In the days that followed, Adkins claims to have been in contact with both Nelson and a police sergeant named Hester. Nelson and Green were happy to learn that Elvis would be interred in a mausoleum, and not buried, as this would make the job similar to their familiar pastime of burglary and less like grave robbing. Their first attempt was on Saturday, August 27, but the crooks were once again hesitant when they spotted Sgt. Hester's unmarked car. On the night of the 28th, in Adkins' car with plates stolen from another vehicle, a trunk full of tools and a shotgun, the trio ventured back to Forest Hills for their crime. The plan was to break into the mausoleum, pull out the coffin, remove Elvis into a body bag, and hit the road. They would then meet their benefactor at a nearby Armour Packing Plant at 2 a.m. for the hand-off. Before they could get into the crypt, the gang panicked and ran, having heard police radio chatter nearby. A brief high speed chase led to a roadblock, where Green and Nelson were arrested in one car and Adkins was brought to another; he was subsequently bailed out by Hester and told he had done a fine job.

This version of events was published in newspapers alongside the official statement from Memphis Police Director E. Winslow Chapman, who presented the idea that the entire plot had been a hoax perpetuated by Adkins. Even if, he said, they had planned on bodysnatching he doubted it would have gone very far. All inquiries from the press were directed to him, and all other law enforcement personnel were instructed to stay quiet on the matter. Chapman suggested there was no evidence of an attempt to break into the crypt, because the men had no tools- although Adkins claimed that there were tools, and a gun, which had been confiscated by the cops. He had seen them himself. Charges were eventually dropped in early October, with the missing tools playing a large role. Adkins' reliability as both an informant and a witness was torpedoed a few days prior to the dismissal, when he went to a hospital and claimed to be a police officer himself in order to use city police insurance. He was then arrested for fraud, while Green and Nelson got lesser penalties for trespassing along with their pre-existing bail agreements.

It has all the trappings of a bizarre conspiracy, as though Adkins was some manner of patsy in a weird and pointless scheme. This, however, is only the case if you believe what he said. Director Chapman confirmed that he had been a reliable informant up until this caper, but everything else about his account is without corroboration. A look at where Ronnie Lee pops up in the news after the whole affair gives a clearer perspective of the man, and lends credence to Chapman's assessment. 

A 1981 article in the Memphis Press-Scimitar, for instance, identifies Adkins as an assistant to Timothy Snider, the head of the Memphis klavern of the Ku Klux Klan. Snider had been charged with kidnapping a former klansman along with another man. Adkins denies holding an official post in the organization, but is quoted as saying he was a "supporter of the Klan." The article goes on to describe his arrest record, which included over 20 arrests of petty crimes such as theft and fraudulent checks. He appears as well in a book called The Plot to Kill King: The Truth Behind the Assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. by William F. Pepper. The controversial author's claims in the book which is reviewed here by Martin Hay, include statements made by Adkins, who apparently also used the alias Ron Tyler. The elaborate story he tells Pepper involves his father, Russel Adkins, who he claims was a 32nd degree Mason and a high-ranking klansman with powerful friends and a job as a fixer and hitman. If we're to believe Adkins here, his dear old man had a direct line to Deputy Director Clyde Tolson of the FBI, who worked directly under J. Edgar Hoover. Reverend Doctor King's assassination had been in the works for years before it actually happened, according to Ronnie, with the orders coming from the very top- he further says that as early as 1956, when Invasion of the Body Snatchers was thrilling teens along with Elvis's eponymous debut album, the FBI man Tolson had handed a list to the senior Adkins scumbag containing the names JFK, RFK, and MLK, insinuating that all three assassinations were part of the same plan. Having died before getting the chance to shoot Dr. King, Russel's duties got passed down to Ronnie which, one assumes, is how such things work. Ronnie Lee claims to have delivered the rifle to the gunman who shot MLK, at the age of 16 no less, and, according to him, it was not James Earl Ray. For more details on the insanity of these claims, the reader is encouraged to read the linked book review...

The final tragic nail in the coffin, as it were, for Adkin's credibility comes in 1992 when his mother was gunned down, and either his own children or nieces and nephews of his were injured. It seems Adkins had been given money to bail out a Memphis woman who was being held on drug charges, but the bail was never posted. Presumably, Adkins pocketed the money and his own mother paid the ultimate price for it.  

This is all to say that perhaps it isn't wise at all to trust his account of the attempted bodysnatching. The yarns he spins would have you going down all manner of ugly rabbit holes, which can be tempting but is from the outset obviously fruitless. A simple crook and stool pigeon for the Memphis PD, whose story constellates outward to include secret societies, the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, along with government involvement and cover-ups is a familiar and well-trodden path in the zeitgeist of the late 20th century. Not to mention the synchromystic connections, with the King of Rock and Roll, Martin Luther King, and the "Camelot" dynasty of the Kennedys, which all are tangential to paranoid screeds like King Kill 33. This writer draws the line here, as this well trodden path is also laden with horseshit. It was tempting to draw a line between the American Memphis and its namesake in Egypt, where the body of Alexander the Great was once interred, before being removed a generation later to Macedonia and reburied in a now unknown location; and perhaps its worth mentioning, as we include Egyptian burial rites alongside Elvis and JFK; the absurdity of it all is exemplified by this combination in the form of the movie Bubba Ho-Tep. That is to say, the purely batshit logic one employs to construct a narrative around such claims can be fun, but at the end of the day is still batshit.

The present writer would be remiss in at not at least mentioning one of his favorite movies

This brings us, in a circuitous fashion, back to another Bubba- Ray "Bubba" Green, who in recent years came out with his own version of events for a short documentary called The Man Who Dared to Steal the King. In this scenario, Ronnie Lee Adkins was little more than an acquaintance and the wheel-man for the caper who ratted on Green, Nelson, and the fourth man who he only refers to as "Mike". In Green's telling of the story, it was he who was charged with the duty of stealing Elvis's remains and was linked up with the mystery man behind the plot through his bail bondsman, Barron Blue. The characters certainly don't get more colorful than this, especially because the "yankee" who put up the money for the scheme gets referred to as "Mr. Cincinnati". Meeting in a dimly lit Tiki bar, Green was patted down and made to surrender his butterfly knife before the meeting. Mr. Cincinnati had two briefcases with him; one was filled with money, and the other detailed maps, arial photos, diagrams and other useful information related to Elvis's would-be-final resting place. The deal was for two million dollars; Green would need to recruit three men, pay them whatever he liked, and deliver the body to be ransomed for ten million. Green seems proud of himself in the documentary for the line "My own mother ain't safe for two million", which eerily harkens back to the fate of Adkins' mom. Green never mentions any plans for the funeral home, but he does account for the tools- "Mike" was waiting on the other side of the cemetery in a stolen appliance truck containing them, and got away, never to be seen again, well before things went haywire in the graveyard. 

Green credits his lawyer with the reduced charge, as Adkins was allegedly made to commit insurance fraud under threat of bodily harm from Green and Nelson at his attorney's suggestion. The case was thrown out with Adkins' flagrant unreliability as a con artist, and while Green was still in trouble he was looking at a much smaller sentence.

The story again begins to inflate with wildness as only an ex-con can deliver. Green goes on to explain that while in prison he met a Cape Cod mobster he calls "Moose", who let him in on some secrets related to Presley. In a narrative that will sound familiar to any enthusiasts of "Elvis is Alive" theories, or anyone who read the National Enquirer a lot back in the day, Moose explained that at Elvis's funeral was seen to sweat in the coffin. "Wax sweats," says Green, "dead bodies don't." 

Moose spins a tale to Bubba, or so we're told, that Elvis was beholden to the mob during his Vegas days and had been convinced to transport large sums of cash using his personal jet for them. This didn't sit well with the King, as Elvis had always thought of himself as the Good Guy and had tried to ingratiate himself with law enforcement at every opportunity. So, the story goes, Elvis made note of the serial numbers on the bills he transported and tipped off the feds, leading to arrests in the upper echelon of the underworld. 

Elvis meeting Nixon in order to become an honorary agent of the DEA

So, in Green's telling of events, Elvis didn't die at all. He was being sent to steal a wax dummy out of the mausoleum, for purposes unknown. Elvis presumably would be in hiding, from either the mob, the feds, or both. Elvis's remains, along with those of his mother, were interred at Graceland following the events at Forest Hills. The documentary seems to suggest that the whole point of the alleged attempted body snatch was to justify the move- but why such an elaborate scheme? It does bear the hallmarks, as previously mentioned, of a patsy arrangement. That Mr. Cincinnati had $2 million to burn on some low-level druggie and crook, who obviously wasn't very good at crime since he kept getting caught, in the hopes that he'd deliver the goods; that this mystery man hoped he could recoup $8 million at the end of it all boggles the mind and invites further questions. The idea that Vernon Presley and / or Colonel Parker would need some convoluted scheme to bury Elvis where they wanted to seems equally absurd, given the outrageous amount of money, sway, and sympathy they had in the wake of Presley's death. 

The brief documentary featuring Green's story ends with a screen of text, listing some of his crimes- which include manslaughter- and state that his current whereabouts are unknown. 

If we are to try that old, well-trodden and shit-strewn path of building an unbelievable narrative here, we might suggest that the Bubba Green in the documentary isn't the man who got away with attempted corpse-napping in 1977. We could also speculate wildly about the identity of Mr. Cincinnati, or be more sympathetic to the bizarre claims of the klansman con artist who almost literally threw his own mother under the bus. We might just as easily believe the characters involved were actually pod people, having replicated and displaced their original forms. Perhaps there was a rogue mummy involved, and Elvis is still out there, on the lam.

"Elvis is out there, I tell you! He's out there!"

As with seemingly everything around Elvis, there are so many divergent narratives that finding the truth of the matter often means settling for the most boring story. Like the final resting place of Alexander the Great, perhaps some things will never be known. We have "official stories" for a lot of these tales of intrigue, and for those who enjoy tugging on the conspiratorial threads there will never be a satisfactory explanation. In this case, with either unreliable narrators or authorities who brush the crime off as a hoax we may never know what really drove the miscreants to attempt the crime and you know... that's alright, mama. That's alright with me. 

Cone 143: A Magical Working Toward a Better World

 Cone 143: a Magical Working for a Better World

What follows, put bluntly, is a magical working towards the betterment of the world. It is important that it be left precisely as vague as this. It was conceived using various methods over the period of a few months, and involved a great personal struggle on the part of its author. Perhaps this is fitting, as the working involves amplifying direct emotive personal experience and struggle. It is designed to be very simple, accessible to anyone who wishes to participate. If the prospective participant wishes to make it even simpler, that is just fine- conversely, if one has their own ritual practice and wishes to incorporate what follows into it, thereby complicating it, that is also good. The name of the game here is fellowship, and direct personal understanding. 

There are several parts to this, and again the reader / participant is free to decide which are necessary. Beyond this introduction, there will be an explanatory note, Part I; a parable, Part II; and finally, the working itself- Part III. In addition, the essay Communion With the Critters helps to illustrate how this type of magic can work, even with non-human entities. The reader is welcome to dig right into the meat of it by scrolling to Part III, or to read all of it, or none at all, or to jump around in the order they choose.

Gratitude is warmly extended to Professor Wham, Stephanie Quick, and the wonderful people in the discord for the Vayse podcast- all of whom in some way helped or inspired this project.

Part I: Explanatory Notes

It may be observed that in the introductory note, there was very little in the way of directives or strict rules. This is at the core of this working. The tendency for human beings to dominate, control, or manipulate others is at the core of what we call “evil”. In a magical sense then, fighting the fire of this egregore of dominion on earth with the flame of hexing, binding, or subtle manipulative magic only serves to stoke it into a planetary conflagration. Even removing any magical lens in looking at the problem, it is hard to disagree that culture has become more divided and combative.  A glance at trends in world events over the past decade may have convinced the reader that this has already happened, and that there is no way to stop it.

Progress, however, can appear apocalyptic when you are in the midst of it. Perhaps it is quite literally apocalyptic, and one could argue that’s not the worst thing in the world. To take the word “apocalypse” at face value, from its Greek roots, it simply means revelation, the “lifting of the veil”- laying bare the evils of the world for all to see. This leads to despair, confusion, and chaos. Chaos is a fundamental catalyst in the cosmos. The road gets rocky when such revelations make themselves known; the world changes. Gripping the illusory, phantasmic past which has already gone away from us is of no use. Standing one’s ground when that ground is ever shifting, or disappearing entirely, is risky. We must be fluid, adapt, and not only anticipate the aftermath; We must help shape it. Whether the future is utopian or a post-apocalyptic wasteland is for us to decide.  

In the past, subversion of the norms has been a classic method of upending power structures, allowing for a different perspective and promoting ingenuity in addressing its exposed failings. In an environment where little agreement can be found, and chaos is the reigning commonality, such subversion is neutralized. It only serves to contribute to a fractured and destabilized structure. As we find ourselves butting heads or tripping over one another in this worldwide Babel Tower scenario, we can secure the foundations through cooperation. The most radical and subversive act one can manifest at the present time is love, kindness, and compassion.

If this sounds corny to you, if it seems naive, that is because the cruelty of the world has conditioned you to reject basic principles of humanity. This working requires that you shed away, unabashedly and intentionally, all the cynical trappings you’ve accumulated over the years. Just because it hasn’t worked before doesn’t mean it won’t; that is to say, history only repeats because we insist on repeating it. Animosity, hopelessness, apathy, and misanthropy are cultivated by the dark forces of our collective psychology. The Black Lodge, as it were, wishes for nothing more than for you to feel helpless, angry, and lost. These energetic evils, however you wish to characterize or envision them, want you to give into fear. This must at all costs be resisted.

This is the magic of Mr. Rogers. There is no wish too small, and the Land of Make-Believe is real. We are, after all, working toward World Peace. A lofty goal, to be sure, and one that seems foolishly optimistic, but this very foolish optimism is necessary. There needs to be a reckoning, a balancing of the world’s humors; and for as much rational pessimism as seems to be all-pervading in the greater world, there needs to be some glimmer of quixotic hope as a counter-weight. Breaking down the seemingly impassable barriers to faith is important. This begins with you, with the Self, which mirrors the greater reality. It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood if you want it to be, and everyone can be your neighbor. The reader who is scoffing at my corniness here will be well advised to examine their own inner walls, which partition off empathy in order to maintain their gloomy worldview and perpetuate a gloomy world.

Much talk surrounds the idea of “desensitization”, that we have all hardened ourselves to violence, cruelty, and atrocity. We have normalized these things, as a matter of self-preservation. If one stopped to really consider the feelings of each person they meet, let alone anyone they read about in the news, they would never stop weeping. It’s impractical to be empathetic. In some cases, stubbornly clinging to ideals and beliefs necessitates ignoring the pain of others, or justifying it under one cause or another. A cocktail of biases, blind spots, and moral compromises fuels this need to carry on, to ignore the plight of those around us, and to give up on the idea of ever fixing it.

Mean-spirited discourse makes itself apparent on social media, and is encouraged and rewarded by the algorithms. The point here is to recognize that part of the reason we fall into a trap, a downward cycle of negativity and animosity, has less to do with impassioned argument and more to do with the inverse- dispassionate removal. Each of us has barriers and walls in place to protect ourselves which paradoxically support the cruelty on the surface; the self-defeating cycle in each of us ripples out to a world of pain and retribution. We can short the circuit, and we must.

There are commonalities which are central to the experience of being a living human on earth. There is a direct emotive expression that cannot be conveyed through language, but which anyone can understand if only they allow themselves the compassionate eye to read it. The working, then, seeks to identify and psychically amplify these experiences within the deep self of the participant. Without coercion, or the need for convincing prose or manipulation, these waves of direct personal gnosis can wash over the unsuspecting populace like a cool breeze or mild spray of light rain. In the most subtle fashion, it is hoped that the heart-strings will sympathetically resonate; that the recipients of such broadcasts will be moved to appeal to their better angels. 

Part II: The Sage at the Shoreline

Two soldiers from opposing armies brought the Sage at spearpoint across the beach. He was to be sacrificed to the serpents of the sea. Recalling Laocoön, the prophet from Virgil’s Aeneid, the enemy soldiers had decided to appease the dragons beneath the waves with an offering. Would it end the war? Would it prolong it? Omens had directed the wise men of both opposing armies, and led to the decision the soldiers found themselves carrying out. The Sage would be fed to the snakes, what happens beyond that is in the hands of the gods.

At the water’s edge, the serpents appeared, eager for their offering- except, these were not serpents after all. An eldritch horror arose from below the waves, its flailing tendrils approximating the necks and bodies of sea snakes. It levitated above the surf, growing larger and steadfastly hesitant to assume a definitive shape. It was black, the all encompassing blackness of the unknown, as though it were made up of materialized fear. A shockwave from the amorphous monstrosity laid the soldiers to waste, but the Sage stood firm, raising his staff. Sound refused to travel; there was no language, no communication in words. In a moment outside of our concept of time, the Sage thrust forward his staff and banished the tentacled horror.

As calm returned, the atmosphere on the beach was restored to its natural state. The surf, the cool breeze, and the chirping of birds could be heard. In the distance away from the shore, a curious golden cone shaped object hovered above the trees, framed by distant mountains…

Part III: The Working

To begin, the participant must have some time and space to relax. As previously mentioned, this should be easy for someone with no magical experience or practice to try out, and just as easily could be incorporated into an existing ritual or meditation.

Each participant must envision a point above their head, which expands into a ring as it rises. The participant may envision this ring in whatever form they wish. If it's funny or makes them happy, all the better.

Once formed they must envision it rising and getting proportionally bigger in the way sonar or radar is depicted. Each time a new higher concentric circle is envisioned, the participant must recall emotional moments from their past experiences. They don't have to be the most powerful or formative moments, but they should fit this pattern:

Gratitude. Recall a time when compassion was bestowed on you.

Duty. Recall a time you were compassionate and made a difference for
someone else, and how it felt to know that you had helped.

Guilt. Recall a time you had been cruel, and the shame you felt or still feel.
Now is a good time to release it. Let it float out with its respective ring.

Victimhood. Recall a time you were wronged. Forgive that person or
entity, release the grudge with this ring. The pain and anger of the initial event,
it is hoped, can be sublimated.

Wonder. Recall a time you were overwhelmed by beauty. This ring of
peace, hope and wonder should be last in line as a soft landing back to the mundane, should you choose to change the order or skip some.

These rings should be spreading out quite a bit. During these recollections, remembering the feeling is more important than the details. Remember how it felt. As you go keep picturing the rings spreading out, spreading over and pinging off of other participants. Picture an aerial view or a map with the rings emanating from your location.

As more people get involved, the hope is that these emotional ripples in the numinal atmosphere will overlap and intensify. The heart strings, as it were, of the unsuspecting populace will get tugged on. The hope is to make the infectious negativity, cruelty, or apathy sublimate into conversation with the better angels of the average person. To break down barriers. To wash away obstacles and awaken compassion, and to reduce suffering for sentient beings everywhere.

Sentimentalism, nostalgia, and kindness find a home here. Large waves begin as ripples in the tide; this subtle, non-coercive practice just might restore a bit of sanity and decency to the world. Perhaps it won’t, but if a glimmer of quixotic faith in humanity is too much to hope for then we surely are all doomed. I strongly doubt that we are. I think we have much more sway with the Wyrd than we are led to believe, and that petitioning fate itself with subtle acts of compassion- literally, direct empathic broadcasts of emotive experiences we all have in common- we can steer our way through Apocalypse itself.

Communion With the Critters

 

I have fed the birds at my house for almost as long as I have had a house. Initially, this was more for the benefit and amusement of my cat, who loves to watch from the window, flicking her tail and chittering away as they fly around. I have always enjoyed birds anyway, and seeing who visits my house because of the feeder has been quite literally a magical experience. 

I got in the habit of throwing whatever was leftover from my cold sandwich lunch at work onto the grass under the feeder each morning for the birds and squirrels to eat. It occurred to me recently that this daily bread, as it were, is part of a mystical bond with the birds- we are eating the same meal, communing in the most vital fashion. To extend this further, every new cold sandwich that gets made in the morning has its own attendant ritual, with both my dog and my cat appearing out of nowhere for a little scrap of meat. Our “Sandwich Time” morning rite has become very important, and ties us all together- the critters inside, myself, and the birds and creatures outside my door all partaking of the same broken bread.

The indoor critters, Bernie and Lucy, alerting me that it is dinnertime

I had my avian biases. Blue Jays always seemed to me to be the bullies of the bird world, and many assess them as such. I was less than thrilled about their attendance at the feeder, until one day an injured or sick Jay took up residence under my butterfly bush. It seemed incapable of flight, and could only hop short distances. Often it would just sit in the grass pointing its beak skyward, or cocking its head strangely. The smaller birds were cruel to it. I softened in my opinion of the Jays, and did what I could to help the fella along. Eventually it got well.

Similarly I had an irrational disdain for turkeys, mostly borne out of a joke. I just thought it was kind of funny to dunk on turkeys, I suppose. One day a lone turkey strolled into my yard, and kept coming back. It caused me to wonder why a lone turkey would hang around, as I’ve only ever seen them in groups. As it happens, this turkey was a hen with a nest somewhere nearby. Mother turkeys are solitary during this time of their lives and don’t stray too far from their nest when foraging. I took it upon myself to help the expectant single mom, and bought cracked corn and peanuts to spread on the lawn for her. She came to trust me enough that so long as I avoided looking at her directly, she would come within a few feet of me to eat. Eventually she stopped coming around- but a few months later, a pair of hens appeared with a troop of over a dozen poults following them. She had returned to show me her babies. 

Upping the ante in risk factors, and moving away from the feathered friends of my locale, I developed a friendship with a young skunk. I have always loved skunks, and juvenile skunks are particularly adorable. Fear of getting sprayed causes most people to revile them, and run away like a character in a Pepe le Pew cartoon. I have always found them to be most reasonable if you talk to them. A simple “hello” goes a long way, and once a skunk is greeted it tends to make a decision to stay or go- but it won’t be startled, and you should have adequate warning if it intends to spray. My skunk friend perhaps became a little too comfortable at my house, which caused trouble with package deliveries. The pizza delivery guy called my phone from the driveway and refused to come to the door. I stepped outside and knelt down to chat with Skunk Friend, and scolded him for scaring the pizza guy. The dumbfounded look on his face as I took the pizza and mozzarella sticks put into perspective how odd my connection with the local fauna seems to the average observer.

Odder still, where I live isn’t a particularly woodsy area. The wildlife that passes through is surprisingly diverse; I’ve seen deer, possum, hawks and buzzards, groundhogs, bats, and, worryingly, coyotes.

Coyotes are a particular concern when you have a dog that barely weighs ten pounds. As such, he is never outside alone- and he always knows when the coyotes have been around. His hackles go up, he starts obsessively sniffing and barks his threats into the air, defending his turf. A persistent coyote who had unseen partners nearby tested his boundaries for quite a while, and I chased him off enough times that he gave up. I started, then, to consider the coyote as a Trickster figure, although I don’t presume to know enough about Indigenous beliefs and stories to comment too deeply. I will say that I felt particularly silly chasing him off while wearing flip flops, which made a threatening clopping sound on the walkway as I ran down it. It proved very effective, but also clownish. I wondered at that time if I was really chasing some part of myself away, and ending up with egg on my face. Later I received assistance from my Skunk Friend, who sprayed the coyote and got rid of him for good. The joke ended up being on me though; I later realized the canine adversary had tried to rub the spray off on the grill of my car, and I could smell it for weeks afterward.

In the early months of 2024, a new coyote arrived in the yard. He was more persistent than the prior one, and behaved more erratically. He seemed to enjoy upsetting Bernie, my intrepid ten pound hound, as I caught him lifting his leg or defecating under the bird feeder a few times. I began a campaign again of chasing off the interloper and this time was even more conflicted. My logical and practical mind wrestled with the more mystically and magically oriented realms of my being. I intuitively felt there was a spiritual resonance to this critter, this Trickster, this beast tormenting my dog- but on the most rational level, I know that wild animals are inherently unpredictable and not to be toyed with. I could tell the coyote, who I named Ozzie, was claiming my yard as his by marking it, and that his presence not only presented a threat to people and their pets in the neighborhood but also to him. The best thing for him, and for everyone, is that he be chased away. I had to close off any kooky mystical ideas about communion with the creature and do what was right and reasonable.

The harassment campaign commenced- he was chased away several times but always made his way back to the feeder. I suspected that voles or mice were active there at night and attractive to him as a snack. He eventually learned that although I made a good show of it, and made some scary noises, I probably wouldn’t actually hurt him. He tested the boundaries by running just far enough into my neighbor’s yard that he felt safe, and watching me from there or sniffing around. One night, out of frustration, I picked up a small bit of gravel and winged it at him, hitting him right in the hindquarters. I saw him jump vertically, then run away. Not being in the habit of throwing stones at animals I felt guilty about it, but reasoned that it was for his own good. 

The next morning I threw a bit of sandwich out, went through Sandwich Time with Bernie and Lucy, and as I was leaving for work Ozzie came slinking into the yard. He beelined to the feeder and grabbed the sandwich. I got out of the truck and he saw me, turned and ran with his mouth full of my offering to the birds and stopping at the property line. The Trickster at the boundary and I locked eyes. I was keenly aware of the line of cars behind me, as parents heading to a nearby school were dropping off their kids. I had made the situation much worse in a practical sense than it had been- any one of those parents could have seen the coyote and called animal control. What would they have done? I shuddered to think that my adversary could get hurt, or worse, that he might attack someone’s kid. This was also the first time I had seen Ozzie in the light of day, the first really good look I had gotten at him.

He was mangy. He was emaciated. One ear was broken, dangling uselessly to the side. He had probably been ostracized from the pack, and had been doing whatever he could to survive all winter and had only just barely made it through. As springtime was dawning, he stood resilient and defiant at the demarcation point between life and death, wither and growth. My efforts had failed because they had been wrong. The lessons the animals had tried to teach me was brushed off by what seemed so certainly to be a rational concern, and as a result backfired badly. He was too smart, too innovative to be driven away. He calculated that the risk at night was too great, so instead he would come in the morning, which was far worse. I knew then that following my initial impulse was the right thing to do. 

On Saint Patrick’s Day, I was fixing a bit of leftover corned beef from a dinner earlier that week into a sandwich, and found that I had leftovers of the leftovers which would surely go bad in the fridge. I resolved to offer it up to Ozzie. So that night, I brought the remaining hunk of cured meat out and placed it under the bird feeder, then sat on my steps and meditated a psychic message to the foe who had so troubled me, and who seemed so troubled. I conjured first the word, then as much of the feeling as I could: PEACE. I wished peace for him, and emanated it, with the picture of the coyote in my mind. 

Bernie didn’t bark that night when we went out, and the beef was still there. It was there in the morning as well. When I arrived home from work, it still sat on the ground where it had been.

Then, as I was sitting down to eat with my family, my son said “Whoa! Coyote!” and pointed through the window of the front door. I only caught a flash of grey going past the window, but it was him- he had waited until dinner for our communion. It was quite a while before I saw him again. 

I began to worry that he had been killed, but he was spotted across town by someone who posted a picture to Facebook.

Later still, a much better picture appeared online- very much the same coyote but looking much healthier, with a new lease on life; much less the scrawny, frantic and mangy canine who so unnerved me at the start of the year. The last time I saw him, I was sitting on my front steps and he trotted over to the feeder, a mere four or five feet from me. “Hello, Ozzie.” I said. He didn’t hear me, I suppose because of his bad ear, so I talked a little more. He looked up and jumped a bit, then casually scampered away.

 

Living his best coyote life

Animals are great teachers. They can be seen as symbols and archetypes, which they surely are, or as independent entities or as parts within an ecological control system; any way you look at them, they provide an interesting corollary to ideas about morality, compassion, and wisdom. There’s no good and evil in nature, there is only survival. An intricate web of connected organisms, life cycles, and seasonal habits promote a sustainable world for us all. The critters of my yard, from the loud-mouthed Jay to the mischievous Coyote, have been beating me over the head with the same message for years- compassion is the key. Empathy, intuition, and understanding can’t really be quantified or rationalized, but they must at all costs be considered if not strictly adhered to. For simplicity, or practical reasoning, we often close ourselves off to these primeval impulses, but what if we didn’t? What if each of us prioritized peace? 

It is certainly something to consider. I’m sure that Ozzie would agree.

Complete Head Transplantation - a Pop-Culture Odyssey of Mad Science

 

Mad science takes many forms, both in real-life and in fiction. The classic mad scientist is typified by Dr. Frankenstein, in particular the version of the character from Universal Studios' 1931 Frankenstein - so much so that the name has become archetypal in its application. In the 1931 movie, and notably absent from the 1818 novel by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, there is a well-known plot point about a stolen brain being implanted into the creature on Frankenstein's slab. This plays heavily into how things go awry for the young doctor, and from the horror of the monster's ensuing rampage through several sequels and adaptations comes many imitators. The brain transplantation trope occurs frequently, with many variations, over the decades in horror and science fiction stories, as does reanimation of the dead. Our focus for today, however, is that most niche of mad science properties- the complete transplantation of a human head.

The concept of full head transplantation precedes the fictional examples, even occurring prior to the aforementioned Frankenstein. In 1908, Dr. Charles Claude Guthrie successfully grafted the head of a dog onto the neck of another dog. Such an experiment was repeated in 1950s Russia by Dr. Vladimir Demikhov, and further such surgeries were attempted by Robert J. White on monkeys. Video can be found of Demikhov's experiments on YouTube, but as a word of warning they are not for the faint of heart. Getting too deeply into the specific implications of historical head transplantation is a bit grim for our purposes here, and it is perhaps enough to note that the over-the-top movie trope has some basis in fact. Modern respectable doctors scoff at the ethical and practical impediments inherent in such operations, while as recently as 2015 announced plans for attempts at human head transplantation made the news. It is worth bearing in mind that life-saving advances in medical procedure were the goal with many of these experiments, and have led to organ transplantation techniques which are commonplace now. Derided by the press and by "anti-vivisectionists", largely due to specious reporting that Guthrie had grafted the head of a cat onto a dog, he perhaps never received credit that was due to him. His 1908 success in creating a two-headed dog was in partnership with Dr. Alexis Carrel, with the goal of furthering our understanding of connecting arteries, nerves and tissue. Carrel would go on to receive a Nobel Prize, and author a book called L'Homme, cet inconnu (Man, the Unknown). There is much more to say regarding Carrel's association with supernatural beliefs, with eugenics, and the complicated history and ethics of medical experiments; but such is beyond the scope of this essay, and would only constitute dawdling on the shores of our proverbial Ithaca instead of charting the waters of our pop-culture Odyssey.

As a bonus mad science tidbit- Dr. Carrel is noted here for keeping a chicken heart alive in isolation. This inspired a horror story on the popular radio program Lights Out!

The experiments of Demikhov in particular likely inspired the late 1950s trend of head transplantation movies, but a much earlier such piece of fiction was published in Russia in 1925. Professor Dowell's Head, written by Alexander Belyaev, contains several plot elements that we will explore in movies such as The Head (1957). Not published in English until 1980, it's unclear whether it influenced American filmmakers prior to its translation. Described as a Kafkaesque version of Frankenstein, the plot involves a nefarious Dr. Kern removing the head of the titular character and secretly keeping it alive in order to force scientific knowledge from him. He goes on to transplant the head of one woman in place of another. Whether the story influenced the films in this post is unknown, and one wonders if Dr. Demikhov had read it in his native language. It did however inspire an adaptation for Japanese television in 1979, a Russian movie version called Professor Dowell's Testament in 1984, and a Chinese movie called The Head in the House in 1989.

As alluded to earlier, the Golden Age (as it were) of our incredibly niche focus today was in the late fifties. Beginning with a British film called The Man Without a Body in 1957, we are treated to a tale of an unscrupulous wealthy businessman who realizes he is dying from a brain tumor. His only chance for survival is to visit the lab of Dr. Phil Merrit, and possibly receive a brain transplant. Here we see a flaw already in the plot that never seems to be addressed- should Brussard the oil baron's brain be replaced how could it still be said to be him? The literally mind-bending proposal leads one to wonder where the Self is, what constitutes the person. The characters in the movie seem unperturbed by this foundational error. At any rate, Brussard visits Madame Tussod's Wax Museum and learns of the prophet Nostradamus. He decides that only the brain of the great prognosticator is worthy of his skull, and arranges to have the actual head of Nostradamus brought to Merrit's lab to be reanimated. Though the plot of the story hinges more on the (nonsensical) transplantation of a brain, more than a full head, it's included here for the amount of time the reanimated Nostramus's noggin spends on a plate, reanimated against his will. Merrit's lab is an impressive set for the time, with an array of isolated organs hooked up to machines, a lone monkey head kept alive by equipment, and a single living eye suspended in the background.

The pace of the movie is fairly slow, and the flaws in the story could have been more entertaining had they been more flamboyant in their presentation. For instance, Brussard is an old man dying of brain cancer, but still manages to bully the two young doctors and even murder a few people. There doesn't seem to be any reason for the doctor and his assistant to put up with him at all, and it's eventually the Head of Nostradamus that does him in by giving him bad financial advice.

A much more fun and very stylized head transplantation movie came from West Germany in 1959, and released in 1961 in the United States as The Head. (The original German title was Die Nackte und der Satan, or The Naked and Satan. At the risk of spoiling things the American title much more accurately describes the film.) Much like in Professor Dowell's Head, we have an interloping devious young scientist who keeps the head of another doctor alive. This doctor, named Dr. Abel, dies of a heart attack and in being kept conscious in a serum transfusion set-up as a disembodied head is forced by the sadistic Dr. Ood to bear witness to further transplantations. 

 Notably, the film features a dog's head being kept alive through this transfusion process, echoing the real life examples mentioned earlier. One hopes that Ood cleaned the equipment properly before attaching poor Dr. Abel's head to the same device. The sexuality of the original title arrives in the plot as Ood attempts to find a suitable body to transplant the head of his hunchbacked female assistant to- and leads him to find an unwitting donor in the form of a stripper he murders. He sets up his assistant's headless body to look like an accidental death on the railroad tracks. The Head is more horrific and menacing, and more stylized than The Man Without a Body. It is 1950s sci-fi schlock, but it has a certain charm and, for what it's worth, less plot holes than the aforementioned film. It also holds a lot of similarities to our next film, the first American entry- the iconic and well-known The Brain That Wouldn't Die. Finished in 1959, it wasn't released until 1962. Errors in the copyright notices led to it falling into public domain, which might explain why it is the only movie we're discussing today that got the Mystery Science Theater 3000 treatment. (The MST3k episode for The Brain That Wouldn't Die is notable as the first episode with Mike Nelson on the Satellite of Love in place of Joel.)

The mad doctor in this one, Dr. Bill Cortner, is an unlikeable upstart from his first scene where he badgers his father for not "playing the game" correctly. By this he means that ethics around experimentation in medicine only hinder the advancement of the science, and that he should be free to tinker as he wishes. He's almost too realistic as a sociopathic rich kid who only gets away with his behavior because of his tenured father. He never seems to emote in any way other than irritation, and is singularly focused on his new methods of grafting, transplanting, and growing flesh. His failures are evident with his lab assistant, for whom he has transplanted a hand which withered due to rejection- and also by the hulking monster in the closet, which he inadvertently created. Despite his many flaws, he has a fiancee named Jan who is eager to spend time with him.

He brings her along to his secret lab, and manages to crash their convertible on the way. Jan is decapitated, and, thinking quickly (unencumbered by human emotion) Cortner retrieves her head. Back at his country estate, and with the help of his disabled assistant, he stabilizes Jan's head and keeps it alive with the by-now-familiar transfusion process. The laboratory set in this film is perhaps the best of the bunch; Virginia Leith as Jan is magnetic as a disembodied head. Naturally, she isn't happy about this state of affairs, and pleads with Cortner to let her die. Never one to listen to reason or be bothered by moral quandary, Bill instead sets out to find a new body- and much like in The Head, he seeks out a dancer for his needed material. The Brain That Wouldn't Die hits the right notes of absurdity to be thoroughly entertaining as a B-Movie. The monster in the closet is a great bonus element that helps to achieve the ramped-up unreality of the film, and if that wasn't enough Jan's ability to telepathically communicate with it- which eventually secures her delivery from life in the pan- makes it a classic of the genre. Incidentally, our real-life Dr. Carrel promoted the idea of telepathy in his time as well...

About a decade would pass before our two final entries arrived. Often confused with each other, the trend in the early 70s tended toward two heads on one body. This mirrors our real-life examples of Guthrie and Demikhov, but can also happen naturally. It's not uncommon for reptiles to have more than one head; examples are often found of turtles or snakes with such a condition to live healthy lives with such a condition. In mammals, it usually leads to a very brief life- but there are exceptions. A cat named Frankenlouie (or Frank and Louie) lived a full fifteen years in Massachusetts, with the "janus face" condition of diprosopus. While one could argue this is really more a case of two faces, and not two heads, it was reported that each seemed to behave independently.

In human beings, conjoined twins can sometimes appear as a two-headed person, as is the case with reality TV twins Abby and Brittany Hensel. A very rare type of undeveloped conjoined twin known as craniopagus parasiticus involves twins attached at the head, for whom only one has developed a body. Each head having its own brain, which requires quite a bit of work from the heart pumping fluids, usually leads to death in these cases. One of the heads needs to be removed for survival to be possible, and the risks of such surgery on an infant increase the mortality rate. It is perhaps worthwhile to consider this as we venture into the seventies for our double feature of double-headed transplant movies.

As previously mentioned, these two movies often get confused- and for good reason. Both were released within a year of each other (and both from American International Pictures), and have similar titles. The major difference between the two movies is that one is really pretty entertaining and well-made, and the other is The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant. The latter features our most subdued mad scientist yet, played by a young Bruce Dern, who claims he was never paid for the role. To be fair, he did little to earn it. His wife, played by "Marylin Munster #2" Pat Price, is frustrated at the amount of time Dern's Dr. Girard spends in his lab with his many two-headed animals. The menagerie in his lab is a highlight, and gains the movie a few points for effort. That and the interesting casting choices, including also Casey Kasem, are bright points in a movie with terrible cinematography, editing, and sound design. The opening theme is laughably Bacharach-esque, and the rest of the score is unmastered psychedelic noise. The titular transplant comes as a result of an escaped, incredibly violent mental patient who kills Girard's caretaker and maims himself- leaving the hulking giant of the caretaker's grown but brain-damaged son an orphan. Saving the lunatic, Girard grafts his head to the giant Danny's bulk which for some reason doesn't go well.

In contrast, 1972's The Thing With Two Heads is full of action, dynamic performances from its lead actors Ray Milland and Rosey Grier, and a soundtrack that is funky as hell. Like The Brain That Wouldn't Die, it leans into the absurdity and faithfully executes it as a serious movie. Instead of having a monster or telepathy involved, it instead brings in the flavor of Blaxploitation cinema- with the head of a racist old surgeon grafted to the body of a black death row convict in a desperate bid to save his life. Milland, as the bigoted Dr. Kirshner, had previously appeared in the excellent The Man With the X-Ray Eyes, while Rosey Grier as an innocent man who goes from the frying pan of death row to the fire of an extra head has an incredibly interesting life and career. He was an athlete, actor, former bodyguard for Robert F. Kennedy (responsible for wrestling the gun away from Sirhan Sirhan after the assassination), and a promoter of hobbies not normally associated with men. 

Grier's character, Jack, agrees to be a test subject for a thirty-day period in a medical experiment that will ultimately kill him- but, as he sees it, it will buy him time to be pardoned as a wrongfully convicted murderer. He isn't told that the experiment involved the grafting of Milland's head onto his shoulder, with the eventual plan of removing his own. Milland simultaneously is unaware that his new body would be that of an African American, and is similarly displeased. The bulk of the movie is the chase scene in the middle, as Jack escapes and kidnaps the one black doctor who Kirshner unwittingly hired for the getaway. Riding around on a dirtbike with the police in hot pursuit, an impressive 14 cruisers are destroyed, bringing the chase action to near Blues Brothers heights of destruction. It might be the best movie of the bunch, or at least equal to The Brain That Wouldn't Die. In an admittedly bad genre of bad movie, it stands heads and shoulder above the rest.

While it doesn't have the same kind of monster-in-a-closet that ...Brain That Wouldn't Die did, it does feature a two-headed gorilla which also escapes early on. The actor for the fine man-in-a-monkey-suit action is credited as Rick Baker, who also did uncredited special effects and make-up for the movie. He is best known for his revolutionary practical effects in An American Werewolf in London.

Thus ends our catalogue of movies explicitly about complete head transplantation, but the impact of the idea has spread throughout culture. We find "honorable mentions" of transplanted heads in other movies, such as Re-Animator (1985)- an adaptation of the Lovecraft tale features the undying, isolated head of David Gale as Dr. Hill. Even the Martians of Tim Burton's 1996 movie Mars Attacks! get in on the action by switching the heads and bodies of Sarah Jessica Parker's character and her chihuahua. 
 
 

The trope has also been lampooned in modern cartoons, such as The Simpsons did in their second Treehouse of Horror Halloween special. Mr. Burns attempts to create the perfect worker by putting Homer's brain inside a giant robot; this fails, and through a comedy of errors he is crushed to death and his head is grafted to Homer in order to save him.

A similar fate befalls Fry and Amy on the show Futurama, making for an awkward Valentine's Day. Futurama also has a running joke of current day celebrities existing in the future as heads suspended in jars, furthering the theme.

Venture Brothers committed to the bit, as it were, by introducing (to our eyes, anyway) the elderly supervillain characters of Red Mantle and Dragoon who end up as a two-headed entity thanks to the botched kidnapping by the character Phantom Limb. In a show with a bewildering cast of characters, all of whom seem bafflingly memorable, Red Mantle and Dragoon are hilarious in adjusted to their late-in-life circumstances sharing a body. Their bickering explores some of the finer points of two brains operating from one body, whether that involves what alcoholic beverages to drink and in what order or whether they should be considered as one or two council members in their Guild. "We are two heads on one body, and that has never, ever been hip!" complains Dragoon in their inaugural episode as a stitched together pair. Much later, they pay homage to The Thing With Two Heads in a Halloween episode, with Dragoon applying blackface to be Rosey Grier.

And there we end our quest, for now. It is hoped that the above movies have been explained adequately enough that the reader doesn't have to watch them- but it is the considered opinion of the author that perhaps you should. Head transplantation is a very uncomfortable subject, and its uncanny context within the confines of cinema make it particularly poignant as a mirror to the potential horrors of materialist science. For every medical advancement, much trial and error must occur- or must it? Where do we draw the lines in such experimentation, and what level of good excuses measures of evil? It is beyond the purview of this article to answer such questions, and posing them- as, circuitously enough, these movies do- will have to be enough for now. We must, all of us, put our heads together to forge a new future with as little collateral damage as possible. The future, like an unwanted sewn-on head, rests on our collective shoulders, and it's up to us what kind of movie we make.