Major Winchester Passes Away

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Charles (David Ogden Stiers): What is that odor?

Radar (Gary Burghoff): Uh, north wind, cesspool; east wind, latrine.

Charles: The wind is from the south.

Radar: Oh, that's the kitchen.

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David Ogden Stiers was not a charter member of the cast of TV's MASH. He was a midseries replacement for Larry Linville, who played the inept Frank Burns in the first five seasons of the series.

But Charles Emerson Winchester III, the character Stiers played, was far from inept. He was, in fact, a top–notch surgeon — and by the time the series ended 35 years ago (as of last Wednesday), he had long since ceased to be regarded as a replacement but a full–fledged cast member. When all was said and done, he appeared in more episodes than Linville — in fact, only seven other people appeared in more episodes than he did, and all but two (Harry Morgan and Mike Farrell) had been in the cast from the start.

Stiers died yesterday at the age of 75. He had been suffering from bladder cancer.

Stiers may always be remembered as Charles Emerson Winchester III, a role for which he earned two Emmy nominations, but he played many roles in his career, and much of his work was providing the voices for characters in film and TV projects.

He may be equally remembered for his work on Disney movies, particularly 1991's "Beauty and the Beast," after his MASH days were over.

Personally, there are a couple of his post–MASH performances that stand out in my memory. A few years after MASH ended, Stiers was Alexander Haig in a TV movie based on Woodward and Bernstein's book "The Final Days" about the end of the Nixon presidency. The other memory is his appearance on Frasier as a former research colleague of Frasier's mother who was visiting Seattle after many years living abroad.

In MASH, Stiers' character was known for his fondness for classical music. In reality, he was a talented musician who was resident conductor of the Newport Symphony in Newport, Ore., where he lived and died, and he was guest conductor for more than 70 orchestras the world over.

Few people were as versatile as Stiers, and I will always remember that versatility on MASH, but I saw him in other roles and was always impressed by his talent.

Rest in peace, Major.

R.I.P., John Mahoney

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It was with great sadness that I learned yesterday of John Mahoney's death at the age of 77.

He wasn't the star of the Frasier program, which was one of my favorite TV series of the last couple of decades, but he was always good in it.

It is always a sign that I really like someone or something when I can't narrow my favorite of whatever it is to merely one.

For example, I was once asked to name one thing my grandmother used to make that I really liked. I couldn't answer that because I liked everything my grandmother made. She was the best cook I ever knew, and I'll be stunned if anyone surpasses her. Picking one thing she made would seem as if I had a preference for that over everything else she made, and that simply wasn't true.

Similarly, I can't name my favorite Frasier episode. I like several for a variety of reasons. I could never narrow it down to one.

But one thing that was consistent was Mahoney's role as the anchor of the show. His sons, Niles and Frasier, were flighty sorts who were often unrealistic in their expectations. Mahoney kept them grounded as best he could.

That wasn't always possible, but he did try.

I find it hard to name my favorite episode that focused primarily on Mahoney. There were some, and as I say he was always good, but he was probably best in his supporting role, delivering germane remarks at appropriate times.

I don't want to overlook his contributions to movies, either.

I guess my favorite movie in which Mahoney appeared was "Eight Men Out," the story of the Chicago Black Sox. He was known mostly as a stage actor, but you might be surprised to see how many movies he was in.

They were always better for his participation in them.

Rest in peace, Mr. Mahoney.

Goodbye to Gregg Allman

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I am powerless to resist.

Ever since I heard yesterday of the death of Gregg Allman, I have been listening to my CDs of his music — at home, in my car, wherever I am, whatever I'm doing.

Thoughts of Gregg Allman bring back many fond memories for me. The Allman Brothers Band may have been my favorite band when I was in my teens, and I still enjoy listening to those recordings today.

There is some music I listened to in my teens that makes me cringe when I hear it today. "What was I thinking?" I want to ask myself even though the answer is obvious. I was a teenager, and you know how teenagers are.

But the Allman Brothers music never affects me that way.

It is drizzly and overcast this morning in Dallas, Texas, and I have been listening to the Allmans and remembering those days in my life. It has always seemed to me that Southern blues/rock music was made for a day like today, which makes it an appropriate time to mourn Allman's passing.

The Allman Brothers were responsible for bringing that genre to us. There have been many Southern rock bands over the years, but Gregg Allman and the Allman Brothers Band were the pioneers. They made sure we got the music, then passed the baton to others. Some handled it well; others did not.

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But none ever matched what they achieved.

I feel a personal link between Dallas and the Allman Brothers. My grandparents lived here, and my family came here to visit frequently when I was growing up. I can remember buying cassettes of Gregg Allman and the Allman Brothers during our visits — Dallas always had far better music stores than central Arkansas did, as far as I was concerned — and listening to them on my portable cassette player on my grandmother's porch.

Frequently, as I recall, it was raining when I listened to those tapes.

Farewell, Gregg Allman.

When Love Was All Around

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"Love is all around,
No need to waste it.
You can have a town.
Why don't you take it?
You're gonna make it after all."

Paul Williams

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Mary Tyler Moore died today — and so did another piece of my childhood.

Saturday nights in the 1970s were that generation's must–see TV — in no small part because of Moore. Oh, sure, there were others who contributed to it. All in the Family got things started, followed by M*A*S*H, followed by Moore, followed by The Bob Newhart Show, followed by The Carol Burnett Show. All great shows with great casts. It was truly a golden age for television.

I had dinner with my father tonight, and we reminisced about Moore. Dad still remembers episodes of that show and chuckles at the thought of them. Now that's comedy. When you can think about a sitcom episode you saw more than 40 years ago and you still laugh, you know it was good comedy.

And The Mary Tyler Moore Show was good comedy. Dad still laughs at the thought of almost every character on that show — Mr. Grant, Murray, Ted, Sue Ann, Georgette, Rhoda, Phyllis and especially Mary. They were all so well defined by the people who portrayed them. If there is such a thing as a flawless sitcom, The Mary Tyler Moore Show was one.

Around my house — and millions more, no doubt — the routine on Saturday nights was to settle in for three hours of almost nonstop quality entertainment on CBS. There was seldom a reason to change the channel.

Clearly it was a collective effort, and there were many memorable characters on TV in those days, but Moore always stood out. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also very talented, a once–in–a–lifetime kind of talent.

By the '70s, Moore wasn't exactly a new face. She had been Dick Van Dyke's award–winning co–star on The Dick Van Dyke Show for five years in the '60s, then she dabbled in movies for a few years before she returned to the small screen. When she made her return, she did so as a single working woman. There were lots of single working women in the real world, but none that I can recall on television.

They found a voice in Moore. She was a great role model for those women — for everyone, really, but especially for those single working women, some of whom were also mothers. Moore didn't play a mother in her role as Mary Richards, but she made her own contributions to the challenges of parenting, both in her personal life and on the stage.

After her TV show came to an end in 1977, she made more movies. Her most noteworthy had to be "Ordinary People," Robert Redford's directorial debut. Ironically, the movie made its theatrical debut about a month before Moore's only child accidentally shot and killed himself.

That was the movie that showed the world just how talented Moore was. She wasn't merely the warm and loving Laura Petrie or Mary Richards of her successful sitcoms. She was also the icy, emotionally distant Beth whose family was falling apart in the wake of her oldest son's death.

Apart from her acting, Moore was an animal rights advocate and a spokeswoman for issues related to diabetes, a disease from which she suffered for more than half her life.

In the '70s, Moore was known as a liberal and generally supported Democrats, but she became a self–described "libertarian centrist" who leaned conservative and watched Fox News. In 2009 Parade magazine reported that she said she would have campaigned for Republican John McCain in 2008 if she had been asked.

She led a remarkable life, and the world was privileged to share it with her.

Farewell, Father Mulcahy

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"I want to tell you about two men. Each facing his own crisis. The first man you know rather well. The second is a patient here. Well, the first man thought he was facing a crisis. But what he was really doing was trying to impress someone. He was looking for recognition, encouragement, a pat on the back. And whenever that recognition seemed threatened he reacted rather childishly. Blamed everyone for his problems but himself because he was thinking only of himself. But the second man was confronted with the greatest crisis mortal man can face, the loss of his life. I think you will agree that the second man had every right to be selfish. But instead he chose to think not of himself, but of a brother. A brother! When the first man saw the dignity and the selflessness of the second man, he realized how petty and selfish he had ... I .... I ... I had been. It made me see something more clearly than I've ever seen it before. God didn't put us here for that pat on the back. He created us so he could be here himself. So he could exist in the lives of those he created, in his image."

Father Mulcahy (William Christopher)

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William Christopher, who is remembered for playing Father Mulcahy on MASH but that only scratches the surface of his life's work, died today at the age of 84.

It seems, in many ways, to be the appropriate cap on a year that saw more celebrity deaths than usual. Not that the mother–daughter combo of Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds wasn't dramatic enough, but losing Christopher isn't dramatic so much as final somehow. This is it. Enough. Be gone, 2016.

Christopher, as I understand it, was as soft spoken as the character he played, seldom the focus of episodes but always a moral compass and a character worthy of admiration.

When I think of him, I always think of an episode when Mulcahy was eager to make a good impression on a visiting cardinal. He sought the cooperation of those in the camp but kept running into obstacles.

Then he became involved with a crisis facing a patient at the camp, and he felt ashamed of his selfish behavior. While counseling the ailing soldier, he failed to show up on time for a special service honoring the visiting cardinal. He was summoned to the service wearing his bathrobe and apologized for not being prepared as he would have liked — or being dressed as he would have liked.

Then he proceeded to deliver the brilliant introduction to the cardinal that you can find at the top of this post.

When he was done, the cardinal stepped up to the podium — but, before addressing the congregation, he embraced Father Mulcahy warmly and said, "You're a tough act to follow."

It is truly fitting that William Christopher's should be the last celebrity death of 2016. He's a tough act to follow.

Memories of Carrie Fisher

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When I heard the news that Carrie Fisher had died today, I immediately thought of two things.

While most people may think of Fisher's performances as Princess Leia in her billowy white dress and cinnamon bun hairdo in the "Star Wars" movies, I suppose I shall always remember the metallic bikini she wore in "Return of the Jedi" in 1983. It was the first time I had ever seen her figure — that dress really hid her feminine physique in the first two movies, which, so I have heard, is why she wanted to wear something more flattering in the third film.

Mission accomplished. Of course, I was a hot–blooded young American male at the time, and I would have thought she looked sexy in a burlap sack.

The other thing I thought about was the one and only time I saw Fisher in person. That was also in 1983.

The occasion was a Simon & Garfunkel concert. The two had reunited for their concert in New York's Central Park less than two years earlier. The public response was so overwhelmingly positive that they decided to reunite and do a concert tour in 1983. One of their stops on that tour was the Cotton Bowl here in Dallas. I went to that show with my parents, who were Simon & Garfunkel fans (especially my mother), and my brother.

We enjoyed the show, but we never expected to see Carrie Fisher. The thought never crossed my mind, and I doubt it crossed the minds of my parents or my brother.

Nevertheless, she was there, and I guess she spent most of the evening backstage, but at one point she came out on stage and played the drums on a few numbers. A lot of people probably don't realize that she could play the drums. I don't think I knew that myself until that night.

But she could, and she wasn't bad.

In hindsight, that was probably something they did on every stop on that tour. Simon and Fisher had been married less than a year, but they were still newlyweds that night, being playful with each other to the delight of the audience. Even though it was probably planned well in advance, Simon gave every impression of being a doting groom making a spontaneous invitation to coax Fisher onstage, and Fisher certainly seemed to be an obliging bride.

That night in the Cotton Bowl was memorable for another thing. A hurricane slammed into the Gulf coast earlier, sending rain and strong winds north to Dallas. On the night of the concert, it was windy and a bit rainy — and the contraption that held the overhead lights above the stage was swaying with the wind.

As I recall the concert was stopped temporarily until the wind calmed down a bit, then it resumed, but Fisher's contribution was over. She went backstage, and I never saw her again — except in the movies.

It's hard to believe she's gone. Then again, this is 2016, the year that has earned a reputation for being the last year in so many celebrities' lives.

Let's hope Carrie Fisher is the last one.

Rest in Peace, Gene Wilder; Thanks for the Memories

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When I heard today that Gene Wilder had died, the first thing I thought of was the first time I saw him in a movie.

The movie was "Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory," which must have been at least a few years old when I saw it because I saw it at one of those free movies on summer Wednesdays in my hometown of which I have written here before. My hometown was much smaller in those days, and the merchants always sponsored free movies for the kids of the town on Wednesdays in the summer. My hometown is much larger now, and I'm sure free movie Wednesdays stopped many years ago.

It was also, as I wrote here a few years ago, the first time my brother was permitted to go to a movie without one or both of my parents — or one of our grandparents — in attendance. I was drafted to fill in, to keep an eye on him, as it were.

There were moments when I was distracted from what was happening on the screen, usually when I was checking to see what my brother was doing (and it usually wasn't much). I probably didn't miss a lot. Those free movies were never first–run movies, anyway. The merchants in my hometown were generous as long as it didn't cost too much so the free summer movies were always three or four years old — if you were lucky. In those pre–cable days, most movies that had made the rounds of the theaters were retired. The only ones that remained in circulation were the ones that TV stations and networks wanted to show.

Those free summer movies were probably among the last ways that producers and promoters could make money on many movies before they were put out to pasture. Undoubtedly they took whatever they could get.

"Willy Wonka" was the offering one Wednesday afternoon one summer, and that was when I first saw Gene Wilder. I have seen him in many movies since — "Young Frankenstein" is my favorite — but he has always been Willy Wonka to me and always will be, no matter how many times I see him in "The Producers" or "Blazing Saddles" or "Silver Streak" or anything else.

I guess, too, that I always remember him as the husband and widower of Gilda Radner, perhaps the finest comedienne of her generation, certainly one of the brightest lights in Saturday Night Live's brilliant original cast.

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I thought of something else when I heard that Wilder had died.

I thought of a moment from All In The Family. It was an episode in which Archie's work buddy, Stretch Cunningham, had died, and his family wanted Archie to say a few words at the funeral.

During his eulogy, Archie observed, in his unique way, that studies showed that "having the blues" took years from your life while laughter added years to your life. If that is true, Archie said, Stretch put years on his life.

"And you gotta love a guy," Archie said, "for that."

Gene Wilder put some years on my life.

The Concert Ticket I Never Bought

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"Look at the past 25 years — we went downhill, and if people don't realize it, they don't have their fucking eyes on. In 1960, when I came out of prison as an ex–convict, I had more freedom under parolee supervision than there's available to an average citizen in America right now. I mean, there was nobody going to throw you down on the side of the road spread–eagled and look up your butt for a fucking marijuana cigarette. God almighty, what have we done to each other?"

Merle Haggard

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I was driving home from work this afternoon when I heard on the radio that Merle Haggard had died.

Now, no one would ever mistake me for a country music fan, but there are some country singers I like. Most of them are dead now, I guess. Hank Williams Sr. has been gone a long time. Waylon Jennings hasn't been gone quite as long. Neither has Johnny Cash.

I like Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson, too, and I always took comfort in the fact that they were still around — and still recording together. Last summer they released their sixth — and, as it turned out, final — album together. I got it a couple of days after it was released, and I couldn't tell you how many times I listened to it in my car.

I had a couple of opportunities to see him play last year, but I passed them up. It goes without saying, I suppose, that I regret that now. Tickets were too expensive, I tell myself now as I did then. They were expensive, but if I had seen him play, I would have a memory that would last the rest of my life.

And you can't really put a price on that.

Oh, Merle died today. Complications from pneumonia. It was his 79th birthday.

I've seen Willie Nelson in concert — twice. The first time was the summer after high school graduation. I took a couple of girls I graduated with to see him perform with Emmylou Harris. Then, when I was in college, a friend of mine and I went to see Willie Nelson with Ray Price.

Those were great shows, and they are great memories for me. I never think about what those tickets cost — much less than concert tickets today, I am sure, but probably still a bit pricey for the time. I remember the experiences, just as I would be remembering that night when I saw Willie and Merle together.

Except I didn't see them together. I was too cheap.

I'm being too hard on myself, I guess. Like a lot of people, I was hit hard by the Great Recession. Money has been hard to come by for me, and I seldom spend it on something I see as frivolous.

Last year I felt that a concert ticket would be a frivolous expense for me.

I don't feel that way tonight.

Rest in peace, Merle. I think I'll listen to "Are the Good Times Really Over?"

R.I.P., Harper Lee, I Wish I Had Known You

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"You see, more than a simple matter of putting down words, writing is a process of self–discipline you must learn before you can call yourself a writer."

Harper Lee, 1964 interview with Roy Newquist, Counterpoints

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There haven't been many famous people I have really wanted to meet — and, in my career as a journalist and journalism professor, I have met some famous people. Most I have met in the course of my work — and probably wouldn't have wanted to meet otherwise.

If I had to compile a list of the famous people I did want to meet, I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that they are (or were) writers all. Even if they were famous for doing something else, they wrote about whatever it was that they did.

I would have liked to meet Mark Twain or H.L. Mencken.

You know those conversations people often want to start, the ones in which you're asked to identify the four — or six or eight or however many — people from throughout recorded history you would want to have over for dinner? Many people would probably say Jesus or Mahatma Gandhi, but I would start my list with Twain and Mencken. I know they would have something clever to say, and the conversation — whatever it was about — would be lively.

I guess it would depend on the kind of dinner conversation I wanted to have, though. If I wanted it to be theological, Jesus and Gandhi would be obvious choices, but I have a feeling that would be a rather somber conversation.

But taking dinner out of the equation, nearly all the famous people I would want to meet, as I say, would be writers — and not necessarily the obvious ones, either, like Shakespeare.

I'm a journalist, and I have always wanted to meet Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. In fact, I have achieved half of that goal. When I was teaching journalism at the University of Oklahoma, Bernstein came and delivered a lecture one evening. I attended — with my hardback copy of "The Final Days" — and introduced myself to him when his lecture was done. I even got him to autograph the book.

Well, Woodward is still alive so there is still a chance I could meet him and get him to autograph that book, too, but so many of the writers I would have liked to meet — Ernest Hemingway, James Michener, Theodore H. White, J.R.R. Tolkien, Allen Drury — are gone, and I will never get to meet them.

Add one more to the list. Harper Lee died today. She wrote "To Kill a Mockingbird," which earned her the Pulitzer Prize of 1961. She spent the next half–century largely avoiding the spotlight, rarely giving interviews.

When she died, she apparently died quietly — in her sleep. If we could have our druthers, as Li'l Abner used to say, I expect most of us would like to go that way.

That's how my grandfather died. I assume he went quietly. My grandmother wasn't awakened and had no idea anything was wrong until she tried to rouse Grandpa the next morning.

I always wanted to meet Harper Lee. It would have been great to interview her if I could, but I would have been happy just to sit down and have a conversation with her about writing.

I've kept a copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" on my desk for years. Last summer I purchased and read her second (and, as it turns out, final) book, "Go Set a Watchman." It, too, rests on my desk; I keep them both handy because there are times when I want to refer to them.

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I grew up in a Southern town that, I suspect, was much like the one in which Harper Lee grew up in Alabama — and I found a lot of country wisdom in the pages of her books.

If I substituted some of the names, I probably could have told the story of my hometown in "To Kill a Mockingbird." Not necessarily word for word or event for event but certainly with some relatively minor changes. Perhaps that is why "To Kill a Mockingbird" has always had such a hold on me.

I would have liked to have had a conversation with her about the people and the culture of the South. I'm sure she would have some intriguing insights to share.

Farewell, David Bowie

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Like most people (I gather), I was unaware that David Bowie was terminally ill — until I learned this morning that he had died of liver cancer two days after his 69th birthday.

I now know that he was sick for a year and a half. That, apparently, was something that was not generally known.

I have written about David Bowie three times before on this blog. The last two times were within the last year, when I observed the 40th anniversaries of the release of "Fame" and "Golden Years."

My first post was about the 40th anniversary of Bowie's "Diamond Dogs" album. In a few years, I hope to write about the 50th anniversary of "Space Oddity."

I was going to wait to mention this until I wrote about that anniversary of "Space Oddity," but now seems like a more appropriate time.

Anyway, here goes ...

I will always remember the first time I ever heard "Space Oddity." It was several years after the song was released. My family had spent the summer in Austria as part of a program in which the college where my father taught religion was a participant. It was meant primarily for students. They spent the summer at this university in Graz, Austria, took a summer course and got credit for it in college. Some members of the faculty always went along as chaperones, and there were other schools involved in the program as well.

My father took my mother, my brother and me with him to Austria one summer. It was a chartered flight, and the family stayed in the dorm at the university so it was a low–cost way to travel in Europe. My parents were only nominally enrolled in classes. It justified their presence since Dad wasn't the official chaperone. We were just kind of tag–alongs.

Anyway, it was on our flight back to the States at the end of the summer that I first heard "Space Oddity." The plane was approaching New York City, and I had my headphones set to popular music (there were several choices so there was something for every age group and taste). As I looked out the window at the New York skyline glowing in the darkness, "Space Oddity" came on. It was almost as if the music and the imagery I was seeing out my window had been painstakingly choreographed.

Ever since that night, "Space Oddity" probably has been my favorite David Bowie song.

But I am also fond of the two I wrote about last year — and I have always liked the "Diamond Dogs" album. I guess the thing I can say about Bowie is that my preference is for his earlier stuff. He seemed to be especially brilliant when he was still carving out his niche.

I've heard a lot of talk today about how Bowie's last album, "Blackstar," released just a few days ago, was his last gift to the world.

Those three things I have written about were Bowie's gifts to me. We never met, but those songs and that album have a lot of meaning for me, and they always will. And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I want to say about that.

I don't know yet if I will listen to Bowie's last album. Perhaps I will listen to it once in tribute to someone who was a remarkable talent — and was remarkably talented at confusing people. He seemed to take delight in doing it. That bothered some people. It never bothered me.

He never looked quite the same as he had the last time I saw him — or would the next time I saw him. He was always pushing boundaries — in his appearance, in his personal life, in his music.

Bowie never did things the way he was expected to do them. I guess his death — at the most unexpected time, except for those who knew he was sick, and many of them have said that they weren't prepared for it when it came — was the ultimate example.

Incidentally, I can understand why many of those who were close to Bowie had that reaction. I've had several friends who died of cancer. Without fail, in each case, I believed my friends would recover right up until the minute they died. And those deaths always hit me like a ton of bricks. I suppose Bowie's friends and family harbored a similar hope, that somehow he would recover. When that person dies, a piece of a survivor dies, too, because — in my experience, anyway — those survivors always hope that the afflicted individual will beat the cancer that is taking his life.

And they're always disappointed when he doesn't.

Likewise, I have known people who died completely unexpectedly, and I have wondered whether it is better to lose someone you care about suddenly or to have time to prepare yourself for the loss. And I have decided that, for those who are left behind, there really is no advantage to either. At least, it is that way with me. Even when I have known that someone I cared about was going to die, I haven't been able to adequately prepare myself for it.

There just is no good time to lose someone. I'm sure that is how Bowie's friends and family — and the millions of his fans the world over — are feeling tonight.

Death of a Bluesman

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"The beautiful thing about learning is that no one can take it away from you."

B.B. King

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B.B. King, the legendary blues recording artist, died last night in Las Vegas at the age of 89, and many in the media snapped up the obvious headline from what may be his best–known recording — "The Thrill Is Gone."

If I was still working on the copy desk, I might have gone that way, too. Some headlines are too obvious to ignore, but this one seems to be a bit overused today. Oh, well. I guess it was inevitable.

I always wanted to see him perform in person. My last opportunity was about a year ago when he performed in this area, but I was working part–time jobs at the time and couldn't afford a ticket. I realized at the time that I might never get another chance to see him.

Now he will forever be another opportunity I missed — like when I was making plans to see John Lennon the summer after he released "Double Fantasy" — the word was that he intended to go on tour that spring and summer, and I wanted to go wherever he would be closer to my home in Arkansas, even if that meant driving a long distance — but he was murdered in December. That wasn't so much an opportunity missed, I suppose, as an opportunity that never was.

As I say, King is probably best known for "The Thrill Is Gone," and that's probably an appropriate comment on the occasion of his death, but the truth is he will never be gone, thanks to the many recordings we have of his performances in the studio and on stage.

If there is another word that is linked to his name, it is Lucille, the name of his guitar and the inspiration for another classic B.B. King song, one that is well worth hearing on this day.

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Whatever he was playing, B.B. King was entirely animated, changing his facial expression with every note, every chord, every lyric. I never saw him in person, but I saw him enough on TV to know that was his style. His whole body got involved in a song, not just his hands and fingers.

Lots of people do something like that, but he was an original. If you see a musician doing that these days, I'd bet dollars to doughnuts he/she was influenced by B.B. King, either knowingly or unknowingly.

He influenced a lot of people. Richard Gehr of Rolling Stone compiled a list of "10 Legendary Acts That Wouldn't Exist Without B.B. King," which is a reminder of just how much music lovers owe B.B. King. Maybe we would have gotten Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Santana, the Allman Brothers, Stevie Ray Vaughan anyway — but my guess is they wouldn't have been quite the same. Some might have been decidedly different.

Listen to a B.B. King album — any of 'em — and you'll see what I mean.

I never learned how to play the guitar myself, but several of my friends in college knew how to play, and many of them were wannabe blues musicians. They all tried to play what was clearly B.B. King style, and a few were pretty good, too, but not that good. There was only one B.B. King.

I've always been partial to "Why I Sing The Blues," a lesser–known King tune, to be sure, but invaluable if one wants to know about B.B. King the man, what motivated him.

"I've been around a long time," he sang. "I've really paid my dues."

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I imagine that is a sentiment to which many people could relate.

I've seen several written tributes to King today, and they all seem to conclude with "R.I.P., B.B. King" and some sort of reference to the afterlife — usually something about how heaven has "a hell of a band" (which has become something of a cliche over the years). I have lots of questions about the afterlife. I'm not nearly as certain of its existence as many people I know — which is, I suppose, the very essence of faith.

And maybe I don't have enough. I surely don't have enough faith as far as some people are concerned. I don't know if B.B. King completely ceased to exist when he died last night or if his spirit is floating out there somewhere.

If it is the latter, I will say this. It gives a new meaning to the phrase "blue heaven."

The Death of Elly Mae Clampett

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"The only direction they ever gave me was when I started to talk. They said, 'You have to talk faster than that or won't anybody get on that camera but you in a half hour.' Coming from Baton Rouge, you talk — just — about — like — that. And they said, 'Cut, you gotta talk faster than that.' And that was the only direction. They never did have to tell me anything about Elly, how she'd behave in certain circumstances. Now, I knew her, and that's the dream of an actor, to know a character that well."

Donna Douglas

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Donna Douglas is dead, a victim of pancreatic cancer.

That might not mean much to younger folks, but if you were a young male in the 1960s, it's a blow.

Douglas played Elly Mae Clampett on the Beverly Hillbillies. I've heard that some CBS executives loathed the program, but it was popular with viewers. It ran for nine seasons and was the top–ranked program in the nation in two of those seasons. In all but one season, it finished in the Top 20.

It may have been silly, but it was also a hit.

And Donna Douglas — as the blonde, shapely, tomboyish Elly Mae — had a lot to do with that — at least as far as the young males in the Hillbillies' audience were concerned.

"The death of Donna Douglas froze the heart of pretty much every American boy who was a television–watching teenager in the early 1960s," wrote David Hinckley in the New York Daily News.

You didn't have to be a teenage boy to fall under Elly's spell, either.

If you were a boy of any age, primetime TV in those days had an embarrassment of riches when it came to beautiful women on display. Most, I suppose, were window dressing with the meatier roles reserved for men, but nevertheless, they were there.

My family came late to the TV party; shows like the Beverly Hillbillies were already in reruns by the time my parents bought their first TV. But I had schoolboy crushes on just about all the sexy women on TV in those days — Donna Douglas, Elizabeth Montgomery, Dawn Wells (of Gilligan's Island), Barbara Eden, Sally Field, Marlo Thomas, the Bradley girls on Petticoat Junction (a Hillbillies spinoff), Marilyn on The Munsters, Goldie Hawn on Laugh–in.

Nope, no shortage of beautiful women. Still, it was scandalous when Mary Tyler Moore wore capri pants on The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Elly Mae was different than the rest, though; as Hinckley observed, "compared to what teenage and young–adult female characters routinely wear on TV shows today, Elly Mae looked like she was dressed for an ice cream social at the local Baptist church. But in 1963, Elly Mae was incendiary."

It was still customary in those days for women to wear dresses on TV. As far as I was concerned, any excuse to get Elly Mae into a pair of tight–fitting jeans and a form–fitting shirt (instead of the rather billowy blouses many women wore on TV) was OK. Unless she was already wearing a bathing suit and frolicking in or near the fabled cement pond behind the Clampett mansion.

She couldn't wear a bikini — it was taboo to show a woman's navel on TV — but I still thought she looked hot in a one–piece suit.

You wouldn't catch Elly Mae twerkin'.

In fact, she kissed more critters than fellahs on the Beverly Hillbillies, even though Jed and Granny were constantly trying to find a nice young man for her.

Her fondness for critters was no act, by the way. Donna Douglas was born and raised in rural Louisiana, and she had an affinity for animals since childhood.

Because it was her defining role, most people tend to think the part of Elly Mae Clampett was Douglas' first, but it wasn't. She had appeared on several TV shows before the Beverly Hillbillies came along, most notably in a second–season episode of the original Twilight Zone series, "The Eye of the Beholder."

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Douglas didn't say anything in that episode. She was there for the visual effect. The lines that were attributed to her character were spoken by someone else.

She was also in a movie with Elvis Presley — "Frankie and Johnny."

As much of a bombshell as Douglas was, it might surprise some to realize that she was a very devout Christian. She often gave gifts that she had signed with biblical passages.

All of the stars of the Beverly Hillbillies are deceased now except for Max Baer Jr. (Jethro).

Death of a Funny Man

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"Comedy can be a cathartic way to deal with personal trauma."

Robin Williams
Parade magazine
September 2013

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I heard about Robin Williams' death on the radio when I was driving home late this afternoon. Like just about everyone else, I was stunned by the news.

And then I started thinking about it, and I wondered why I was stunned. Why are we all stunned when we hear that someone famous has died — whether by his own hand, as this death appears to be, or by some other cause? Celebrities really aren't any different from anyone else. They feel pleasure and pain. They get sick, and they die — just like ordinary folks you never met.

For some strange reason, I suppose we believe they will live forever. Of course, they don't.

People were shocked when Elvis died and when Michael Jackson died. They were shocked when Princess Di was killed in a car crash in a Paris tunnel. All three — as well as other famous people, like John Belushi — died young, younger than Williams. Kurt Cobain was much younger than Williams when he died by his own hand.

Sometimes they do take their own lives, you know, just like some ordinary folks. Some people have a hard time with that. Celebrities have everything the rest of us can only dream about, don't they? What reason do they have to kill themselves?

Depression and suicide don't respect fame or fortune. I've known some people who took their own lives. The fathers of two my boyhood friends killed themselves — one was quite a bit older than Williams, the other was quite a bit younger. The brother of one of my closest friends took his own life.

The only thing that separates the famous from the ordinary is that they did whatever it was that they did in full view of the world. Ordinary folks don't have audiences judging their every move during a working day. Life isn't "The Truman Show."

Otherwise, I heard someone say on the radio, the famous are no different from the rest of us — except for the fact that most have money. That's a pretty big factor with the economy we've had for the last six years. Take it from me. The lack of money has been at the root of most of my problems for the last half dozen years, and I can understand how a person could be driven to take his life when it seems he will never crawl out of the financial pit in which he finds himself.

Apparently, that money thing was a problem for Williams, too. When the investigation into his death is over — and, reportedly, the coroner will issue a statement tomorrow following an autopsy that presumably is being conducted as I write this — it may turn out that something else was behind Williams' death. But I have heard several people speak tonight of how depressed he had been recently — and that despondency appears to have been rooted in how much money he had lost in two divorces.

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Whatever the reason for Williams' death, whether he caused his own death or he met his fate accidentally, I am sorry for those he leaves behind who must cope with his sudden loss.

For Robin Williams, whose struggles with drugs and alcohol were well documented in his lifetime and who sought help for his problems only a month ago, it is over now. Whatever pain he felt, whichever inner demons tormented him, that is in the past. It is those he leaves behind who will need help now. He had three children — all adults now, but much younger than they should be to have lost their father.

I have heard many people tonight reflecting on Williams' great movie performances — and, to be sure, there were many of them. He was always entertaining, whether it was on the big screen or the small one. My first exposure to Robin Williams was in his breakout role on TV's Mork & Mindy. He was an astonishing talent. I don't know if he fully realized it. In my experience, people seldom seem to appreciate the qualities that others admire in them.

If Williams didn't know how special he really was, there are plenty of folks who will spread the word long after the shock of his death has worn off.

Casey Kasem Passes Away

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"Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars."

Casey Kasem

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As I have followed the developments in the end–of–life story of Casey Kasem, it has been impossible to avoid concluding that the drama would soon reach its finish — and it has.

Kasem died early today at the age of 82 — and a part, a very big part, of my youth died, too.

Yes, he was a D.J. — but he was much more than just a D.J.

I remember listening to his American Top 40 radio countdown on weekends when I was a teenager. Back in those days, I was familiar with just about every song on the list. I probably couldn't identify a single song on such a list today — which, I suppose, is the natural order of things.

Most of my students probably could identify all the songs on such a list, but I couldn't — any more than my professors could have identified the songs on such a list when I was in school. In a way, I guess that is reassuring. It would be wrong to try to deny any generation the experiences it should have.

But most of my students probably didn't listen to the radio much when Kasem retired at the age of 77. He probably wasn't part of their lives.

I never speculated about Kasem's age when I was a teenager. He always sounded young. Maybe that was a byproduct of constantly reviewing the recordings that were the most popular.

Or maybe it had something to do with the long–distance dedications. If they weren't the most popular segments on his show, they were close to it.

The premise was simple: In addition to the songs in the countdown, Kasem would play at least one (usually more) long–distance dedication from one listener to another. It's been quite awhile since I've heard one, but I don't recall any being mean–spirited. Nothing like "Joe wants to welcome his ex back to town with Elton John's 'The Bitch is Back'" or anything like that. Usually, it was the kind of thing that would pull at your heartstrings — young lovers having to be apart for one reason or another or an older (perhaps much older) person seeking a long–lost love.

Hey, sure the long–distance dedications were corny. Just about everything about Casey Kasem's countdown was corny. Maybe that was the secret of its success — not unlike TV's Hee Haw. As director Frank Capra knew, corn sells. Especially if it is good corn.

And Kasem's was good corn. I've heard that some radio stations actually rerun American Top 40 programs from the '70s and '80s today.

Kasem was more talented than I realized. He did some voice acting, a lot of it for Hanna–Barbera cartoons. Apparently, he was best known for doing the voice of Scooby–Doo. I wasn't a Scooby–Doo fan so I have no memory of that.

He was also the original narrator for the TV show Soap. Again, I wasn't a fan of that show. My brother and my mother were; they used to watch it together and entertained each other endlessly by repeating lines from the latest episode.

Mom is deceased now, so I can't ask her, but I'm sure my brother doesn't remember Kasem's rather brief tenure as the show's narrator. Kasem didn't care for the adult themes on the show and pulled out of the project after the pilot episode.

He had certain standards.

Part Lebanese, Kasem objected to the depiction of Arab–Americans on a cartoon show (Transformers) and quit the project. He wrote a letter to the president/CEO of the production company and received a reply in which she sympathized with his position and assured him that she had shared his letter with her writers.

He also did voice–overs for commercials. I have no specific memory of that, either, although I'm sure I must have heard at least some of his voice–overs, and I probably knew it was Kasem. His was such a distinctive voice.

Every generation should have a Casey Kasem.

Nancy Malone, Pioneer

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You probably never heard of Nancy Malone.

That's OK, although you missed out on one of the more interesting figures from television history. Malone died last Thursday of what is called "leukemia–induced pneumonia." The news of her death did not hit the media until yesterday.

She is probably remembered by casual viewers for her acting roles in numerous TV series. Her acting career went back to the 1950s and stretched into the 1970s. Malone performed on some of the most popular programs of her time; she co–starred with George Lindsey in the last original episode of the Andy Griffith Show, "A Girl for Goober," and, ironically, died almost two years to the day after Lindsey did.

She also appeared in episodes of The Outer Limits and the original Twilight Zone, the latter of which is the TV episode I always associate with her. (She co–starred with Barry Nelson.)

Malone appeared in the fifth and final season of Twilight Zone. Most of the series' fans will tell you it seemed to be running out of steam in that last season, but Malone's episode was probably one of its better ones that year. It managed to do what the best Twilight Zone episodes did — send a little unanticipated chill down one's spine.

There was more to her than the TV episodes in which she appeared, though.

She was a groundbreaking TV director, working on shows like Dynasty, Cagney & Lacey and Star Trek: Voyager at a time when women didn't do much directing.

She made the transition from acting to producer and learned that side of the business, then got into directing in large part because of a bad experience with a director during her producing days.

Malone won an Emmy for her directing and continued to pursue that aspect of the business into the 21st century.

R.I.P., Bob Hoskins

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I really intended to write earlier about the death of English actor Bob Hoskins this week, but it's been a busy week for me.

Better late than never, I suppose.

Folks have their own memories of him, and mostly they center on his movie work, I guess. That's understandable. He probably reached more people through his appearances in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" and "Hook" than in just about anything else he ever did.

And I don't want to take anything away from that.

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But he also reached a lot of people through the medium of television.

Most of his early TV work was in England, but, in the last 15 years or so of his life, he was increasingly a familiar presence on American TV.

He was on Saturday Night Live in 1998 — and, in February 2003, he was a guest star on Frasier, in an episode called "Trophy Girlfriend."

And that is how I remember Bob Hoskins.

It's one of my favorite episodes. Niles had teamed up with someone else in the squash club's annual tournament, so Frasier accepted an invitation to play mixed doubles with a girls P.E. teacher (Jeanne Tripplehorn). Frasier and his partner hit it off, but her job brought back painful memories of an abusive coach from his childhood — and every time he saw her at work, he saw that coach.

Hoskins played the coach.

It got so bad that Frasier saw the coach whenever he saw his girlfriend outside of the P.E. setting as well. My favorite scene was when he was meeting her at Cafe Nervosa. In walked Hoskins, but only Frasier (and the audience) saw him. His father and brother saw Tripplehorn and made comments. Niles raved about her beauty, and Martin cautioned his sons to watch their language because "[t]here's a lady present."

Nope, that was no lady.

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Hoskins did most of his TV work in England so I haven't seen most of it, but I've read that he treated his TV work with the same respect he showed to his film work.

That doesn't surprise me. It's consistent with the kind of man I have always thought him to be.

Because of his Parkinson's diagnosis a few years ago, he was retired from acting so his death won't deprive anyone of his performances.

But, sadly, we are deprived of his presence. Rest in peace.

Patriarch of 'The Waltons' Passes Away

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It's becoming depressingly routine.

Here we are, not quite halfway into February, and celebrities are dying at an alarming rate. The month began with the news of Maximilian Schell's death, which was quickly followed by Philip Seymour Hoffman's death.

A few days later, it was Shirley Temple, followed by Sid Caesar.

And now, Ralph Waite, the father on The Waltons, is dead at 85.

I remember watching The Waltons when it was on during prime time, and I tried to think of an episode that summarized Waite's character, but I couldn't come up with one.

What comes to mind when I think of Waite as John Walton Sr. is not a particular episode but the steadiness of his character within the context of the series, always there for his family, ready to offer advice but not insistent upon it.

He was probably the ideal father, supportive of his children, whatever they wanted to do. He was a faithful husband and a dutiful son. He didn't draw much attention to himself.

Oh, I'm sure there must have been an episode or two when the spotlight was on Daddy Walton. I just don't remember now what it was. Maybe it was a conversation he had with John Boy when he was facing some sort of crisis. The series really was about John Boy, after all. He was the aspiring writer, the young man with his life stretching out in front of him.

But there were episodes in which John Boy wasn't the focus, and it is possible that there was one about John Sr.

He was the only adult in the cast who didn't win at least one Emmy during the series' nine–year run. Richard Thomas, Michael Learned, Ellen Corby and Will Geer were all winners; I'm not even sure Waite was nominated.

Perhaps that is appropriate. When The Waltons was slated to come on the air in 1972, Waite was reluctant to audition for it. He was a stage actor, and he didn't want to be locked into a TV series that might run for several years — even though CBS seemingly tried to make the show fail, scheduling it opposite two popular programs on the rival networks.

His agent persuaded him to do it, telling him he could make a little money before the show was canceled. He wound up staying with it for nine years, demonstrating the kind of personal commitment to his work that his character had to his family.

Outside of his acting career, Waite, a liberal Democrat, sought election to the U.S. House from California three times in the 1990s; he lost each time.

I suspected that he might have won if he lived in another part of California. The southern California district leans Republican even though the state has voted for Democrats for president six straight times. It was represented for a time by Republican Sonny Bono, and Waite lost both the special election and the general election following Bono's death in 1998.

A Salute to Shirley Temple

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The news that Shirley Temple had died during the night brought back many fond memories of my grandmothers.

Temple was a child star when my parents were children, and I always had the impression that my parents — well, my mother, at least — saw many of her movies. I frequently heard my maternal grandmother humming Shirley Temple songs as she went about her daily business.

I remember my grandmother humming "On The Good Ship Lollipop" as she hung up the laundry on the clothesline in her back yard, and when I was small, she used to sing "Animal Crackers In My Soup" to me — often when she actually did give me animal crackers to eat, with or without soup.

Temple matured into a beautiful teenager who still retained some of that girlish appeal, but she outgrew her movie career. I guess she was typecast as a little girl.

When she was 9, a British film critic wrote that "[h]er admirers — middle–aged men and clergymen — respond to her dubious coquetry, to the sight of her well–shaped and desirable little body, packed with enormous vitality, only because the safety curtain of story and dialogue drops between their intelligence and their desire."

Imagine writing such a thing about a 9–year–old girl! Perhaps she was too provocative for the time; anyway, she retired from movies when she was in her 20s.

She turned her attention to other pursuits, primarily raising a family. She dabbled in television, but her main preoccupation outside her home was a career in politics.

Temple was 85 when she died. She had great–grandchildren. Obviously, she had changed a lot from the little girl of my grandmother's day.

And, for that matter, I have no real memory of seeing her in a movie. To my knowledge, I have only seen her in clips. I do know the sound of her voice when I hear it — but doesn't everyone?

To most, it may seem she lived a charmed life, but it did have its speed bumps along the way. She was 17 when she married for the first time. The marriage ended five years later, and Temple re–married less than two weeks later, acquiring the last name of Black by which she was known as she pursued her political ambitions. The marriage lasted 54 years — she called it the love of her life — until his death in 2005.

A conservative Republican, Temple served in various diplomatic capacities under three Republican presidents — Nixon, Ford and George H.W. Bush.

That was not how she made what I think was her most important contribution as an adult. Forty years ago, she went public about having been diagnosed with breast cancer and having undergone a modified radical mastectomy.

She was one of the first prominent women to speak openly about the affliction. Others have come along since — Nancy Reagan had a mastectomy while she was in the White House — but my memory is that Temple and Betty Ford were the ones who first brought public attention to the disease.

I have known some women — and even a man — who were stricken with breast cancer, and I have been grateful, on those occasions, that Shirley Temple shared her experience with the world.

We will never know how many lives were saved by that unselfish act.

When the Good Die Young

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"There will be another film, there will be another relationship, or I'll die and then I'll be dead. But if I'm alive, I know life is going to keep throwing things at me."

Philip Seymour Hoffman (1967–2014)

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In every generation, I suppose, there is at least one prominent person who dies tragically — and far too young. As Philip Seymour Hoffman told The Guardian a few years ago, life keeps throwing things at you.

Life threw something at us yesterday, something with which we should be all too familiar — yet it always comes as a shock. See, what Hoffman didn't say was that it's frequently the same thing over and over, just in a different form.

Yesterday, Hoffman became this generation's John Belushi or Lenny Bruce, a brilliantly talented entertainer dead from abuse of a substance. What was new was the quantity of drugs that apparently was found in Hoffman's New York apartment. I've been hearing that 50 bags of what was believed to have been heroin were found in his apartment, an astonishing number. Hoffman is said to have been found with a syringe in his arm.

If you'll permit a little speculation here, that could be what it appears to be, a sudden death brought on after (and, perhaps, by) his own injection. Hoffman was known to have struggled with addiction during his life. Or it could have been a staged scene. If someone wanted to kill him and make him look like an overdose victim, leaving a syringe in his arm could give that appearance.

I don't know. The mind wants not to believe it could be what it looks like and seeks alternative answers.

Hoffman's autopsy, which reportedly is taking place as I write, may answer many questions — and it may raise new ones. That remains to be seen. One thing I can say for certain is this: The facts of the case that are known are sad enough without those whom I have seen using this as an opportunity to argue about whether marijuana, of all things, should be legal.

Illegal drugs are not interchangeable. Hoffman's death is a tragedy, but the drug that apparently snuffed out his life is not legal anywhere in the United States. Those who have seized this event as an opportunity to argue against legalizing marijuana truly are guilty of equating apples to oranges.

Marijuana is legal today in the states of Washington and Colorado; no one has died from it there or in any of the other 48 states. Heroin is a much more potent substance. The two should not be treated as if they are the same thing, and I acknowledge that most rational people do not, but a handful have. That must stop. End of rant.

Putting all of that aside ...

I am saddened by Hoffman's premature death. He was a phenomenally talented actor, and I have thought a lot about the roles in which he entertained me over the years. He was always top notch in everything I saw him in. The movies themselves were not always top notch — but his performances were.

I guess the first time I saw him was when he appeared in "Scent of a Woman." Around that same time, I was impressed with his work in "Leap of Faith." The next time I remember seeing him was in "Twister," then, in rapid succession, "Boogie Nights" and "The Big Lebowski."

He won an Oscar for his performance in 2005's "Capote," and it was truly an amazing performance. He was nominated for Oscars three more times, but he never won another one.

I guess the thing I appreciated the most about him was that you never really knew what kind of role he was going to play. He defied pigeonholing. He was Everyman, believable in every part he played. He could do it all. And, even in the relatively short time he was here, Hoffman seems to have done it all.

The word prolific should have his picture next to its definition in the dictionary.

And that is the greatest tragedy — that the world will be deprived of the great performances he was sure to deliver in the next two or three decades.

Other questions about Hoffman's death can wait for another day to be addressed — and they, no doubt, will be. For now, it is enough to realize that this loss of Everyman is everyone's.

Maximilian Schell Dies

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Maximillian Schell died overnight at the age of 83.

I have admired his Oscar–winning work in 1961's "Judgment at Nuremberg" ever since I saw it for the first time. I've never seen it on the big screen, only on TV screens, but I don't think that matters.

It is the acting, not the cinematography, that tells the story in that movie, and Schell's performance, as brilliant as it was, was only one part of it. Other parts were co–star (and co–Best Actor nominee) Spencer Tracy and many other stars in lesser — but no less important — roles, some of whom believed in the project so deeply that they accepted no pay for their work.

Still, Schell's performance was, as I say, brilliant. I wish to take nothing away from it. I've never seen anything like it — and I consider myself to be fairly knowledgeable about movies. I've seen many admirable performances, but Schell's may have been was the best.

(Well, upon further review, I might have to put it second behind Gregory Peck in "To Kill a Mockingbird.")

Unfortunately, I think it led to the Austrian–born Schell being pigeonholed in Nazi–related roles — ironic, really, since Schell's family fled Austria after it was annexed by Nazi Germany. That may have been a mixed blessing; he received additional Oscar nominations for his work in two World War II–themed movies in the 1970s.

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But he never won another statuette.

He did take steps to avoid being typecast, appearing in a variety of roles through the remainder of his career. I've seen many of them, and I always come away with a renewed respect for Schell's work.

Schell was a remarkably talented man. His family relocated to Zurich, Switzerland, where the young Schell read the classics — and wrote a play at the age of 10. His mother was an actress, and his father was a writer; as a result, Schell said he grew up in a "theater atmosphere," and his artistic talents initially gravitated more to writing, painting and music than acting.

He did a lot of writing in his college years, including part–time work for newspapers to supplement his income. Ultimately, though, he settled on a career in acting, which he launched at the age of 24.

I suspect he still felt torn, even after he had settled on a career in acting. "I don't actually have a profession," he once said. "I wander through life and through all areas of art."

I guess you could say he was something of a pioneer. When he won his Oscar, it was the first awarded to a German–speaking actor since World War II — a real breakthrough for that time in history.

Maximilian Schell certainly left his mark.