Remembering Marty Feldman

---

---

"My looks are my comic equipment, and they are the right packaging for my job."

Marty Feldman

---

As hard as it is for me to believe, it was 35 years ago today that Marty Feldman died of a heart attack in Mexico City.

He was 48 years old.

I was deeply saddened when he died. It was no secret that Feldman had health issues — he suffered from thyroid disease and developed Graves' ophthalmopathy, causing his eyes to bulge, among other things — but Mel Brooks, who directed two movies in which Feldman appeared ("Young Frankenstein" and "Silent Movie"), apparently had a pretty good idea why Feldman died so young.

"He smoked sometimes half a carton of cigarettes daily," Brooks said, "drank copious amounts of black coffee and ate a diet rich in eggs and dairy products."

---

---

Feldman was a unique comedic talent, and, yes, he was right when he said his looks were his equipment. His bug–eyed look was a huge part of his appeal. It is impossible to overestimate the value of his looks to his vocation.

Somehow I think he still would have been funny with more normal eyes.

But without those bug eyes would it have been as funny when Gene Wilder said, "Damn your eyes!" in "Young Frankenstein," and Feldman replied, "Too late"?

I seriously doubt it.

I know that, if he had lived, Feldman would be in his 80s now and almost certainly retired. But we sure could have used his sense of humor in as many of the last 35 years as the fates would allow.

Something of a Nowhere Man

---

---

"If anyone was the fifth Beatle, it was Brian."

Paul McCartney

---

When one thinks of any of the greatest people in any walk of life, it can seem — in hindsight — that they had a sort of historical inevitability. But such people seldom, if ever, achieve their success with no help from anyone.

Sadly, many of the people who are most responsible for others' successes are not recognized for what they accomplished.

It's hard to imagine, for example, where the Beatles would have been without Brian Epstein, who never performed with the Beatles and was probably largely unknown, even by the Beatles' fans at the height of Beatlemania.

They might well have reached the heights they reached, anyway. But it almost certainly would have taken longer to get there — much longer — if he hadn't been around to manage them. And there are those who believe that if the Beatles' implosion as a band was inevitable, it was hastened by Epstein's absence.

In the early '60s it was Epstein's faith in the Beatles and what he believed they could be that led to a contract with producer George Martin in May 1962 — and the hits started coming in bunches. "Please Please Me." "Love Me Do." "P.S. I Love You."

And that was just in 1962. There were many more hit songs to come.

And many hit albums, too, including "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," arguably the greatest album ever recorded. It had been in music stores only three months when Epstein was found dead in his bedroom in London on this day in 1967.

---

---

There is a pretty good case to be made that Epstein left enormous footprints on the world's cultural landscape. He first saw the Beatles at the now–legendary Cavern Club in November 1961 and became their manager shortly thereafter. With his experience in sales and promotions Epstein took the Beatles in hand and made them presentable by the standards of the day, and they became major hits in the U.K.

The time would come when the Beatles would rewrite those standards, but by heeding Epstein's initial counsel of conformity they were able to get their feet in the door. From that point, their success positioned them to have that kind of influence.

It is often said that Ed Sullivan gave the Beatles to the world. But that isn't entirely true. Sullivan gave the Beatles to America, launching the British invasion, which could be seen as the same thing as giving them to the world. Then, as now, America was the ground zero of global communication, and anything that was a hit here was sure to have ripple effects all over the planet.

But the invasion might never have happened if Epstein hadn't taken over as their manager.

And yet today, 50 years after Epstein's accidental death, caused by a combination of alcohol and an overdose of sleeping pills, he is forgotten by most — a real Nowhere Man.

But perhaps not entirely. He finally received a spot in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland in 2014, more than a quarter of a century after the band he discovered was inducted and at least 10 years since each Beatle (with the exception of Ringo Starr) was inducted as an individual performer.

Better late than never, I suppose.

Death of a Sex Symbol

---

---

Most people living today probably have no memory of Jayne Mansfield.

In her day, she was a sex symbol — not as accomplished as Marilyn Monroe but certainly more endowed. And, by this time in 1967, Monroe had been dead for nearly five years. Mansfield had the sex symbol spotlight virtually to herself.

It was 50 years ago today — around 2:30 in the morning — that Mansfield died in a car crash in Slidell, Louisiana, less than 20 miles north–northwest of New Orleans, where Mansfield was to appear on TV station WDSU's ground–breaking Midday show.

Mansfield made two appearances at a supper club in Biloxi, Mississippi, the night of June 28, then she and five others — her boyfriend, her three children and their 20–year–old driver — began the trip to New Orleans around midnight.

The car crashed into the rear of a tractor/trailer that had slowed down behind a truck spraying mosquito fogger. The driver of the car couldn't see the tractor/trailer because it was shrouded in the mosquito fogger. The three adults in the front were killed immediately. The three children, who were sleeping in the back, escaped with minor injuries.

Mansfield was before my time, but her death became notorious. I can remember talking about it with my friends on the playground of my elementary school. I don't remember how the subject came up. One of us probably heard our parents talking about it.

Anyway, we knew the most notorious part of the story — that she was decapitated in the collision. That was an urban legend that began with pictures showing Mansfield's blonde wig in the wreckage. I have heard that she was wearing the wig at the time of the crash so there may have been parts of her scalp and strands of her real hair in the wig, but the official cause of death was given as a crushed skull, not decapitation.

Monroe's appearance as Playboy's first centerfold got the magazine off the ground in December 1953, but Mansfield's appearance as the centerfold in February 1955 gave it a real shot in the arm — as did her other appearances in the magazine (more than 30 of them).

Actually, it was a very modest pose by modern standards, but it created quite a stir in 1955.

Mansfield cultivated the role of sex symbol in a way that Monroe never did. Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" had nothing on Mansfield. Her clothes were forever falling off in public or there would be strategic bursts at the seams or she would wear low–cut dresses with no bra.

In fact, it was during a promotion for a movie ("Underwater!") that Mansfield deliberately wore a bikini that was too small. When she dove into the pool, the top came off — and attracted Playboy's attention.

But in death, Mansfield did make a contribution to the betterment of mankind. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration recommended installing underride guards on all tractor/trailers. The objective of the underride guard is to provide a little protection for passenger cars that collide with a tractor/trailer from behind.

It is known as a "Mansfield bar."

The 400th Anniversary of the Bard's Death

---

---

If you read this blog with any regularity, you know that I write about many entertainment–related topics. I have written about William Shakespeare — directly or indirectly — four times. This is the fifth.

I last wrote about Shakespeare around the 450th anniversary of his birth. I say "around" because the exact date of his birth is not known.

The date of his death is another matter. That was 400 years ago yesterday, and it prompted observances the world over.

One of the grandest celebrations was at Shakespeare's birthplace in Stratford–upon–Avon, where more than 10,000 people attended a parade marking the occasion.

If you think that it is inappropriate to have a parade at Shakespeare's birthplace on the anniversary of his death, you are obviously unaware of something I have mentioned in this blog before. Shakespeare's actual birth date is unknown. It is only known that he was born in April 1564, but many people have speculated that he was born on April 23. If that is true, then the bard died on his birthday.

When I wrote about the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare's birth, the emphasis of my post was the many ways Shakespeare has influenced modern English. That continues to fascinate people in all kinds of ways. For example, on the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's death, The Sun focused on the top insults from his plays.

You never know when a good 16th–century putdown is going to be called for.

If you happen to be in the Boston area, a more enlightening experience may be found at the Boston Public Library's exhibit of rare first and early editions and forgeries.

Chicago, it seems, would be the best place to satisfy a hunger for the bard. A yearlong festival in that city will feature "Shakespeare–themed menus from Chicago chefs,"

The best way to honor Shakespeare, it seems to me, would be to watch a Shakespearean play. A live performance would have been best, and Barack Obama marked the occasion suitably by visiting the famed Globe Theatre and observing Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy where it was almost certainly first performed before an audience.

The Maker of Middle Earth

---

---

"I am, in fact, a Hobbit (in all but size). I like gardens, trees and unmechanized farmlands; I smoke a pipe and like good plain food (unrefrigerated) but detest French cooking; I like, and even dare to wear in these dull days, ornamental waistcoats. I am fond of mushrooms (out of a field); have a very simple sense of humor (which even my appreciative critics find tiresome); I go to bed late and get up late (when possible). I do not travel much."

J.R.R. Tolkien

---

When J.R.R. Tolkien died 40 years ago tomorrow, I had not yet read "The Hobbit" or the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy.

"The Hobbit" might have been about my speed at that time in my life. The "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, though, definitely would have been beyond my years.

I read those books later when I was in high school. And I learned what all the cool kids had learned long before. I'd seen those kids carrying around their copies of whichever volumes of "Lord of the Rings" they happened to be reading at the time like emblems of some kind of exclusive club, a club to which I did not belong until later.

By then, though, they had moved on to other things.

When I finally joined that club, I was filled with admiration for the things Tolkien wrote. To put things in perspective, I had been doing a lot of writing by that time in my life, and I felt a great appreciation for well–written pieces, be they articles or books. Still do.

But on this day in 1973, I'm not sure I even knew who Tolkien was.

Consequently, I often feel as if I missed out on something special that everyone else got. Not permanently, of course. I finally got it, but I didn't get to experience it along with everyone else in my peer group. I felt out of step, somehow.

That was really kind of the story of my life when I was growing up. My family lived in the country, and there were many times when I felt isolated from my friends in town. When the school day ended, I got on the school bus and it took me home. A few kids my age lived in the general vicinity of my house, but most of my friends lived in town, and it always seemed to me that they experienced things as a group before I experienced them.

Tolkien was like everything else.

I was really isolated from my friends when Tolkien died. My father was a college professor, and he was on a four–month sabbatical in another state (with my mother, my brother and me). But, at that time, I doubt that many (if any) of my friends had read Tolkien yet.

Now that I think of it, I don't recall seeing any of my friends with their copies of volumes of the "Rings" trilogy until years later.

When I finally read "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy, I kept thinking it would make a wonderful movie. As it turned out, it inspired three great movies.

But I also kept thinking that it wouldn't be possible technically to put Tolkien's vision on film. And that was true — at that time.

But 30 years after Tolkien's death, the film trilogy based on his books was being honored in every possible way.

I've often wondered what Tolkien would have thought of that.

Projected moving pictures made their debut when he was small, and the medium was evolving through most of his adult life, which was largely devoted to writing, either doing it or teaching it. My guess is he gave little thought to movies — and probably less to whether anything he wrote would be made into one.

There are times when I think that Tolkien, with his knack for story telling, must have mused about the possibility that his works would be preserved on film — even if filmmaking was primitive at that time.

But then I think that his devotion to the fantasy world that he had created — as well as his scholarly interest in language — would not permit him to tolerate anything less than perfection in its film representation. And filmmaking was decidedly imperfect during his lifetime.

Of course, that's just an educated guess — and, perhaps, some wishful thinking.

As I say, he probably never gave it a thought.

The Special Magic of Music

---

---

"Look out any window
Look out any open door
Look out any window
See what's going on
In the world around you."

Bruce and Jonathan Hornsby

---

Twenty–five years ago today, I started working for a midsized daily newspaper in north Texas.

That sentence really doesn't do justice to the wide range of emotions I was experiencing on this day in 1988. Some background information probably is in order.

I grew up in Arkansas, went to school there, and I had been working there ever since finishing my schooling (or so I thought). My life was there. My friends were there. And, by 1988, I felt like I had a few things going for me — not everything I had hoped for but some things. I was working for the newspaper I had dreamed of working for since I was a boy. It didn't pay as well as I guess I had hoped it would, and I had been looking for alternatives in 1988, but that didn't change the fact that I was proud to be a part of that organization.

My parents, both natives of Texas, had moved back there a few years earlier, and my mother was helping me in any way she could think of to find a more significant job. She offered suggestions, which were of little help, frankly, from a distance — but her ideas did help me stay focused.

Mom was better at identifying options in her own territory, and she encouraged me to move to Texas. If a better job could not be found, I could go to graduate school and find some sort of temporary job to make ends meet.

By the summer of 1988, I had been accepted by the University of North Texas' graduate program, and I had been offered a job at the Denton newspaper. It felt like the planets were moving into line.

I didn't really have a long–term plan in mind. If I had, I would have realized that about the only thing you can do with a master's in journalism is teach, and teaching was not my long–term objective in those days. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed working with students, sharing with them the things I have learned over the years. I hope it will make them better journalists.

But, even though I have now been teaching for close to one–eighth of my life, I'm not sure if that is where my future — or what is left of it — lies. Consequently, that degree may not have much real value in my life. I don't know yet.

Anyway, I decided to take the plunge for grad school. I gave my two weeks' notice in mid–July, and I made the move on August 7. In between, I picked up a few albums, and I listened to them a few times before my move, but I didn't really listen to them until after the move was behind me.

I wasn't sure at the time if I was doing the right thing. I guess it's normal to have such doubts. I had a vague idea of what I was getting. I would be living close to my parents and my brother for the first time since I was in school (and, ironically, I would be going back to school at about the same time that I moved so close to my family) and in an area with which I was pretty familiar. After all, I'd been visiting Dallas all my life. It seemed like my best option.

But, fairly quickly, I discovered that, for many reasons, living someplace is not the same as visiting the same place. After the move was over, I could look around my apartment and see all kinds of things that were familiar — but they were in new surroundings, and those surroundings didn't include my friends back in Little Rock.

My life had changed, and there were many times when I thought it wasn't for the better. I wanted free time in the evenings, which I had, but my friends were more than 300 miles away. When school started up a few weeks later, I discovered that my evenings would be taken up with an entirely new preoccupation — graduate school and the demands of each class.

My job was the same and yet different, too. I was doing the same work for the newspaper that I had done before — but my new job was at an afternoon newspaper whereas I had spent the last 4½ years working for a morning newspaper.

The difference between them was, literally, night and day.

For the latter, I worked nights; the hours changed a bit over the years, but typically I went to work around 3 p.m., and my shift ended around midnight. On high school and college football nights, it was not unusual for my shift to go on until 2 or 3 in the morning.

For the former, I had to be at work by 5 a.m. in order to finish putting together that afternoon's newspaper. Trying to function for the first month or so was like trying to cope with a never–ending case of jet lag. I would find myself at home in the afternoons, totally uncertain what I should be doing. Half of me said I should be getting ready for work, and the other half reminded me that I had already been to work.

It was during this time that I listened — really listened — to the records I had purchased in the weeks before my move. (In hindsight, I probably should have waited until after my move to purchase those records. Those vinyl LPs were pretty heavy, and I didn't need the additional bulk.)

The most prominent probably was "Scenes From the Southside," Bruce Hornsby's followup to his Grammy–winning debut album, "The Way It Is."

It's hard to describe my mindset at that time. Somewhere in my mind, I think I always expected to move back to Arkansas. I had never imagined my life being anywhere else. I guess I figured my exile to Texas would be temporary.

And, too, I think I was in kind of a state of disbelief. I had left behind what had always been my dream job for a very uncertain future.

Well, here I am, 25 years later, and I haven't been back to Arkansas except for visits. I haven't lived in Texas the whole time, either — I lived in Oklahoma for four years — but my exile has lasted a lot longer than I dreamed it would.

Most of the time, I suppose, that doesn't bother me, but there are times when it does ... like football Saturdays and occasions when my thoughts return, either through reverie or by force, to the days of the past.

And today, on the 25th anniversary. I remember how I felt on that first day — anxious, exhilarated and then totally astonished to be finished with my work by 2 in the afternoon! Then I went home, stretched out on my couch and fell asleep!

Heck, I had been up since shortly before 4 a.m.

When I woke up, I listened to that Bruce Hornsby album, especially the track titled "Look Out Any Window." I listened to it over and over. I thought of the friends I had left behind, some of whom are deceased now, and I thought of the future, much of which has now played out in my life. I can only hope there is more to come before I check out.

Life goes on within you and without you, George Harrison wrote. I never really knew what that meant until 25 years ago today.

That is the special magic, the special power of music.

Remembering George Carlin

---

---

"If you have selfish, ignorant citizens, you're going to get selfish, ignorant leaders."

George Carlin (1937–2008)

---

Five years ago today, George Carlin died of heart failure at the age of 71.

He was my favorite comedian — still is — and I still laugh when I hear his recordings.

And I marvel at his wisdom. It remains relevant, be it five years after his death or 40 years after it was put on a record.

That is the special gift of artists. Perhaps they paint or sculpt or perhaps they are comedians or actors or musicians — or writers like myself. The best do things that make deep impressions on us and continue to do so — even long after they are gone.

For me, George Carlin was such an artist.

At times, it almost seems as if there has never been a time when I did not know his name, but I know that isn't true. As nearly as I can remember, I first heard of him when I was in sixth grade. Some of my friends' parents (or older siblings) had his early comedy albums, and they had memorized some of his routines. They couldn't wait to share them with me, and I couldn't stop laughing when they did.

(The only comedy album my parents had was one by Bob Newhart. It was funny, but Newhart was never as funny as Carlin.)

I laughed even more when I heard the albums. I'm listening to one as I write this, and I have to stop writing now and then because it's too hard to write when I'm laughing so hard. I know what's coming — I've listened to them so often over the years that I have the material on many of his albums memorized — but they're still funny.

I expect Carlin to keep me laughing for the rest of my life.

Like any great artist, Carlin had certain themes to which he returned, time and time again.

He often ranted about language (which, as a journalist, I appreciate — and I often wonder if his routines, in some way, served to steer me in that direction). I could appreciate it when he complained about the pomposity of language, how it was often designed to conceal things.

"You can't be afraid of words that speak the truth," he said. "I don't like words that hide the truth. I don't like words that conceal reality. I don't like euphemisms or euphemistic language. And American English is loaded with euphemisms."

---

---

And Carlin wouldn't stop after an observation like that. He delivered with both barrels.

"Sometime during my life," he said, "toilet paper became bathroom tissue. I wasn't notified of this. No one asked me if I agreed with it. It just happened. Toilet paper became bathroom tissue.

"Sneakers became running shoes. False teeth became dental appliances. Medicine became medication. Information became directory assistance. The dump became the landfill. Car crashes became automobile accidents. Partly cloudy became partly sunny. Motels became motor lodges. House trailers became mobile homes. Used cars became previously owned transportation. Room service became guest room dining. Constipation became occasional irregularity."

See what I mean?

Carlin had some choice words to say about things like religion, politics and several subjects that usually aren't mentioned in polite company. But it was his routines on language that I liked the best.

Like his most famous routine — "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television." In recent years, I have heard a few of those words on television, which is something I think would have amused Carlin. Perhaps it did. A word or two from that list had already gained a certain amount of TV acceptance by the time of his death.

Nevertheless, I think he was spot on about some of those words. I doubt that they will ever be permissible on network television (cable is another matter) — at least, not in my lifetime.

---

---

The movies, of course, are another matter, and Carlin did appear in a couple of movies. I saw one — "Dogma" — which came out in 1999. Carlin (who was brought up a Catholic) played a Catholic cardinal who was busy promoting a new pro–Catholicism campaign — Catholicism Wow! — with a more modern version of Jesus (Buddy Christ) as its representative.

I can only imagine how Carlin responded when the part was offered to him.

Carlin always seemed to be busy with something. On Oct. 11, 1975, he was the very first host of Saturday Night Live.

I know it is hard for a lot of people in the 21st century to believe, but, for about a decade before the debut of Saturday Night Live, NBC aired reruns of Johnny Carson late on weekend nights. But Carson decided he didn't want to do that. He wanted to hold the taped shows to run during the week whenever he took time off.

That alone was kind of a stunning development. Originally, Carson preferred to have guest hosts (of which Carlin was one) to fill in for him when he took his vacations. He wanted the show to be fresh in those days.

NBC ran promotions for the new show, featuring Carlin, for weeks — and, when the show made its debut, it was an immediate smash hit. Part of that was undoubtedly due to the talented ensemble cast (the Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time Players), but I always felt that at least part of it was because of Carlin's popularity.

In October 1975, I don't think anyone knew the names of those who would become regulars on the show — but darn near everyone knew who Carlin was, and I believed that a lot of people who tuned in that night did so because Carlin was the host. I know that is the reason why I tuned in.

I don't recall if Carlin ever hosted SNL again. But he lent the show his fame in its first program, which gave it instant credibility. And, once people watched it and began to become familiar with people who would soon be household names (i.e., John Belushi, Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd), they became regular viewers.

SNL has now been on the air for nearly 40 years. It is conceivable it would not have lasted past its first night if Carlin had not been the host.

His influence truly knew no restrictions.

The Day the Laughter Died

---

---

Words really can't express how shocking it was to hear 15 years ago today that comedian Phil Hartman was dead.

It wasn't really a shock to hear that someone from Saturday Night Live was dead. The public had already been conditioned to that to some degree with the deaths of John Belushi in 1982, Gilda Radner in 1989 and Chris Farley in 1997.

There was already something of a perception that people with SNL connections were somehow more likely to die young than their peers.

But Hartman really didn't fit the profile. He was nearly 50 years old, and he had neither a history of risky behavior nor a life–threatening disease.

What wasn't generally known was that his wife was unstable.

And, fueled by drugs and alcohol in the early morning hours of this day in 1998, she shot Hartman to death while he slept, confessed to at least two people that she had killed her husband, then turned the gun on herself.

Most of the people who have studied homicide and suicide will tell you that men are far more likely to use a gun than are women — at least when it comes to suicide. I'm not sure about homicides. I'm not really sure how one would classify this case — except to say it was a tragedy.

Frankly, I'm not sure I would have used the word tragedy to describe what happened 15 years ago. Most people probably would describe it as a tragedy; I guess it depends on how one defines tragedy. I think of a tragedy as being something that is beyond human control — a natural disaster.

In that context, it was hard to know how to classify the Hartman murder–suicide. Was it beyond anyone's power to control, like a hurricane or an earthquake? Or perhaps it could have been prevented if people who knew Hartman's wife was unstable had done something instead of remaining silent.

Such silence may have been the real tragedy. Or perhaps Brynn Omdahl Hartman concealed her condition from everyone. Maybe that is what made it tragic — the fact that there may have been no way for anyone to see it coming, perhaps not even Hartman's closest friends.

There are still — and will, I fear, remain — so many unanswered questions.

With Belushi, I think there were always suspicions that his life might end the way it did. Naturally, his death was met with grief but not necessarily shock.

Farley's weight issues were well known and, apparently, his substance abuse problems also were known among his friends and family. In hindsight, the two were a volatile mix.

Radner's ultimately fatal battle with cancer was not a secret — but neither was it widely known so her death might have been a surprise to some.

But Hartman's death was totally unexpected.

I remember when word of his death reached the office where I was working. Everyone seemed quieter, more subdued than usual. Even those who probably didn't watch SNL often, if at all.

---

---

There probably weren't many of them in those days.

Periodically, of course, SNL has had low ratings, typically when it has gone through major changes in the cast.

But back in the mid– to late 1980s and early to mid–'90s, I guess, just about everyone watched it — when Phil Hartman and Dana Carvey were on the show.

There were others, too, but everyone tuned in mostly to see those two. Personally, I always think of Carvey posing as Ross Perot and Hartman posing as his running mate, Admiral Stockdale, in an SNL skit during the 1992 presidential election campaign.

They were also funny in a brief but memorable segment of a longer skit when Carvey played Jimmy Stewart visiting his old Hollywood pal, Ronald Reagan (played by Hartman), in the White House.

But Hartman made a name for himself doing other portrayals. For example, I don't know if anyone else on SNL portrayed Reagan. I'm sure someone must have, maybe even someone I ought to know but whose name escapes me now, but I was just as entertained by Hartman's portrayal of the Gipper as I was by Dan Aykroyd's portrayals of Richard Nixon and Jimmy Carter.

---

---

And I thought his portrayals of Bill Clinton were side–splittingly funny. Of course, I grew up in Arkansas, and I watched from up close — I was a young reporter covering one of his gubernatorial campaigns — as Clinton's then–flagging political career got a jump start.

So I suppose some things that I found especially funny were things that most casual observers would miss. Hartman picked up on those things.

That was my first thought when I heard that Hartman was dead. I thought of him as Clinton, and I thought that I would miss that a great deal.

That was a rather selfish way of looking at it, I guess. And I have felt bad about that in the last 15 years, but the truth is that I did miss him in the last years of the Clinton presidency — and in the more than 10 years since Clinton left the White House.

I assume that, if Hillary Clinton is elected president in 2016, former President Clinton will come with her to the White House, which would have been a situation too rich with possibilities for Hartman and the SNL writers to ignore.

But that is speculation (and, too, it presupposes that a nearly 70–year–old Hartman would either remain with SNL for two more decades or return as a guest).

The real loss was suffered by Hartman's two children, both under 10 at the time and now in their 20s. They will begin to inherit their father's estate when they turn 25 — the oldest turns 25 next year — but they have had to grow up without their parents, and that is a loss for which no amount of money can compensate.

Imagine ...

---

---

Today is the 32nd anniversary of the shooting of John Lennon.

I always have this feeling of great sadness on this day. Every year. As soon as I remember that it is the anniversary, I remember that day. It was probably the most personal moment of my college days. It was certainly the most memorable. To this day, I can remember almost every detail of that day with a clarity I cannot achieve with almost any other day in my life — even one as recent as yesterday.

(The sole exception to that would be the day my mother died, but that is another story.)

I've grown used to that, but I wasn't prepared for the realization that, on this day a mere eight years from now, John Lennon will have been dead as long as he was alive. Sean, the son Lennon and Yoko Ono had together and about whom Lennon sang on his last album before his death, will be 45 — five years older than his father was when he died.

I still find it stunning when I think of all that Lennon accomplished in his 40 years — and all he could have accomplished had he lived.

I have always felt that was the great tragedy — all the contributions to art and music and social thought that Lennon could have and almost certainly would have made in the 1980s and beyond but were lost on that December night in New York 32 years ago.

My memory is of a melancholy Christmas that year. All my thoughts were overshadowed by the shooting of John Lennon. The Beatles, you see, played the music of my childhood. I cannot remember a time when I did not know songs like "A Hard Day's Night" or "She Loves You" — they were played so frequently on the radio when I was little.

Losing the first Beatle was a traumatic experience.

It wasn't any easier some 20 years later when George Harrison died, but at least there was some advance warning that allowed Harrison's fans to prepare themselves. He had been sick for awhile.

But Lennon's death was entirely unexpected, a real shock.

Imagine what might have been.

Remembering the Death of John Denver

---

---

Yesterday was a somber anniversary for me, so somber, in fact, that I could scarcely think about it, much less write about it.

It was the 15th anniversary of the private airplane crash that took the life of singer John Denver.

Denver was one of my favorite singers when I was in my early teens, and he was one of my mother's favorite singers, too. Mom died in a flood a couple of years before Denver died while piloting an experimental plane that he had recently purchased, crashing into the Pacific Ocean near Pacific Grove, Calif.

When I heard of Denver's death, I felt as if I had lost Mom all over again.

Denver had extensive flying experience. In fact, he purchased an airplane and flew himself to concerts around the time that I really started listening to his music. I actually did see him perform once, and, for all I know, he may have flown himself there.

About a year before his death, though, the Federal Aviation Administration became aware that he had not abstained from alcohol after his drunk driving arrests and revoked his medical certification. Consequently, at the time of his fatal crash, Denver was not authorized to fly.

But when his body underwent an autopsy, no signs of alcohol or drugs were found in his system.

The actual reason for the crash, the FAA determined, was that Denver was unable to switch fuel tanks in flight. The fuel in the tank that was in use had been almost entirely depleted when the plane was transferred to nearby Monterey and Denver did some practice maneuvers before taking off on his final flight.

The design of the plane made it impossible for the pilot to safely switch tanks while strapped in his seat.

Sadly, an offer to refuel the plane was made, but Denver declined, saying that he would only be flying for about an hour.

He was 53 at the time of his death.

The Marilyn Mystery

---

---

Marilyn Monroe is such an iconic figure that you almost have to remind yourself that she really did exist.

I suppose if she hadn't existed, it would have been necessary to invent her.

Next Sunday marks half a century since she died, but, in memory, she is still the young and beautiful woman, the eternal sex symbol, that she was in August 1962. She was, after all, only 36.

Earlier that summer, she went skinny dipping for the cameras — and knocked all the competition off the magazine covers.

In May of that year, she sang "Happy Birthday to You" to President Kennedy in that breathless — and sexy — way that only she could.

It still seems impossible to imagine that vibrant, exciting woman, the embodiment of everything that heterosexual males (well, most of them) find irresistible, could have died in her bed one hot August night.

But it was true.

If people remember Marilyn — and she truly is one of the few people who can be mentioned by first name only and everyone knows who is being discussed — as a "distressed damsel," as Rafer Guzman calls her in Newsday, it's because she really was a damsel in distress.

All her life.

Sometimes the distress was her own doing, other times it wasn't.

I guess she fit the part of damsel in distress so easily in the public's mind because she played one so often in the movies — and that was the lucrative side of her life, I suppose — although Guzman disagrees: "Monroe rarely played sad or tragic roles."

I would argue that is not correct. There was often a tragic side to the roles she played, even if those roles were not "sad or tragic." In fact, when I think of Marilyn, my thoughts often turn to a movie she made 60 years ago — "Niagara."

In "Niagara," Marilyn played a hot–blooded woman whose attempt to murder her husband backfired. There are moments in that movie when Marilyn's face goes from an expression of absolute bliss to one of dread and fear in just a couple of seconds, and her personality, her character's very thoughts revealed in her eyes, shifts accordingly.

The same can be said of many of her other roles, even those that were essentially light and funny. She added an extra layer to the roles she played — layers that sometimes made me wonder if they had been the writers' ideas or Marilyn's.

But she was also a damsel in distress in her private life — failed marriages, failed pregnancies, substance abuse. In hindsight, her life resembles a runaway train — on a self–destructive path and likely to plow through anything and anyone that got in the way.

What a loss it was to movies that she didn't live longer and get the chance to play the kinds of roles that almost certainly would have come her way later in her life.

But perhaps, as Guzman suggests, there might be no place for Marilyn in modern movies. I suppose she would be retired by now, but, like the Beatles, a persona like hers might only have been possible in the era in which she lived.

If she hadn't died 50 years ago, she might have made her last screen appearance before Y2K — perhaps well before.

But just think what would not have been part of the fabric of American life if she had lived — primarily, I suppose, no speculation about a Kennedy conspiracy to kill her to keep her from spilling the beans about her alleged involvement with the president and his brother.

The relationship between men and women changed in many ways in the years after Marilyn's death, and one must wonder if she was versatile enough to keep up with the changes.

And, even if she had lived, Marilyn may well have been as much a relic of the mid–20th century as the "magic red sweater" that Lois Banner of the Daily Mail claims launched her career.

Her own words, in an interview published shortly before she died, offer few clues into how she might (or might not) have been able to cope when the landscape around her shifted.

"If fame goes by, so long, I've had you, fame," she told Richard Meryman of LIFE magazine. "If it goes by, I've always known it was fickle. So at least it's something I experienced, but that's not where I live."

It's all part of that enduring Marilyn mystery.

Young at Art

---

---

"Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children."

George Bernard Shaw

---

There probably isn't much of a reason for modern people to think about — or even remember at all — Anna Mary Robertson Moses.

For that matter, there wasn't much of a reason for her contemporaries to think about her through most of her life.

She was born a couple of months before Abraham Lincoln was elected president, and she died 50 years ago today, less than a year after John F. Kennedy became president. For most of her adult life, she was an ordinary wife and mother; she gave birth to 10 children in the late 19th century and early 20th century, half of whom did not live past infancy.

As she was raising her children, Anna Moses often showed signs of the creativity that would blossom in her later years, but that creativity usually was expressed through embroidery. As she got older, arthritis made that too arduous for her, and her sister suggested painting.

"It was this pivotal suggestion," says the Orlando (Fla.) Museum of Art's website, "that spurred Grandma Moses' painting career in her late 70s."

Well, that was what her sister said.

Grandma Moses said she took up painting because she wanted to give the postman a Christmas gift, and she concluded that painting was easier for her than baking.

Whichever version was correct — and, for all I know, there may have been elements of truth in both — it was truly fortunate that Grandma Moses made the decision she did.

Her style was primitive. That was the art community's word for it, depicting rural scenes and giving the appearance of having been painted by someone much younger.

That was really the essence of Grandma Moses' art and life. If her work suggested a young and innocent artist, it was because her mind really was young and innocent even if it occupied an elderly body.

And she became something of a poster child for those who were young at heart.

When I was growing up, I often heard someone referred to as a "real Grandma Moses" because he or she had embarked on something new at an advanced age. Rarely, if ever, was it something as consequential as taking on the challenge of an entirely new career — but I don't really think Grandma Moses intended her painting to be a career move.

At least, not right away.

Eventually, I am told, Grandma Moses produced more than 3,500 pieces of art. They fill museum galleries across the nation.

But, originally, she made paintings to give as gifts — not only to the postman but also to friends and relatives with whom she had stayed on her travels. She charged a few dollars for others — paltry sums by modern standards but not insignificant for that time.

The price for one of her paintings went up considerably after the rest of the world discovered her in the late 1930s, and she became an inspiration — almost a patron saint — for those who embark on a new career late in life.

She was inspirational in other ways, too. Fans of the Beverly Hillbillies TV series may recall that the seldom–used name for the character of Granny was Daisy Moses — an homage to the real Grandma Moses, who died shortly before the series went on the air.

But it was more than an homage. The Granny character dabbled in several things — medicine, music and art — in that series, taking on the stereotype of an elderly, mentally and physically disengaged person.

Granny continued to make soap for her family, as she had probably done for decades. She did all the cooking and cleaning — and she still found time to do some recreational painting, utilizing barn paint.

That was a particularly nice touch because Grandma Moses was known for taking seemingly useless items and creating something useful from them. She made quilts from scraps of cloth, and I've heard that she even used leftover barn paint in some of her earliest works.

The artistic applications of such apparently useless items became known as "hobby art" nearly two decades after Grandma Moses died.

For a "primitive" artist, she was truly ahead of her time.

Ten Years Without George Harrison

---

---

Nearly a year ago, a friend of mine asked me to write something about George Harrison.

I knew we were coming up on the 10th anniversary of Harrison's death so I promised her that I would. And this is the fulfillment of that promise.

But I've really been fulfilling the promise incrementally over the year.

Since she made that request, I have written other pieces that mentioned Harrison — specifically, in connection with "Taxman" and when I wrote about his musical tribute to former Beatles bandmate John Lennon and when I wrote of the anniversaries of the benefit concerts for Bangladesh and the release of the Beatles album "Revolver."

All of that has reminded me how much modern music owes the "quiet Beatle." I haven't seen Martin Scorsese's HBO documentary about Harrison, but I have heard that it is an important step in giving him the recognition he never really seemed to get during his life.

If that is so, then I applaud it.

Because I have learned things about Harrison as I have worked on this article since making my promise — perhaps I re–learned some of them.

There were lots of things about Harrison that I already knew or thought I knew.

I knew Harrison was a seeker. He was easily the most spiritual of the four Beatles. And that has its place, I suppose. It may be the single quality that people mention most about Harrison.

There are worse ways to be remembered.

But I always felt there was more to him than that. Harrison possessed a sensitivity that Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr did not — at least not to the extent that Harrison did.

That sensitivity could be seen in the passion he had for humanitarian causes. That wasn't something he did because it was fashionable. He was involved in humanitarian issues all along, but he was more visible after the Beatles split up.

His role with the Beatles was always limited. He always existed in the overwhelming shadow of the Lennon–McCartney partnership, but that role, thankfully, expanded in the later years, and the world was allowed to see more of his talent in songs like "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "Here Comes the Sun," "Something" and "Within You Without You."

Harrison's most significant contributions were musical, but that doesn't mean his musical talent and his spirituality were kept separate from each other; far from it. The two often converged — as when Harrison's acceptance of Indian Hinduism led to the introduction of sitar music to Western listeners.

"In his most obvious contribution to music as lead guitarist for the Beatles, George Harrison provided the band with a lyrical style of playing in which every note mattered," wrote Bruce Eder for AllMusic.com.

"Later on, as a songwriter with the Beatles and subsequently as a solo artist, Harrison used his celebrity and his musical sensibilities to try and raise the awareness of millions of listeners about issues much bigger than music."

That's probably what sticks out in my memory of George Harrison. His music always had an other–worldly aura to it. Sometimes it was subtle, other times it wasn't so subtle. But it was always about things that were bigger than the music alone.

Music was where Harrison found his sense of purpose. He perceived, as many do, that his true mission in life was to seek a higher power, and I feel that, ultimately, he believed he had reached it through his music.

But there was, as I say, the humanitarian side of Harrison that really got its chance to blossom when the Beatles broke up.

Do spirituality and sensitivity exist as separate entities? That is a different argument — and one in which I prefer not to engage on this occasion.

But I will say this: As much as I admired Lennon and as much respect as I have for what McCartney has done musically, Harrison truly distinguished himself post–Beatlemania — apart from writing and recording popular songs and beyond anything the other three did.

Harrison was, as John Donne wrote centuries ago, "involved in mankind."

He was really the first to organize a benefit concert featuring several big–name performers, a pioneer whose experiences still serve as useful guides for what to do and what not to do. His concerts for Bangladesh truly blazed a trail for others to follow.

I sensed a certain amount of peace in the last years of his life — peace that may have been missing when he was young and his pursuit of the spiritual world often seemed to be at odds with the people and things that surrounded him.

That pursuit didn't get any easier as he got older. In 1999, he was stabbed by an intruder in his home, an ironic turn of events, considering that, in the 19 years since Lennon's murder, Harrison may have been the most reclusive of the surviving Beatles, avoiding most public appearances and probably taking more security precautions than McCartney or Starr.

He had been diagnosed with throat cancer a couple of years earlier, but it seemed to have been successfully treated and nothing more was heard about that until 2001, when it was revealed, in successive months, that he had been treated for lung cancer and a brain tumor.

The final months of his life were hardly peaceful. There were reports that his death was near, even when it turned out not to be true.

And then there was the report that was true. In mid– to late November, it was reported that George Harrison was expected to die within days.

And so he did.

Maybe age — as it has long been rumored to do — brought him peace and wisdom even though he was only 58 when he died.

Both were well earned.

A Neighborhood Concert for Half a Million People

---

---

On this day in 1981, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel reunited for a free concert in New York's Central Park.

My memory of that time is that there was considerable publicity surrounding the event. It had been at least 10 years since the two had performed together in public (with a few exceptions when they reunited briefly, as they did in 1975 when they recorded "My Little Town") and half a million people showed up on that mid–September Saturday to hear a couple of native New Yorkers in what Paul Simon called "a neighborhood concert."

I guess it goes without saying that expectations were quite high.

Sometime after that day, it was announced that a recording of the concert would be released in 1982. A friend of mine and I waited — not always patiently, I might add — for that record to come out, and, for awhile, one of us went to the local record stores every day and reported to the other that it still wasn't available.

"Not yet," the one who had checked the record stores would report. No further elaboration was needed.

I don't remember which of us got the album first, but whoever it was called the other with the joyful news. I do remember that it wasn't long at all before we both had a copy of it.

It was one of the few times in my life when I eagerly anticipated something — a book, a movie, a record — that did not ultimately disappoint. This album exceeded my expectations.

As I say, Simon and Garfunkel hadn't performed together in public in more than 10 years. I assume they did rehearse before the concert in Central Park, but, to the ears of someone who was raised on their music, they sounded as if the last time they played for an audience was just the night before.

They sounded that polished, that flawless to me.

They were comfortable playing the songs that made them one of the most beloved duos in history, and some songs — "Old Friends" springs to mind — were stunningly poignant.

Sometime in the spring of 1982, I saw a videotape of the concert on cable. I hadn't had the album all that long, but I had listened to it almost exclusively, and I could sing along with every song on it. I knew every sound, every vocal inflection, every spot that differed from the old studio recordings in any way.

I thought that the only difference was that I could see them singing the songs — I considered that a tremendous step forward, too.

---

---

But I was wrong. There was a significant difference. The album didn't include a song called "The Late Great Johnny Ace," a tune Simon wrote following the murder of John Lennon the year before but had never recorded.

The song didn't mention Lennon until near the end, but, when it did, a disturbed fan rushed the stage and was pulled away before he could reach Simon.

Lennon's murder was still an open wound for many people, and that song, sung as it was a short distance from where Lennon had been gunned down, may have been regarded as too controversial for the executives at Warner Brothers.

It was an open wound for me, too, but I still would have liked to have had that song on the album. I thought it was a great song, and a good example of something that has really always amazed me about Paul Simon. Almost without fail, every song he has written and recorded has been damn near perfect — in concept, in execution, in everything.

He always seems to convey precisely the mood he wants to convey.

---

---

And the familiar Simon and Garfunkel songs like "Mrs. Robinson," "Homeward Bound," "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and so many others (I really wanted to hear songs like "I Am A Rock," but they probably would have had to play all night to cover everything I wanted to hear) sounded great — but so did the songs from Simon's solo career, like "Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard" and "Kodachrome" and "Slip Slidin' Away" — all of which benefited from the addition of Garfunkel's tenor.

Particularly noteworthy was "Late in the Evening," which was part of Simon's soundtrack for the 1980 movie "One Trick Pony."

"Late in the Evening" was played about midway through the show — and then it was reprised as the finale. It's the only song that was played twice that night.

The concert wasn't entirely about their folk–rock hits from the 1960s. There were songs from both of their solo careers. Garfunkel's solo career was more modest than Simon's, but the concert did include "A Heart in New York" from the album Garfunkel released just before the concert in Central Park.

But nothing could compare, really, to their renditions of the songs that made them famous. It was what all those folks came to Central Park to hear.

---

---

They came to hear songs like "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

So many people have sung that song over the years.

But nobody ever sang it as well as Art Garfunkel.

And perhaps he never sang it quite as well as he did on this evening 30 years ago.

Envisioning Video Games

When something new has swept the cultural landscape like a raging wildfire, it can be easy to forget its humble beginnings.

So it is with video games.

These days, video game consoles seem to be part of virtually every teen's electronic arsenal, along with a cell phone and a computer, but it was on this day 45 years ago that, while sitting at a bus stop, a man named Ralph Baer of Sanders Associates — a defense contractor in New Hampshire — authored a four–page document that established the principles for games that could be played on a television set.

In what seems to have foretold the enormous economic potential of video games, the first video game system, known as Magnavox Odyssey, was Sanders' most successful product, even though a significant portion of Sanders' staff treated video gaming with disdain.

It took six years before Odyssey was introduced on the market, beating Atari's Pong by three years, and public acceptance was modest initially.

But Baer, I suppose it could be said, has had the last laugh. Nearly 90, he has lived to see his inspiration become a billion–dollar industry.

Just something to think about the next time you're playing EA Sports Madden '12.

When Buffy Died

---

---

I don't remember hearing the news that Anissa Jones — the actress who played Buffy on Family Affair — had died of a drug overdose at the age of 18.

I just remember that, seemingly overnight, everyone in my school knew about it.

The school year had just begun. Normally, you could walk down the halls and overhear snippets of conversations about trips to the beach or the mountains, playing youth baseball or whatever, different topics, but, 35 years ago, everyone was talking about only one thing.

Everyone was shaken by it. Jones was a teenager, like me, like all my friends — older than we were, actually, more of an older sister chronologically but, because of her TV role, forever like a younger pigtailed sister in our minds. And she was like a friend to all of us, someone we had known since we were small.

But we knew only Buffy the TV character. We didn't know Anissa Jones.

Jones died on this date 35 years ago after a night of partying. Cocaine, PCP, Quaaludes and Seconal were found in her system. The coroner who examined her said it was the most severe overdose he had ever observed.

In those days, I guess, it was harder for people to differentiate between public persona and private life. It was a technologically primitive time — no internet, no cell phones, no cable/satellite TV — and lots of people just assumed that if someone was smiling and appeared happy on TV or in photos on the pages of newspapers and magazines, that person was happy.

The prevailing belief in those days was that stardom was a ticket to happiness.

But Jones, as we all found out, was desperately unhappy.

Her parents divorced when she was a child, then — after a lengthy legal battle — her father won custody of her and her brother, but he died soon after. She moved in with her mother, but their relationship was not good, and she wound up in juvenile hall, classified a runaway.

After she turned 18, she gained access to the money that had been saved during her years on Family Affair — including, I suppose, her earnings from promotional appearances and products that promoted the series, like dolls that were identical to the one Jones' TV character carried with her at all times.

For nearly six months, she and her brother lived in an apartment, and substance abuse, I have heard, was rampant.

That certainly was true on Aug. 28, 1976.

As I say, Jones was 18 when she died. If she was alive, she would be 53, and one can only wonder what she would have done with her life.

It's the question that is always asked about those who die young.

Sometimes I wish I had known — I wish we had all known — how unhappy she was. There probably wasn't anything anyone could have done, but I like to think that maybe someone would have tried.

After all, that's the kind of thing friends do for one another, isn't it?

Some Things Never Change

---

"When I was one–and–twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one–and–twenty,
No use to talk to me.

"When I was one–and–twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two–and–twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true."

A E Housman
(1859–1936)
From "A Shropshire Lad"

---

I started writing short stories as soon as I learned how to make letters on paper, and I've been writing, in one way or another, ever since.

My mother, above all others, encouraged me to write, and I will always be grateful to her for that encouragement.

I've done all kinds of writing in my life. It is my form of self–expression.

It is odd, I suppose, that I have seldom written poetry. I guess I have never really felt comfortable with it — although there was a time when I dabbled with poetry in the form of song lyrics. One of my college buddies played the guitar and wrote several tunes but felt his lyrics weren't strong enough.

So I told him I would write some lyrics for him, and he could try to adapt them to music he had already written. Our arrangement eventually did yield some songs that he played with his band — none of which has amounted to much.

Other than that somewhat modified form of poetry writing, I haven't composed many poems — except for some occasions when I was in love (that was really much more of a cause–and–effect kind of thing).

But Alfred (better known as "AE") Housman did.

Housman was a classical poet, considered one of the leaders of his age, and, to be sure, he lived in a different time. But he wrote of things that are eternal.

It was 75 years ago this year that he died, and he seems to be disappearing from memory — except for those English majors who may still study his works today.

That is a shame because his poems, particularly the cycle of poems titled "A Shropshire Lad" (which was published near the end of the 19th century), had many valid observations about young people that are still good today — because, when you get right down to it, young people don't change. They simply acquire wisdom as they get older.

You see, some things in life simply cannot be learned by proxy. Some things must be learned first hand, and the pain those experiences bring must be felt.

And much of it is the byproduct of living, as Housman makes clear in "A Shropshire Lad."

Young people probably won't understand what he says in his poetry — but they never have. To quote one of my favorite movie lines (from "It's a Wonderful Life"), youth is wasted on the wrong people.

Some things never change.

In the Beginning ...

---

---

Today is a special anniversary in the annals of popular music.

It was on this day in 1957 that the two halves of perhaps the most famous songwriting team in history — John Lennon and Paul McCartney — came together for the first time.

It was in a place called Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool. Lennon's band, the Quarrymen, was performing at some sort of social function at St. Peter's Church. McCartney happened to be there — although why I do not know.

Anyway, why he was there doesn't matter, I guess. The point is that they were introduced to each other 54 years ago today. By October, McCartney had joined the Quarrymen. A few months later, so did George Harrison.

The rest is history, I suppose. Lennon and McCartney formed a partnership and agreed to share the credit for all songs that were written by them, either collaboratively or separately. Between 1962 and 1969, Lennon and McCartney composed approximately 180 songs, most of which were recorded by the Beatles.

As just about any Beatles fan will tell you, most of those songs were not collaborative efforts. Most of them were written, entirely or mostly, by either Lennon or McCartney.

It was more of a team effort in the early days. Many of their early songs were compositions in which one had written an incomplete song that the other completed by adding a "middle eight," which tended to have a different melody from the rest of the song and acted as something of a bridge.

---

---

There was a competitive element in their work in those days, and it produced some truly influential songs. "Yesterday," for example, has been cited as the most recorded/covered song ever by the Guinness Book of World Records.

Later on, nearly all of their songs were individual efforts.

Lennon spoke about the dynamic tension between his style and McCartney's — which was so critical in the creation of the Beatles phenomenon. In an interview near the end of his life, he told Playboy that McCartney "provided a lightness, an optimism, while I would always go for the sadness, the discords, the bluesy notes. There was a period when I thought I didn't write melodies, that Paul wrote those and I just wrote straight, shouting rock 'n' roll."

Typically, it wasn't hard to tell who was responsible for which song. The primary composer usually sang his songs on the albums so, if you could differentiate between the two voices, you could figure it out.

And, as Lennon observed, many of his songs were of the "straight, shouting rock 'n' roll" variety while McCartney leaned more to love songs and ballads.

But they struck a balance that worked — and worked well.

The Day the Music Really Died

---

---

When I was a child, Don McLean's song "American Pie" forever dubbed Feb. 3, 1959, the "day the music died" because that was the day that Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper died in a plane crash in Iowa.

That was a major event for the young people of that time, but it had no real meaning for me. I hadn't even been born yet.

On Aug. 16, 1977, when Elvis Presley died, that could have been considered the day the music died for people who came of age when Presley was at the top of the charts. But it didn't have the same meaning for me. I wasn't really brought up on his music.

For me, the day the music died was 30 years ago today — when John Lennon was gunned down in front of his apartment building in New York.

That was a traumatic event in my young life — and in the lives of millions the world over, which is really an amazing thing to realize, considering that the members of my generation, perhaps more than any who had come before, were brought up in a world in which violent acts aimed at prominent people — mostly politicians and leaders of political/social movements — were commonplace.

Before I graduated from high school, there had been three presidential assassination attempts (one of which was successful), two assassination attempts on presidential candidates (one of which was successful) and the murders of numerous civil rights figures.

And I heard of death threats against people in other walks of life — sports figures, mostly, like Hank Aaron and Arthur Ashe.

But the shooting of a musician, an entertainer, was truly astonishing.

Shocking.

And, even today, people who lived through that event recall it with a clarity that is reserved for those events that are truly unique in our experience.

I remember the night it happened so vividly. I was out with some friends, eating nachos while we watched Monday Night Football and, late in the game, Howard Cosell told the viewing audience that Lennon had been shot.

It was, he said, an "unspeakable tragedy." And so it was.

Cosell didn't provide too many details. I didn't learn until later that Lennon had been killed by a deranged fan who had approached him for an autograph only hours before — and in approximately the same place where he would shoot the musician.

My friends and I went out into the chilly December night a short time after hearing the news. The all–news cable channel concept was still new and defining itself — and, in most places, only available to those who paid extra for it — and it wasn't possible in those days to simply switch on the TV and get breaking news reports — at least, not where we were, in Fayetteville, Ark.

I insisted to my friends that I didn't believe it was true. A mistake had been made, I told them. Why would anyone want to kill John Lennon? He was one of the Beatles! That would be like killing Elvis!

And then I remember one of my friends looking at me with what were perhaps the saddest eyes I have ever seen and saying, "He's dead, man. John Lennon is dead."

I remember wondering, how could he believe it — after all the times when people in charge had lied to us in the past? But, at that moment, it really began to sink in. It still seemed beyond belief, but that would change as the news delivery systems of that time slowly caught up, and word eventually spread that, yes, it was true.

My friends and I went to our homes, and I switched on my TV, hoping to find something, anything about this, but I found nothing that night. I remember watching the first few minutes of The Tonight Show, hoping Johnny Carson would say something about it (I didn't yet know that The Tonight Show was not broadcast live, that it was taped several hours earlier), but Carson said nothing, of course. So I went to bed, hoping that the next morning I would awaken to find it had been a cruel hoax.

But, of course, it was not.

---

---

I recall there was some resentment at the time among Lennon's most devoted admirers for what was considered a rather unfeeling response to the news by his famous ex–bandmate, Paul McCartney.

"It's a drag, isn't it?" the cameras showed him saying casually in London the next day. Some people thought that was unfeeling. McCartney later explained that he had been in shock. It was an explanation I found easy to accept.

Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono, issued a statement to Lennon's grieving fans that day.

"There is no funeral for John," it read. "John loved and prayed for the human race. Please do the same for him."

---

---

And, in fact, there was no formal funeral service for John Lennon. Instead, Ono asked his fans to observe 10 minutes of silence the Sunday after his death.

But there were candlelight vigils held the world over. That was Lennon's funeral, I suppose.

I remember a radio station in the town where I was in college played Lennon music and Beatles music all week in Lennon's honor and repeatedly reminded listeners of Ono's request. Then, at the appointed time on that Sunday, that radio station went silent for the full 10 minutes. I listened when it went silent and I left my radio on to hear when it came back on the air.

It did so with a playing of "Give Peace a Chance."

That was only the beginning of many tributes to Lennon's life after his death. A section of Central Park across the street from the building in New York where Lennon lived and was murdered was renamed "Strawberry Fields" and has become a popular gathering place for Lennon's fans on the anniversaries of his birthday and his murder — and on other significant days, like the day ex–Beatle George Harrison died in November 2001 and on the occasion of the September 11 terrorist attacks earlier that year.

On the 20th anniversary of his death, in what may have been the most profound of such tributes, Cuban President Fidel Castro unveiled a statue of Lennon in a park in Havana.

As I wrote on the occasion of his 70th birthday in October, I think Lennon would have continued to be a societal influence in these last 30 years, writing and recording songs about all of the major events — and, perhaps, at times, altering the course of events through the sheer magnetism of his personality.

Today is a reminder of how much we lost on that day 30 years ago.

Remembering a Storyteller

---

---

"Death walks faster than the wind and never returns what he has taken."

Hans Christian Andersen
The Story of a Mother (1847)

---

Today is Thanksgiving. It is also the day before my birthday.

And as I've gotten older, I guess one of the things that has had the most meaning for me is my contribution — as small as it may sometimes seem to be — to the next generation.

Quite often, the younger generation has rejected the things I have tried to pass along, and that's OK. Each generation marches to its own drumbeat, as Henry David Thoreau might say.

I do hope, though, that, one day, some of those younger folks will develop a liking for Mark Twain or Mozart — and if some of them do, they may recall that I recommended "Huckleberry Finn" or "Don Giovanni" when they were young and thought they already knew it all.

They probably won't — and that's OK, too. I don't crave credit or recognition for introducing someone to a great writer or a great composer.

But today I've been thinking of something I shared with a little girl many years ago, and I hope she always remembers it — and someday shares it with her own children.

That little girl is a young woman today — in fact, she just got engaged recently — but when she was little, I made a tape for her of a movie that was one of my favorites when I was her age — "Hans Christian Andersen" starring Danny Kaye.

It was 58 years ago today that that movie made its debut. It was not a literal biography. In fact, in the film's introduction, it calls itself "a fairy tale about the storyteller," and it wove a narrative around songs and dances inspired by Andersen's stories.

Anyway, I gave that tape to this little girl and followed that with a copy of Andersen's stories. Inside the cover of the book, I wrote, "Elise; Always remember. The book is almost always better than the movie."

I really believe that. I've read many books that were made into movies, and I can't think of a single case in which the movie was better than the book that inspired it.

Some did come close, but none has ever been as good as the book.

But, gosh, it would be hard to beat seeing and hearing Danny Kaye. That's still a treat, and it's one that every generation should enjoy.

The movie was in the theaters many years before I was born, but, as I understand it, it was quite a hit in its day. I suppose all of the songs in it enjoyed a certain amount of popularity, although I doubt that "Inchworm" was the movie's #1 song when it was released.

---

---

In fact, if moviegoers at the time were asked to name a song from the movie, many probably would name "Thumbelina." It was, after all, nominated for an Academy Award — which it lost to "Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin' " from the legendary "High Noon."

But the song I always think of whenever my thoughts turn to "Hans Christian Andersen" is the song in the video at the top of this post — "Inchworm." I have a very hazy memory, from when I was little, of my grandmother singing me to sleep with that song.

It isn't a complete memory, just snippets, really — images, sensations. I can remember being in a bedroom in my grandmother's house. I remember my grandmother sitting next to the bed, singing softly.

I don't know what time of year it was, but my memory is that it was warm in the bedroom. Maybe that is because the heat was on, or maybe it was just a warm time of the year.

I also recall my mother coming in and out of the room. I don't know why. It's a fleeting image with no real context.

I also have no memory of whether my brother was there. I was 3 when he was born so he may have been there and he may not.

Clearly, there are gaps in this particular memory — but that is understandable, I guess, if I was only 2 or 3 years old at the time.

In spite of its gaps, though, it's a pleasant, comforting, safe memory for me. And I still think "Inchworm" makes a darn good lullabye.

Congratulations, Elise. I hope you have a long and happy marriage.

And I really do hope you share "Hans Christian Andersen" with your own children.

Maybe you'll even sing them to sleep with "Inchworm."