2006
The Holidays Outside Are Frightening
December 25, 2006 01:48 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
The weather outside is frightening, especially if you’re driving off the road in the Pacific Northwest or flying into Denver International Airport. And during a whole government-sanctioned week off for religious partying, you want to be careful to enjoy that time, not spend the hours digging yourself out.
We’ve spent a whole year digging over here at the Celebrity Death Trio™ headquarters, but it’s digging of a different sort. It’s the kind usually assorted with the Ghost Of Christmas Past, where you’re burying the old and waiting for the new. And in that spirit, here are the obits of the our three favorite deceased celebs from this year, as well as a special holiday bonus item. Raise the eggnog, and toast to the year 2007. After all, 2006 is about to be just another old acquaintance soon forgot.
Herewith, the departed. No humbugs here.
• Buck Owens
Musician. Alvis Edgar "Buck" Owens pulled country music out of the trailer parks and intermarried backwaters of the Deep South and made it mainstream. Most of us probably remember Buck as one of the two guys from "Hee Haw" (the other being banjo player Roy Clark, a surely soon-to-be member of the Celebrity Death Trio™). Yet the big-toothed Buckster had serious industry credibility, creating the "Bakersfield sound" that helped make country a viable form of popular music-and garnering twenty Top 10 singles in the process. Yes, we know it's clichéd, but the reality for Alvis Owens is that once and for all, the Buck stops here.
• Al Lewis
Actor. Despite his numerous TV roles, Al will always be Grandpa Munster in our hearts. He owned a restaurant in NYC, ran for governor of New York (getting 52,000 votes) and campaigned for marijuana legalization. Grandpa a pothead? Never would have guessed. Herman, maybe. Eddie, definitely. One of the benefits of being a vampire on TV was that Al already had a pretty good idea of what sleeping in a coffin would be like. On the show, though, he was able to climb out of it. He's probably not going to get to do that anymore.
• Steve Irwin
Crocodile hunter. 44 years old. As the incredibly grating Australian host of his own wildlife TV show, Irwin was famous for sticking his hands in crocodile’s mouths and doing things that most people would classify as “idiotic.” This includes holding his newborn baby over the open jaws of a crocodile a couple of years ago—a feat that was captured on film for the world to see. However, Irwin managed to do one thing right: he got people interested in preserving wildlife instead of mowing it down and killing it. Ironically, his death came when a stingray stabbed the Animal Planeteer right through his chest while he was filming a kid’s show . . . and deaths from stingray stings are virtually unheard of. While we were hardly fans of Irwin’s “Crikey, mate!” style, we take this one to heart because the CDT editorial staff was diving in those same Port Douglas waters just a few weeks before. As always, there is a silver lining: at least Steve didn’t get eaten by a croc.
But wait, now for that other trio . . .
In the last 58 years, only 17 people have been killed in Florida by alligators. That’s one every three years or so. Yet this week alone, three women were killed by alligators, all apparently in broad daylight and in populated areas. Annemarie Campbell, Judy Cooper, and Yovy Suarez Jimenez have all become part of the revered circle of life, and Florida authorities are gutting the suspects to ascertain whether the gators are on some kind of human-protein South Beach Diet.
RIP, one and all, and to all a good night.
The weather outside is frightening, especially if you’re driving off the road in the Pacific Northwest or flying into Denver International Airport. And during a whole government-sanctioned week off for religious partying, you want to be careful to enjoy that time, not spend the hours digging yourself out.
We’ve spent a whole year digging over here at the Celebrity Death Trio™ headquarters, but it’s digging of a different sort. It’s the kind usually assorted with the Ghost Of Christmas Past, where you’re burying the old and waiting for the new. And in that spirit, here are the obits of the our three favorite deceased celebs from this year, as well as a special holiday bonus item. Raise the eggnog, and toast to the year 2007. After all, 2006 is about to be just another old acquaintance soon forgot.
Herewith, the departed. No humbugs here.
• Buck Owens
Musician. Alvis Edgar "Buck" Owens pulled country music out of the trailer parks and intermarried backwaters of the Deep South and made it mainstream. Most of us probably remember Buck as one of the two guys from "Hee Haw" (the other being banjo player Roy Clark, a surely soon-to-be member of the Celebrity Death Trio™). Yet the big-toothed Buckster had serious industry credibility, creating the "Bakersfield sound" that helped make country a viable form of popular music-and garnering twenty Top 10 singles in the process. Yes, we know it's clichéd, but the reality for Alvis Owens is that once and for all, the Buck stops here.
• Al Lewis
Actor. Despite his numerous TV roles, Al will always be Grandpa Munster in our hearts. He owned a restaurant in NYC, ran for governor of New York (getting 52,000 votes) and campaigned for marijuana legalization. Grandpa a pothead? Never would have guessed. Herman, maybe. Eddie, definitely. One of the benefits of being a vampire on TV was that Al already had a pretty good idea of what sleeping in a coffin would be like. On the show, though, he was able to climb out of it. He's probably not going to get to do that anymore.
• Steve Irwin
Crocodile hunter. 44 years old. As the incredibly grating Australian host of his own wildlife TV show, Irwin was famous for sticking his hands in crocodile’s mouths and doing things that most people would classify as “idiotic.” This includes holding his newborn baby over the open jaws of a crocodile a couple of years ago—a feat that was captured on film for the world to see. However, Irwin managed to do one thing right: he got people interested in preserving wildlife instead of mowing it down and killing it. Ironically, his death came when a stingray stabbed the Animal Planeteer right through his chest while he was filming a kid’s show . . . and deaths from stingray stings are virtually unheard of. While we were hardly fans of Irwin’s “Crikey, mate!” style, we take this one to heart because the CDT editorial staff was diving in those same Port Douglas waters just a few weeks before. As always, there is a silver lining: at least Steve didn’t get eaten by a croc.
But wait, now for that other trio . . .
In the last 58 years, only 17 people have been killed in Florida by alligators. That’s one every three years or so. Yet this week alone, three women were killed by alligators, all apparently in broad daylight and in populated areas. Annemarie Campbell, Judy Cooper, and Yovy Suarez Jimenez have all become part of the revered circle of life, and Florida authorities are gutting the suspects to ascertain whether the gators are on some kind of human-protein South Beach Diet.
RIP, one and all, and to all a good night.
Holiday Spree
December 18, 2006 12:59 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
For anyone who’s already done their Christmas shopping---and we’re guessing that’s not many of you---it’s the time of year when 2-for-1 deals make the season a joy to behold. Such deals give us a “hark the herald angels” feeling over here at the Celebrity Death Trio™ offices, where two slabs are better than one. Meaning of course, that a Yuletide Exacta (a double trio) makes the tinsel around here glow like Rudolph’s nose after a late night at the Necrophiliac’s Kris Kringle party.
Our heroic dead folk this week have a combined total years lived of nearly almost 600. That’s older than the Pope and Donald Rumsfeld---combined! We leave it to you to decide whether that quantity contained any quality. Here’s a hint: always go with the guys who did movies and cartoons. Because when it comes to movies and cartoons, you can die time and time again, and no one even notices. Sort of like Keith Richards.
Herewith, the departed.
• Augusto Pinochet
Dictator. 91. It’s going to be hard to find something nice to say about the former ruler of Chile, whose regime killed and abducted thousands. Okay, he was a snappy dresser---in that kind of “Sergeant Pepper Meets Death Squad Militia” sort of way. Other than that, Augusto’s passing due to poor health simply means that nature got to do what the international community has long wanted to: pull the plug on one of the nastiest humans of the last half century. He seized power from Salvador Allende in a military coup in 1973, determined to create an economically viable Chile. Over the next three decades, he eliminated almost everyone who got in his way, and got himself appointed “senator for life.” His human rights abuses and fondness for torture were legendary, and several countries had hoped to bring him to trial for his crimes. They’ll have to settle for having him roast in peace.
• Jeanne Kirkpatrick
U.S. politician. 80. Kirkpatrick made her name as the first female U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Granted, the job hasn’t always attracted talent from the highest rung of humanity (sayonara, John Bolton), but Kirkpatrick tried to serve her term with dignity. Interestingly, she was a Democrat when Ronald Reagan hired her as his foreign policy advisor and even when he appointed her to the UN post, but Kirkpatrick eventually became a staunch Republican. She was a virulent anticommunist, and even came to believe that the UN could not save corrupt countries from themselves. Somehow, there are still people who don’t understand that.
• Sid Raymond
Voice master. 97. Sid was the voice for classic 1950s and 1960s cartoons that are in danger of getting forgotten in an era when “Scooby Doo” reruns are considered classic animation. Our favorites were Heckle and Jeckle, the erudite magpies, but he also did the voice of Baby Huey, the morbidly obese duck who foreshadowed America’s severe weight problem by forty years. Sid was born Raymond Silverstein almost a century ago, and in that time, he not only did voice work for cartoons ranging from Katnip and Casper to Popeye, but showed up as a real human in The Honeymooners, The Hustler, The Ed Sullivan Show, Schlitz commercials, and even The O.C. Sid joins a long list of great voices that went to Laryngitis Limbo in the last two years, and his vocal cords will be missed.
• Ahmet Ertegun
Music Impresario. 83. The son of a Turkish ambassador, Ahmet and his brother founded Atlantic Records in 1947 with some borrowed cash and an exceptional sense of popular musical tastes. He signed R&B artists Ruth Brown (who got her afterlife-time membership in the CDT just last month) and Ray Charles before Motown was even conceived. In the ‘60s, sensing something big going on with British white boys, Ahmet signed The Rolling Stones, Cream, and Led Zeppelin, all of whom ensured that Atlantic would be the preeminent record label of the late 20th century. Ertegun was personally involved in developing many of these acts, and he is certifiably one of a handful of people who directed the course of rock and roll. Ironically, Ahmet died from a head injury suffered at a recent Rolling Stones concert. We’re not quite sure what happened there . . . hell, even Keith Richards survives head injuries.
• Lamar Hunt
Football entrepreneur. 74. A scion of the oil-rich Hunt family, Lamar founded the American Football League in 1960 when the NFL wouldn’t give him a franchise. He started out with was the Kansas City Chiefs, and made the AFL a serious competitor to the NFL. The league’s first two meetings were at the AFL-NFL Championsip Game, which Hunt found to be a stupid name, and coined the term “Super Bowl.” He then oversaw the merger of the AFL and the NFL in 1970 after AFL teams started attracting top college talent and kicking the NFL’s ass in the Super Bowl. Lamar was an all-around sports fanatic, as evidence by the fact that he was also a founder of Major League Soccer, World Championship Tennis (the first pro tennis tour) and one of the first investors in the Chicago Bulls. This guy knew how to spot trends, or least finance them.
• Peter Boyle
Actor. 71. Everybody loved Peter as the curmudgeonly father on “Everybody Loves Raymond,” but the CDT loved him more for his film roles. His outstanding performance as the monster in “Young Frankenstein” (where he does both a tux-and-tails dance number and burns his fingers on a fine cigar) is one of the funniest in the history of film. He was an actor’s actor, as demonstrated in roles in Monster’s Ball, Taxi Driver, The Candidate, Joe, F.I.S.T. and The X Files. His career, which started after he left both the Navy and then the seminary, was knocked off course several times by health problems, including a heart attack, a stroke, and a nervous breakdown. But he always returned to the set, and hit the peak of his popularity in the past decade. He may also have the coolest bit of trivia the CDT has ever come across: John Lennon was the best man at his wedding. Not bad, all the way around.
RIP, one and all.
For anyone who’s already done their Christmas shopping---and we’re guessing that’s not many of you---it’s the time of year when 2-for-1 deals make the season a joy to behold. Such deals give us a “hark the herald angels” feeling over here at the Celebrity Death Trio™ offices, where two slabs are better than one. Meaning of course, that a Yuletide Exacta (a double trio) makes the tinsel around here glow like Rudolph’s nose after a late night at the Necrophiliac’s Kris Kringle party.
Our heroic dead folk this week have a combined total years lived of nearly almost 600. That’s older than the Pope and Donald Rumsfeld---combined! We leave it to you to decide whether that quantity contained any quality. Here’s a hint: always go with the guys who did movies and cartoons. Because when it comes to movies and cartoons, you can die time and time again, and no one even notices. Sort of like Keith Richards.
Herewith, the departed.
• Augusto Pinochet
Dictator. 91. It’s going to be hard to find something nice to say about the former ruler of Chile, whose regime killed and abducted thousands. Okay, he was a snappy dresser---in that kind of “Sergeant Pepper Meets Death Squad Militia” sort of way. Other than that, Augusto’s passing due to poor health simply means that nature got to do what the international community has long wanted to: pull the plug on one of the nastiest humans of the last half century. He seized power from Salvador Allende in a military coup in 1973, determined to create an economically viable Chile. Over the next three decades, he eliminated almost everyone who got in his way, and got himself appointed “senator for life.” His human rights abuses and fondness for torture were legendary, and several countries had hoped to bring him to trial for his crimes. They’ll have to settle for having him roast in peace.
• Jeanne Kirkpatrick
U.S. politician. 80. Kirkpatrick made her name as the first female U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Granted, the job hasn’t always attracted talent from the highest rung of humanity (sayonara, John Bolton), but Kirkpatrick tried to serve her term with dignity. Interestingly, she was a Democrat when Ronald Reagan hired her as his foreign policy advisor and even when he appointed her to the UN post, but Kirkpatrick eventually became a staunch Republican. She was a virulent anticommunist, and even came to believe that the UN could not save corrupt countries from themselves. Somehow, there are still people who don’t understand that.
• Sid Raymond
Voice master. 97. Sid was the voice for classic 1950s and 1960s cartoons that are in danger of getting forgotten in an era when “Scooby Doo” reruns are considered classic animation. Our favorites were Heckle and Jeckle, the erudite magpies, but he also did the voice of Baby Huey, the morbidly obese duck who foreshadowed America’s severe weight problem by forty years. Sid was born Raymond Silverstein almost a century ago, and in that time, he not only did voice work for cartoons ranging from Katnip and Casper to Popeye, but showed up as a real human in The Honeymooners, The Hustler, The Ed Sullivan Show, Schlitz commercials, and even The O.C. Sid joins a long list of great voices that went to Laryngitis Limbo in the last two years, and his vocal cords will be missed.
• Ahmet Ertegun
Music Impresario. 83. The son of a Turkish ambassador, Ahmet and his brother founded Atlantic Records in 1947 with some borrowed cash and an exceptional sense of popular musical tastes. He signed R&B artists Ruth Brown (who got her afterlife-time membership in the CDT just last month) and Ray Charles before Motown was even conceived. In the ‘60s, sensing something big going on with British white boys, Ahmet signed The Rolling Stones, Cream, and Led Zeppelin, all of whom ensured that Atlantic would be the preeminent record label of the late 20th century. Ertegun was personally involved in developing many of these acts, and he is certifiably one of a handful of people who directed the course of rock and roll. Ironically, Ahmet died from a head injury suffered at a recent Rolling Stones concert. We’re not quite sure what happened there . . . hell, even Keith Richards survives head injuries.
• Lamar Hunt
Football entrepreneur. 74. A scion of the oil-rich Hunt family, Lamar founded the American Football League in 1960 when the NFL wouldn’t give him a franchise. He started out with was the Kansas City Chiefs, and made the AFL a serious competitor to the NFL. The league’s first two meetings were at the AFL-NFL Championsip Game, which Hunt found to be a stupid name, and coined the term “Super Bowl.” He then oversaw the merger of the AFL and the NFL in 1970 after AFL teams started attracting top college talent and kicking the NFL’s ass in the Super Bowl. Lamar was an all-around sports fanatic, as evidence by the fact that he was also a founder of Major League Soccer, World Championship Tennis (the first pro tennis tour) and one of the first investors in the Chicago Bulls. This guy knew how to spot trends, or least finance them.
• Peter Boyle
Actor. 71. Everybody loved Peter as the curmudgeonly father on “Everybody Loves Raymond,” but the CDT loved him more for his film roles. His outstanding performance as the monster in “Young Frankenstein” (where he does both a tux-and-tails dance number and burns his fingers on a fine cigar) is one of the funniest in the history of film. He was an actor’s actor, as demonstrated in roles in Monster’s Ball, Taxi Driver, The Candidate, Joe, F.I.S.T. and The X Files. His career, which started after he left both the Navy and then the seminary, was knocked off course several times by health problems, including a heart attack, a stroke, and a nervous breakdown. But he always returned to the set, and hit the peak of his popularity in the past decade. He may also have the coolest bit of trivia the CDT has ever come across: John Lennon was the best man at his wedding. Not bad, all the way around.
RIP, one and all.
Femme Fatalities
December 04, 2006 11:13 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
It’s amazing how many letters we get about the Celebrity Death Trio™ being an elitist organization. “Where are the all-female CDTs?” critics cry, and “How come you don’t ever feature famous craniopagus twins dying in threes?”
Good questions, but they should be directed to a higher power, such as the county coroner. For us, it’s just a matter of reporting the facts. And the facts this week are that three ladies have stepped up to the doomsday dais to claim the gold, silver, and bronze medals of the morgue. These celebutantes are not women whose names you would immediately recognize, or who you’d like to visit in the graveyard (unlike say, Hillary Clinton or Barbara Streisand), but they’ve nonetheless gained fame and celebrity status for what they’ve done with their lives. As women, they’ve broken through the CDT’s glass ceiling . . . or perhaps it’s a glass casket lid. Either way, they’re taking their place alongside other CDT greats at their own female finish line. And when death is the prize, every one’s a winner. Or a loser. Take your pick.
Herewith, the departed.
• Rosalie Bradford
Weight watcher. 63. If you’ve skimmed through the Guinness Book Of World Records, you’ve come across this woman in two—count ’em, two—separate entries. Not that you’d want to put either one on your personal resume´. Rosalie first got her name in lights by being the heaviest woman in history of the world—weighing in at over 1200 pounds, or almost as much as a Mini Cooper. She got her second entry by losing 917 pounds of that weight—the most tonnage ever lost by a human being. Still she weighed nearly 500 pounds at the time of her death. She was an advocate for numerous weight loss programs, yet blamed her weight gain on “food addiction” brought about by abandonment and emotional abuse as a child. With an excuse like that, she’d have made a great U.S. Senator, don’t you think?
• Rose Mattus
Eye scream mogul. 90. Co-founder of Haagen Dasz. It was a made up name, but it sure made people pay big bucks for ice cream after years of being quite happy with Sealtest, Hood’s and the local Safeway brand. In fact, Rose and her hubby Reuben helped create the whole idea of super-premium products—even though theirs was made in The Bronx. Oh, yeah. A borough of New York City, not Europe. Yet, we all bought into the Haagen Dasz mythology, and Rose and Reuben eventually sold out to Pillsbury and Nestle for about $70 million. Nice returns on products named “macadamia brittle” and “rum raisin.” Do you think that she inadvertently had anything to do with the career of Rosalie Bradford?
• Mariska Veres
Singer. 59. You won’t recognize this woman’s name, but your brain can conjure her voice every time you hear the words “I’m your Venus, I’m your fire . . . at your desire.” At the tender age of 22, Mariska took over the lead vocalist spot for the Dutch band Shocking Blue. The group immediately released “Venus,” which would be Mariska’s calling card—-and only hit---for the rest of her life. Didn’t matter: for many male fans around the world, the stunning Mariska would always be the goddess on the mountain top, burning like a silver flame. Let’s just hope that right now she’s not burning in the silver flame.
RIP, one and all.
It’s amazing how many letters we get about the Celebrity Death Trio™ being an elitist organization. “Where are the all-female CDTs?” critics cry, and “How come you don’t ever feature famous craniopagus twins dying in threes?”
Good questions, but they should be directed to a higher power, such as the county coroner. For us, it’s just a matter of reporting the facts. And the facts this week are that three ladies have stepped up to the doomsday dais to claim the gold, silver, and bronze medals of the morgue. These celebutantes are not women whose names you would immediately recognize, or who you’d like to visit in the graveyard (unlike say, Hillary Clinton or Barbara Streisand), but they’ve nonetheless gained fame and celebrity status for what they’ve done with their lives. As women, they’ve broken through the CDT’s glass ceiling . . . or perhaps it’s a glass casket lid. Either way, they’re taking their place alongside other CDT greats at their own female finish line. And when death is the prize, every one’s a winner. Or a loser. Take your pick.
Herewith, the departed.
• Rosalie Bradford
Weight watcher. 63. If you’ve skimmed through the Guinness Book Of World Records, you’ve come across this woman in two—count ’em, two—separate entries. Not that you’d want to put either one on your personal resume´. Rosalie first got her name in lights by being the heaviest woman in history of the world—weighing in at over 1200 pounds, or almost as much as a Mini Cooper. She got her second entry by losing 917 pounds of that weight—the most tonnage ever lost by a human being. Still she weighed nearly 500 pounds at the time of her death. She was an advocate for numerous weight loss programs, yet blamed her weight gain on “food addiction” brought about by abandonment and emotional abuse as a child. With an excuse like that, she’d have made a great U.S. Senator, don’t you think?
• Rose Mattus
Eye scream mogul. 90. Co-founder of Haagen Dasz. It was a made up name, but it sure made people pay big bucks for ice cream after years of being quite happy with Sealtest, Hood’s and the local Safeway brand. In fact, Rose and her hubby Reuben helped create the whole idea of super-premium products—even though theirs was made in The Bronx. Oh, yeah. A borough of New York City, not Europe. Yet, we all bought into the Haagen Dasz mythology, and Rose and Reuben eventually sold out to Pillsbury and Nestle for about $70 million. Nice returns on products named “macadamia brittle” and “rum raisin.” Do you think that she inadvertently had anything to do with the career of Rosalie Bradford?
• Mariska Veres
Singer. 59. You won’t recognize this woman’s name, but your brain can conjure her voice every time you hear the words “I’m your Venus, I’m your fire . . . at your desire.” At the tender age of 22, Mariska took over the lead vocalist spot for the Dutch band Shocking Blue. The group immediately released “Venus,” which would be Mariska’s calling card—-and only hit---for the rest of her life. Didn’t matter: for many male fans around the world, the stunning Mariska would always be the goddess on the mountain top, burning like a silver flame. Let’s just hope that right now she’s not burning in the silver flame.
RIP, one and all.
Infernal Affairs
November 27, 2006 04:43 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
Unseasonably warm weather has blinded many of us to the reality that this is almost the winter of our discontent. Or at least the discontent so prevalent in this installment of the Celebrity Death Trio™. Three famous American love affairs expressed their discontent by giving up the ghost over the past week. Tragedies, yes, but they made for good headlines in an otherwise slow news week.
Yet, even those of us at the CDT™ have a soft spot for love affairs, whether entered into by two humans, two corporations, two politicians, two communities, or two crass commercialists. This week, we got a little taste of all of them in mortuary mode, allowing us to watch love fade like a charbroiled rose in the final days of November. Thank God it was right after Thanksgiving and we had a full stomach.
Herewith, the departed.
• Blacks and Hollywood
For many years, the entertainment industry has supported the African-American community. In fact, it has proved to be a path to riches for many blacks, making entertainers like Oprah Winfrey, Bill Cosby, and Michael Jackson (still technically black) some of the richest people in the United States. And Hollywood has even supported rappers like Ice T and 50 Cent when those performers were walking the fine line between free speech and yelling “Fire!” in a crowded police station. But the love affair turned sour this week when Jesse Jackson and his posse decided to call for a boycott of the new “Seinfeld” DVDs. In the aftermath of Seinfeld alum Michael Richards’ infamous club rant, the black community decided Richards hasn’t done enough apologizing (apparently public apologies on radio, TV and in print aren’t humbling enough), so it is going after the sitcom itself—one of the most lucrative Hollywood properties of all time. This is one marriage that isn’t going to be healed by a bouquet of flowers . . . or the publication of O.J. Simpson’s tell-all book.
• Ford Motor Company and the American Consumer
Day in and day out, Ford could count on Americans to buy its “Fix Or Repair Daily” autos. Loyal customers kept the company afloat for the past 103 years, but these are different times and the love is dead. The company’s fortunes this year have sucked worse than a used Pinto going uphill, as evidenced by its huge annual losses. In order to survive, Ford has mortgaged its factories and assets for the first time ever---to the tune of $18 billion. Of course, taking out a loan on the house to get a new car is as old as apple pie and Oldsmobiles. It’s just unusual that it is now a cash-strapped maker of cars, and not a cash-strapped consumer, who has to resort to the mortgage shtick.
• Pam and Kid Rock
There has always been something heartwarming and preternaturally comforting about having Pamela Anderson and her Triple Ds settle down in holy matrimony with a rock star. This time it was B-teamer Kid Rock, whose career is almost as hot as that of Fred Durst, Kevin Federline, and Nick Lachey combined. Sure, Pammy has a history of hopping into more beds than the Tooth Fairy, but this time it looked like she was going to sleep in that “just right” bed forever with the former Mr. Robert Ritchie. Well, forever lasted barely four months, as the unhappy couple allegedly filed competing divorce claims within 53 minutes of each other. No word as to whether or not Pam finally realized Kid couldn’t sing, or he realized that she couldn’t act. Although when she was married to Motley Crue’s Tommy Lee, we’re guessing Pam didn’t have to act.
RIP, one and all.
Unseasonably warm weather has blinded many of us to the reality that this is almost the winter of our discontent. Or at least the discontent so prevalent in this installment of the Celebrity Death Trio™. Three famous American love affairs expressed their discontent by giving up the ghost over the past week. Tragedies, yes, but they made for good headlines in an otherwise slow news week.
Yet, even those of us at the CDT™ have a soft spot for love affairs, whether entered into by two humans, two corporations, two politicians, two communities, or two crass commercialists. This week, we got a little taste of all of them in mortuary mode, allowing us to watch love fade like a charbroiled rose in the final days of November. Thank God it was right after Thanksgiving and we had a full stomach.
Herewith, the departed.
• Blacks and Hollywood
For many years, the entertainment industry has supported the African-American community. In fact, it has proved to be a path to riches for many blacks, making entertainers like Oprah Winfrey, Bill Cosby, and Michael Jackson (still technically black) some of the richest people in the United States. And Hollywood has even supported rappers like Ice T and 50 Cent when those performers were walking the fine line between free speech and yelling “Fire!” in a crowded police station. But the love affair turned sour this week when Jesse Jackson and his posse decided to call for a boycott of the new “Seinfeld” DVDs. In the aftermath of Seinfeld alum Michael Richards’ infamous club rant, the black community decided Richards hasn’t done enough apologizing (apparently public apologies on radio, TV and in print aren’t humbling enough), so it is going after the sitcom itself—one of the most lucrative Hollywood properties of all time. This is one marriage that isn’t going to be healed by a bouquet of flowers . . . or the publication of O.J. Simpson’s tell-all book.
• Ford Motor Company and the American Consumer
Day in and day out, Ford could count on Americans to buy its “Fix Or Repair Daily” autos. Loyal customers kept the company afloat for the past 103 years, but these are different times and the love is dead. The company’s fortunes this year have sucked worse than a used Pinto going uphill, as evidenced by its huge annual losses. In order to survive, Ford has mortgaged its factories and assets for the first time ever---to the tune of $18 billion. Of course, taking out a loan on the house to get a new car is as old as apple pie and Oldsmobiles. It’s just unusual that it is now a cash-strapped maker of cars, and not a cash-strapped consumer, who has to resort to the mortgage shtick.
• Pam and Kid Rock
There has always been something heartwarming and preternaturally comforting about having Pamela Anderson and her Triple Ds settle down in holy matrimony with a rock star. This time it was B-teamer Kid Rock, whose career is almost as hot as that of Fred Durst, Kevin Federline, and Nick Lachey combined. Sure, Pammy has a history of hopping into more beds than the Tooth Fairy, but this time it looked like she was going to sleep in that “just right” bed forever with the former Mr. Robert Ritchie. Well, forever lasted barely four months, as the unhappy couple allegedly filed competing divorce claims within 53 minutes of each other. No word as to whether or not Pam finally realized Kid couldn’t sing, or he realized that she couldn’t act. Although when she was married to Motley Crue’s Tommy Lee, we’re guessing Pam didn’t have to act.
RIP, one and all.
Dually Departed
November 20, 2006 06:11 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
So we’re sitting at our desks last Friday getting ready to hit the “send” button on that week’s CDT. It was a good one, starring Ed Bradley, Jack Palance and Markus Wolf. All of a sudden, the Celebrity Death Trio ™ Trumpet Of Termination starts bleating insanely, like Ann Coulter at a Democratic victory party. Another trio was in the works, and we were NOT to hit the “send” button after all.
Well, by the middle of the weekend, a second trio had landed in our laps. For a brief moment it seemed like trios of dead celebrities were sprouting like alien pod people all around us. Well, not quite sprouting, because they were dead. And there were only three of them, so it wasn’t the kind of alien onslaught that it might have been if this were the 1950s and we were scared shitless about UFOs, Martians, and the specter of dying planets coming to invade us.
In the end, it was just three more dead humans. But famous dead humans, which is why they get their names put up in lights here at the CDT. Quite a treat for them, if nothing else. So here’s our double scoop of delectable details about the dearly departed, who have---like the Doublemint Twins of long ago—tag teamed the Reaper for your enjoyment.
Herewith, the dually departed.
• Bo Shembechler
Football coach. 77. In 20 years as coach of the University of Michigan Wolverines, Bo notched a remarkable 234 wins and was revered as one of the greatest college football coaches of all time. Born Glenn Shembechler, Bo’s teams were always ranked among the best in the nation, but they never nailed a national championship. This fact may have contributed to Shembechler’s notoriously weak heart: he had his first myocardial infarction during Michigan’s Rose Bowl appearance in 1970. On the day before this year’s Michigan-Ohio State game, considered one of the greatest rivalries in sports, the retired Shembechler collapsed on the set of a TV sports show. Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t survive. Michigan got beat by a measly three points, the team apparently not able to use Bo’s passing as an opportunity to “win one for the Gipper.”
• Milton Friedman
Economist. 94. Miltie took the staid area of economics---“the dismal science”--- and became its first modern superstar. For the past 60 years, Friedman’s theories on how consumer spending and the national money supply affect the economy have been core beliefs of Wall Street and The Federal Reserve Bank. His ideas may not seem radical now, but Friedman’s research into things like inflation, exchange rates, and unemployment were groundbreaking to the point that Friedman was showered with almost every honor that can be heaped on economists, including the Nobel Prize. However, he claimed his proudest accomplishment was serving on the Presidential committee that led to the end of the military draft. The CDT is happiest about that one, too.
• Ruth Brown
R&B diva. 78. A legendary figure in the music world, Ruth embodied the R&B ethic of passion and pain, loss and lust. Even though she had been the best-selling black female of the 1950s, she found herself working as a maid to make ends meet in the 1960s. Atlantic Records, operating like every other record company, had screwed Ruth out of lots of money—even though her huge string of was instrumental to the company’s success (some wags called the record company “The House That Ruth Built”). She took the issue of unpaid royalties public, and became an advocate for musicians’ rights. She also became an actress, showing up in the movie “Hairspray” and McLean Stevenson’s sitcom “Hello, Larry.” Ruth was inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame as The Queen Mother Of the Blues, and it’s been said that R&B didn’t mean “rhythm and blues,” it meant “Ruth Brown.”
• Ed Bradley
Television journalist. 65. A longtime fixture on CBS News, Bradley was one of the heaviest hitters on the ever-popular “60 Minutes.” Bradley pushed the conservative network to the hilt; first as a black journalist, and second as a guy not afraid to wear an earring on the air. He cut his teeth covering the fall of Saigon, was wounded in Cambodia, became CBS’s first black White House correspondent, and them headed to 60 Minutes for the next quarter of a century. Bradley was also an avid music fan, hosting a nationally syndicated jazz program and showing up occasionally in Jimmy Buffett’s stage band. His death reminds us that we’re left with such towering journalistic icons as Katie Couric, Paula Zahn, and Bill Hemmer.
• Jack Palance
Actor. 87. Too many of us will only remember his comedic turn as Curly Washburn in the “City Slicker” flicks. Deservedly so, perhaps: he defined the “tough” in tough guy with the classic line “I crap bigger than you.” His legacy is much richer than playing second fiddle to Billy Crystal, though. He starred as the original bad cowboy in the classic “Shane,” and had more than a hundred roles in movies and TV shows from “The Twilight Zone” to the first “Batman” movie. He had his own good guy detective show, “Bronk,” but really came alive when he was playing some of the deepest voiced, nastiest villains to grace the silver screen.
Markus Wolf
• Spymaster. 83. You might not know his name, and he stayed alive because you did not. But Wolf was the original Communist Cold War spymaster, a man who played the men in foreign governments like Muppets on crack. His masterstrokes included infiltrating NATO, overseeing some 4000 international spies, bringing down West German chancellor Willy Brandt, as well as never having his photo taken. For his ability to stay out of both the limelight and international prisons, he was known as the “man without a face.” He was allegedly the inspiration for many literary and film spies, and notable for his method of getting spies into delicate positions by having them date secretaries and assistants of powerful bureaucrats. These days, the best we can do on the cloak and dagger front is Karl Rove and Valerie Plame, who make Maxwell Smart look like, well . . . Markus Wolf.
RIP, one and all.
* * *
And Happy Thanksgiving. Check out www.verybestveryworst.com while you’re recovering on Friday from way too much poultry, dairy, and canned foods.
So we’re sitting at our desks last Friday getting ready to hit the “send” button on that week’s CDT. It was a good one, starring Ed Bradley, Jack Palance and Markus Wolf. All of a sudden, the Celebrity Death Trio ™ Trumpet Of Termination starts bleating insanely, like Ann Coulter at a Democratic victory party. Another trio was in the works, and we were NOT to hit the “send” button after all.
Well, by the middle of the weekend, a second trio had landed in our laps. For a brief moment it seemed like trios of dead celebrities were sprouting like alien pod people all around us. Well, not quite sprouting, because they were dead. And there were only three of them, so it wasn’t the kind of alien onslaught that it might have been if this were the 1950s and we were scared shitless about UFOs, Martians, and the specter of dying planets coming to invade us.
In the end, it was just three more dead humans. But famous dead humans, which is why they get their names put up in lights here at the CDT. Quite a treat for them, if nothing else. So here’s our double scoop of delectable details about the dearly departed, who have---like the Doublemint Twins of long ago—tag teamed the Reaper for your enjoyment.
Herewith, the dually departed.
• Bo Shembechler
Football coach. 77. In 20 years as coach of the University of Michigan Wolverines, Bo notched a remarkable 234 wins and was revered as one of the greatest college football coaches of all time. Born Glenn Shembechler, Bo’s teams were always ranked among the best in the nation, but they never nailed a national championship. This fact may have contributed to Shembechler’s notoriously weak heart: he had his first myocardial infarction during Michigan’s Rose Bowl appearance in 1970. On the day before this year’s Michigan-Ohio State game, considered one of the greatest rivalries in sports, the retired Shembechler collapsed on the set of a TV sports show. Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t survive. Michigan got beat by a measly three points, the team apparently not able to use Bo’s passing as an opportunity to “win one for the Gipper.”
• Milton Friedman
Economist. 94. Miltie took the staid area of economics---“the dismal science”--- and became its first modern superstar. For the past 60 years, Friedman’s theories on how consumer spending and the national money supply affect the economy have been core beliefs of Wall Street and The Federal Reserve Bank. His ideas may not seem radical now, but Friedman’s research into things like inflation, exchange rates, and unemployment were groundbreaking to the point that Friedman was showered with almost every honor that can be heaped on economists, including the Nobel Prize. However, he claimed his proudest accomplishment was serving on the Presidential committee that led to the end of the military draft. The CDT is happiest about that one, too.
• Ruth Brown
R&B diva. 78. A legendary figure in the music world, Ruth embodied the R&B ethic of passion and pain, loss and lust. Even though she had been the best-selling black female of the 1950s, she found herself working as a maid to make ends meet in the 1960s. Atlantic Records, operating like every other record company, had screwed Ruth out of lots of money—even though her huge string of was instrumental to the company’s success (some wags called the record company “The House That Ruth Built”). She took the issue of unpaid royalties public, and became an advocate for musicians’ rights. She also became an actress, showing up in the movie “Hairspray” and McLean Stevenson’s sitcom “Hello, Larry.” Ruth was inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame as The Queen Mother Of the Blues, and it’s been said that R&B didn’t mean “rhythm and blues,” it meant “Ruth Brown.”
• Ed Bradley
Television journalist. 65. A longtime fixture on CBS News, Bradley was one of the heaviest hitters on the ever-popular “60 Minutes.” Bradley pushed the conservative network to the hilt; first as a black journalist, and second as a guy not afraid to wear an earring on the air. He cut his teeth covering the fall of Saigon, was wounded in Cambodia, became CBS’s first black White House correspondent, and them headed to 60 Minutes for the next quarter of a century. Bradley was also an avid music fan, hosting a nationally syndicated jazz program and showing up occasionally in Jimmy Buffett’s stage band. His death reminds us that we’re left with such towering journalistic icons as Katie Couric, Paula Zahn, and Bill Hemmer.
• Jack Palance
Actor. 87. Too many of us will only remember his comedic turn as Curly Washburn in the “City Slicker” flicks. Deservedly so, perhaps: he defined the “tough” in tough guy with the classic line “I crap bigger than you.” His legacy is much richer than playing second fiddle to Billy Crystal, though. He starred as the original bad cowboy in the classic “Shane,” and had more than a hundred roles in movies and TV shows from “The Twilight Zone” to the first “Batman” movie. He had his own good guy detective show, “Bronk,” but really came alive when he was playing some of the deepest voiced, nastiest villains to grace the silver screen.
Markus Wolf
• Spymaster. 83. You might not know his name, and he stayed alive because you did not. But Wolf was the original Communist Cold War spymaster, a man who played the men in foreign governments like Muppets on crack. His masterstrokes included infiltrating NATO, overseeing some 4000 international spies, bringing down West German chancellor Willy Brandt, as well as never having his photo taken. For his ability to stay out of both the limelight and international prisons, he was known as the “man without a face.” He was allegedly the inspiration for many literary and film spies, and notable for his method of getting spies into delicate positions by having them date secretaries and assistants of powerful bureaucrats. These days, the best we can do on the cloak and dagger front is Karl Rove and Valerie Plame, who make Maxwell Smart look like, well . . . Markus Wolf.
RIP, one and all.
* * *
And Happy Thanksgiving. Check out www.verybestveryworst.com while you’re recovering on Friday from way too much poultry, dairy, and canned foods.
No More Chances
November 06, 2006 12:34 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
Life is a game of chance. You’re lucky to be born and you’re lucky to have made it this far alive. Death, on the other hand, has nothing to do with chance. The odds are 100 percent that you will die. No longshots, no dark horses. We’re all going to cash in our chips at the end, probably when we think we’re on a real roll. One more hand, one more spin of the wheel, and then . . . Uh-uh. When the time comes, the house tosses you out of life with nary a word of warning. And on the great roulette wheel of death, nobody bets against the house.
So it goes with the death of three celebrity ideals this week. They had great hopes for their futures, right up until the demonic Dealer turned up a perfect Black Jack that wiped the very last smile off our player’s faces. Now they’ll wander the aisles of the casino thinking about what could have been if they hadn’t bet it all, and then lost it all. Don’t bother giving them a few chips out of pity. They’re so far in the hole that even Hell looks bright in comparison.
Herewith, the departed.
• Ted Haggard’s chances for sainthood.
The founder of a 14,000 member megachurch and the administrator of 30 million evangelical Christians, Haggard was the de facto representative of the religious right. He preached that gays are evil and drugs are evil, and used his position to get politically cozy with religious nuts in The White House. Problem was, Pastor Ted’s position wasn’t exactly the missionary one. Ted liked gays and drugs so much that he paid for them with a regularity that would make a Times Square hooker squeal with delight. After denying that he ever met the gay prostitute who blew his cover, Ted tried to worm out of it by professing his love for his wife and five kids. But get this: Ted’s followers forgive him! They won’t forgive the people who are honest about their lives, but this little weasel gets a pass for “fighting his demons.” We don’t think paying for sex and crystal meth counts as fighting one’s demons. In fact, it’s more like inviting your demons over for a really great party.
• Saddam Hussein’s chances for taking back control of Iraq.
Weapons of mass destruction aside, Saddam is one very bad man. Very bad. He’s responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of his countrymen, many of whom he had rounded up, tortured, executed and dumped in mass graves. After a long trial that had all the makings of a Little Rascals backyard circus, the Iraqi court finally found Saddam guilty of wanton slaughter. Now they want to hang him by the neck, which is a lot kinder punishment than he meted out to his perceived enemies. We’d rather he hung by something else, but we always strive to be family-friendly here at the CDT.
Bob Ney’s chances of getting re-elected.
Once upon a time, being a close friend of Jack Abramoff’s got Congressmen all kinds of perks: free vacation flights, golf trips to Europe, expensive meals. Today, an Abramoff friendship can be cashed in for a free trip to the slammer—all expenses paid. Ohio Republican Ney pled guilty a month ago to taking gifts from Abramoff in exchange for political favors. Yet, even though his sentence carries a possible 10-year prison term and $500,000 fine, Ney refused to resign his seat in Congress. When told this week that the first order of new business on Capitol Hill after the elections would be to have him evicted, Ney resigned and checked himself into an alcohol abuse center. He still hasn’t apologized. Weasels never do.
RIP, one and all.
Life is a game of chance. You’re lucky to be born and you’re lucky to have made it this far alive. Death, on the other hand, has nothing to do with chance. The odds are 100 percent that you will die. No longshots, no dark horses. We’re all going to cash in our chips at the end, probably when we think we’re on a real roll. One more hand, one more spin of the wheel, and then . . . Uh-uh. When the time comes, the house tosses you out of life with nary a word of warning. And on the great roulette wheel of death, nobody bets against the house.
So it goes with the death of three celebrity ideals this week. They had great hopes for their futures, right up until the demonic Dealer turned up a perfect Black Jack that wiped the very last smile off our player’s faces. Now they’ll wander the aisles of the casino thinking about what could have been if they hadn’t bet it all, and then lost it all. Don’t bother giving them a few chips out of pity. They’re so far in the hole that even Hell looks bright in comparison.
Herewith, the departed.
• Ted Haggard’s chances for sainthood.
The founder of a 14,000 member megachurch and the administrator of 30 million evangelical Christians, Haggard was the de facto representative of the religious right. He preached that gays are evil and drugs are evil, and used his position to get politically cozy with religious nuts in The White House. Problem was, Pastor Ted’s position wasn’t exactly the missionary one. Ted liked gays and drugs so much that he paid for them with a regularity that would make a Times Square hooker squeal with delight. After denying that he ever met the gay prostitute who blew his cover, Ted tried to worm out of it by professing his love for his wife and five kids. But get this: Ted’s followers forgive him! They won’t forgive the people who are honest about their lives, but this little weasel gets a pass for “fighting his demons.” We don’t think paying for sex and crystal meth counts as fighting one’s demons. In fact, it’s more like inviting your demons over for a really great party.
• Saddam Hussein’s chances for taking back control of Iraq.
Weapons of mass destruction aside, Saddam is one very bad man. Very bad. He’s responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of his countrymen, many of whom he had rounded up, tortured, executed and dumped in mass graves. After a long trial that had all the makings of a Little Rascals backyard circus, the Iraqi court finally found Saddam guilty of wanton slaughter. Now they want to hang him by the neck, which is a lot kinder punishment than he meted out to his perceived enemies. We’d rather he hung by something else, but we always strive to be family-friendly here at the CDT.
Bob Ney’s chances of getting re-elected.
Once upon a time, being a close friend of Jack Abramoff’s got Congressmen all kinds of perks: free vacation flights, golf trips to Europe, expensive meals. Today, an Abramoff friendship can be cashed in for a free trip to the slammer—all expenses paid. Ohio Republican Ney pled guilty a month ago to taking gifts from Abramoff in exchange for political favors. Yet, even though his sentence carries a possible 10-year prison term and $500,000 fine, Ney refused to resign his seat in Congress. When told this week that the first order of new business on Capitol Hill after the elections would be to have him evicted, Ney resigned and checked himself into an alcohol abuse center. He still hasn’t apologized. Weasels never do.
RIP, one and all.
All Souls On Deck
October 30, 2006 12:32 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
If you’re a celebrity and you’re going to die, it might as well be during the season when everybody is celebrating dying. It just doesn’t get any more ghastly than the end of October and early November. There’s Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, All Soul’s Day, Cabbage Night, Devil’s Night, Day Of The Dead, and every other variation of pagan festival all crammed into that last week before the retail trade starts celebrating the Virgin Mary’s pregnancy.
Enjoy your tricks and treats, and savor every one of those ill-gotten Reese’s Cups. As this week’s celebs can attest, you never know which one will be your last.
Herewith, the departed.
• Red Auerbach
Basketball legend. 89. Before there were slick willies like Pat Riley and Phil Jackson, there was Red Auerbach. Famed for chomping cigars every minute of his life, Arnold Jacob Auerbach created the Boston Celtics basketball dynasty that won 16 national championships back when coaches were actually tougher than the guys on the court. Auerbach coached the team to eight straight titles, and oversaw other championships as both general manager and club president. A fiercely combative man, Auerbach thoroughly intimidated both his players and opposing teams with his on-court tirades. Yet he was also ahead of his time. In 1950, he drafted the NBA’s first black college player and in 1963 was the first coach to start an all-black lineup, featuring Bill Russell and KC Jones. His coaching legacy has only been equaled by Jackson, who got his victories with two different teams, and in 1980 Auerbach was named the greatest coach in NBA history by sports writers. He’s now an all-star with obituary writers, as well.
• Trevor Berbich
Boxing legend. 49. Or 52 . . . the records are a bit fuzzy. In a long career running from 1976 to 2000, Berbich compiled a 50-11-1 record with 33 knockouts. His fame resided primarily in the fact that he was the last man to box Muhammad Ali, scoring a victory over the former Cassius Clay in 1981 to end Ali’s career. Berbick went on to take the world heavyweight crown but almost immediately got his clock cleaned and reset by Mike Tyson, who became the youngest heavyweight champion in history after beating the crap out of Berbich. This week Trevor got a permanent knockout when he was killed by an assailant with a machete near his Jamaican home. Berbich had lived in Jamaica ever since being deported from the U.S. twice after convictions for assault, theft, and rape (he obviously learned several life lessons from Tyson). There may be a silver lining: Berbich was killed in a church courtyard, which probably helped save his family some funeral transportation costs.
• Arthur Hill
Acting legend. Hill’s career spanned nearly fifty years and for decades he was one of TV’s most familiar faces. Known to most of us as “Owen Marshall, Counselor at Law,” Hill’s character was a lawyer in the 1970s whose main interest was in helping his clients, back when people still believed in the ideals of justice, honest lawyers, and the Easter Bunny. He won a best actor Tony Award for his role in the original “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?” and was fantastic in the movie “The Andromeda Strain.” In more than 100 different roles, Hill showed up on almost every TV series in the 60s and 70s you can name: “The Fugitive,” “The Invaders,” “The Untouchables,” “Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea,” and all those other shows that now have an incredible retro cool. An elegant actor and the consummate pro, it appears that Owen has lost his final appeal.
RIP, one and all.
Special thanks to CDT aces Arthur Blitzer Schwartz and Pete Scud Stud Prown for quick updates and clever punchlines.
If you’re a celebrity and you’re going to die, it might as well be during the season when everybody is celebrating dying. It just doesn’t get any more ghastly than the end of October and early November. There’s Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, All Soul’s Day, Cabbage Night, Devil’s Night, Day Of The Dead, and every other variation of pagan festival all crammed into that last week before the retail trade starts celebrating the Virgin Mary’s pregnancy.
Enjoy your tricks and treats, and savor every one of those ill-gotten Reese’s Cups. As this week’s celebs can attest, you never know which one will be your last.
Herewith, the departed.
• Red Auerbach
Basketball legend. 89. Before there were slick willies like Pat Riley and Phil Jackson, there was Red Auerbach. Famed for chomping cigars every minute of his life, Arnold Jacob Auerbach created the Boston Celtics basketball dynasty that won 16 national championships back when coaches were actually tougher than the guys on the court. Auerbach coached the team to eight straight titles, and oversaw other championships as both general manager and club president. A fiercely combative man, Auerbach thoroughly intimidated both his players and opposing teams with his on-court tirades. Yet he was also ahead of his time. In 1950, he drafted the NBA’s first black college player and in 1963 was the first coach to start an all-black lineup, featuring Bill Russell and KC Jones. His coaching legacy has only been equaled by Jackson, who got his victories with two different teams, and in 1980 Auerbach was named the greatest coach in NBA history by sports writers. He’s now an all-star with obituary writers, as well.
• Trevor Berbich
Boxing legend. 49. Or 52 . . . the records are a bit fuzzy. In a long career running from 1976 to 2000, Berbich compiled a 50-11-1 record with 33 knockouts. His fame resided primarily in the fact that he was the last man to box Muhammad Ali, scoring a victory over the former Cassius Clay in 1981 to end Ali’s career. Berbick went on to take the world heavyweight crown but almost immediately got his clock cleaned and reset by Mike Tyson, who became the youngest heavyweight champion in history after beating the crap out of Berbich. This week Trevor got a permanent knockout when he was killed by an assailant with a machete near his Jamaican home. Berbich had lived in Jamaica ever since being deported from the U.S. twice after convictions for assault, theft, and rape (he obviously learned several life lessons from Tyson). There may be a silver lining: Berbich was killed in a church courtyard, which probably helped save his family some funeral transportation costs.
• Arthur Hill
Acting legend. Hill’s career spanned nearly fifty years and for decades he was one of TV’s most familiar faces. Known to most of us as “Owen Marshall, Counselor at Law,” Hill’s character was a lawyer in the 1970s whose main interest was in helping his clients, back when people still believed in the ideals of justice, honest lawyers, and the Easter Bunny. He won a best actor Tony Award for his role in the original “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?” and was fantastic in the movie “The Andromeda Strain.” In more than 100 different roles, Hill showed up on almost every TV series in the 60s and 70s you can name: “The Fugitive,” “The Invaders,” “The Untouchables,” “Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea,” and all those other shows that now have an incredible retro cool. An elegant actor and the consummate pro, it appears that Owen has lost his final appeal.
RIP, one and all.
Special thanks to CDT aces Arthur Blitzer Schwartz and Pete Scud Stud Prown for quick updates and clever punchlines.
Filmstar FrightFest
October 23, 2006 02:30 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week’s Troika Of Terminality had a decidedly pre-Halloween eeriness to it. These weren’t your typical celebs, although they each managed to inhabit a small, dark, rarely visited place in our collective subconscious. Not the front-of-brain, “Tom-Cruise-humping-Oprah’s-furniture” kind of celebrity subconscious, it was more like the “we-know-we’ve-seen-that-person’s-name-but-we-have-no-friggin’-idea-where” kind of below the radar subconscious.
Halloween is always the best time of the year to imagine a blood-curdling CDT, but we rarely get one. We always think we’ll get an axe murderer or serial killer or some cannibal all heading for Hades out on Cabbage Night or All Hallow’s Eve. Doesn’t happen. Nonetheless, this week we have a scary mom, a dwarf, and a 3-D screamer, all of whom add up to one serious FrightFest when we cram them into the same room. And we have, so here they are, shoulder to shoulder, crypt to crypt.
If you’re going out to buy candy for this occasion, we suggest a combination of Mounds, Gummi Worms, and apples with razor blades to commemorate our CDT. Our newest members will be handing out graveyard gifts and crematorium confections to anyone with a cemetery sweet tooth.
Herewith, the departed.
• Jane Wyatt
Actress. 96. Played the ultimate obedient and reverential housewife on TV’s “Father Knows Best” . . . and that title that pretty much said it all. While “Father” legend and future Marcus Welby icon Robert Young ended up committing suicide in his garage, Wyatt nearly made it all the way to the century mark all by herself. She was frequently confused with actress Jane Wyman (the original Mrs. Ronald Reagan) although her fame carried her into the far distant future. For a whole generation of CDT readers, she will be forever remembered as Mr. Spock’s mommy in the Star Trek TV and movie series. It’s fitting that for several generations of couch potatoes, Jane was the only mother they could ever really love.
• Nelson De La Rosa
Famous dwarf. 38. Billed as the shortest actor in the world, the pint-sized man from the Dominican Republic stood approximately 28 inches tall. Yes, that’s just over two feet tall. He initially gained fame as a character actor of the Billy Barty school, starring in several international horror films. His intensity in these roles is said to have provided the inspiration for the character of Mini-Me in the Austin Powers series. For Nelson, it was an obvious jump from movies to becoming a symbol for the triumphant 2004 Red Sox as Pedro Martinez’ midget mascot. Fellow DR native Martinez regularly paraded de la Rosa around like an oversize Cabbage Patch Doll, and claimed that the little man was his good luck charm in breaking the curse of the Bambino. If that’s the case, the Red Sox won’t ever win again until they find another fan suffering from Type 2 microcephalic osteodysplastic primordial dwarfism.
• Phyllis Kirk
Actress. 79. Most famous as the besieged heroine in the 3-D horror classic “House of Wax.” She spent most of the movie running away from Vincent Price (CDT Hall Of Fame Inductee, Class of ’93). A regular presence in the heady early days of TV, she starred on Playhouse 90, The Twilight Zone, and our personal favorite, the Schlitz Playhouse of Stars. She also had her own talk show called “The Young Set.” However, many CDT fans will remember her best from her role as Nora Charles opposite Peter Lawford in “The Thin Man” series. And talk about spooky coincidences, Lawford’s wife Patricia Kennedy Lawford headed her own CDT just last month. At this rate, anybody who ever even met Peter Lawford will be dead in about a year.
RIP, one and all.
This week’s Troika Of Terminality had a decidedly pre-Halloween eeriness to it. These weren’t your typical celebs, although they each managed to inhabit a small, dark, rarely visited place in our collective subconscious. Not the front-of-brain, “Tom-Cruise-humping-Oprah’s-furniture” kind of celebrity subconscious, it was more like the “we-know-we’ve-seen-that-person’s-name-but-we-have-no-friggin’-idea-where” kind of below the radar subconscious.
Halloween is always the best time of the year to imagine a blood-curdling CDT, but we rarely get one. We always think we’ll get an axe murderer or serial killer or some cannibal all heading for Hades out on Cabbage Night or All Hallow’s Eve. Doesn’t happen. Nonetheless, this week we have a scary mom, a dwarf, and a 3-D screamer, all of whom add up to one serious FrightFest when we cram them into the same room. And we have, so here they are, shoulder to shoulder, crypt to crypt.
If you’re going out to buy candy for this occasion, we suggest a combination of Mounds, Gummi Worms, and apples with razor blades to commemorate our CDT. Our newest members will be handing out graveyard gifts and crematorium confections to anyone with a cemetery sweet tooth.
Herewith, the departed.
• Jane Wyatt
Actress. 96. Played the ultimate obedient and reverential housewife on TV’s “Father Knows Best” . . . and that title that pretty much said it all. While “Father” legend and future Marcus Welby icon Robert Young ended up committing suicide in his garage, Wyatt nearly made it all the way to the century mark all by herself. She was frequently confused with actress Jane Wyman (the original Mrs. Ronald Reagan) although her fame carried her into the far distant future. For a whole generation of CDT readers, she will be forever remembered as Mr. Spock’s mommy in the Star Trek TV and movie series. It’s fitting that for several generations of couch potatoes, Jane was the only mother they could ever really love.
• Nelson De La Rosa
Famous dwarf. 38. Billed as the shortest actor in the world, the pint-sized man from the Dominican Republic stood approximately 28 inches tall. Yes, that’s just over two feet tall. He initially gained fame as a character actor of the Billy Barty school, starring in several international horror films. His intensity in these roles is said to have provided the inspiration for the character of Mini-Me in the Austin Powers series. For Nelson, it was an obvious jump from movies to becoming a symbol for the triumphant 2004 Red Sox as Pedro Martinez’ midget mascot. Fellow DR native Martinez regularly paraded de la Rosa around like an oversize Cabbage Patch Doll, and claimed that the little man was his good luck charm in breaking the curse of the Bambino. If that’s the case, the Red Sox won’t ever win again until they find another fan suffering from Type 2 microcephalic osteodysplastic primordial dwarfism.
• Phyllis Kirk
Actress. 79. Most famous as the besieged heroine in the 3-D horror classic “House of Wax.” She spent most of the movie running away from Vincent Price (CDT Hall Of Fame Inductee, Class of ’93). A regular presence in the heady early days of TV, she starred on Playhouse 90, The Twilight Zone, and our personal favorite, the Schlitz Playhouse of Stars. She also had her own talk show called “The Young Set.” However, many CDT fans will remember her best from her role as Nora Charles opposite Peter Lawford in “The Thin Man” series. And talk about spooky coincidences, Lawford’s wife Patricia Kennedy Lawford headed her own CDT just last month. At this rate, anybody who ever even met Peter Lawford will be dead in about a year.
RIP, one and all.
Diversity In Death
October 16, 2006 11:30 AM
Dear CDT Subscriber,
It was a busy few days for the CDT slabbers as each of the Big Three celebrity industries--sports, politics, and entertainment--each offered up a sacrifice to the god of embalming and autopsies. Literally ripped from today's headlines, as well as their lives, the newest Celebrity Death Trio ™ guests of honor provide us with a cross-section of American culture that you just can't get from watching reruns of "Leave It To Beaver." A Tex-Mex musician, a gay congressman, and a member of the world's most famous sports franchise make for a deceased dinner party certain to be ripe with gallows humor and bare bones conversation. So before the dessert tray rolls around, clink your glasses to these three fine specimens of American diversity. Because once this dinner is over, they're going to be permanent fixtures at Gabriel's Graveside Grille, where the members are also the meal.
Herewith, the departed.
• Freddy Fender
Musician. 69. It's been a long time since we heard from Freddy, whose "Wasted Days And Wasted Nights" helped define the singles' bar scene in the late 1970s and1980s. One of the first Mexican American musicians to achieve success on the country and pop music charts, Freddy was known for his plaintive vocals and his matador-on-LSD wardrobe. Born Baldemar Huerta in a Texas border town, Freddy changed his name when he started recording Spanish versions of popular tunes (he chose Fender from the type of guitar he played). After some drug and prison troubles, Freddy hit the big time with 1975's "Before The Next Teardrop Falls." From then on, he was pretty much the Tex-Mex king, enjoying solo success as well as joining respected groups like the Texas Tornadoes and Los Super Seven. Poor health, along with several organ transplants (including getting his daughter's kidney) eventually brought the curtain down on Freddy's long career.
• Cory Lidle
Yankee pitcher and not-very-good pilot. 34. Almost everyone on the Yankees is famous for something: Derek Jeter, the "can do" team captain. Mariano Rivera, the ultimate closer. Randy Johnson, the formerly talented Arizona Diamondback. Jason Giambi, the former steroid shooter. One exception was recently acquired pitcher Cory Lidle. Nobody could have picked Cory out of the lineup until he flew his private airplane into an immovable object---a 40 story building in Manhattan. Then everybody knew who he was, especially the New York city coroner. Details about how Cory ended up parking his plane in a rent-controlled luxury apartment are still vague, but apparently God was not his co-pilot. His flight instructor was. The two of them are now flying on a different set of wings somewhere between the moon and New York city.
• Gerry Studds
Congressman. 69. Most of you don't remember much about Representative Studds because being a gay politico doesn't bother anyone anymore. Or it shouldn't. Yet it did in 1983, when the unfortunately named Studds was outed during a scandal and still managed to win re-election in his Massachusetts district. His victory was a wake up call to both Washington and middle America that the times they were a' changin'. He served for 12 terms, openly supported gay rights and became a leading voice for protection of wildlife and fisheries in New England. Although retired since 1997, Studds name was back in the news as part of the media's infatuation with Mark Foley. Bad comparison: Studds fought for gay rights and became a gay role model instead of hiding behind cowardly claims of alcoholism and childhood abuse. Foley is an embarrassment to every human, regardless of sexuality or preferred method of intoxication. You heard it here first.
RIP, one and all.
It was a busy few days for the CDT slabbers as each of the Big Three celebrity industries--sports, politics, and entertainment--each offered up a sacrifice to the god of embalming and autopsies. Literally ripped from today's headlines, as well as their lives, the newest Celebrity Death Trio ™ guests of honor provide us with a cross-section of American culture that you just can't get from watching reruns of "Leave It To Beaver." A Tex-Mex musician, a gay congressman, and a member of the world's most famous sports franchise make for a deceased dinner party certain to be ripe with gallows humor and bare bones conversation. So before the dessert tray rolls around, clink your glasses to these three fine specimens of American diversity. Because once this dinner is over, they're going to be permanent fixtures at Gabriel's Graveside Grille, where the members are also the meal.
Herewith, the departed.
• Freddy Fender
Musician. 69. It's been a long time since we heard from Freddy, whose "Wasted Days And Wasted Nights" helped define the singles' bar scene in the late 1970s and1980s. One of the first Mexican American musicians to achieve success on the country and pop music charts, Freddy was known for his plaintive vocals and his matador-on-LSD wardrobe. Born Baldemar Huerta in a Texas border town, Freddy changed his name when he started recording Spanish versions of popular tunes (he chose Fender from the type of guitar he played). After some drug and prison troubles, Freddy hit the big time with 1975's "Before The Next Teardrop Falls." From then on, he was pretty much the Tex-Mex king, enjoying solo success as well as joining respected groups like the Texas Tornadoes and Los Super Seven. Poor health, along with several organ transplants (including getting his daughter's kidney) eventually brought the curtain down on Freddy's long career.
• Cory Lidle
Yankee pitcher and not-very-good pilot. 34. Almost everyone on the Yankees is famous for something: Derek Jeter, the "can do" team captain. Mariano Rivera, the ultimate closer. Randy Johnson, the formerly talented Arizona Diamondback. Jason Giambi, the former steroid shooter. One exception was recently acquired pitcher Cory Lidle. Nobody could have picked Cory out of the lineup until he flew his private airplane into an immovable object---a 40 story building in Manhattan. Then everybody knew who he was, especially the New York city coroner. Details about how Cory ended up parking his plane in a rent-controlled luxury apartment are still vague, but apparently God was not his co-pilot. His flight instructor was. The two of them are now flying on a different set of wings somewhere between the moon and New York city.
• Gerry Studds
Congressman. 69. Most of you don't remember much about Representative Studds because being a gay politico doesn't bother anyone anymore. Or it shouldn't. Yet it did in 1983, when the unfortunately named Studds was outed during a scandal and still managed to win re-election in his Massachusetts district. His victory was a wake up call to both Washington and middle America that the times they were a' changin'. He served for 12 terms, openly supported gay rights and became a leading voice for protection of wildlife and fisheries in New England. Although retired since 1997, Studds name was back in the news as part of the media's infatuation with Mark Foley. Bad comparison: Studds fought for gay rights and became a gay role model instead of hiding behind cowardly claims of alcoholism and childhood abuse. Foley is an embarrassment to every human, regardless of sexuality or preferred method of intoxication. You heard it here first.
RIP, one and all.
The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight (to Hell)
October 09, 2006 04:27 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week’s trio might as well be culled from the cutting room floor of “The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.” Or perhaps we should just call them “The Gang That Was Going Straight To Hell.” Really, when you look at the death stats on this list, it’s as if these celebs shot themselves in the foot before putting the gun to their head. Rarely have we seen defeat stolen from the jaws of potential victory with such force of will and determination. They’re so stupid, they’ve been playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.
The decidedly deceased represent an intriguing cross-section of current events. We’ve got sports, we’ve got politics, and we’ve got the potential for another war. Stir them up, and you’ve got an eternal e. coli salad just waiting for a flatlined fork and a salmonella spoon. That’s tasty in any cadaver’s cookbook, so eat hearty at this breath-free buffet.
Herewith, the departed.
The Yankees’ Legacy.
There are a lot of Yankees who are dead. They just don’t know it yet. After ruling the regular season like Donald Rumsfeld on steroids, the entire Yankees organization got spanked by the Detroit Tigers without so much as a whimper. Now there’s a lot of fingerpointing going on, and owner George Steinbrenner is understandably pissed at having spent one billion dollars in salaries over the last six years without a World Series win. We like manager Joe Torre, and think the guy deserves another shot. But A-Rod has choked so many times in the post season they should hire him his own personal Heimlich instructor. And past-his-prime Randy Johnson should think about retiring someplace nice and warm. We were thinking Arizona, but maybe Hell would be better.
Kim Jong Il’s Future.
The pampered midget of North Korea has managed to piss off every single country on the planet. That’s something not even George W. Bush can claim---not that he hasn’t tried. With this week’s nuke tests, the clinically insane Kim has set himself up as the world’s next whipping boy. Even the Chinese don’t like him, and they’re the only other respectable Communist ally that North Korea has left. As all missiles point towards Kim’s palace, he apparently is spending his days watching old movies and dating junior high school girls. It’s like having Hugh Hefner in charge of the Cold War. Either Kim knocks it off, or another country is going to knock him off. We’re betting on the latter.
The Republican High Road.
This country has a lot more to worry about than Representative Mark Foley’s penchant for bending over his pages instead of using a bookmark, but the Democrats don’t care. Jobs, immigration, the economy, and the war in Iraq are going to take a back door . . . er, back seat to the bad habits of Foley and his Republican cronies. And the Republicans are going to let it happen. Because even though this scandal is about one guy, Americans believe that members of Congress are getting creepier and creepier, like they’re in a halfway house for defrocked pedophile priests. As a result, important issues will get stuffed under the table like gerbils into a habitrail. Dirty politics are going to get dirtier, and there will be more God-fearing Republicans with their faces down in that dirt than ever before. We recommend digging a mass grave; it’ll save money and help reduce the budget.
RIP, one and all.
This week’s trio might as well be culled from the cutting room floor of “The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.” Or perhaps we should just call them “The Gang That Was Going Straight To Hell.” Really, when you look at the death stats on this list, it’s as if these celebs shot themselves in the foot before putting the gun to their head. Rarely have we seen defeat stolen from the jaws of potential victory with such force of will and determination. They’re so stupid, they’ve been playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.
The decidedly deceased represent an intriguing cross-section of current events. We’ve got sports, we’ve got politics, and we’ve got the potential for another war. Stir them up, and you’ve got an eternal e. coli salad just waiting for a flatlined fork and a salmonella spoon. That’s tasty in any cadaver’s cookbook, so eat hearty at this breath-free buffet.
Herewith, the departed.
The Yankees’ Legacy.
There are a lot of Yankees who are dead. They just don’t know it yet. After ruling the regular season like Donald Rumsfeld on steroids, the entire Yankees organization got spanked by the Detroit Tigers without so much as a whimper. Now there’s a lot of fingerpointing going on, and owner George Steinbrenner is understandably pissed at having spent one billion dollars in salaries over the last six years without a World Series win. We like manager Joe Torre, and think the guy deserves another shot. But A-Rod has choked so many times in the post season they should hire him his own personal Heimlich instructor. And past-his-prime Randy Johnson should think about retiring someplace nice and warm. We were thinking Arizona, but maybe Hell would be better.
Kim Jong Il’s Future.
The pampered midget of North Korea has managed to piss off every single country on the planet. That’s something not even George W. Bush can claim---not that he hasn’t tried. With this week’s nuke tests, the clinically insane Kim has set himself up as the world’s next whipping boy. Even the Chinese don’t like him, and they’re the only other respectable Communist ally that North Korea has left. As all missiles point towards Kim’s palace, he apparently is spending his days watching old movies and dating junior high school girls. It’s like having Hugh Hefner in charge of the Cold War. Either Kim knocks it off, or another country is going to knock him off. We’re betting on the latter.
The Republican High Road.
This country has a lot more to worry about than Representative Mark Foley’s penchant for bending over his pages instead of using a bookmark, but the Democrats don’t care. Jobs, immigration, the economy, and the war in Iraq are going to take a back door . . . er, back seat to the bad habits of Foley and his Republican cronies. And the Republicans are going to let it happen. Because even though this scandal is about one guy, Americans believe that members of Congress are getting creepier and creepier, like they’re in a halfway house for defrocked pedophile priests. As a result, important issues will get stuffed under the table like gerbils into a habitrail. Dirty politics are going to get dirtier, and there will be more God-fearing Republicans with their faces down in that dirt than ever before. We recommend digging a mass grave; it’ll save money and help reduce the budget.
RIP, one and all.
A Chill In The Air
October 02, 2006 10:25 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Well, it’s October and it’s officially autumn. However, we here at the Celebrity Death Trio ™ attribute the recent chill in the air to the passing of three celebrities who are no longer quite comfortable existing at room temperature. In fact, they’re cooler now than when they were walking around being famous. Unfortunately, that’s more a function of physics than any level of being hip or with it. Because once you’re a member of the CDT, you’re really without it. Body temperature, that is. Or a pulse. Or measurable brain activity.
But you had to have been “with it” to get into the CDT Clubhouse, that exclusive crematorium which this week plays host to an intriguing troika of celebs. Our newly paid up members hail from the worlds of sport, film, and espionage. Yes, espionage. That’s a word you don’t get to use very often in the 21st century. Espionage. We’re going to savor the sound of that as we send our finalists off on their last round of play, where 18 holes is just another way of describing where we’ve buried six sets of CDT alumni.
Herewith, the departed.
• Byron Nelson
Golfer. 94. Nelson is considered by many to be one of the greatest—-if not the greatest—-golfer in history. He won 11 consecutive tournaments, a record which still stands. His golf swing is the stuff of legend, and is the basic form that all aspiring duffers should emulate. Until Tiger Woods came along, Lord Nelson made more tournament cuts than any other human on the planet, and he held the single season tournament record of 18 wins. Apparently one of the most decent men in sports, Nelson had a tournament named after him and was revered by everyone who played the game. Not bad for a religious guy who didn’t drink or smoke.
• Iva Toguri D’Aquino
Tokyo Rose. 90. Iva was an American citizen living in Japan when World War II broke out. She worked at Radio Tokyo and was alleged to have been the infamous and mysterious Tokyo Rose, a female broadcaster who taunted American servicemen with her seductive broadcasts. Rose would tell the soldiers that their wives and girlfriends back home were cheating on them, and that they were destined to lose the war. Although Iva denied she was Tokyo Rose, she was sentenced to six years in jail for treason upon her return to the U.S. Gerald Ford later pardoned her, and many believe she was unfairly pegged as Rose by an overzealous American government bent on revenge. In Iva’s case, unfortunately, there was no happy finish and no happy ending.
• Eddie Albert
Actor. 55. At first blush, we looked at the obit coming over the wire and thought, “No way! We reported Eddie Albert’s death a little over a year ago.” The actor had perished in 2005, the CDT was sure of it (and one thing you can be sure of is death. And taxes.). But that’s why it always pays to read the fine print. This was Eddie Albert, Jr.—the son of Green Acres’ fabled Oliver Wendell Douglas. But Junior was an actor in his own right, having made a name for himself in the hippie classic “Butterflies Are Free” with Goldie Hawn, and as the father of the Red Ranger in the Power Rangers series. All told, Eddie Albert, Jr. (or Edward, as he preferred) had over a hundred roles in TV and the movies, but spent the last eight years caring for his father. And his father, you will recall, died last year. That’s odd timing no matter how close the family resemblance is. It evens gives us the shivers.
RIP, one and all.
Well, it’s October and it’s officially autumn. However, we here at the Celebrity Death Trio ™ attribute the recent chill in the air to the passing of three celebrities who are no longer quite comfortable existing at room temperature. In fact, they’re cooler now than when they were walking around being famous. Unfortunately, that’s more a function of physics than any level of being hip or with it. Because once you’re a member of the CDT, you’re really without it. Body temperature, that is. Or a pulse. Or measurable brain activity.
But you had to have been “with it” to get into the CDT Clubhouse, that exclusive crematorium which this week plays host to an intriguing troika of celebs. Our newly paid up members hail from the worlds of sport, film, and espionage. Yes, espionage. That’s a word you don’t get to use very often in the 21st century. Espionage. We’re going to savor the sound of that as we send our finalists off on their last round of play, where 18 holes is just another way of describing where we’ve buried six sets of CDT alumni.
Herewith, the departed.
• Byron Nelson
Golfer. 94. Nelson is considered by many to be one of the greatest—-if not the greatest—-golfer in history. He won 11 consecutive tournaments, a record which still stands. His golf swing is the stuff of legend, and is the basic form that all aspiring duffers should emulate. Until Tiger Woods came along, Lord Nelson made more tournament cuts than any other human on the planet, and he held the single season tournament record of 18 wins. Apparently one of the most decent men in sports, Nelson had a tournament named after him and was revered by everyone who played the game. Not bad for a religious guy who didn’t drink or smoke.
• Iva Toguri D’Aquino
Tokyo Rose. 90. Iva was an American citizen living in Japan when World War II broke out. She worked at Radio Tokyo and was alleged to have been the infamous and mysterious Tokyo Rose, a female broadcaster who taunted American servicemen with her seductive broadcasts. Rose would tell the soldiers that their wives and girlfriends back home were cheating on them, and that they were destined to lose the war. Although Iva denied she was Tokyo Rose, she was sentenced to six years in jail for treason upon her return to the U.S. Gerald Ford later pardoned her, and many believe she was unfairly pegged as Rose by an overzealous American government bent on revenge. In Iva’s case, unfortunately, there was no happy finish and no happy ending.
• Eddie Albert
Actor. 55. At first blush, we looked at the obit coming over the wire and thought, “No way! We reported Eddie Albert’s death a little over a year ago.” The actor had perished in 2005, the CDT was sure of it (and one thing you can be sure of is death. And taxes.). But that’s why it always pays to read the fine print. This was Eddie Albert, Jr.—the son of Green Acres’ fabled Oliver Wendell Douglas. But Junior was an actor in his own right, having made a name for himself in the hippie classic “Butterflies Are Free” with Goldie Hawn, and as the father of the Red Ranger in the Power Rangers series. All told, Eddie Albert, Jr. (or Edward, as he preferred) had over a hundred roles in TV and the movies, but spent the last eight years caring for his father. And his father, you will recall, died last year. That’s odd timing no matter how close the family resemblance is. It evens gives us the shivers.
RIP, one and all.
Musicians In The Mausoleum
September 25, 2006 08:56 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
When you review this past week, it seemed like someone walked into a music store and opened fire. Only this time, it wasn’t a disgruntled fan or a tormented high school kid who still wets the bed unleashing the symphonic slaughter. No, this time it was the Grim Reaper, “carrying a six-string gun, and snuffing lives for fun.” That’s how the old blues song tells it. Well, not exactly in those words, but close enough for government work.
Getting three stiff celebs from one industry is a rarity, unless it happens to be group of diplomats in some Third World country getting car-bombed on their way to work. A trio of music mavens isn’t the kind of graveyard gathering you typically expect to be lining up to pay the piper . . . unless one of them actually is a piper. And you don’t find many pipers around any more, come to think of it. Must all be dead.
As they say in the music business, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. Well, guess what? She’s howling up a storm.
Herewith, the departed.
• William Schultz
Guitar savior. 80. A quick history lesson: In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Fender Musical Instrument Corporation was a preeminent maker of electric guitars and amplifiers. Then it was bought by CBS (yes, the TV network) which promptly proceeded to ruin the company. To be more specific, they turned it to crap. In the 1980s, dedicated employee Schultz bought the company from Katie Couric’s current employer and turned it around. Today, Fender’s good name and status have been restored, and the company is the largest maker of stringed instruments in the world—and the vast majority of the credit goes to Schultz. Having saved the Stratocaster and Telecaster from the garbage can, we’re sure Bill will soon be receiving heavenly high fives from other Fender legends and CDT alumni Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
• Boz Burrell
Musician. 60. It’s sad that most people only know Burrell as the bassist for Bad Company. That gig certainly paid the bills, as most deals that involve selling one’s soul to the devil do. But Boz (known to his mum as “Raymond”) fronted his own band in the 1960s, was once rumored to be in the running to replace Roger Daltrey in The Who, and played in King Crimson during one of its most experimental phases. Unlike other musicians, Burrell apparently did not die of a drug overdose, but suffered a heart attack. Now he knows how we feel whenever we have to listen to Bad Co’s “Feel Like Making Love” on classic rock radio.
• Danny Flores
Musician. 77. Quite honestly, we didn’t know who Danny was when we first got his obit over the CDT™ Terminal Teletype machine. Then it struck us. We all know Flores for a single word, a word often used—or sung—at parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, and other polite social gatherings like binge drinking contests. Yes, Danny Flores was the man who shouted “Tequila!” in the middle of the song of the same name. As saxophonist for the Champs, the band that recorded the song, he played the lead line and wrote the riff. Nice job, Danny. We’ll do a round of shots in your honor with our good friend, Mr. Jose Cuervo.
RIP, one and all.
When you review this past week, it seemed like someone walked into a music store and opened fire. Only this time, it wasn’t a disgruntled fan or a tormented high school kid who still wets the bed unleashing the symphonic slaughter. No, this time it was the Grim Reaper, “carrying a six-string gun, and snuffing lives for fun.” That’s how the old blues song tells it. Well, not exactly in those words, but close enough for government work.
Getting three stiff celebs from one industry is a rarity, unless it happens to be group of diplomats in some Third World country getting car-bombed on their way to work. A trio of music mavens isn’t the kind of graveyard gathering you typically expect to be lining up to pay the piper . . . unless one of them actually is a piper. And you don’t find many pipers around any more, come to think of it. Must all be dead.
As they say in the music business, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. Well, guess what? She’s howling up a storm.
Herewith, the departed.
• William Schultz
Guitar savior. 80. A quick history lesson: In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Fender Musical Instrument Corporation was a preeminent maker of electric guitars and amplifiers. Then it was bought by CBS (yes, the TV network) which promptly proceeded to ruin the company. To be more specific, they turned it to crap. In the 1980s, dedicated employee Schultz bought the company from Katie Couric’s current employer and turned it around. Today, Fender’s good name and status have been restored, and the company is the largest maker of stringed instruments in the world—and the vast majority of the credit goes to Schultz. Having saved the Stratocaster and Telecaster from the garbage can, we’re sure Bill will soon be receiving heavenly high fives from other Fender legends and CDT alumni Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
• Boz Burrell
Musician. 60. It’s sad that most people only know Burrell as the bassist for Bad Company. That gig certainly paid the bills, as most deals that involve selling one’s soul to the devil do. But Boz (known to his mum as “Raymond”) fronted his own band in the 1960s, was once rumored to be in the running to replace Roger Daltrey in The Who, and played in King Crimson during one of its most experimental phases. Unlike other musicians, Burrell apparently did not die of a drug overdose, but suffered a heart attack. Now he knows how we feel whenever we have to listen to Bad Co’s “Feel Like Making Love” on classic rock radio.
• Danny Flores
Musician. 77. Quite honestly, we didn’t know who Danny was when we first got his obit over the CDT™ Terminal Teletype machine. Then it struck us. We all know Flores for a single word, a word often used—or sung—at parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, and other polite social gatherings like binge drinking contests. Yes, Danny Flores was the man who shouted “Tequila!” in the middle of the song of the same name. As saxophonist for the Champs, the band that recorded the song, he played the lead line and wrote the riff. Nice job, Danny. We’ll do a round of shots in your honor with our good friend, Mr. Jose Cuervo.
RIP, one and all.
Tough Broads. Tough Luck.
September 18, 2006 10:20 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
You’d really have thought that it was going to be politicians throwing themselves off the ledges of Limbo after the mid-term primaries. But you would be wrong. It’s some high-powered and highly placed talent this week that have put away the propane tanks and the Webers to go grilling from the grave. And to make it even more compelling, we’ve got not one but two terminal hat tricks. Two sets of three in a distilled yet decaying concentration of politicians, journalists and ne’er before knowns coupled with a tough all-female CDT, a rarity in the annals of the Celebrity Death Trio ™.
So let’s not waste any time digging in this week. After all, they didn’t.
Herewith, the departed.
• Patricia Kennedy Lawford
Kennedy sister. 82. Unlike most Kennedy women, she didn’t suffer in silence as her relatives tried to run the world, or at least tried to get it into bed. She married Rat Packer Peter Lawford, one of Sinatra’s buddies, and got to see the ins and outs of the swingin’ 50s from Hollywood to the White House. She divorced Lawford after JFK was killed, and spent the rest of her life as a notable patron of the arts.
• Ann Richards
Politician. 73. Former governor of Texas, she met her comeuppance when George W. took her job away in 1994. But she was known as a tart-tongued street fighter, a tough lady in a tough state where you either kick the crap out of your opponents or get it kicked out of you. Nobody kicked Ann’s crap. She remained on the national stage as a symbol to the Democratic Party that its leaders don’t always have to be pussies.
• Oriana Fallaci
Journalist. 77. Perhaps not as well known amongst modern readers as she should be, Fallaci was the original journalist interviewer. She was everything Baba Walters hoped and failed to be. She asked tough questions, wrote tough articles, and never shied away from a fight. No weepy Kleenex fests for Oriana. She nailed people like Henry Kissinger, Yasir Arafat and the Ayatollah Khomeini to the wall during interviews, exposing them for the power-hungry boys they were. She was also a noted war correspondent, and was shot three times and left for dead during a riot in Mexico City. Our kinda gal.
• Bill Ziff
Magazine publisher. 76. Ziff’s name is almost synonymous with magazine publishing, and it’s a safe bet that most readers of the CDT have read a Ziff-Davis publication, from PC Week to Car And Driver to Popular Mechanics. Ziff had long been an industry titan, although not always well-loved. His accomplishments, however, stand on their own. We wonder if they have a printing press in purgatory.
• Daniel Smith
Dead son. 20. You know, Anna Nicole Smith is always good for a media feeding frenzy, and this week she gave the press a two-fer. First, she has a baby girl in the Bahamas, and three days later her barely post-pubescent son Daniel dies IN THE SAME ROOM. We couldn’t make this stuff up, but we wish we could. Poor Daniel will now be known forever as the boy who died in a chair. To top it off, we still don’t know how he died. No one should be famous simply for dying, unless it’s . . .
• Kimveer Gill
Loser. 25. Committed suicide after gunning down 20 students at Montreal’s Dawson College. The only good thing about his life was that he chose to end it.
RIP, one and all. Except Mr. Gill. May his afterlife have the eternal taste of “Satan’s Slow-Roasting Celeb Sauce.”
You’d really have thought that it was going to be politicians throwing themselves off the ledges of Limbo after the mid-term primaries. But you would be wrong. It’s some high-powered and highly placed talent this week that have put away the propane tanks and the Webers to go grilling from the grave. And to make it even more compelling, we’ve got not one but two terminal hat tricks. Two sets of three in a distilled yet decaying concentration of politicians, journalists and ne’er before knowns coupled with a tough all-female CDT, a rarity in the annals of the Celebrity Death Trio ™.
So let’s not waste any time digging in this week. After all, they didn’t.
Herewith, the departed.
• Patricia Kennedy Lawford
Kennedy sister. 82. Unlike most Kennedy women, she didn’t suffer in silence as her relatives tried to run the world, or at least tried to get it into bed. She married Rat Packer Peter Lawford, one of Sinatra’s buddies, and got to see the ins and outs of the swingin’ 50s from Hollywood to the White House. She divorced Lawford after JFK was killed, and spent the rest of her life as a notable patron of the arts.
• Ann Richards
Politician. 73. Former governor of Texas, she met her comeuppance when George W. took her job away in 1994. But she was known as a tart-tongued street fighter, a tough lady in a tough state where you either kick the crap out of your opponents or get it kicked out of you. Nobody kicked Ann’s crap. She remained on the national stage as a symbol to the Democratic Party that its leaders don’t always have to be pussies.
• Oriana Fallaci
Journalist. 77. Perhaps not as well known amongst modern readers as she should be, Fallaci was the original journalist interviewer. She was everything Baba Walters hoped and failed to be. She asked tough questions, wrote tough articles, and never shied away from a fight. No weepy Kleenex fests for Oriana. She nailed people like Henry Kissinger, Yasir Arafat and the Ayatollah Khomeini to the wall during interviews, exposing them for the power-hungry boys they were. She was also a noted war correspondent, and was shot three times and left for dead during a riot in Mexico City. Our kinda gal.
• Bill Ziff
Magazine publisher. 76. Ziff’s name is almost synonymous with magazine publishing, and it’s a safe bet that most readers of the CDT have read a Ziff-Davis publication, from PC Week to Car And Driver to Popular Mechanics. Ziff had long been an industry titan, although not always well-loved. His accomplishments, however, stand on their own. We wonder if they have a printing press in purgatory.
• Daniel Smith
Dead son. 20. You know, Anna Nicole Smith is always good for a media feeding frenzy, and this week she gave the press a two-fer. First, she has a baby girl in the Bahamas, and three days later her barely post-pubescent son Daniel dies IN THE SAME ROOM. We couldn’t make this stuff up, but we wish we could. Poor Daniel will now be known forever as the boy who died in a chair. To top it off, we still don’t know how he died. No one should be famous simply for dying, unless it’s . . .
• Kimveer Gill
Loser. 25. Committed suicide after gunning down 20 students at Montreal’s Dawson College. The only good thing about his life was that he chose to end it.
RIP, one and all. Except Mr. Gill. May his afterlife have the eternal taste of “Satan’s Slow-Roasting Celeb Sauce.”
Global Graveyard
September 11, 2006 06:52 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week, the CDT gets its latest round of famous dead things from the global graveyard. Three European celebrities have sent their fabled careers to the mortuary while the rest of the world looks on. It’s kind of like watching an intercontinental career crash . . . you shouldn’t watch, but you have to. Can’t say we blame these celebs for shoveling dirt on their international accomplishments, however. Their careers are now at the bottom of spectacular cave-ins, and no one’s sending a rescue team to dig these three out of the pit.
Herewith, the departed.
Tony Blair.
British Prime Minister. Amid rising dissension in his own party, Blair announced he would step as PM down within the year. Times have been tough for Tony, who has overseen an economic resurgence in Britain along with its attempt to regain status as a modern power to be reckoned with. However, like his political buddies in America, he’s been getting the crap kicked out of him at home over his position on everything from Israel to Iraq. Early in the week, 8 members of his staff resigned, signaling a lack of faith in his future—what little he has left. Tony’s Labour Party successor is apparently going to be Gordon Brown, a staid politico who lacks much of Blair’s flair. On the bright side, Tony will soon have time for what all ex-Prime Ministers seem to do in Britain: garden and walk the dog.
Michael Schumacher.
German race car driver. Schumacher’s the most successful driver in Formula One racing history. He holds numerous Formula One records, including most championships, race victories, fastest laps, pole positions, and most races won in a single season. After winning the Italian Grand Prix, he decided it was time to go out at the top of his game (something Tony Blair probably wishes he could say). Despite Schumacher’s numerous accomplishments, much of his career has been mired in controversy. He’s always been dogged by allegations that he used collisions and bogus car problems to keep his position in close races. Be that as it may, Schumacher leaves a sport he has dominated over the past 15 years, and it’s not likely that anyone will be able to take the wheel from him for years to come.
Anna Kournikova.
Who? Exactly. This time two years ago, Anna Kournikova was the hottest tennis star in the world. She was Russian, blonde, willowy, had millions of dollars in endorsements, and, most impressively, had never won a major tournament. She retired from tennis last year to focus on cashing in on her celebrity . . . such as it was. Oh, you didn’t notice? Doesn’t matter. Another Russian, blonde, willowy, millions-of-dollars-in-endorsements tennis player just won the US Open: Maria Sharapova. She’s also won Wimbledon. She can actually play. She has a killer server, and she looks good doing it. Quite simply, she can do all those things Anna couldn’t do. So this week a real tennis player put the nail in Kournikova’s career coffin. And not to put too fine a point on it, but Maria’s also way hotter than Anna.
RIP, one and all.
This week, the CDT gets its latest round of famous dead things from the global graveyard. Three European celebrities have sent their fabled careers to the mortuary while the rest of the world looks on. It’s kind of like watching an intercontinental career crash . . . you shouldn’t watch, but you have to. Can’t say we blame these celebs for shoveling dirt on their international accomplishments, however. Their careers are now at the bottom of spectacular cave-ins, and no one’s sending a rescue team to dig these three out of the pit.
Herewith, the departed.
Tony Blair.
British Prime Minister. Amid rising dissension in his own party, Blair announced he would step as PM down within the year. Times have been tough for Tony, who has overseen an economic resurgence in Britain along with its attempt to regain status as a modern power to be reckoned with. However, like his political buddies in America, he’s been getting the crap kicked out of him at home over his position on everything from Israel to Iraq. Early in the week, 8 members of his staff resigned, signaling a lack of faith in his future—what little he has left. Tony’s Labour Party successor is apparently going to be Gordon Brown, a staid politico who lacks much of Blair’s flair. On the bright side, Tony will soon have time for what all ex-Prime Ministers seem to do in Britain: garden and walk the dog.
Michael Schumacher.
German race car driver. Schumacher’s the most successful driver in Formula One racing history. He holds numerous Formula One records, including most championships, race victories, fastest laps, pole positions, and most races won in a single season. After winning the Italian Grand Prix, he decided it was time to go out at the top of his game (something Tony Blair probably wishes he could say). Despite Schumacher’s numerous accomplishments, much of his career has been mired in controversy. He’s always been dogged by allegations that he used collisions and bogus car problems to keep his position in close races. Be that as it may, Schumacher leaves a sport he has dominated over the past 15 years, and it’s not likely that anyone will be able to take the wheel from him for years to come.
Anna Kournikova.
Who? Exactly. This time two years ago, Anna Kournikova was the hottest tennis star in the world. She was Russian, blonde, willowy, had millions of dollars in endorsements, and, most impressively, had never won a major tournament. She retired from tennis last year to focus on cashing in on her celebrity . . . such as it was. Oh, you didn’t notice? Doesn’t matter. Another Russian, blonde, willowy, millions-of-dollars-in-endorsements tennis player just won the US Open: Maria Sharapova. She’s also won Wimbledon. She can actually play. She has a killer server, and she looks good doing it. Quite simply, she can do all those things Anna couldn’t do. So this week a real tennis player put the nail in Kournikova’s career coffin. And not to put too fine a point on it, but Maria’s also way hotter than Anna.
RIP, one and all.
Crikey Cadavers
September 04, 2006 01:44 AM
September 4, 2006
Dear CDT Reader,
Some serious celebrity talent decided to jump in the back-to-school sarcophagus this week. Labor Day is barely over, everybody is moaning and groaning about going back to work, yet these guys were literally storming the gates to get into the Celebrity Death Trio ™. We’ve got a high-profile terminated trio, to say the least, and each of our graveyard guests was generally considered to be a good human. That’s a rarity in this day and age, so take the time to wave a sincere goodbye to these three gents who’ve pitched their tents at Camp Cadaver, the one place where summer never ends.
Herewith, the departed.
• Steve Irwin
Crocodile hunter. 44 years old. As the incredibly grating Australian host of his own wildlife TV show, Irwin was famous for sticking his hands in crocodile’s mouths and doing things that most people would classify as “idiotic.” This includes holding his newborn baby over the open jaws of a crocodile a couple of years ago—a feat that was captured on film for the world to see. However, Irwin managed to do one thing right: he got people interested in preserving wildlife instead of mowing it down and killing it. Ironically, his death came when a stingray stabbed the Animal Planeteer right through his chest while he was filming a kid’s show . . . and deaths from stingray stings are virtually unheard of. While we were hardly fans of Irwin’s “Crikey, mate!” style, we take this one to heart because the CDT editorial staff was diving in those same Port Douglas waters just a few weeks ago. As always, there is a silver lining: at least Steve didn’t get eaten by a croc.
• Glenn Ford
Actor. 90 years old. In a career spanning half a century, Ford was known for iconic roles as the heroic everyman, usually in Westerns where he played the low-key voice of reason. He starred in more than a hundred films, including “The Blackboard Jungle,” “The Big Heat,” “Superman” (as Jonathan Kent), “Gilda,” “Cimarron,” and “The Fastest Gun Alive.” For a while in the late 1950s, he was considered the top box-office star of the day. Amazingly, he took time out from his acting career to serve in both World War II and the Vietnam war. Apparently, Ford really was the fastest gun in Hollywood, able to draw and fire a pistol in .4 seconds—faster than film gunslinging legends John Wayne and James Arness.
• Bob Mathias
Olympic champion. 75 years old. Mathias was a two-time decathlon champ, winning the gold medal in two consecutive Olympics—both by the time he was 22. He was featured for years on the front of Wheaties cereal boxes, joined the Marines and starred in several movies (including a movie of his life). On top of all that, he served four terms as a Congressman in California and then became the first director of the U.S. Olympic Training Center. FYI, a decathlon requires that each athlete sprint for 100 meters, long jump, heave a 16-pound shotput, high jump and run 400 meters on the first day. On day two, the athlete runs a 110 meter hurdle race, hurls the discus, pole vaults, tosses a javelin and, then races 1500 meters. Sounds like a punishment they’d give in hell. For those of us who can’t imagine winning one decathlon, or even participating in one-tenth of one, Bob Mathias was an All-American in the flesh.
RIP, one and all.
Dear CDT Reader,
Some serious celebrity talent decided to jump in the back-to-school sarcophagus this week. Labor Day is barely over, everybody is moaning and groaning about going back to work, yet these guys were literally storming the gates to get into the Celebrity Death Trio ™. We’ve got a high-profile terminated trio, to say the least, and each of our graveyard guests was generally considered to be a good human. That’s a rarity in this day and age, so take the time to wave a sincere goodbye to these three gents who’ve pitched their tents at Camp Cadaver, the one place where summer never ends.
Herewith, the departed.
• Steve Irwin
Crocodile hunter. 44 years old. As the incredibly grating Australian host of his own wildlife TV show, Irwin was famous for sticking his hands in crocodile’s mouths and doing things that most people would classify as “idiotic.” This includes holding his newborn baby over the open jaws of a crocodile a couple of years ago—a feat that was captured on film for the world to see. However, Irwin managed to do one thing right: he got people interested in preserving wildlife instead of mowing it down and killing it. Ironically, his death came when a stingray stabbed the Animal Planeteer right through his chest while he was filming a kid’s show . . . and deaths from stingray stings are virtually unheard of. While we were hardly fans of Irwin’s “Crikey, mate!” style, we take this one to heart because the CDT editorial staff was diving in those same Port Douglas waters just a few weeks ago. As always, there is a silver lining: at least Steve didn’t get eaten by a croc.
• Glenn Ford
Actor. 90 years old. In a career spanning half a century, Ford was known for iconic roles as the heroic everyman, usually in Westerns where he played the low-key voice of reason. He starred in more than a hundred films, including “The Blackboard Jungle,” “The Big Heat,” “Superman” (as Jonathan Kent), “Gilda,” “Cimarron,” and “The Fastest Gun Alive.” For a while in the late 1950s, he was considered the top box-office star of the day. Amazingly, he took time out from his acting career to serve in both World War II and the Vietnam war. Apparently, Ford really was the fastest gun in Hollywood, able to draw and fire a pistol in .4 seconds—faster than film gunslinging legends John Wayne and James Arness.
• Bob Mathias
Olympic champion. 75 years old. Mathias was a two-time decathlon champ, winning the gold medal in two consecutive Olympics—both by the time he was 22. He was featured for years on the front of Wheaties cereal boxes, joined the Marines and starred in several movies (including a movie of his life). On top of all that, he served four terms as a Congressman in California and then became the first director of the U.S. Olympic Training Center. FYI, a decathlon requires that each athlete sprint for 100 meters, long jump, heave a 16-pound shotput, high jump and run 400 meters on the first day. On day two, the athlete runs a 110 meter hurdle race, hurls the discus, pole vaults, tosses a javelin and, then races 1500 meters. Sounds like a punishment they’d give in hell. For those of us who can’t imagine winning one decathlon, or even participating in one-tenth of one, Bob Mathias was an All-American in the flesh.
RIP, one and all.
Pluto's Picnic
August 28, 2006 12:25 PM
August 28, 2006
Dear CDT Reader,
Summer vacation is ending with a bit of a whimper this week, unless you happen to be flying in one of those planes that manage to keep missing the runway lately. Then it’s ending with a bang. For the rest of us, it’s been miserable weather across the country, notably cold and rainy in the Midwest and Northeast. This is August, for crying out loud, and temperatures are in the 50s and 60s. If this keeps up, Hell might just have to get its own Zamboni.
Maybe lousy summer weather is why this week’s celebrities have decided to get out of town—and head underground—before the Labor Day Weekend. Our toe-tagged trio, including the CDT’s first-ever inorganic celebrity, is beating the rush to the Dearly Departed Delicatessen while the rest of us light up that farewell barbecue of the season. So as you’re toasting your last marshmallows, make sure you also toast those famous souls who’ve found themselves a nice shady acre at the ultimate summer bash . . . St. Peter’s Permanent Picnic.
Herewith, the departed.
• Maynard Ferguson
Jazz musician. Maynard had the name everyone knew, but usually confused with countless other humans who had similar names. Ferguson Jenkins, John Maynard Keynes, Maynard G. Krebs, Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and a host of others. The truth is that this particular Maynard had a career that spanned fifty years, during which he was one of the most popular and accomplished trumpet players alive. Discovered as a child prodigy, Maynard played in the big bands of Jimmy Dorsey and Stan Kenton, and his own band was a stepping stone for a generation of musicians schooled on jazz, rock and fusion. While revered for his unique ability to hit double high C on his instrument, Maynard’s crowning achievement in the eyes of the public may have been his Top 40 trumpet rendition of “Gonna Fly Now” (the theme from “Rocky”).
• Maria Esther de Capovilla
Old person. More specifically, a former old person. In fact, the world’s former oldest person. At the ripe old age of 116, Maria held the title of longest-lived human as awarded by The Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lived a simple life in Ecuador since her birth in 1889, the same year that brought forth former CDT faves Charlie Chaplin and Adolph Hitler. Yet her death proved to be rich with irony: Maria died of pneumonia, and not—as one might expect—old age. To top it off, her birthday was only two weeks away. The CDT is a firm believer that the world’s oldest person should die from old age. With a little better medical care, who knows how much longer she would have lived? We’re guessing not as long as our next celebrity.
• Pluto
Planet. That’s right. Pluto, the planet. When it comes right down to it, Pluto might be the single most famous celebrity death of all time, or at least of our lifetimes. Consider this: Pluto’s been around for hundreds of years, even longer than Maria Ester de Capovilla. Plus, it’s the easiest planet to remember, even more than Earth, and has its own Disney character to give it a familiar face. You certainly can’t say that about Uranus. Nonetheless, astronomers decided that Pluto doesn’t qualify as a planet anymore—it’s more of a galactic dwarf—so all of its earnest hard work out there on the edge of the solar system has come crashing down in single horrific moment. A lot like Mel Gibson’s career. Planet or not, Pluto will always be a star in our eyes.
RIP, one and all.
Dear CDT Reader,
Summer vacation is ending with a bit of a whimper this week, unless you happen to be flying in one of those planes that manage to keep missing the runway lately. Then it’s ending with a bang. For the rest of us, it’s been miserable weather across the country, notably cold and rainy in the Midwest and Northeast. This is August, for crying out loud, and temperatures are in the 50s and 60s. If this keeps up, Hell might just have to get its own Zamboni.
Maybe lousy summer weather is why this week’s celebrities have decided to get out of town—and head underground—before the Labor Day Weekend. Our toe-tagged trio, including the CDT’s first-ever inorganic celebrity, is beating the rush to the Dearly Departed Delicatessen while the rest of us light up that farewell barbecue of the season. So as you’re toasting your last marshmallows, make sure you also toast those famous souls who’ve found themselves a nice shady acre at the ultimate summer bash . . . St. Peter’s Permanent Picnic.
Herewith, the departed.
• Maynard Ferguson
Jazz musician. Maynard had the name everyone knew, but usually confused with countless other humans who had similar names. Ferguson Jenkins, John Maynard Keynes, Maynard G. Krebs, Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and a host of others. The truth is that this particular Maynard had a career that spanned fifty years, during which he was one of the most popular and accomplished trumpet players alive. Discovered as a child prodigy, Maynard played in the big bands of Jimmy Dorsey and Stan Kenton, and his own band was a stepping stone for a generation of musicians schooled on jazz, rock and fusion. While revered for his unique ability to hit double high C on his instrument, Maynard’s crowning achievement in the eyes of the public may have been his Top 40 trumpet rendition of “Gonna Fly Now” (the theme from “Rocky”).
• Maria Esther de Capovilla
Old person. More specifically, a former old person. In fact, the world’s former oldest person. At the ripe old age of 116, Maria held the title of longest-lived human as awarded by The Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lived a simple life in Ecuador since her birth in 1889, the same year that brought forth former CDT faves Charlie Chaplin and Adolph Hitler. Yet her death proved to be rich with irony: Maria died of pneumonia, and not—as one might expect—old age. To top it off, her birthday was only two weeks away. The CDT is a firm believer that the world’s oldest person should die from old age. With a little better medical care, who knows how much longer she would have lived? We’re guessing not as long as our next celebrity.
• Pluto
Planet. That’s right. Pluto, the planet. When it comes right down to it, Pluto might be the single most famous celebrity death of all time, or at least of our lifetimes. Consider this: Pluto’s been around for hundreds of years, even longer than Maria Ester de Capovilla. Plus, it’s the easiest planet to remember, even more than Earth, and has its own Disney character to give it a familiar face. You certainly can’t say that about Uranus. Nonetheless, astronomers decided that Pluto doesn’t qualify as a planet anymore—it’s more of a galactic dwarf—so all of its earnest hard work out there on the edge of the solar system has come crashing down in single horrific moment. A lot like Mel Gibson’s career. Planet or not, Pluto will always be a star in our eyes.
RIP, one and all.
A Media Massacre
August 21, 2006 09:56 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
You know that it’s a slow end-of-summer news week when the media falls on its own sword just to have something to report. In the process, the media became its own Celebrity Death Trio—or at least its journalistic integrity did. It’s as if the media creates standards for itself, only to wait for the right time to kill them off. Not that this should be news; media ideals die from time to time in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Eddie Murphy’s film career.
This week, the media’s regard for standards was more flexible than Gumby in a microwave. Irony, objectivity, and accuracy all took a back seat to ratings and really big headlines. In the process, the national media put its own sensationalized head on the chopping block not once, but three times. As the axe swings down on our Tabloid Troika, raise a glass to that place where “deadlines” take on a whole new meaning, the nickname “Scoop” has more to do with ashes than investigation, and you don’t shout “Stop The Presses!” unless you’re lying under them.
Herewith, the departed.
• The Death Of Media Irony. Again.
As camera-ready confessor John Carr was waiting to get the fifteen minutes of fame that pedophiles so eagerly long for, the media was happy to give it to him on a gold plate (which was similar to the plate he ate on in business class during his flight home). The media spent the whole week reporting that the case of JonBenet Ramsey’s murder was fueled by media sensationalism . . . creating another new media sensation while pointing out the last one. Is irony dead? Not if you’re reporting for television news or writing for a daily newspaper. In fact, for those people, irony is eternal. Like the ghosts of little dead girls.
• The Death of Objective Journalism. Again.
The Presidential elections are more than two more years away, but the media this week has already decided that Hillary Clinton is the Democratic Party candidate for President. Never mind the fact that Hillary has denied that she’ll run (yeah, right . . . she has as much grasp of the truth as her husband did). The liberal side of the media wants her to run and have appointed her Queen Bee. So who’s running on the Republican side? Who cares! If you’re in the media, you want another Clinton in the White House. She’s liberal, she’s opinionated, she fights with her husband, and she’s determined to get more people behind her than Elton John. Unfortunately, she’s popular in only about three states in the entire country. So, objective journalism took another one in the back, and it’s corpse is lying dead on the floor. Just like Vince Foster.
• The Death Of Accurate Reporting. Again.
The big entertainment story of the past week was about the enormous hype that preceded the opening of the movie “Snakes On A Plane.” Guess what the second biggest entertainment story was? That “Snakes On A Plane” failed to live up to the hype! Lord have mercy---is there a more ridiculous bunch of humans out there than those trying to keep their jobs as media entertainment reporters? Try facts for a change. Next time, folks, report that people in the media have been throwing themselves in front of trains because they’re writing such crappy stories. Then report on how it’s happening all over the country. That’ll keep us interested in what you have to say. Right up until the Afterlife Amtrak catches you at the crossing lights.
RIP, one and all.
You know that it’s a slow end-of-summer news week when the media falls on its own sword just to have something to report. In the process, the media became its own Celebrity Death Trio—or at least its journalistic integrity did. It’s as if the media creates standards for itself, only to wait for the right time to kill them off. Not that this should be news; media ideals die from time to time in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Eddie Murphy’s film career.
This week, the media’s regard for standards was more flexible than Gumby in a microwave. Irony, objectivity, and accuracy all took a back seat to ratings and really big headlines. In the process, the national media put its own sensationalized head on the chopping block not once, but three times. As the axe swings down on our Tabloid Troika, raise a glass to that place where “deadlines” take on a whole new meaning, the nickname “Scoop” has more to do with ashes than investigation, and you don’t shout “Stop The Presses!” unless you’re lying under them.
Herewith, the departed.
• The Death Of Media Irony. Again.
As camera-ready confessor John Carr was waiting to get the fifteen minutes of fame that pedophiles so eagerly long for, the media was happy to give it to him on a gold plate (which was similar to the plate he ate on in business class during his flight home). The media spent the whole week reporting that the case of JonBenet Ramsey’s murder was fueled by media sensationalism . . . creating another new media sensation while pointing out the last one. Is irony dead? Not if you’re reporting for television news or writing for a daily newspaper. In fact, for those people, irony is eternal. Like the ghosts of little dead girls.
• The Death of Objective Journalism. Again.
The Presidential elections are more than two more years away, but the media this week has already decided that Hillary Clinton is the Democratic Party candidate for President. Never mind the fact that Hillary has denied that she’ll run (yeah, right . . . she has as much grasp of the truth as her husband did). The liberal side of the media wants her to run and have appointed her Queen Bee. So who’s running on the Republican side? Who cares! If you’re in the media, you want another Clinton in the White House. She’s liberal, she’s opinionated, she fights with her husband, and she’s determined to get more people behind her than Elton John. Unfortunately, she’s popular in only about three states in the entire country. So, objective journalism took another one in the back, and it’s corpse is lying dead on the floor. Just like Vince Foster.
• The Death Of Accurate Reporting. Again.
The big entertainment story of the past week was about the enormous hype that preceded the opening of the movie “Snakes On A Plane.” Guess what the second biggest entertainment story was? That “Snakes On A Plane” failed to live up to the hype! Lord have mercy---is there a more ridiculous bunch of humans out there than those trying to keep their jobs as media entertainment reporters? Try facts for a change. Next time, folks, report that people in the media have been throwing themselves in front of trains because they’re writing such crappy stories. Then report on how it’s happening all over the country. That’ll keep us interested in what you have to say. Right up until the Afterlife Amtrak catches you at the crossing lights.
RIP, one and all.
Breaking The Summer Spirit
August 14, 2006 06:13 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
The summer heat wave has finally broken, as have the spirits of this week’s three celebrities. Not to mention their molecular structure. Fortunately, none of the deaths was heat related, which is more than can be said for hundreds of other deaths across the U.S., which saw people dropping faster than Mel Gibson’s popularity at a bar mitzvah.
We’ve got some quirky dead people lined up this week, from all walks of life . . . or death, as the case may be. An almost forgotten TV icon, a scientist, and a ward of the state. Not the kind of group you’d normally find sharing the eternal elevator to the Great Beyond, but mortality always makes for strange deadfellows. So, as you start preparing for the traditional Back To School sales, take comfort in the fact that these three have already stopped by Beelzebub’s Bargain Bin for the Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust Cemetery Sale. Unfortunately, none of them qualifies for a lifetime membership.
Herewith, the departed.
• Mike Douglas
Talk how host, singer. It’s hard to believe in retrospect, but for a while Mike Douglas was one of the highest paid people on TV. His daily talk show—-think Jay Leno meets Oprah---was hugely popular throughout the 1960s and 70s, attracting guests like John Lennon and Yoko Ono (who guest-hosted for an entire week), Richard Nixon, Frank Zappa, Martin Scorsese, various leaders of the Black Panthers and Yippies, Ozzie Nelson, George Carlin, a preschool Tiger Woods, and 30,000 thousand others over the course of 21 years and 6000 shows. Douglas was great afternoon fun during a weird time in America, the perfect show to watch after school or while skipping work. Just thinking about it makes us long for the days of peace signs and love beads.
• James Van Allen.
Astronomer. The name might not ring a bell right off the bat, but give it a moment. During the 1950s, as America was busy getting ready for the Cold War, Van Allen was researching radiation in space. He believed that the Earth was surrounded by huge fields of radiation, which proved to be true once the military discovered them with rocket-powered weather balloons. Named the Van Allen Belts, this trapped radiation pummels the atmosphere and affects electronic circuits and computers. Thanks to Van Allen, precautions were put into place for space flights and satellites. This prevented them from being decimated by the radiation damage that he predicted . . . damage comparable to that usually found in NASA negligence.
• Darrell Ferguson.
Triple murderer. This guy was let out on a pass from a halfway house, went to visit some elderly family friends and then spent the afternoon fatally stabbing and beating all three of them. In the process, he established his own version of the CDT, making it uniquely his own as a “Friends and Family Death Trio.” While his defenders claimed he had too low an IQ to be held responsible for his actions, he claimed he’d happily do it all again---and more---given the chance. That alone pretty much qualified him for a turn in the hot seat during a game of Electrical Chairs. Ferguson was executed this past week by lethal injection, which seems a little too pleasant considering the circumstances, doesn’t it?
RIP, one and all. Except Ferguson. He deserves to be the hors d’oeuvres at the Limbo Lounge for all eternity.
The summer heat wave has finally broken, as have the spirits of this week’s three celebrities. Not to mention their molecular structure. Fortunately, none of the deaths was heat related, which is more than can be said for hundreds of other deaths across the U.S., which saw people dropping faster than Mel Gibson’s popularity at a bar mitzvah.
We’ve got some quirky dead people lined up this week, from all walks of life . . . or death, as the case may be. An almost forgotten TV icon, a scientist, and a ward of the state. Not the kind of group you’d normally find sharing the eternal elevator to the Great Beyond, but mortality always makes for strange deadfellows. So, as you start preparing for the traditional Back To School sales, take comfort in the fact that these three have already stopped by Beelzebub’s Bargain Bin for the Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust Cemetery Sale. Unfortunately, none of them qualifies for a lifetime membership.
Herewith, the departed.
• Mike Douglas
Talk how host, singer. It’s hard to believe in retrospect, but for a while Mike Douglas was one of the highest paid people on TV. His daily talk show—-think Jay Leno meets Oprah---was hugely popular throughout the 1960s and 70s, attracting guests like John Lennon and Yoko Ono (who guest-hosted for an entire week), Richard Nixon, Frank Zappa, Martin Scorsese, various leaders of the Black Panthers and Yippies, Ozzie Nelson, George Carlin, a preschool Tiger Woods, and 30,000 thousand others over the course of 21 years and 6000 shows. Douglas was great afternoon fun during a weird time in America, the perfect show to watch after school or while skipping work. Just thinking about it makes us long for the days of peace signs and love beads.
• James Van Allen.
Astronomer. The name might not ring a bell right off the bat, but give it a moment. During the 1950s, as America was busy getting ready for the Cold War, Van Allen was researching radiation in space. He believed that the Earth was surrounded by huge fields of radiation, which proved to be true once the military discovered them with rocket-powered weather balloons. Named the Van Allen Belts, this trapped radiation pummels the atmosphere and affects electronic circuits and computers. Thanks to Van Allen, precautions were put into place for space flights and satellites. This prevented them from being decimated by the radiation damage that he predicted . . . damage comparable to that usually found in NASA negligence.
• Darrell Ferguson.
Triple murderer. This guy was let out on a pass from a halfway house, went to visit some elderly family friends and then spent the afternoon fatally stabbing and beating all three of them. In the process, he established his own version of the CDT, making it uniquely his own as a “Friends and Family Death Trio.” While his defenders claimed he had too low an IQ to be held responsible for his actions, he claimed he’d happily do it all again---and more---given the chance. That alone pretty much qualified him for a turn in the hot seat during a game of Electrical Chairs. Ferguson was executed this past week by lethal injection, which seems a little too pleasant considering the circumstances, doesn’t it?
RIP, one and all. Except Ferguson. He deserves to be the hors d’oeuvres at the Limbo Lounge for all eternity.
Satan's Icemaker
August 07, 2006 10:38 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Holey moley, talk about a week where the career crematorium was working overtime. Celebs usually take the summer off in order to plan their next big move or lay low until the fall when the tabloids are running at full speed. Not this summer, though. With temperatures so hot that even Satan’s installed an icemaker, all bets are off. And celebs are cashing in their career chips faster than you can say “triple or nothing.” The cemetery slots are hot, meaning these three careers are not, so make sure you don’t bet against the House of Hades—especially when it’s serving up steroids, surgical procedures, and one hell of a hangover. These three celebs probably wish they were dead rather than see their careers laid out on this week’s slab.
Herewith, the departed.
• Mel Gibson’s status as a Hollywood icon.
All we can say is “Jesus Christ, Mel, what were you thinking?” If you already know you can’t handle the sauce, and you already have a reputation as a guy with a passion for anti-Semitism, then don’t go drinking alone with young girls in flash bars all over Hollywood. Call your wife, call your kids, call your agent; just don’t get caught being drunk and stupid behind the wheel of a luxury car. Oh, wait -- apparently, that was something your dad never taught you. Too bad. The CDT likes Mel a lot; his movies rarely stink, he’s very entertaining, and he seems like a guy that we’d like to hang out with . . . if we were still in a fraternity where drinking cheap beer was the coolest pastime around. Clean it up, Mel, and try to limit the intake to the home liquor cabinet. And if that doesn’t work, you really need to ask yourself—what would Jesus do?
• Fidel Castro’s dynasty.
Fidel is quite likely to get his own spot on the CDT Walk Of Fame any day now, but in the interim, he’s decided to give up the ghost on the Castro Legacy. As he passes the torch to brother Raul, it’s like watching Groucho hand the baton to Harpo. Never mind the irony in the fact that the Castros have become the Cuban Kennedys (weren’t they all trying to kill each other once upon a time?), but handing over the last Communist empire in the Western Hemisphere to your little brother has all the makings of a bad “Leave It To Beaver” episode where Wally expects the Beav to run the household on prom night. This isn’t going to be good for anyone, except Bill Clinton (in a starring role as Eddie Haskell), who can now get his Cuban cigars direct from the manufacturer and not from Monica’s lingerie drawer.
• Floyd Landis’ Tour de France win.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Has the world of sports ever had a no-name come so far so fast just to piss it all away in a matter of days? And we do mean piss it all away—Floyd’s urine samples from the Tour de France contained more steroids than Barry Bond’s breakfast platter. Here was a guy who wasn’t even in contention for the yellow jersey until close to the finish, and all of a sudden he’s flying up mountains like Christopher Reeves before his equestrian adventure. A little jolt juice, perhaps? And what’s with former American Tour champion Greg LeMond? This guy now has a full-time job ragging on American cyclists, which is overshadowing his accomplishment as the first American to win the Tour. Greg—take a break, you’re not competing. Your career is over. Let these guys destroy themselves.
RIP, one and all.
Holey moley, talk about a week where the career crematorium was working overtime. Celebs usually take the summer off in order to plan their next big move or lay low until the fall when the tabloids are running at full speed. Not this summer, though. With temperatures so hot that even Satan’s installed an icemaker, all bets are off. And celebs are cashing in their career chips faster than you can say “triple or nothing.” The cemetery slots are hot, meaning these three careers are not, so make sure you don’t bet against the House of Hades—especially when it’s serving up steroids, surgical procedures, and one hell of a hangover. These three celebs probably wish they were dead rather than see their careers laid out on this week’s slab.
Herewith, the departed.
• Mel Gibson’s status as a Hollywood icon.
All we can say is “Jesus Christ, Mel, what were you thinking?” If you already know you can’t handle the sauce, and you already have a reputation as a guy with a passion for anti-Semitism, then don’t go drinking alone with young girls in flash bars all over Hollywood. Call your wife, call your kids, call your agent; just don’t get caught being drunk and stupid behind the wheel of a luxury car. Oh, wait -- apparently, that was something your dad never taught you. Too bad. The CDT likes Mel a lot; his movies rarely stink, he’s very entertaining, and he seems like a guy that we’d like to hang out with . . . if we were still in a fraternity where drinking cheap beer was the coolest pastime around. Clean it up, Mel, and try to limit the intake to the home liquor cabinet. And if that doesn’t work, you really need to ask yourself—what would Jesus do?
• Fidel Castro’s dynasty.
Fidel is quite likely to get his own spot on the CDT Walk Of Fame any day now, but in the interim, he’s decided to give up the ghost on the Castro Legacy. As he passes the torch to brother Raul, it’s like watching Groucho hand the baton to Harpo. Never mind the irony in the fact that the Castros have become the Cuban Kennedys (weren’t they all trying to kill each other once upon a time?), but handing over the last Communist empire in the Western Hemisphere to your little brother has all the makings of a bad “Leave It To Beaver” episode where Wally expects the Beav to run the household on prom night. This isn’t going to be good for anyone, except Bill Clinton (in a starring role as Eddie Haskell), who can now get his Cuban cigars direct from the manufacturer and not from Monica’s lingerie drawer.
• Floyd Landis’ Tour de France win.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Has the world of sports ever had a no-name come so far so fast just to piss it all away in a matter of days? And we do mean piss it all away—Floyd’s urine samples from the Tour de France contained more steroids than Barry Bond’s breakfast platter. Here was a guy who wasn’t even in contention for the yellow jersey until close to the finish, and all of a sudden he’s flying up mountains like Christopher Reeves before his equestrian adventure. A little jolt juice, perhaps? And what’s with former American Tour champion Greg LeMond? This guy now has a full-time job ragging on American cyclists, which is overshadowing his accomplishment as the first American to win the Tour. Greg—take a break, you’re not competing. Your career is over. Let these guys destroy themselves.
RIP, one and all.
Mortuary Memories
July 24, 2006 12:09 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week the CDT takes a two-week vacation stroll down “Mortuary Memory Lane.” While we’re kicking up our heels at that little summertime getaway down by Hell’s Half Acre, you can strap on your time machine and view the CDT from this very same week in 2003, when we had an entertainment triad pulled like wisdom teeth right from the mouth of music and movies. It was almost like the CDT’s own little Hollywood Walk Of Fame. Except our celebrities weren’t walking.
You know, sometimes it’s good just to sit back and remember how things were in those simple times before . . . before . . . uh, before yesterday. It’s amazing how time flies, especially when it’s booked a bayside room at Lucifer’s Last Stop Lodge. So slap on the sunscreen, put up the beach umbrella and dig your toes in the sand, because that’s where you’ll find the remains of these three celebs from the CDT Archives.
Herewith, the departed.
• Bob Hope
No introduction needed. Hard to believe that Big Bob finally bit it. Some people believe he’d been dead since his last variety show tour of Vietnam about 30 years ago, but Bob’s been keeping it up for nearly a century. He was a film and comic icon, although today’s generation mostly thinks of him as a variety show guest and celebrity (he appeared in some 200 TV specials). Born Leslie Townes Hope, his standup routine made him famous, but he earned his moniker as the Entertainer of the Century based on his numerous “road films” with Bing Crosby and his self-deprecating monologues. He delivered classic one-liners right up to his 100th birthday (“You know you're getting old when the candles cost more than the cake”), which he celebrated just two months before St. Peter swept him off the stage.
• Sam Phillips
Music pioneer. Sam was the recording industry legend who discovered Elvis and launched Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Not a bad roundup for a guy that operated a poorly lit, nearly-bankrupt tiny recording studio in Memphis. His Sun Studios became the hot spot for that new-fangled rock ‘n’ roll in the 1950s. Phillips recorded the song that many consider the first rock record: “Rocket 88” by Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats, featuring a 19 year old guitar whixz named Ike Turner. Sam was one of the first people to be inducted into The Rock And Roll Hall of Fame, and considering the roster of record company and music media idiots that have been voted in so far (Jann Wenner? Hello?), he’s one of the few who truly deserves it.
• John Schlesinger
Director. Films such as “Midnight Cowboy,” “Marathon Man,” “Pacific Heights,” and “Falcon & The Snowman” have been ingrained into our consciousness as movies that make us think, or at least make us uneasy. Schlesinger had turned his talent towards TV over the past decade, all but disappearing into obscurity after producing some of the eeriest films of the past few decades. No one who saw “Marathon Man” ever looked at the dentist the same way again, and “Pacific Height’s” Michael Keaton was the creepiest renter in the history of film.
RIP, one and all.
This week the CDT takes a two-week vacation stroll down “Mortuary Memory Lane.” While we’re kicking up our heels at that little summertime getaway down by Hell’s Half Acre, you can strap on your time machine and view the CDT from this very same week in 2003, when we had an entertainment triad pulled like wisdom teeth right from the mouth of music and movies. It was almost like the CDT’s own little Hollywood Walk Of Fame. Except our celebrities weren’t walking.
You know, sometimes it’s good just to sit back and remember how things were in those simple times before . . . before . . . uh, before yesterday. It’s amazing how time flies, especially when it’s booked a bayside room at Lucifer’s Last Stop Lodge. So slap on the sunscreen, put up the beach umbrella and dig your toes in the sand, because that’s where you’ll find the remains of these three celebs from the CDT Archives.
Herewith, the departed.
• Bob Hope
No introduction needed. Hard to believe that Big Bob finally bit it. Some people believe he’d been dead since his last variety show tour of Vietnam about 30 years ago, but Bob’s been keeping it up for nearly a century. He was a film and comic icon, although today’s generation mostly thinks of him as a variety show guest and celebrity (he appeared in some 200 TV specials). Born Leslie Townes Hope, his standup routine made him famous, but he earned his moniker as the Entertainer of the Century based on his numerous “road films” with Bing Crosby and his self-deprecating monologues. He delivered classic one-liners right up to his 100th birthday (“You know you're getting old when the candles cost more than the cake”), which he celebrated just two months before St. Peter swept him off the stage.
• Sam Phillips
Music pioneer. Sam was the recording industry legend who discovered Elvis and launched Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Not a bad roundup for a guy that operated a poorly lit, nearly-bankrupt tiny recording studio in Memphis. His Sun Studios became the hot spot for that new-fangled rock ‘n’ roll in the 1950s. Phillips recorded the song that many consider the first rock record: “Rocket 88” by Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats, featuring a 19 year old guitar whixz named Ike Turner. Sam was one of the first people to be inducted into The Rock And Roll Hall of Fame, and considering the roster of record company and music media idiots that have been voted in so far (Jann Wenner? Hello?), he’s one of the few who truly deserves it.
• John Schlesinger
Director. Films such as “Midnight Cowboy,” “Marathon Man,” “Pacific Heights,” and “Falcon & The Snowman” have been ingrained into our consciousness as movies that make us think, or at least make us uneasy. Schlesinger had turned his talent towards TV over the past decade, all but disappearing into obscurity after producing some of the eeriest films of the past few decades. No one who saw “Marathon Man” ever looked at the dentist the same way again, and “Pacific Height’s” Michael Keaton was the creepiest renter in the history of film.
RIP, one and all.
Entertainment Exodus
July 17, 2006 05:05 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
You’ve heard the phrase “death takes a holiday.” Well, that’s a load of absolute hooey. Death never takes a holiday—it doesn’t even take sick days. Trust us; we know. All summer long, the Celebrity Death Trio ™ has been trying to get away for a few days of non-permanent sleep and intravenous margaritas. Yet every time we get ready to shut down the office, dead celebs start knocking on our door like Avon ladies from Hell. It gives new meaning to the term deadline.
Of course, if we didn’t answer that door, we wouldn’t be doing our jobs. Reporting on recently dimmed celebrity lights is what we, er . . . live for. So, once again, we cancel our permanent vacation to the Reaper’s Resort, because in this week’s All-Star Game we got three up, three out as St. Cecilia’s Cemetery Swingers go down (in the ground) for the count.
Herewith, the departed.
• Syd Barrett
Musician, founder of Pink Floyd. Syd was the ultimate rock and roll drug casualty who refused to die—literally. Burned out beyond belief by his mid-20s from too many elective trips into hallucinogen land, he was forced out of the band he founded because he could barely remember his name, let alone any of the band’s songs. While Pink Floyd went on to find its greatest success without him, notably “Dark Side Of The Moon” and “The Wall,” Syd became a recluse who lived with his mum in the English countryside for the last 40 years. Nonetheless, the band missed Syd immensely, and dedicated the album “Wish You Were Here” to him. Well, Syd, you can no longer shine on, you crazy diamond, because now you really are on the dark side of the moon.
• Red Buttons
Comedian, actor. Despite being out of the limelight for the last few years, there was a time when Red was everywhere. Born Aaron Chwatt, he changed his name after joining the Borscht Belt comic circuit (Red for the color of his hair, Buttons from his nickname as a bellhop). His success as a stand-up led to his own TV variety show before he branched out into movies. He won an Academy Award for his role as Sgt. Joe Kelly in the movie “Sayonara,” and went on to roles in “The Big Circus,” “Hatari!” “They Shoot Horses, Don't They?” and “The Poseidon Adventure.” Late in his career, he did TV shows including “Knots Landing,” “Roseanne” and “ER,” and even performed a one-man show called “Buttons On Broadway.” Eighty-nine years on, the Yiddish Leprechaun has finally run out of lucky charms.
• June Allyson
Depend-able actress. Known throughout her movie career as the “girl-next store,” June starred as the loving wife of many Hollywood leading men during the 1940s. She was kind of like the anti-Courtney Love of her generation. It was said that while soldiers in Europe hung up posters of Rita Hayworth in their bunks, June Allyson was the one that they really hoped to bring home to mom. However, after her star turn in “The Glenn Miller Story,” June (born Eleanor Geisman) had a tough marriage to Dick Powell, and eventually slid into alcoholism and depression . . . so maybe that Courtney Love comparison isn’t too far off, after all. In her later years, she became a spokesperson for Depends adult diapers, accomplishing one of two things, depending on your perspective and your level of bladder control. She either A) made it okay for people to talk about the fact that incontinence is part of adulthood, or B) made it okay for late-night talk shows to use adult undergarments as the butt of their jokes. As June might say, it all depends.
RIP, one and all.
You’ve heard the phrase “death takes a holiday.” Well, that’s a load of absolute hooey. Death never takes a holiday—it doesn’t even take sick days. Trust us; we know. All summer long, the Celebrity Death Trio ™ has been trying to get away for a few days of non-permanent sleep and intravenous margaritas. Yet every time we get ready to shut down the office, dead celebs start knocking on our door like Avon ladies from Hell. It gives new meaning to the term deadline.
Of course, if we didn’t answer that door, we wouldn’t be doing our jobs. Reporting on recently dimmed celebrity lights is what we, er . . . live for. So, once again, we cancel our permanent vacation to the Reaper’s Resort, because in this week’s All-Star Game we got three up, three out as St. Cecilia’s Cemetery Swingers go down (in the ground) for the count.
Herewith, the departed.
• Syd Barrett
Musician, founder of Pink Floyd. Syd was the ultimate rock and roll drug casualty who refused to die—literally. Burned out beyond belief by his mid-20s from too many elective trips into hallucinogen land, he was forced out of the band he founded because he could barely remember his name, let alone any of the band’s songs. While Pink Floyd went on to find its greatest success without him, notably “Dark Side Of The Moon” and “The Wall,” Syd became a recluse who lived with his mum in the English countryside for the last 40 years. Nonetheless, the band missed Syd immensely, and dedicated the album “Wish You Were Here” to him. Well, Syd, you can no longer shine on, you crazy diamond, because now you really are on the dark side of the moon.
• Red Buttons
Comedian, actor. Despite being out of the limelight for the last few years, there was a time when Red was everywhere. Born Aaron Chwatt, he changed his name after joining the Borscht Belt comic circuit (Red for the color of his hair, Buttons from his nickname as a bellhop). His success as a stand-up led to his own TV variety show before he branched out into movies. He won an Academy Award for his role as Sgt. Joe Kelly in the movie “Sayonara,” and went on to roles in “The Big Circus,” “Hatari!” “They Shoot Horses, Don't They?” and “The Poseidon Adventure.” Late in his career, he did TV shows including “Knots Landing,” “Roseanne” and “ER,” and even performed a one-man show called “Buttons On Broadway.” Eighty-nine years on, the Yiddish Leprechaun has finally run out of lucky charms.
• June Allyson
Depend-able actress. Known throughout her movie career as the “girl-next store,” June starred as the loving wife of many Hollywood leading men during the 1940s. She was kind of like the anti-Courtney Love of her generation. It was said that while soldiers in Europe hung up posters of Rita Hayworth in their bunks, June Allyson was the one that they really hoped to bring home to mom. However, after her star turn in “The Glenn Miller Story,” June (born Eleanor Geisman) had a tough marriage to Dick Powell, and eventually slid into alcoholism and depression . . . so maybe that Courtney Love comparison isn’t too far off, after all. In her later years, she became a spokesperson for Depends adult diapers, accomplishing one of two things, depending on your perspective and your level of bladder control. She either A) made it okay for people to talk about the fact that incontinence is part of adulthood, or B) made it okay for late-night talk shows to use adult undergarments as the butt of their jokes. As June might say, it all depends.
RIP, one and all.
Incubus Independence
July 10, 2006 07:05 PM
July 10, 2006
Dear CDT Reader,
Wow, the Fourth of July week was a killer, wasn’t it?
We’re not talking about how hot it was, but rather how three more celebrities bit the dust like bad bottle rockets. The Celebrity Death Trio ™ was amazed at how the “bombs bursting in air” actually led to one of those deaths, and “the land of the free” was the fitting epitaph to a celeb destined to spend the rest of his life in jail. For one and all, it was indeed the twilight’s last gleaming. And while they can no longer see by the dawn’s early light—or any light, for that matter—they’ll certainly be lined up to march in the Purgatory Parade, where celebrity roasts are exactly that . . . roasts.
Herewith, the departed.
• Ken Lay
Liar. It’s not going to be easy to write this one up without killing Kenny Boy all over again. He founded Enron, he ran it, he created its massive wealth, he made millions from it. He was in charge, and he rode it all the way into the ground, destroying tens of thousands of people’s savings and livelihoods in the process. Then he had the gall to say that he wasn’t aware that his business was in trouble. That statement alone should have put him on a chain gang for life. Kenny, if you’re not doing your job, why the hell are you making so much money? The CDT believes Lay’s role in the Enron debacle was planned and premeditated. We were hoping he’d get the gas chamber when his sentencing date came up in September, but apparently God didn’t want to wait that long.
• Shamil Basayev
Mass Murderer. Perhaps the world’s second most wanted man--after Osama bin Laden--Basayev has been the scourge of Russian society for years. The leader of the Chechen rebels earned his eternal spot in Beelzebub’s Bathhouse after taking grade schoolers hostage in the town of Beslan in 2004. Some 331 people, more than half of them kids, were killed when authorities attempted to raid the school. Other targets of Baseyev’s fundamentalist terrorism included hospitals, theaters, and small unarmed villages. As a sign of his twistedness, when his foot was blown off in a landmine accident he had the resulting surgery videotaped for posterity. He was killed when one of his explosives-laden trucks was attacked by the military. Apparently, his head suffered the same fate as his foot. Good riddance.
• Jan Murray
Comedian. Those of us who remember Murray most likely recall his guest appearances on TV classics like “Dr. Kildare,” “Mannix,” “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.,” “Love, American Style,” and “Burke’s Law.” But it was years earlier that he gained fame as a TV game show host. Most of us are too young to remember “Treasure Hunt” or “Dollar A Second” but they made Murray a star, and he became the first comic to host a game show. He was a clever guy—who else could turn a given name of Murray Janofsky into Jan Murray?—and a popular emcee for Hollywood variety shows and roasts.
RIP, one and all. Actually, not this time. Just Jan Murray. Here’s hoping Ken and Shamil are the tar under Satan’s Steamroller for many years to come.
Dear CDT Reader,
Wow, the Fourth of July week was a killer, wasn’t it?
We’re not talking about how hot it was, but rather how three more celebrities bit the dust like bad bottle rockets. The Celebrity Death Trio ™ was amazed at how the “bombs bursting in air” actually led to one of those deaths, and “the land of the free” was the fitting epitaph to a celeb destined to spend the rest of his life in jail. For one and all, it was indeed the twilight’s last gleaming. And while they can no longer see by the dawn’s early light—or any light, for that matter—they’ll certainly be lined up to march in the Purgatory Parade, where celebrity roasts are exactly that . . . roasts.
Herewith, the departed.
• Ken Lay
Liar. It’s not going to be easy to write this one up without killing Kenny Boy all over again. He founded Enron, he ran it, he created its massive wealth, he made millions from it. He was in charge, and he rode it all the way into the ground, destroying tens of thousands of people’s savings and livelihoods in the process. Then he had the gall to say that he wasn’t aware that his business was in trouble. That statement alone should have put him on a chain gang for life. Kenny, if you’re not doing your job, why the hell are you making so much money? The CDT believes Lay’s role in the Enron debacle was planned and premeditated. We were hoping he’d get the gas chamber when his sentencing date came up in September, but apparently God didn’t want to wait that long.
• Shamil Basayev
Mass Murderer. Perhaps the world’s second most wanted man--after Osama bin Laden--Basayev has been the scourge of Russian society for years. The leader of the Chechen rebels earned his eternal spot in Beelzebub’s Bathhouse after taking grade schoolers hostage in the town of Beslan in 2004. Some 331 people, more than half of them kids, were killed when authorities attempted to raid the school. Other targets of Baseyev’s fundamentalist terrorism included hospitals, theaters, and small unarmed villages. As a sign of his twistedness, when his foot was blown off in a landmine accident he had the resulting surgery videotaped for posterity. He was killed when one of his explosives-laden trucks was attacked by the military. Apparently, his head suffered the same fate as his foot. Good riddance.
• Jan Murray
Comedian. Those of us who remember Murray most likely recall his guest appearances on TV classics like “Dr. Kildare,” “Mannix,” “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.,” “Love, American Style,” and “Burke’s Law.” But it was years earlier that he gained fame as a TV game show host. Most of us are too young to remember “Treasure Hunt” or “Dollar A Second” but they made Murray a star, and he became the first comic to host a game show. He was a clever guy—who else could turn a given name of Murray Janofsky into Jan Murray?—and a popular emcee for Hollywood variety shows and roasts.
RIP, one and all. Actually, not this time. Just Jan Murray. Here’s hoping Ken and Shamil are the tar under Satan’s Steamroller for many years to come.
Cremated Careers
July 03, 2006 11:00 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
A lot of people take off during the summer because they want to use their vacation time before their company lays them off. But for celebrities, summer can be the cruelest of seasons. Because when celebs get laid off or their careers die, almost no one notices. That’s because everyone’s at the beach.
The Celebrity Death Trio doesn’t let these events slip idly by. After all, when three careers die in a week, it’s our job to make sure that this news gets the kind of sensitive, caring coverage such total carnage deserves. Especially this week, as three of the biggest brands in self-promotion are turning their futures over to the Grim Reaper Talent Agency . . . and not necessarily by choice. These careers were flushed all the way down the Stygian Sewer Treatment Plant where it’s unlikely they’ll ever see the light of day, or night, again.
Herewith, the departed.
• Andre Agassi.
Tennis player. Agassi is one of tennis’ all time greatest players, winning eight Grand Slam titles, so it’s sad to see him go out with a bit of a whimper after getting shut down in straight sets at Wimbledon. Things never were the same for him after he dated Barbra Streisand all those years ago (just ask James Brolin) and then married Brooke Shields. Shaving his head and an extreme exercise regimen bought him back to peak strength, but age and injuries finally caught up with him. Unfortunately, too many people know him more for his advertising skills—Bic shavers, American Express, Nike—than for his incredible court prowess. Yeah, at the ripe old age of 36, it was time for Andre to call it quits, but this is one funeral we’re going to buy some nice flowers for.
• Star Jones.
Daytime diva. After talking trash about her departure from talk TV, the former Bridezilla Behemoth saw her career dry up faster than Barbara Walter’s mucous membranes. Is there a single person on this planet who is not tired of hearing Star whine about the bitchfest that is “The View?” Really, her revelations about bad blood on the set are as startling as the discovery that Rosie O’Donnell was the angriest bull dyke on daytime TV. From our seat on the couch, it’s only a matter of time before Star redoubles in size and has some sort of breakdown, so you can bet there’s a rehab clinic in her future. Not coincidentally, Rosie is taking Star’s place on the “The Spew.” With Rosie saddling up the sofa—-or straddling it—-the new bloodsport will be wondering how long the lovefest lasts between BaBa WaWa and her new bee-yotch.
• Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey.
Musicians, sorta. With the their divorce finalized, Jessica and Nick have absolutely nothing to fall back on, career-wise. His 98 Degrees recording career was over and hers was tanking when Jessica’s father/manager/Rasputin/Svengali launched the reality show “The Newlyweds” in 2003. America fell in love with the busty blond who thought buffalo wings were made from real buffaloes, and rolled their eyes in sympathy with hapless hubby Nick. But the reality is that neither of these doofuses can act, they’re both a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and their musical careers are built on the same principle that fuels NASCAR: everyone is hoping to see a fiery crash. No matter how easy on the eyes they might be, Jessica and Nick are now destined to be forever confused with Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. And you know for a fact that those two are going to get their own CDT headline in the next 18 months.
RIP, one and all.
A lot of people take off during the summer because they want to use their vacation time before their company lays them off. But for celebrities, summer can be the cruelest of seasons. Because when celebs get laid off or their careers die, almost no one notices. That’s because everyone’s at the beach.
The Celebrity Death Trio doesn’t let these events slip idly by. After all, when three careers die in a week, it’s our job to make sure that this news gets the kind of sensitive, caring coverage such total carnage deserves. Especially this week, as three of the biggest brands in self-promotion are turning their futures over to the Grim Reaper Talent Agency . . . and not necessarily by choice. These careers were flushed all the way down the Stygian Sewer Treatment Plant where it’s unlikely they’ll ever see the light of day, or night, again.
Herewith, the departed.
• Andre Agassi.
Tennis player. Agassi is one of tennis’ all time greatest players, winning eight Grand Slam titles, so it’s sad to see him go out with a bit of a whimper after getting shut down in straight sets at Wimbledon. Things never were the same for him after he dated Barbra Streisand all those years ago (just ask James Brolin) and then married Brooke Shields. Shaving his head and an extreme exercise regimen bought him back to peak strength, but age and injuries finally caught up with him. Unfortunately, too many people know him more for his advertising skills—Bic shavers, American Express, Nike—than for his incredible court prowess. Yeah, at the ripe old age of 36, it was time for Andre to call it quits, but this is one funeral we’re going to buy some nice flowers for.
• Star Jones.
Daytime diva. After talking trash about her departure from talk TV, the former Bridezilla Behemoth saw her career dry up faster than Barbara Walter’s mucous membranes. Is there a single person on this planet who is not tired of hearing Star whine about the bitchfest that is “The View?” Really, her revelations about bad blood on the set are as startling as the discovery that Rosie O’Donnell was the angriest bull dyke on daytime TV. From our seat on the couch, it’s only a matter of time before Star redoubles in size and has some sort of breakdown, so you can bet there’s a rehab clinic in her future. Not coincidentally, Rosie is taking Star’s place on the “The Spew.” With Rosie saddling up the sofa—-or straddling it—-the new bloodsport will be wondering how long the lovefest lasts between BaBa WaWa and her new bee-yotch.
• Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey.
Musicians, sorta. With the their divorce finalized, Jessica and Nick have absolutely nothing to fall back on, career-wise. His 98 Degrees recording career was over and hers was tanking when Jessica’s father/manager/Rasputin/Svengali launched the reality show “The Newlyweds” in 2003. America fell in love with the busty blond who thought buffalo wings were made from real buffaloes, and rolled their eyes in sympathy with hapless hubby Nick. But the reality is that neither of these doofuses can act, they’re both a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and their musical careers are built on the same principle that fuels NASCAR: everyone is hoping to see a fiery crash. No matter how easy on the eyes they might be, Jessica and Nick are now destined to be forever confused with Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. And you know for a fact that those two are going to get their own CDT headline in the next 18 months.
RIP, one and all.
Afterlife Styles of the Rich And Shameless
June 26, 2006 03:44 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week we have a Celebrity Death Trio ™ installment that could easily have been called “Deathstyles of the Rich and Shameless.” Each of our dearly departeds has, in their own special way, contributed to the casebook of glittering wealth tainted by scandal or has promoted crass and clueless living. In fact, they probably have the words “scandal-loving celebrity” typed on their death certificates.
And isn’t it fitting that they all died during the first weekend of the summer? Although they won’t be spending their evenings on balconies overlooking the shore, you can bet they’ll be jet-setting at the Hades’ Hamptons, where the martinis---and the guests---are always served chilled.
Herewith, the departed.
• Patsy Ramsey
Dead girl’s mother. The Colorado socialite and stage mom became a national celebutante ten years ago when her daughter, six-year old JonBenet, was killed in the family home. A sordid kink in the case was Patsy’s compulsive desire to have JonBenet participate in the weird world of little girl beauty shows, referred to lovingly on the web as “pedophile pageants.” To this day no one has ever been arrested for this hideous crime---the murder, that is. Speculation ran rampant that it was Patsy herself, and the CDT thinks that mommy dearest went to her grave knowing who killed JonBenet. Well, now Patsy can dress up her little angel in all the sexy lingerie and miniskirts she wants. After all, they’ve got the rest of eternity to participate in Beelzebub’s Beauty Pageant.
• Aaron Spelling
TV producer. Aaron invented the genre of glitzy and glamorous shows that turned the lifestyles of the rich and good looking into prime-time soap operas. He owned nighttime in the 70s and 80s, with shows such as “Dynasty,” “Beverly Hills 90210,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “The Love Boat,” “Fantasy Island,” “Hart To Hart,” and “Melrose Place.” He also created seminal cop shows “Starsky & Hutch” and “The Mod Squad.” It seemed the only thing Aaron couldn’t turn to gold was daughter Tori’s abysmal acting career. On the other hand, Spelling’s first wife was Carolyn Jones, who played Morticia on “The Addams Family.” Jones was a CDT favorite and a highlight of our August 1983 edition. In our opinion, she and Gomez were a better match.
• E. Pierce Marshall
Heir. The incredibly rich son of J. Howard Marshall made his fame by suing his father’s trophy wife, Anna Nicole Smith, over the family fortune. The former plus-sized Playmate married E. Pierce’s dad when she was 26 and the old man was 89. J. Howard died a year later—big surprise there—and left his millions to Smith, which didn’t sit well with sonny boy. E. Pierce (what a great name) claimed that Anna Nicole took advantage of dear old dad and tricked him into bequeathing her the family fortune. The battle has twisted and turned as the courts gave Smith half a billion dollars and then took it all away. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court, where last month Anna Nicole won another shot at the treasure . . . and he probably lost his mind. He immediately died after a "brief and extremely aggressive infection.” Uh, right. The CDT guesses it probably killed E. Pierce that the former-Playmate gold digger was on the way to getting his cash. Not that he needs it now, anyway.
RIP, one and all.
This week we have a Celebrity Death Trio ™ installment that could easily have been called “Deathstyles of the Rich and Shameless.” Each of our dearly departeds has, in their own special way, contributed to the casebook of glittering wealth tainted by scandal or has promoted crass and clueless living. In fact, they probably have the words “scandal-loving celebrity” typed on their death certificates.
And isn’t it fitting that they all died during the first weekend of the summer? Although they won’t be spending their evenings on balconies overlooking the shore, you can bet they’ll be jet-setting at the Hades’ Hamptons, where the martinis---and the guests---are always served chilled.
Herewith, the departed.
• Patsy Ramsey
Dead girl’s mother. The Colorado socialite and stage mom became a national celebutante ten years ago when her daughter, six-year old JonBenet, was killed in the family home. A sordid kink in the case was Patsy’s compulsive desire to have JonBenet participate in the weird world of little girl beauty shows, referred to lovingly on the web as “pedophile pageants.” To this day no one has ever been arrested for this hideous crime---the murder, that is. Speculation ran rampant that it was Patsy herself, and the CDT thinks that mommy dearest went to her grave knowing who killed JonBenet. Well, now Patsy can dress up her little angel in all the sexy lingerie and miniskirts she wants. After all, they’ve got the rest of eternity to participate in Beelzebub’s Beauty Pageant.
• Aaron Spelling
TV producer. Aaron invented the genre of glitzy and glamorous shows that turned the lifestyles of the rich and good looking into prime-time soap operas. He owned nighttime in the 70s and 80s, with shows such as “Dynasty,” “Beverly Hills 90210,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “The Love Boat,” “Fantasy Island,” “Hart To Hart,” and “Melrose Place.” He also created seminal cop shows “Starsky & Hutch” and “The Mod Squad.” It seemed the only thing Aaron couldn’t turn to gold was daughter Tori’s abysmal acting career. On the other hand, Spelling’s first wife was Carolyn Jones, who played Morticia on “The Addams Family.” Jones was a CDT favorite and a highlight of our August 1983 edition. In our opinion, she and Gomez were a better match.
• E. Pierce Marshall
Heir. The incredibly rich son of J. Howard Marshall made his fame by suing his father’s trophy wife, Anna Nicole Smith, over the family fortune. The former plus-sized Playmate married E. Pierce’s dad when she was 26 and the old man was 89. J. Howard died a year later—big surprise there—and left his millions to Smith, which didn’t sit well with sonny boy. E. Pierce (what a great name) claimed that Anna Nicole took advantage of dear old dad and tricked him into bequeathing her the family fortune. The battle has twisted and turned as the courts gave Smith half a billion dollars and then took it all away. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court, where last month Anna Nicole won another shot at the treasure . . . and he probably lost his mind. He immediately died after a "brief and extremely aggressive infection.” Uh, right. The CDT guesses it probably killed E. Pierce that the former-Playmate gold digger was on the way to getting his cash. Not that he needs it now, anyway.
RIP, one and all.
Icons On Ice
June 19, 2006 12:01 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
The last week of spring 2006 brought us a wide variety of celebrity deaths. All are cherished ideals and icons that we’ve embraced as Americans, but every one is on a hot rail straight to Hell. No stopping in Limbo, no layover in Purgatory, just a direct flight to the Afterlife International Airport. We’ve got rain, rioting, and a reporter—a most unlikely Celebrity Death Trio ™, even by our morbid standards. But cheer up; summer is only a few hours away. That means the chill winds of spring will give way to the likely torrent of shark attacks, European killer heat waves, and Hollywood bombs that make summer the feel good season of the year. You’ll find us mixing up batches of mortuary margaritas out by the pool, toasting our terminated triumvirates come rain or shine.
Herewith, the departed.
• Storm shelters
Think the U.S. is finally prepared for bad weather and resultant disasters? Forget it: that ideal is as cold and lifeless as Ann Coulter’s lingerie. Last summer, floods destroyed Louisiana and thousands sought shelter over in Houston, TX. This year, guess where the floods are? That’s right. Houston. A foot of rain in the morning, evacuating nursing home patients by midday, and highways clogged and closed by early afternoon. Just another summer day in the continually shat upon world of Gulf Coast cities and towns. Meanwhile, tornadoes are ripping up Wisconsin, wildfires are scorching Arizona, and extreme heat is pelting the rest of the country like a Biblical plague of molten lead. Seems there’s no shelter from the storm, no matter where you live. Might as well be Hell.
• Dan Rather’s news career
You know, ole Gunga Dan really went overboard on the liberal journalism thing, and it bit him in the ass. The powers that be bumped him from the CBS Evening News just shy of his 25th anniversary, denying him a grand and illustrious exit. Since then, Danno has been wandering the halls of CBS like some Lost Dutchman, trying to find a place that will take him in. No luck. Reports this past week are that no one wants to touch Dan or work with him—he’s kind of like the ebola virus of prime time. Well, Dan, all we can say is “Courage.” You’ll need it just to keep from throwing up while watching Katie Couric try to do your job.
• New Orleans’ rebirth as a city of unity and hope
It took less than a year, but our beloved NOLA is back on the road to regaining its title as “Murder City USA.” Now that those who’ve decided to return to the Crescent City have settled back in, it’s business as usual. That means lots of booze, drugs, and guns. It’s gotten so bad that Governor Kathleen Blanco and Mayor Ray Nagin—the Tweedledee and Tweedledumshit of Louisiana politics—have called in the National Guard to try and restore order. At least this time, they’re not blaming the Feds for the problem. One solution offered to keep violent gangs off the streets is to keep schools open later. No telling how this brainstorm would have prevented the 4 AM slaying of five teenagers over the weekend. Maybe night school.
RIP, one and all.
The last week of spring 2006 brought us a wide variety of celebrity deaths. All are cherished ideals and icons that we’ve embraced as Americans, but every one is on a hot rail straight to Hell. No stopping in Limbo, no layover in Purgatory, just a direct flight to the Afterlife International Airport. We’ve got rain, rioting, and a reporter—a most unlikely Celebrity Death Trio ™, even by our morbid standards. But cheer up; summer is only a few hours away. That means the chill winds of spring will give way to the likely torrent of shark attacks, European killer heat waves, and Hollywood bombs that make summer the feel good season of the year. You’ll find us mixing up batches of mortuary margaritas out by the pool, toasting our terminated triumvirates come rain or shine.
Herewith, the departed.
• Storm shelters
Think the U.S. is finally prepared for bad weather and resultant disasters? Forget it: that ideal is as cold and lifeless as Ann Coulter’s lingerie. Last summer, floods destroyed Louisiana and thousands sought shelter over in Houston, TX. This year, guess where the floods are? That’s right. Houston. A foot of rain in the morning, evacuating nursing home patients by midday, and highways clogged and closed by early afternoon. Just another summer day in the continually shat upon world of Gulf Coast cities and towns. Meanwhile, tornadoes are ripping up Wisconsin, wildfires are scorching Arizona, and extreme heat is pelting the rest of the country like a Biblical plague of molten lead. Seems there’s no shelter from the storm, no matter where you live. Might as well be Hell.
• Dan Rather’s news career
You know, ole Gunga Dan really went overboard on the liberal journalism thing, and it bit him in the ass. The powers that be bumped him from the CBS Evening News just shy of his 25th anniversary, denying him a grand and illustrious exit. Since then, Danno has been wandering the halls of CBS like some Lost Dutchman, trying to find a place that will take him in. No luck. Reports this past week are that no one wants to touch Dan or work with him—he’s kind of like the ebola virus of prime time. Well, Dan, all we can say is “Courage.” You’ll need it just to keep from throwing up while watching Katie Couric try to do your job.
• New Orleans’ rebirth as a city of unity and hope
It took less than a year, but our beloved NOLA is back on the road to regaining its title as “Murder City USA.” Now that those who’ve decided to return to the Crescent City have settled back in, it’s business as usual. That means lots of booze, drugs, and guns. It’s gotten so bad that Governor Kathleen Blanco and Mayor Ray Nagin—the Tweedledee and Tweedledumshit of Louisiana politics—have called in the National Guard to try and restore order. At least this time, they’re not blaming the Feds for the problem. One solution offered to keep violent gangs off the streets is to keep schools open later. No telling how this brainstorm would have prevented the 4 AM slaying of five teenagers over the weekend. Maybe night school.
RIP, one and all.
Famous Sidemen
June 12, 2006 11:00 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
You know summer is just around the corner when celebrities stop having babies with moronic names and start dying in threes again. It sort of signals that all is right with the world once again. Except, of course, for the three people we’re featuring as our guests this week. They’re not stopping to smell the flowers; they’re fertilizing those flowers.
Three men stepped onto the Forever Freight Train this past week, and all three had one thing in common: they were famous sidemen. None of them were the “main attraction” in life, but they made names for themselves supporting some of the biggest names around. Interestingly, two did it with their keyboards, the other did it with killing. Those aren’t necessarily complementary traits, so it’s certain to make for an interesting ride up to that Great Gig In The Sky. They’ll be blasting their music, or blasting up innocent victims, all the way to the newly renovated and renamed Pope John Paul Penal Colony.
Herewith, the departed.
• Billy Preston
Keyboard player. The wildly talented Preston was one of the most famous keyboard players and sidemen of the 60s and 70s. He played with Little Richard and the Rolling Stones and was the first musical guest on Saturday Night Live. He backed up the Beatles, becoming the only musician they ever shared label credit with: “Get Back” was released as being by The Beatles with Billy Preston. He had an impressive solo career, writing recognizable classics like “Will It Go Round In Circles,” “Nothing From Nothing,” and “You Are So Beautiful.” Yet Billy was a little too fond of both underage partners and snorting “Colombian face Drano.” He served jail time in the late 90s for insurance fraud after he burned his own house down. However, he was on the comeback trail, having recorded tracks for the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album. Too late; Billy died from kidney failure after having dropped into a coma several months ago.
• Vince Welnick
Keyboard player. Welnick was The Grateful Dead’s last keyboardist. He joined the band as sideman in 1990 and stayed right up to the death of leader Jerry Garcia, an event noted by people who actually give a crap as “the day the Dead died.” Welnick first gained fame as a member of The Tubes, a far better band than the Grateful Dead ever hoped to be. However, when The Tubes found themselves in the music biz mortuary, Welnick was recruited to play piano and organ for the Dead. This, it turns out, is similar to signing your own death warrant, as the Dead’s three previous keyboard players had all died nasty deaths—and none of them were very grateful about it. Obviously, Vince hadn’t been paying attention when he signed up. Over the past few years, Welnick was said to be despondent over the demise of the band, yet his suicide has helped keep the Dead keyboard curse alive. (For this, Vince get Honorable Mention in next entry.)
• Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.
Terrorist and all-around pestilent human. Zarqawi was Osama bin Laden’s sideman in Iraq, but he did everything he could to step out into the limelight and make a name for himself. He personally beheaded American worker Nicholas Berg on videotape, masterminded numerous suicide bombings in Baghdad, blew up hotels, and destroyed Iraq’s UN offices. Twisting the religion of Islam to his own ends, Zarqawi was almost as powerful—and even more ruthless—than his mentor. He was finally brought down by a half ton of bombs, which also killed his wife, whom Zarqawi apparently married when she had reached the ripe old age of 14. In death, he’s getting the marquee billing he lusted after, and at the tender age of 39, the CDT believes he died much too late in life.
RIP, one and all. Except Zarqawi. Here’s hoping he’s the main dish at Beelzebub’s Buffet for eons to come.
You know summer is just around the corner when celebrities stop having babies with moronic names and start dying in threes again. It sort of signals that all is right with the world once again. Except, of course, for the three people we’re featuring as our guests this week. They’re not stopping to smell the flowers; they’re fertilizing those flowers.
Three men stepped onto the Forever Freight Train this past week, and all three had one thing in common: they were famous sidemen. None of them were the “main attraction” in life, but they made names for themselves supporting some of the biggest names around. Interestingly, two did it with their keyboards, the other did it with killing. Those aren’t necessarily complementary traits, so it’s certain to make for an interesting ride up to that Great Gig In The Sky. They’ll be blasting their music, or blasting up innocent victims, all the way to the newly renovated and renamed Pope John Paul Penal Colony.
Herewith, the departed.
• Billy Preston
Keyboard player. The wildly talented Preston was one of the most famous keyboard players and sidemen of the 60s and 70s. He played with Little Richard and the Rolling Stones and was the first musical guest on Saturday Night Live. He backed up the Beatles, becoming the only musician they ever shared label credit with: “Get Back” was released as being by The Beatles with Billy Preston. He had an impressive solo career, writing recognizable classics like “Will It Go Round In Circles,” “Nothing From Nothing,” and “You Are So Beautiful.” Yet Billy was a little too fond of both underage partners and snorting “Colombian face Drano.” He served jail time in the late 90s for insurance fraud after he burned his own house down. However, he was on the comeback trail, having recorded tracks for the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album. Too late; Billy died from kidney failure after having dropped into a coma several months ago.
• Vince Welnick
Keyboard player. Welnick was The Grateful Dead’s last keyboardist. He joined the band as sideman in 1990 and stayed right up to the death of leader Jerry Garcia, an event noted by people who actually give a crap as “the day the Dead died.” Welnick first gained fame as a member of The Tubes, a far better band than the Grateful Dead ever hoped to be. However, when The Tubes found themselves in the music biz mortuary, Welnick was recruited to play piano and organ for the Dead. This, it turns out, is similar to signing your own death warrant, as the Dead’s three previous keyboard players had all died nasty deaths—and none of them were very grateful about it. Obviously, Vince hadn’t been paying attention when he signed up. Over the past few years, Welnick was said to be despondent over the demise of the band, yet his suicide has helped keep the Dead keyboard curse alive. (For this, Vince get Honorable Mention in next entry.)
• Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.
Terrorist and all-around pestilent human. Zarqawi was Osama bin Laden’s sideman in Iraq, but he did everything he could to step out into the limelight and make a name for himself. He personally beheaded American worker Nicholas Berg on videotape, masterminded numerous suicide bombings in Baghdad, blew up hotels, and destroyed Iraq’s UN offices. Twisting the religion of Islam to his own ends, Zarqawi was almost as powerful—and even more ruthless—than his mentor. He was finally brought down by a half ton of bombs, which also killed his wife, whom Zarqawi apparently married when she had reached the ripe old age of 14. In death, he’s getting the marquee billing he lusted after, and at the tender age of 39, the CDT believes he died much too late in life.
RIP, one and all. Except Zarqawi. Here’s hoping he’s the main dish at Beelzebub’s Buffet for eons to come.
Ungratefully Dead
June 05, 2006 11:59 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Here at the Celebrity Death Trio ™ headquarters, one of our favorite movies of all time is “This Is Spinal Tap.” We can empathize with the numerous ways that Tap drummers met their fate: bizarre gardening accident, choking to death on someone else’s vomit, spontaneous combustion, et al.
Coincidentally, one of our least favorite bands of all time is the Grateful Dead. Despite the thoughtful name, their music seemed best suited to sterilizing chimpanzees during lab experiments. Yet, with the apparent suicide this past week of Dead (literally) member Vince Welnick, the Dead achieved Spinal Tap status for producing more dead performers than anyone outside of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s airline charter company.
In fact, when you tally up the total deaths in the band, including the death of the Dead, you get a double Celebrity Death Trio; six deaths all told. So we’re doing a full post-mortem on those who’ve gone from being the Grateful dead to being Grateful Ghouls. Or Ungrateful Dead. The point is, we couldn’t let Welnick’s death slip by without taking full advantage of the literary possibilities inherent in writing up the Dead. Which is what we at the CDT ™ do for a living---so to speak.
Herewith, the departed.
• Vince Welnick
Keyboard player. Welnick first gained notoriety as a member of The Tubes, a far better band than the Dead, yet criminally underrated. When The Tubes bit the proverbial music business dust, Welnick was recruited by the Dead in 1990. He was with the band right up the death of leader Jerry Garcia, an event noted by people who actually care as “the day the Dead died.” Recently, Welnick was distraught over glory days gone by and his death is alleged to have been a suicide. Interestingly, Welnick replaced . . .
• Brent Mydland
Keyboard player. Mydland joined the Dead in 1979 and lasted until 1990. His eleven year stint made him the keyboardist to remain alive longest while with the band. But all good things must come to an end, and in 1990 Mydland died of a drug overdose. Interestingly, Mydland replaced . . .
• Keith Godchaux
Keyboard player. Godchaux became part of the Dead in 1972, along with his wife, who had sung backing vocals on records by Elvis Presley (still dead). They left the band in 1979 amid accusations of drug abuse, which is like kicking someone out of church for praying too much. Shortly after his exit from the Dead, Keith entered the realm of the dead when he was killed in an auto accident. Interestingly, he had replaced . . .
• Ron “Pigpen” McKernan
Keyboard player. Pigpen was a founding member of the Dead. However, he chose to drink Thunderbird wine instead of joining his Deadmates’ in passion for LSD. The booze destroyed his liver and he died from a gastrointestinal hemorrhage in 1973, making him the first member of the Dead to die. Interestingly, he did not replace . . .
• Jerry Garcia
Guitarist and vocalist. Jerry was everything the Dead stood for: an overindulgent hippie who did way too many drugs and thought that tie-dyed clothes (and ties) could save the world. Despite missing a finger, Garcia was an accomplished musician, and his passing in 1995 from a heart attack (while at a drug rehab center) prompted the demise of . . .
• The Grateful Dead
Jam band. Whatever you think of their music, the Dead managed to carve out a place in music history. Upon Jerry’s death, the rest of the band decided to put a stake in the heart of the Grateful Dead, and the band gasped its last. We don’t know how many people probably killed themselves when they heard about this—other than Vince Welnick—but we’re guessing it was a lot. They don’t call themselves Deadheads for nothing.
RIP, one and all.
Here at the Celebrity Death Trio ™ headquarters, one of our favorite movies of all time is “This Is Spinal Tap.” We can empathize with the numerous ways that Tap drummers met their fate: bizarre gardening accident, choking to death on someone else’s vomit, spontaneous combustion, et al.
Coincidentally, one of our least favorite bands of all time is the Grateful Dead. Despite the thoughtful name, their music seemed best suited to sterilizing chimpanzees during lab experiments. Yet, with the apparent suicide this past week of Dead (literally) member Vince Welnick, the Dead achieved Spinal Tap status for producing more dead performers than anyone outside of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s airline charter company.
In fact, when you tally up the total deaths in the band, including the death of the Dead, you get a double Celebrity Death Trio; six deaths all told. So we’re doing a full post-mortem on those who’ve gone from being the Grateful dead to being Grateful Ghouls. Or Ungrateful Dead. The point is, we couldn’t let Welnick’s death slip by without taking full advantage of the literary possibilities inherent in writing up the Dead. Which is what we at the CDT ™ do for a living---so to speak.
Herewith, the departed.
• Vince Welnick
Keyboard player. Welnick first gained notoriety as a member of The Tubes, a far better band than the Dead, yet criminally underrated. When The Tubes bit the proverbial music business dust, Welnick was recruited by the Dead in 1990. He was with the band right up the death of leader Jerry Garcia, an event noted by people who actually care as “the day the Dead died.” Recently, Welnick was distraught over glory days gone by and his death is alleged to have been a suicide. Interestingly, Welnick replaced . . .
• Brent Mydland
Keyboard player. Mydland joined the Dead in 1979 and lasted until 1990. His eleven year stint made him the keyboardist to remain alive longest while with the band. But all good things must come to an end, and in 1990 Mydland died of a drug overdose. Interestingly, Mydland replaced . . .
• Keith Godchaux
Keyboard player. Godchaux became part of the Dead in 1972, along with his wife, who had sung backing vocals on records by Elvis Presley (still dead). They left the band in 1979 amid accusations of drug abuse, which is like kicking someone out of church for praying too much. Shortly after his exit from the Dead, Keith entered the realm of the dead when he was killed in an auto accident. Interestingly, he had replaced . . .
• Ron “Pigpen” McKernan
Keyboard player. Pigpen was a founding member of the Dead. However, he chose to drink Thunderbird wine instead of joining his Deadmates’ in passion for LSD. The booze destroyed his liver and he died from a gastrointestinal hemorrhage in 1973, making him the first member of the Dead to die. Interestingly, he did not replace . . .
• Jerry Garcia
Guitarist and vocalist. Jerry was everything the Dead stood for: an overindulgent hippie who did way too many drugs and thought that tie-dyed clothes (and ties) could save the world. Despite missing a finger, Garcia was an accomplished musician, and his passing in 1995 from a heart attack (while at a drug rehab center) prompted the demise of . . .
• The Grateful Dead
Jam band. Whatever you think of their music, the Dead managed to carve out a place in music history. Upon Jerry’s death, the rest of the band decided to put a stake in the heart of the Grateful Dead, and the band gasped its last. We don’t know how many people probably killed themselves when they heard about this—other than Vince Welnick—but we’re guessing it was a lot. They don’t call themselves Deadheads for nothing.
RIP, one and all.
Rebirth And Rot
May 29, 2006 04:33 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
It’s only fitting that during this Memorial Day week we should remember those who’ve passed on before us. The Celebrity Death Trio ™ is nothing if not a celebration of death, but some pass on to paradise in nobler pursuits and circumstances than others. And those most worth remembering are oftentimes those whose names we’ll never know. The CDT tips its hat to those who’ve fought for the greater good.
Okay, back to our cemetery-bound celebs. It was almost hard to catch them what with the Celebrity Birth Trio™ delivered via C-section this week courtesy of Gwen Stefani (Kingston), Angelina Jolie (Shiloh), and ex-Spice Girl Geri Halliwell (Bluebell). Is it just us, or do these baby names sound like they were picked out of a Rand McNally road atlas? Talk about kids just begging for a reason to grow up loathing mom and dad. We’re already taking bets about which one will be the first to climb a clock tower with a rifle, a scope, and three thousand rounds of ammunition.
But that’s all in the future. We’re here this week to honor celebs who’ve already started dancing with Mr. D, so let’s head on over to the Memorial Day Morgue and get this party started.
Herewith, the departed.
• Lloyd Bentsen
Texas senator, former candidate for Vice President of the United States. Almost no one remembers anything about Lloyd other than 1) he and Mike Dukakis got their asses kicked in the 1988 election, and 2) he kicked Dan Quayle’s ass in the 1988 debates. When Danny Boy compared himself to John F. Kennedy, Bentsen hit him right between the eyes with his famous line, "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy." No kidding. BTW, where is Dan Quayle these days? Because when you think about it, compared to Dick Cheney, Quayle was a gentleman and a scholar.
• Edouard Michelin
Tire magnate. At the tender age of 43, Edouard was running the family tire business started a century ago by his great-grandfather. Today, the name Michelin is associated with a bloated guy made of white rubber tires guy and the famous restaurant guides. Defying expectations, Edouard did not die as a result of a car accident or anything resembling a vehicular blow out. Instead, his body was found after his fishing boat mysteriously sank off the cost of France. There is still some irony to be found, however, in this celebrity death; the only job tireless Edouard ever held outside of the family business was in the French Navy.
• Paul Gleason
Actor. If there was ever an actor whose face you knew, but name you didn’t, it was Paul Gleason. A graduate of Lee Strasberg’s famed Actor’s Studio, Gleason’s most famous roll was as the tough guy principal in “The Breakfast Club,” delivering hapless lines to the Brat Pack like “the next time I have to come in here, I'm crackin' skulls.” He was also memorable as Clarence Beeks, the slimy crook who ended up in the gorilla cage at the end of “Trading Places.” Gleason had parts in almost every TV show from the 80s and 90s you can think of, including Seinfeld, Friends, LA Law, Banacek, Miami Vice, Hill Street Blues, The Wonder Years, NewsRadio, Melrose Place, and Chicago Hope.
RIP, one and all.
It’s only fitting that during this Memorial Day week we should remember those who’ve passed on before us. The Celebrity Death Trio ™ is nothing if not a celebration of death, but some pass on to paradise in nobler pursuits and circumstances than others. And those most worth remembering are oftentimes those whose names we’ll never know. The CDT tips its hat to those who’ve fought for the greater good.
Okay, back to our cemetery-bound celebs. It was almost hard to catch them what with the Celebrity Birth Trio™ delivered via C-section this week courtesy of Gwen Stefani (Kingston), Angelina Jolie (Shiloh), and ex-Spice Girl Geri Halliwell (Bluebell). Is it just us, or do these baby names sound like they were picked out of a Rand McNally road atlas? Talk about kids just begging for a reason to grow up loathing mom and dad. We’re already taking bets about which one will be the first to climb a clock tower with a rifle, a scope, and three thousand rounds of ammunition.
But that’s all in the future. We’re here this week to honor celebs who’ve already started dancing with Mr. D, so let’s head on over to the Memorial Day Morgue and get this party started.
Herewith, the departed.
• Lloyd Bentsen
Texas senator, former candidate for Vice President of the United States. Almost no one remembers anything about Lloyd other than 1) he and Mike Dukakis got their asses kicked in the 1988 election, and 2) he kicked Dan Quayle’s ass in the 1988 debates. When Danny Boy compared himself to John F. Kennedy, Bentsen hit him right between the eyes with his famous line, "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy." No kidding. BTW, where is Dan Quayle these days? Because when you think about it, compared to Dick Cheney, Quayle was a gentleman and a scholar.
• Edouard Michelin
Tire magnate. At the tender age of 43, Edouard was running the family tire business started a century ago by his great-grandfather. Today, the name Michelin is associated with a bloated guy made of white rubber tires guy and the famous restaurant guides. Defying expectations, Edouard did not die as a result of a car accident or anything resembling a vehicular blow out. Instead, his body was found after his fishing boat mysteriously sank off the cost of France. There is still some irony to be found, however, in this celebrity death; the only job tireless Edouard ever held outside of the family business was in the French Navy.
• Paul Gleason
Actor. If there was ever an actor whose face you knew, but name you didn’t, it was Paul Gleason. A graduate of Lee Strasberg’s famed Actor’s Studio, Gleason’s most famous roll was as the tough guy principal in “The Breakfast Club,” delivering hapless lines to the Brat Pack like “the next time I have to come in here, I'm crackin' skulls.” He was also memorable as Clarence Beeks, the slimy crook who ended up in the gorilla cage at the end of “Trading Places.” Gleason had parts in almost every TV show from the 80s and 90s you can think of, including Seinfeld, Friends, LA Law, Banacek, Miami Vice, Hill Street Blues, The Wonder Years, NewsRadio, Melrose Place, and Chicago Hope.
RIP, one and all.
The Undead
May 22, 2006 11:07 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
The Celebrity Death Trio ™ isn’t big on superstition. But when the dead keep coming back—even after a stake through the heart, a silver bullet between the eyes, or starring in The Da Vinci Code---you have to believe there’s something supernatural at work. In short, we’re not talking about the celebrity dead this week, we’re talking about the celebrity undead. Those who refuse to die even when the last nail goes in the coffin and the kids have run off with the inheritance.
It feels like a cold, dark night of the living undead around here, with ghosts from the past rattling more bones than Barbaro’s hind leg. Of course, these celebs have already been euthanized once, which puts Barbaro ahead by a mile—if only this one last time. The way things are going, we’re going to have to add a horse to the CDT pretty soon, and that hasn’t happened since Mr. Ed huffed the hay back in 1970.
Herewith, the departed.
• Muammar Qaddafi
Libyan strongman—again. Didn’t this guy get his assed kicked all the way to nuclear nirvana by Ronald Reagan about twenty years ago? Well, yes, indeed he did. But now the U.S. is “normalizing relations” with him, which sounds like we’ve decided to sleep in the same bed again after a lover’s quarrel. Did Muammar finally become a good guy? Did he lose the silly chia pet haircut? Did he finally pick a single spelling for his last name— Kaddafi, Gaddafi, el-Qaddafi, el-Kadafi, el-Kabong? No, nothing so drastic. The reality is that Mr. Qaddafi just happens to be sitting on ten of the world’s largest oil reserves. And with a little investment, say from a friendly superpower, Libya could rival Venezuela’s oil output in short order. Hey, with the price of crude being what it is in resort destinations like Afghanistan and Iraq, Uncle Sam figures he’s got a good reason to go digging up the corpses of dictators who used to blow up our airplanes and warships.
• Ray Nagin
Mayor of New Orleans—again. Only a month ago, Nagin was being forced to buy a one-way ticket on that little career vehicle Arlo Guthrie referred to as “the train they call the City of New Orleans.” Only for Nagin it was the train they call the City of Chocolate. Winning re-election by less than 6000 votes, Nagin is back, every bit the zombie we expected him to be. Unlike most zombies, however, Ray can talk and he’s chatting up a storm . . . so to speak. There’s no way this crematorium clown is going to make any changes in NOLA, so we’ll be forced to listen to him blather on about hurricane injustice like some political poltergeist. Calling all voodoo doctors: stick a pin in Ray---he’s done.
• Jimmy Hoffa
Teamster legend—again. Our first thought was this one’s gotta be a joke, right? Hoffa’s been dead for 30 years, so how does he keep coming back? When the mob whacked him, they put him in A) the endzone at Giants Stadium, B) a 55-gallon drum of roofing tar, or C) the backseat of a car that got compacted to the size of an iPod. Regardless of the details, Jimmy’s long gone, but our government spends more time looking for this guy than for Osama bin Laden. Now they’re searching for his remains on a farm in Michigan. What happens if they find Hoffa? Nothing. Nada. The guy’s been worm food for as long as most of us have been alive. At this stage, even CSI: Miami couldn’t put him back to together. In this case, the CDT ™ says “let sleeping dirtbags lie.”
RIP, one and all.
The Celebrity Death Trio ™ isn’t big on superstition. But when the dead keep coming back—even after a stake through the heart, a silver bullet between the eyes, or starring in The Da Vinci Code---you have to believe there’s something supernatural at work. In short, we’re not talking about the celebrity dead this week, we’re talking about the celebrity undead. Those who refuse to die even when the last nail goes in the coffin and the kids have run off with the inheritance.
It feels like a cold, dark night of the living undead around here, with ghosts from the past rattling more bones than Barbaro’s hind leg. Of course, these celebs have already been euthanized once, which puts Barbaro ahead by a mile—if only this one last time. The way things are going, we’re going to have to add a horse to the CDT pretty soon, and that hasn’t happened since Mr. Ed huffed the hay back in 1970.
Herewith, the departed.
• Muammar Qaddafi
Libyan strongman—again. Didn’t this guy get his assed kicked all the way to nuclear nirvana by Ronald Reagan about twenty years ago? Well, yes, indeed he did. But now the U.S. is “normalizing relations” with him, which sounds like we’ve decided to sleep in the same bed again after a lover’s quarrel. Did Muammar finally become a good guy? Did he lose the silly chia pet haircut? Did he finally pick a single spelling for his last name— Kaddafi, Gaddafi, el-Qaddafi, el-Kadafi, el-Kabong? No, nothing so drastic. The reality is that Mr. Qaddafi just happens to be sitting on ten of the world’s largest oil reserves. And with a little investment, say from a friendly superpower, Libya could rival Venezuela’s oil output in short order. Hey, with the price of crude being what it is in resort destinations like Afghanistan and Iraq, Uncle Sam figures he’s got a good reason to go digging up the corpses of dictators who used to blow up our airplanes and warships.
• Ray Nagin
Mayor of New Orleans—again. Only a month ago, Nagin was being forced to buy a one-way ticket on that little career vehicle Arlo Guthrie referred to as “the train they call the City of New Orleans.” Only for Nagin it was the train they call the City of Chocolate. Winning re-election by less than 6000 votes, Nagin is back, every bit the zombie we expected him to be. Unlike most zombies, however, Ray can talk and he’s chatting up a storm . . . so to speak. There’s no way this crematorium clown is going to make any changes in NOLA, so we’ll be forced to listen to him blather on about hurricane injustice like some political poltergeist. Calling all voodoo doctors: stick a pin in Ray---he’s done.
• Jimmy Hoffa
Teamster legend—again. Our first thought was this one’s gotta be a joke, right? Hoffa’s been dead for 30 years, so how does he keep coming back? When the mob whacked him, they put him in A) the endzone at Giants Stadium, B) a 55-gallon drum of roofing tar, or C) the backseat of a car that got compacted to the size of an iPod. Regardless of the details, Jimmy’s long gone, but our government spends more time looking for this guy than for Osama bin Laden. Now they’re searching for his remains on a farm in Michigan. What happens if they find Hoffa? Nothing. Nada. The guy’s been worm food for as long as most of us have been alive. At this stage, even CSI: Miami couldn’t put him back to together. In this case, the CDT ™ says “let sleeping dirtbags lie.”
RIP, one and all.
Horror Show (Alligator Stew) May 15, 2006 Dear CDT Reader, This week’s been a challenge for the lab technicians over here at CSI: Celebrity Death Trio ™. On the one hand, we have a garden variety terminated troika—three famous personalities who have become Box O’ Bones ingredients all in the same week. Yet, we also have a different trio (de)composed of people who’ve all died in the same strange and incredibly unpleasant manner during that exact same time period. In fact, this latter group of recent Reaper Resort residents are a certified Celebrity Death Trio only because of the way they died. Or, from a scientific perspective, from the way they were digested. It’s what is known in the forensics business as “some really wacky shit.” Herewith, the departed. • George Lutz Mr. Amityville Horror. This is the guy who turned a spooky house on Long Island into an American nightmare and cultural fascination—all while generating millions of dollars for the publishing and movie industries. In 1975, Lutz bought the Amityville house just after the previous owners were murdered in it. Suddenly walls dripped blood and demon pigs hid in every corner. Portrayed by James Brolin in a suitably scary movie role as the tormented man of the house (perfect preparation for Brolin’s current job as Mr. Barbra Streisand), Lutz became the personification of every homeowner’s personal hell. He moved the family out after only 28 days, claiming to have escaped with his life—at least until last week. While much of his story was later debunked, he maintained to his death that it was true. Interestingly, Lutz died from heart disease and not from Satanic possession. James Brolin, on the other hand, ended up marrying Satan. • Floyd Patterson Boxer. Known as a good man in the bad world of boxing, Patterson became the youngest boxer to ever win the heavyweight title, and the first man to regain it having once lost it. He won 55 bouts, lost 8 and tied one, and was the middleweight gold medal winner at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics. He also defended his title seven times. Patterson had a troubled childhood and was an ardent believer that boxing helped kids find a way out of the ghetto. After retiring, he went on to become the chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission. He was voted into the U.S. Olympic Committee Hall of Fame in 1987 and the International Boxing Hall of Fame four years later. • A.M. “Abe” Rosenthal New York Times editor. Abe brought the Times into the modern era, in the process redefining what a daily American paper could be. He was also a writer who knew what good journalism was all about, and during his tenure the paper won 24 Pulitzer Prizes. Under his leadership, the Times took on Richard Nixon and published the Pentagon Papers, 7000 pages of classified data that documented how every administration since World War II had increased America's involvement in Vietnam while lying about how bad things were going. As Rosenthal once said “When something important is going on, silence is a lie." Too bad most of the big media companies have forgotten that. • Now for that other trio . . . In the last 58 years, only 17 people have been killed in Florida by alligators. That’s one every three years or so. Yet this week alone, three women were killed by alligators, all apparently in broad daylight and in populated areas. Annemarie Campbell, Judy Cooper, and Yovy Suarez Jimenez have all become part of the revered circle of life, and Florida authorities are gutting the suspects to ascertain whether the gators are on some kind of human-protein South Beach Diet. RIP, one and all.
May 15, 2006 11:08 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
This week’s been a challenge for the lab technicians over here at CSI: Celebrity Death Trio ™. On the one hand, we have a garden variety terminated troika—three famous personalities who have become Box O’ Bones ingredients all in the same week. Yet, we also have a different trio (de)composed of people who’ve all died in the same strange and incredibly unpleasant manner during that exact same time period. In fact, this latter group of recent Reaper Resort residents are a certified Celebrity Death Trio only because of the way they died. Or, from a scientific perspective, from the way they were digested.
It’s what is known in the forensics business as “some really wacky shit.”
Herewith, the departed.
• George Lutz
Mr. Amityville Horror. This is the guy who turned a spooky house on Long Island into an American nightmare and cultural fascination—all while generating millions of dollars for the publishing and movie industries. In 1975, Lutz bought the Amityville house just after the previous owners were murdered in it. Suddenly walls dripped blood and demon pigs hid in every corner. Portrayed by James Brolin in a suitably scary movie role as the tormented man of the house (perfect preparation for Brolin’s current job as Mr. Barbra Streisand), Lutz became the personification of every homeowner’s personal hell. He moved the family out after only 28 days, claiming to have escaped with his life—at least until last week. While much of his story was later debunked, he maintained to his death that it was true. Interestingly, Lutz died from heart disease and not from Satanic possession. James Brolin, on the other hand, ended up marrying Satan.
• Floyd Patterson
Boxer. Known as a good man in the bad world of boxing, Patterson became the youngest boxer to ever win the heavyweight title, and the first man to regain it having once lost it. He won 55 bouts, lost 8 and tied one, and was the middleweight gold medal winner at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics. He also defended his title seven times. Patterson had a troubled childhood and was an ardent believer that boxing helped kids find a way out of the ghetto. After retiring, he went on to become the chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission. He was voted into the U.S. Olympic Committee Hall of Fame in 1987 and the International Boxing Hall of Fame four years later.
• A.M. “Abe” Rosenthal
New York Times editor. Abe brought the Times into the modern era, in the process redefining what a daily American paper could be. He was also a writer who knew what good journalism was all about, and during his tenure the paper won 24 Pulitzer Prizes. Under his leadership, the Times took on Richard Nixon and published the Pentagon Papers, 7000 pages of classified data that documented how every administration since World War II had increased America's involvement in Vietnam while lying about how bad things were going. As Rosenthal once said “When something important is going on, silence is a lie." Too bad most of the big media companies have forgotten that.
• Now for that other trio . . .
In the last 58 years, only 17 people have been killed in Florida by alligators. That’s one every three years or so. Yet this week alone, three women were killed by alligators, all apparently in broad daylight and in populated areas. Annemarie Campbell, Judy Cooper, and Yovy Suarez Jimenez have all become part of the revered circle of life, and Florida authorities are gutting the suspects to ascertain whether the gators are on some kind of human-protein South Beach Diet.
RIP, one and all.
This week’s been a challenge for the lab technicians over here at CSI: Celebrity Death Trio ™. On the one hand, we have a garden variety terminated troika—three famous personalities who have become Box O’ Bones ingredients all in the same week. Yet, we also have a different trio (de)composed of people who’ve all died in the same strange and incredibly unpleasant manner during that exact same time period. In fact, this latter group of recent Reaper Resort residents are a certified Celebrity Death Trio only because of the way they died. Or, from a scientific perspective, from the way they were digested.
It’s what is known in the forensics business as “some really wacky shit.”
Herewith, the departed.
• George Lutz
Mr. Amityville Horror. This is the guy who turned a spooky house on Long Island into an American nightmare and cultural fascination—all while generating millions of dollars for the publishing and movie industries. In 1975, Lutz bought the Amityville house just after the previous owners were murdered in it. Suddenly walls dripped blood and demon pigs hid in every corner. Portrayed by James Brolin in a suitably scary movie role as the tormented man of the house (perfect preparation for Brolin’s current job as Mr. Barbra Streisand), Lutz became the personification of every homeowner’s personal hell. He moved the family out after only 28 days, claiming to have escaped with his life—at least until last week. While much of his story was later debunked, he maintained to his death that it was true. Interestingly, Lutz died from heart disease and not from Satanic possession. James Brolin, on the other hand, ended up marrying Satan.
• Floyd Patterson
Boxer. Known as a good man in the bad world of boxing, Patterson became the youngest boxer to ever win the heavyweight title, and the first man to regain it having once lost it. He won 55 bouts, lost 8 and tied one, and was the middleweight gold medal winner at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics. He also defended his title seven times. Patterson had a troubled childhood and was an ardent believer that boxing helped kids find a way out of the ghetto. After retiring, he went on to become the chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission. He was voted into the U.S. Olympic Committee Hall of Fame in 1987 and the International Boxing Hall of Fame four years later.
• A.M. “Abe” Rosenthal
New York Times editor. Abe brought the Times into the modern era, in the process redefining what a daily American paper could be. He was also a writer who knew what good journalism was all about, and during his tenure the paper won 24 Pulitzer Prizes. Under his leadership, the Times took on Richard Nixon and published the Pentagon Papers, 7000 pages of classified data that documented how every administration since World War II had increased America's involvement in Vietnam while lying about how bad things were going. As Rosenthal once said “When something important is going on, silence is a lie." Too bad most of the big media companies have forgotten that.
• Now for that other trio . . .
In the last 58 years, only 17 people have been killed in Florida by alligators. That’s one every three years or so. Yet this week alone, three women were killed by alligators, all apparently in broad daylight and in populated areas. Annemarie Campbell, Judy Cooper, and Yovy Suarez Jimenez have all become part of the revered circle of life, and Florida authorities are gutting the suspects to ascertain whether the gators are on some kind of human-protein South Beach Diet.
RIP, one and all.
Fame Breeds Fame
May 08, 2006 01:18 PM
Dear CDT
Reader,
Yes, we know. You’ve been waiting. Patiently. And the time has finally come.
It’s been over a month since three human celebs were bound and gagged, toe-tagged, and body-bagged. Sure, we’ve seen the tragic deaths of quite a few careers during the past month and a half, which was almost like seeing the celebrities themselves die. There was David Lee Roth’s stupendously bad radio career smashing through the guardrails, Tom DeLay riding the lightning to political purgatory, Katie Couric committing career suicide on national TV as she prepares to become the biggest bomb in the history of nightly news, Porter Goss piloting his own personal Titanic into an iceberg of international intrigue, and the poetic ending to little Kaavya Viswanathan’s plague of plagiarism. Kinda feel like sending condolences to all these people’s families, don’t you? Don’t worry about it—we already did.
The Celebrity Death Trio ™ that has assembled this week is famous primarily for being associated with fame—a lot like Liza Minnelli (we’re expecting her call any day now). A famous dad, a famous wife, and a famous survivor. You’d never know them by themselves, but put them in context and—bam! bam! bam!—you’ve got instant celebrity. It’s a lot like making instant breakfast, only this is instant death. And you can’t just bottle that up and sell it like some cheap vintage hemlock. But we’ll drink a toast, nevertheless, to the celebrities now forever enshrined in the CDT’s very own Tombstone Trophy room, where the drinks are served ice-cold, and so are the guests.
Herewith, the departed.
• Earl Woods
Golf dad. Earl named his kid Tiger, and turned him loose in that green jungle known as “The Links.” Tiger claimed that his dad was his inspiration and guiding light. Not bad kudos for a dad who drove his kid to become a golf prodigy by the age of three. We have to admit, Earl did produce one of the world’s all-time great golfers—and if Tiger has no hard feelings about learning how to call a mulligan while still in diapers, then who are we to criticize? Earl wrote several books on his hands-on approach to child-rearing, which we’re guessing were not on the personal reading lists of the three children he had—and never saw—from his first marriage.
• Elma Farnsworth
Famous wife. You don’t know her name, but you’d better know that of her husband—Philo T. Farnsworth. At the tender age of 21, Philo invented television in his lab in San Francisco. Elma worked side by side with Philo, and he claimed that Elma was intimately involved in the invention process. The first image he transmitted over his new-fangled gizmo in 1927 was that of Elma’s face. The fine upstanding corporate executives at RCA tried for decades to claim the invention for themselves, but ultimately fame was bestowed where it belonged. Unfortunately, Philo died a broken man in 1971. Elma spent the rest of her life working hard to restore his legacy. As far as we’re concerned, Elma, you done good.
• Lillian Gertrud Asplund
Famous survivor. Asplund is—make that was—the last remaining American survivor of the Titanic, and the last one to have any memories of the disaster. She died this week at the age of 98. Only five years old when God decided to sink “the ship that God himself couldn’t sink,” Lillian and her mother, along with a baby brother, were put into lifeboats by her father and three brothers. Her father and brothers perished, and Lillian lived a life of relative seclusion with her mother in Worcester, Massachusetts. There are two other survivors of the Titanic, both living in England, but they were only a few months old at the moment when the world’s biggest metaphor hit the world’s deadliest ice cube. With Lillian’s passing, our only firsthand accounts of the event from this point forward will be those written down by earlier survivors, such as Leonardo DiCaprio and Billy Zane.
RIP, one and all.
Yes, we know. You’ve been waiting. Patiently. And the time has finally come.
It’s been over a month since three human celebs were bound and gagged, toe-tagged, and body-bagged. Sure, we’ve seen the tragic deaths of quite a few careers during the past month and a half, which was almost like seeing the celebrities themselves die. There was David Lee Roth’s stupendously bad radio career smashing through the guardrails, Tom DeLay riding the lightning to political purgatory, Katie Couric committing career suicide on national TV as she prepares to become the biggest bomb in the history of nightly news, Porter Goss piloting his own personal Titanic into an iceberg of international intrigue, and the poetic ending to little Kaavya Viswanathan’s plague of plagiarism. Kinda feel like sending condolences to all these people’s families, don’t you? Don’t worry about it—we already did.
The Celebrity Death Trio ™ that has assembled this week is famous primarily for being associated with fame—a lot like Liza Minnelli (we’re expecting her call any day now). A famous dad, a famous wife, and a famous survivor. You’d never know them by themselves, but put them in context and—bam! bam! bam!—you’ve got instant celebrity. It’s a lot like making instant breakfast, only this is instant death. And you can’t just bottle that up and sell it like some cheap vintage hemlock. But we’ll drink a toast, nevertheless, to the celebrities now forever enshrined in the CDT’s very own Tombstone Trophy room, where the drinks are served ice-cold, and so are the guests.
Herewith, the departed.
• Earl Woods
Golf dad. Earl named his kid Tiger, and turned him loose in that green jungle known as “The Links.” Tiger claimed that his dad was his inspiration and guiding light. Not bad kudos for a dad who drove his kid to become a golf prodigy by the age of three. We have to admit, Earl did produce one of the world’s all-time great golfers—and if Tiger has no hard feelings about learning how to call a mulligan while still in diapers, then who are we to criticize? Earl wrote several books on his hands-on approach to child-rearing, which we’re guessing were not on the personal reading lists of the three children he had—and never saw—from his first marriage.
• Elma Farnsworth
Famous wife. You don’t know her name, but you’d better know that of her husband—Philo T. Farnsworth. At the tender age of 21, Philo invented television in his lab in San Francisco. Elma worked side by side with Philo, and he claimed that Elma was intimately involved in the invention process. The first image he transmitted over his new-fangled gizmo in 1927 was that of Elma’s face. The fine upstanding corporate executives at RCA tried for decades to claim the invention for themselves, but ultimately fame was bestowed where it belonged. Unfortunately, Philo died a broken man in 1971. Elma spent the rest of her life working hard to restore his legacy. As far as we’re concerned, Elma, you done good.
• Lillian Gertrud Asplund
Famous survivor. Asplund is—make that was—the last remaining American survivor of the Titanic, and the last one to have any memories of the disaster. She died this week at the age of 98. Only five years old when God decided to sink “the ship that God himself couldn’t sink,” Lillian and her mother, along with a baby brother, were put into lifeboats by her father and three brothers. Her father and brothers perished, and Lillian lived a life of relative seclusion with her mother in Worcester, Massachusetts. There are two other survivors of the Titanic, both living in England, but they were only a few months old at the moment when the world’s biggest metaphor hit the world’s deadliest ice cube. With Lillian’s passing, our only firsthand accounts of the event from this point forward will be those written down by earlier survivors, such as Leonardo DiCaprio and Billy Zane.
RIP, one and all.
Number's Up
May 01, 2006 02:18 AM
Dear CDT
Reader,
This week the Celebrity Death Trio ™ is filled with numerical deaths. Numbers have always been a big part of dying—the times, the dates, the amount of toxins found in the body, the number of bullet holes—and this week numbers take center stage yet again. In particular, we’re dealing with minutes of fame, the number of U.S. states, and millions of people who can’t go home again.
It’s all about the numbers, even though the countdown is over. It’s T minus zero, and the O-rings are already breaking up. Sure, these objects of fame are Heaven-bound at the speed of light, but it’s a one-way ticket. When you launch into the infinite eternity and the final destination is Planet Purgatory, well . . . from then on, it’s all about cooling down to room temperature.
Death has always been a numbers game, and we’re betting that these three aren’t going to beat the odds at the Casket Casino. They’re doing the smart thing—cashing in their chips and betting it all on one last fateful number: 86.
Herewith, the departed.
Kaavya Viswanathan’s 15 minutes of fame.
Okay, so you can’t spell her name and probably can’t even pronounce it. Don’t feel bad, she can’t write an original sentence or understand the basic rules governing plagiarism. Kaayva got half a million dollars to write a book about her personal trials and tribulations, and then copied at least 40 of those personal and intimate details from other books. While it might not be the height of stupidity, we’d expect a little more intellectual cleverness—or at least better deceit—from a Harvard student. Even if she is only 17. The title of the book, which was yanked off bookshelves this week, is “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life.” We suggest the rewrite be called “How Kaayva Got Paid, Got Caught, and Got to Spend Her Life as a Laughing Stock.” We’re surprised the little prose prostitute hasn’t died from the humiliation alone.
Puerto Rico’s bid to become the 51st state.
The little island shut down its government this week because it ran out of money for the first time in its history. Some 100,000 government workers are now without work as the U.S. commonwealth figures out how to make up a $740 million shortfall. And guess what? The government is the island’s largest employer. That includes teachers, who are being let go two weeks before school gets out, and kids are getting to blow off final exams. So that whole statehood thing is not going to be popular any time soon in Washington. Put it in a body bag; it’s over. No way Uncle Sam is going to feel all warm and fuzzy about adding another star to the flag for a bankrupt island.
A home for Darfur’s 2 million refugees.
Two million people have been driven from their homes in the Darfur region of Sudan over the past three years, and hundreds of thousands have been killed. Despite the best intentions of Hollywood’s elite—oh yeah, like that’s going to help—talks to end the conflict between the farmers and herders, Arabs and non-Arabs, and everybody else in the region broke down this week. So the killing continues, as it seems to do in every part of Africa these days. You’ve got to wonder if there’s anyone even left on that continent after all these wars. Aren’t they all dead by now? In 2004, the United Nations called this Sudanese conflict the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. Guess what the UN has done to stop it? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing. Dick. Squat. In fact, the UN might as well have just stuffed the people of the Sudan into a mass grave. Moronic UN officials want rich, white Western countries to come in and help with African rule. If we remember our history correctly, the last time that happened, a lot of those Africans ended up on slave ships and in gold mines.
RIP, one and all.
This week the Celebrity Death Trio ™ is filled with numerical deaths. Numbers have always been a big part of dying—the times, the dates, the amount of toxins found in the body, the number of bullet holes—and this week numbers take center stage yet again. In particular, we’re dealing with minutes of fame, the number of U.S. states, and millions of people who can’t go home again.
It’s all about the numbers, even though the countdown is over. It’s T minus zero, and the O-rings are already breaking up. Sure, these objects of fame are Heaven-bound at the speed of light, but it’s a one-way ticket. When you launch into the infinite eternity and the final destination is Planet Purgatory, well . . . from then on, it’s all about cooling down to room temperature.
Death has always been a numbers game, and we’re betting that these three aren’t going to beat the odds at the Casket Casino. They’re doing the smart thing—cashing in their chips and betting it all on one last fateful number: 86.
Herewith, the departed.
Kaavya Viswanathan’s 15 minutes of fame.
Okay, so you can’t spell her name and probably can’t even pronounce it. Don’t feel bad, she can’t write an original sentence or understand the basic rules governing plagiarism. Kaayva got half a million dollars to write a book about her personal trials and tribulations, and then copied at least 40 of those personal and intimate details from other books. While it might not be the height of stupidity, we’d expect a little more intellectual cleverness—or at least better deceit—from a Harvard student. Even if she is only 17. The title of the book, which was yanked off bookshelves this week, is “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life.” We suggest the rewrite be called “How Kaayva Got Paid, Got Caught, and Got to Spend Her Life as a Laughing Stock.” We’re surprised the little prose prostitute hasn’t died from the humiliation alone.
Puerto Rico’s bid to become the 51st state.
The little island shut down its government this week because it ran out of money for the first time in its history. Some 100,000 government workers are now without work as the U.S. commonwealth figures out how to make up a $740 million shortfall. And guess what? The government is the island’s largest employer. That includes teachers, who are being let go two weeks before school gets out, and kids are getting to blow off final exams. So that whole statehood thing is not going to be popular any time soon in Washington. Put it in a body bag; it’s over. No way Uncle Sam is going to feel all warm and fuzzy about adding another star to the flag for a bankrupt island.
A home for Darfur’s 2 million refugees.
Two million people have been driven from their homes in the Darfur region of Sudan over the past three years, and hundreds of thousands have been killed. Despite the best intentions of Hollywood’s elite—oh yeah, like that’s going to help—talks to end the conflict between the farmers and herders, Arabs and non-Arabs, and everybody else in the region broke down this week. So the killing continues, as it seems to do in every part of Africa these days. You’ve got to wonder if there’s anyone even left on that continent after all these wars. Aren’t they all dead by now? In 2004, the United Nations called this Sudanese conflict the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. Guess what the UN has done to stop it? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing. Dick. Squat. In fact, the UN might as well have just stuffed the people of the Sudan into a mass grave. Moronic UN officials want rich, white Western countries to come in and help with African rule. If we remember our history correctly, the last time that happened, a lot of those Africans ended up on slave ships and in gold mines.
RIP, one and all.
Crashing Through The Guardrail
April 24, 2006 07:13 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
As many famous celebrities choose to spend the springtime having babies instead of dying, plenty of non-reproducing icons are still insisting on giving up the ghost—without actually meeting their makers. They have become celebrity zombies, existing in the nether world between true face-down-in-the-dirt, Keith Moon-style death and walking-but-not-breathing, Chevy Chase-style death.
This week, our Celebrity Death Trio ™ finds itself in that nearly abandoned station halfway between St. Pete’s Eats and Satan’s Snack Shop. Yes, our terminal troika is in the Limbo Lounge, sipping Tequila Sunrises while waiting for their final ride on the Sacred Sled of Celestial Sleep. Here’s hoping their journeys are successful ones. For our sake, and theirs.
Herewith, the departed.
David Lee Roth.
From a purely medical standpoint, Roth isn’t dead. But his post-Van Halen career crashed through the guardrail this week as his unpopular radio show was cancelled after barely four months on air. Listening to Roth was like listening to the original broadcast of the Hindenburg going down in flames—it was horrible, and you couldn’t imagine it getting any worse . . . but it did. Dull conversations, bad jokes, and a stilted interview style more wooden than Pinocchio’s penis made for the worst radio we’ve ever heard. We thought Free FM’s Radiochick owned lameness on the airwaves, but even her pathetic pandering was eclipsed by Roth’s deadly dull shtick (she reclaims her title now that Roth is returning to whatever it is he’ll be doing; maybe driving an ambulance). And we actually like Diamond Dave—he’s one of the great rock and roll showmen of all time. But if he ever wants to dig his career out of the grave, he’ll have to make that phone call he’s been dreading for so many years—to Eddie Van Halen.
Scott McLellan.
Like Roth, McLellan is not technically deceased. As of this week, however, he’s an ex-White House press secretary, which means that he might as well be dead. Being a former White House spokesman is like being a leper; no one wants you around because you remind them of a festering disease, and your prospects for a continued and happy life can be measured using Billy Barty’s tablespoon. Just try and name a successful former White House flak; as far as any of us know, they might all be dead. For the record, McLellan is the second Bush guy to get toe-tagged in the wake of Josh Bolten being named to the Chief of Staff job.
Ray Nagin
A year ago, no one located more than ten miles from Bourbon Street knew who Ray Nagin was. Today, everybody knows him as the mayor of New Orleans, the guy who blamed everything about Hurricane Katrina on anyone whose name he could pronounce. Not exactly the way to win friends and influence people. Once the rebuilding began, he had the mental brilliance to announce that New Orleans should be a “Chocolate City” going forward (we thought that was Hershey, PA’s claim to fame). Nagin pissed off the white people returning to NOLA, and a lot of the blacks decided to stay away forever. So after elections this past week, guess who’s not getting the votes? That’s right, Ray The Zombie. Nagin is now facing a runoff election for his job, and even if he does get re-elected, people will treat him like an escaped refugee from Marie Laveau’s voodoo shop.
RIP, one and all.
As many famous celebrities choose to spend the springtime having babies instead of dying, plenty of non-reproducing icons are still insisting on giving up the ghost—without actually meeting their makers. They have become celebrity zombies, existing in the nether world between true face-down-in-the-dirt, Keith Moon-style death and walking-but-not-breathing, Chevy Chase-style death.
This week, our Celebrity Death Trio ™ finds itself in that nearly abandoned station halfway between St. Pete’s Eats and Satan’s Snack Shop. Yes, our terminal troika is in the Limbo Lounge, sipping Tequila Sunrises while waiting for their final ride on the Sacred Sled of Celestial Sleep. Here’s hoping their journeys are successful ones. For our sake, and theirs.
Herewith, the departed.
David Lee Roth.
From a purely medical standpoint, Roth isn’t dead. But his post-Van Halen career crashed through the guardrail this week as his unpopular radio show was cancelled after barely four months on air. Listening to Roth was like listening to the original broadcast of the Hindenburg going down in flames—it was horrible, and you couldn’t imagine it getting any worse . . . but it did. Dull conversations, bad jokes, and a stilted interview style more wooden than Pinocchio’s penis made for the worst radio we’ve ever heard. We thought Free FM’s Radiochick owned lameness on the airwaves, but even her pathetic pandering was eclipsed by Roth’s deadly dull shtick (she reclaims her title now that Roth is returning to whatever it is he’ll be doing; maybe driving an ambulance). And we actually like Diamond Dave—he’s one of the great rock and roll showmen of all time. But if he ever wants to dig his career out of the grave, he’ll have to make that phone call he’s been dreading for so many years—to Eddie Van Halen.
Scott McLellan.
Like Roth, McLellan is not technically deceased. As of this week, however, he’s an ex-White House press secretary, which means that he might as well be dead. Being a former White House spokesman is like being a leper; no one wants you around because you remind them of a festering disease, and your prospects for a continued and happy life can be measured using Billy Barty’s tablespoon. Just try and name a successful former White House flak; as far as any of us know, they might all be dead. For the record, McLellan is the second Bush guy to get toe-tagged in the wake of Josh Bolten being named to the Chief of Staff job.
Ray Nagin
A year ago, no one located more than ten miles from Bourbon Street knew who Ray Nagin was. Today, everybody knows him as the mayor of New Orleans, the guy who blamed everything about Hurricane Katrina on anyone whose name he could pronounce. Not exactly the way to win friends and influence people. Once the rebuilding began, he had the mental brilliance to announce that New Orleans should be a “Chocolate City” going forward (we thought that was Hershey, PA’s claim to fame). Nagin pissed off the white people returning to NOLA, and a lot of the blacks decided to stay away forever. So after elections this past week, guess who’s not getting the votes? That’s right, Ray The Zombie. Nagin is now facing a runoff election for his job, and even if he does get re-elected, people will treat him like an escaped refugee from Marie Laveau’s voodoo shop.
RIP, one and all.
Desert Survival Tips
April 17, 2006 09:15 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
Most of you were expecting to see Donald Rumsfeld’s career in this edition of the CDT weren’t you? Come on—you were even hoping for it. After all, Big Don’s reputation has taken more beatings this week than a prisoner at Abu Ghraib. But Rummy, relying on pride, arrogance, and sheer spite, still has his job. Which is more than some other White House staffers will be able to say in the coming weeks.
With him hanging on, it’s become a week of political and politically incorrect deaths, with a trio of cherished notions giving up the ghost. We’re laying to rest the notion that bears are our friends, laying to rest the notion that Iran is our friend, and laying to rest the notion that happiest place on Earth is really all that happy. Tragic endings, each and every one.
It’s sad when long-held beliefs and ideals die, but sometimes you just have to let go—before you get your hand blown up, bitten off, or crushed on some out-of-control ride. So, take off your cap, bow your head and pause a moment in memory of three ideals that have bitten the biscuit, sold the boat, and bought the farm—all from the comfort of their new luxury skyboxes, made out of custom-fitted pine and on view for all eternity right here at the Celebrity Death Trio Cemetery.
Herewith, the departed.
• Iran’s hope of joining the rest of the world as an equal partner.
Iran started off the week by claiming it had developed nuclear capabilities, but was going to use nuclear power only for electricity. That’s an interesting thought for a country where the most advanced electrical devices are ceiling fans and things that blow up when strapped to humans. Then, new president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad threatened Israel with annihilatio, and raised the issue of whether the Holocaust ever happened. Obviously trying to win friends in the neighborhood, Mr. A pretty much pissed off everyone else in the world. Maybe he should visit Afghanistan and see how this sort of “I’m right, so screw you” diplomacy tends to play out.
• Disneyland, The Happiest Place On Earth.
Sure, waiting in the Space Mountain line for three hours with several thousand of your closest and most morbidly obese friends might qualify Disneyland and Walt Disney World as heaven on Earth, but dying on park attraction puts it all a little closer to hell. This week, a woman died on the Mission To Mars ride—which makes it almost like flying the actual NASA shuttle—becoming the second person in a year to break the bonds of Earth courtesy of Mickey, Donald, and Goofy. For decades, the Mouse House never had (or never admitted) problems in its theme parks, creating a veritable universe of safety and fun for the whole family. Now, Disney appears to be finding innovative ways to reduce line lengths at its parks by a couple of customers every year. If this kind of family-reduction program continues, it really will be a small world after all.
• The myth of cuddly bears.
Three events took place this week that place bears in a category typically reserved for angry great white sharks, starving Bengal tigers, trapped wolverines, and Hillary Clinton. First was a mauling in Tennessee, where a ravenous black bear attacked a family, killing one and maiming two. The next was the occasion of the world’s second face transplant. Didn’t hear about it? That’s because it took place in China, where the media has less freedom than the average bear (so to speak). Chinese surgeons replaced the face of a hunter who was disfigured by a bear . . . we think there’s some irony in that. And third, Winnie the Pooh got a star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame this week. Face it, bears are tired of living in the shadows and eating out of garbage cans. Take your Build-A-Bears, your Vermont Teddy Bears, your Paddingtons and your Berenstains and start jabbing them with voodoo needles, because as The Colbert Report has warned us time and time again, the bears are coming to your house. And they don’t want to cuddle.
RIP, one and all.
Most of you were expecting to see Donald Rumsfeld’s career in this edition of the CDT weren’t you? Come on—you were even hoping for it. After all, Big Don’s reputation has taken more beatings this week than a prisoner at Abu Ghraib. But Rummy, relying on pride, arrogance, and sheer spite, still has his job. Which is more than some other White House staffers will be able to say in the coming weeks.
With him hanging on, it’s become a week of political and politically incorrect deaths, with a trio of cherished notions giving up the ghost. We’re laying to rest the notion that bears are our friends, laying to rest the notion that Iran is our friend, and laying to rest the notion that happiest place on Earth is really all that happy. Tragic endings, each and every one.
It’s sad when long-held beliefs and ideals die, but sometimes you just have to let go—before you get your hand blown up, bitten off, or crushed on some out-of-control ride. So, take off your cap, bow your head and pause a moment in memory of three ideals that have bitten the biscuit, sold the boat, and bought the farm—all from the comfort of their new luxury skyboxes, made out of custom-fitted pine and on view for all eternity right here at the Celebrity Death Trio Cemetery.
Herewith, the departed.
• Iran’s hope of joining the rest of the world as an equal partner.
Iran started off the week by claiming it had developed nuclear capabilities, but was going to use nuclear power only for electricity. That’s an interesting thought for a country where the most advanced electrical devices are ceiling fans and things that blow up when strapped to humans. Then, new president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad threatened Israel with annihilatio, and raised the issue of whether the Holocaust ever happened. Obviously trying to win friends in the neighborhood, Mr. A pretty much pissed off everyone else in the world. Maybe he should visit Afghanistan and see how this sort of “I’m right, so screw you” diplomacy tends to play out.
• Disneyland, The Happiest Place On Earth.
Sure, waiting in the Space Mountain line for three hours with several thousand of your closest and most morbidly obese friends might qualify Disneyland and Walt Disney World as heaven on Earth, but dying on park attraction puts it all a little closer to hell. This week, a woman died on the Mission To Mars ride—which makes it almost like flying the actual NASA shuttle—becoming the second person in a year to break the bonds of Earth courtesy of Mickey, Donald, and Goofy. For decades, the Mouse House never had (or never admitted) problems in its theme parks, creating a veritable universe of safety and fun for the whole family. Now, Disney appears to be finding innovative ways to reduce line lengths at its parks by a couple of customers every year. If this kind of family-reduction program continues, it really will be a small world after all.
• The myth of cuddly bears.
Three events took place this week that place bears in a category typically reserved for angry great white sharks, starving Bengal tigers, trapped wolverines, and Hillary Clinton. First was a mauling in Tennessee, where a ravenous black bear attacked a family, killing one and maiming two. The next was the occasion of the world’s second face transplant. Didn’t hear about it? That’s because it took place in China, where the media has less freedom than the average bear (so to speak). Chinese surgeons replaced the face of a hunter who was disfigured by a bear . . . we think there’s some irony in that. And third, Winnie the Pooh got a star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame this week. Face it, bears are tired of living in the shadows and eating out of garbage cans. Take your Build-A-Bears, your Vermont Teddy Bears, your Paddingtons and your Berenstains and start jabbing them with voodoo needles, because as The Colbert Report has warned us time and time again, the bears are coming to your house. And they don’t want to cuddle.
RIP, one and all.
Perkiness In Purgatory
April 10, 2006 05:11 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
There are some weeks when famous things die in threes and you wonder how life will go on. Well, since we’re talking about death, technically life doesn’t go on. But it’s a nice thought, nonetheless. This time out, we’re looking at the career suicide of America’s sweetheart (or Satan’s mistress of the morning—you be the judge), a lesson in “learning how to swim” from the Third World, and a literary lynching. In each case, something famous met its demise, whether by hook or crook . . . or Couric. Those of us who remain will do our best to soldier on, toasting the recently renovated as they sashay their way through the afterlife afterparty. So raise a glass of Chateau Eternity, and bid fond farewell to those who’ve taken their last refuge in the Terminal Tax Shelter.
Herewith, the departed.
• Katie Couric’s career.
Look, this may be a little premature, but it’s inevitable. Sure, she’s making the $15 million jump to the CBS Evening News, but no one has ever figured out how to successfully leave a morning show without taking a career dirt bath. And Miss Perkiness Personified is not going to be any different. The exit from a network morning show might as well be a bona-fide suicide slide into the meat grinder. Here are a few past victims, all having left the morning shift at the top of their game: Bryant Gumbel. Jane Pauley. Deborah Norville. Joan Lunden. David Hartman. Mariette Hartley. Kathleen Sullivan. Hell, Charlie Gibson was seen less frequently than The Invisible Man until he returned to Good Morning America. Enjoy the new gig Katie; it’s your last. This time next year, your breath won’t even show up on the (makeup) mirror.
• Third World Ferry vacations.
It’s not so much the ferries themselves, but their passengers who make this week’s list. Most of these so-called “boats” couldn’t get across a bathtub without taking a few hundred passengers straight to the bottom. Djibouti, Ghana, Bahrain, and Cameroon have had major ferry disasters over the past few days, with 120 snorkeling it in Ghana just this week. These things are going down more frequently than Monica Lewinsky at a Bill Clinton fundraiser. Passengers on these “cemetery sailboats” are pretty much guaranteed a one way trip to Davy Jones’ Locker the minute they set foot on board—and we’ll bet the ferries don’t even bother selling round trip tickets anymore. It might just be easier on everybody if the owners spray-painted the word “Titanic” across the sides. At least that would give passengers a sense of the odds of making it to their destinations alive.
• The case against Dan Brown and “The Da Vinci Code.”
The authors of the book “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” sued Brown on the premise that he stole many of the ideas for his insanely popular Da Vinci book from theirs. A British court found otherwise and tossed out the suit, which means we all get to see Tom Hanks in the film this summer. But guess what? The Brits were completely “off their arses,” as they say in the Queen’s English. Brown (or more likely, his wife) lifted “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” verbatim, and disguised it with a little bit of Robert Ludlum hide-and-seek to cover his trail. You want a good read? Try “Holy Blood, Holy Grail.” Just don’t wait for the movie version.
RIP, one and all.
There are some weeks when famous things die in threes and you wonder how life will go on. Well, since we’re talking about death, technically life doesn’t go on. But it’s a nice thought, nonetheless. This time out, we’re looking at the career suicide of America’s sweetheart (or Satan’s mistress of the morning—you be the judge), a lesson in “learning how to swim” from the Third World, and a literary lynching. In each case, something famous met its demise, whether by hook or crook . . . or Couric. Those of us who remain will do our best to soldier on, toasting the recently renovated as they sashay their way through the afterlife afterparty. So raise a glass of Chateau Eternity, and bid fond farewell to those who’ve taken their last refuge in the Terminal Tax Shelter.
Herewith, the departed.
• Katie Couric’s career.
Look, this may be a little premature, but it’s inevitable. Sure, she’s making the $15 million jump to the CBS Evening News, but no one has ever figured out how to successfully leave a morning show without taking a career dirt bath. And Miss Perkiness Personified is not going to be any different. The exit from a network morning show might as well be a bona-fide suicide slide into the meat grinder. Here are a few past victims, all having left the morning shift at the top of their game: Bryant Gumbel. Jane Pauley. Deborah Norville. Joan Lunden. David Hartman. Mariette Hartley. Kathleen Sullivan. Hell, Charlie Gibson was seen less frequently than The Invisible Man until he returned to Good Morning America. Enjoy the new gig Katie; it’s your last. This time next year, your breath won’t even show up on the (makeup) mirror.
• Third World Ferry vacations.
It’s not so much the ferries themselves, but their passengers who make this week’s list. Most of these so-called “boats” couldn’t get across a bathtub without taking a few hundred passengers straight to the bottom. Djibouti, Ghana, Bahrain, and Cameroon have had major ferry disasters over the past few days, with 120 snorkeling it in Ghana just this week. These things are going down more frequently than Monica Lewinsky at a Bill Clinton fundraiser. Passengers on these “cemetery sailboats” are pretty much guaranteed a one way trip to Davy Jones’ Locker the minute they set foot on board—and we’ll bet the ferries don’t even bother selling round trip tickets anymore. It might just be easier on everybody if the owners spray-painted the word “Titanic” across the sides. At least that would give passengers a sense of the odds of making it to their destinations alive.
• The case against Dan Brown and “The Da Vinci Code.”
The authors of the book “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” sued Brown on the premise that he stole many of the ideas for his insanely popular Da Vinci book from theirs. A British court found otherwise and tossed out the suit, which means we all get to see Tom Hanks in the film this summer. But guess what? The Brits were completely “off their arses,” as they say in the Queen’s English. Brown (or more likely, his wife) lifted “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” verbatim, and disguised it with a little bit of Robert Ludlum hide-and-seek to cover his trail. You want a good read? Try “Holy Blood, Holy Grail.” Just don’t wait for the movie version.
RIP, one and all.
Career Suicide, Part 1
April 03, 2006 11:00 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Whoa . . . . It’s very rare that we get three famous careers dying in the same week. Sure, we’re used to celebrity bodies piling up in stacks of three at the end of each week—like so many chopped logs of Hollywood kindling—but actual careers? That doesn’t happen very often. Even with Corporate America throwing employees overboard like passengers on an Arab ferry, you don’t see careers cut this short but once every few years.
As with all famous death trios, this week’s is certainly a mixed bag of nuts, both literally and figuratively. Careers don’t die easy, but they do die hard. And we’re seeing some serious hard dying this week by a corrupt politician, a genocidal maniac, and a bush league actress. You can expect to see these three careers on history’s wall of fame, but the actual humans will reside on some future sidewalk of shame. In the meantime, you can find them pushing up daisies in the Career Crematorium, reduced to little more than the ashes of asses.
Herewith, the departed.
Tom DeLay’s Senate career.
Tom can be proud that it took his career soooooooooo long to die. It was like “The Hammer” was fighting some sort of terminal cancer that everybody but him knew was going to win out in the end. Of course, most of us think that someone should have stepped in and cut the head off this smiling snake years ago. Perhaps no one in modern politics, including his buddy Jack “Off” Abramoff, has spent more time making sure that the U.S. Congress became the best government money could buy. If Tommy Boy doesn’t end up in jail as the wife of some axe murderer, he’ll probably become a lobbyist himself.
Sharon Stone’s acting career.
If Ms. Stone thought she was going to make the transition to respected actress in her old age, a la Meryl Streep and Anne Bancroft, she just flushed it down the toilet with “Basic Instinct 2.” Crossing one’s legs in the most famous R-rated closeup of all time is not the quickest path to cinema credibility—and neither is trying to repeat it 14 years later, well after gravity has taken its toll. Stone’s cinematic beaver may have made her a star, but the truth is that the quality scripts and free Internet porn have made her redundant. Maybe she should try selling bikini wax on QVC.
Charles Taylor’s warlord career.
Saying that African strongman Charles Taylor is a bad guy is like saying the Pope isn’t fully comfortable with homosexuals. Taylor single-handedly instigated some of the bloodiest wars in West Africa, looting $100 million dollars for himself and leaving behind nearly half a million dead people. His big claim to fame was convincing children to kill their parents and come join his militia. He was captured this week after hiding out in Nigeria for years, and even managed to break out of Boston jail cell a few years back (how the hell does that happen). Now he’s going to be tried for war crimes at the Hague. Taylor, like DeLay, will probably get off lightly. His preferred method of military assault was hacking off the limbs of unarmed villagers and the Hague doesn’t condone this method of retribution. Too bad. He’s a perfect candidate.
RIP, one and all.
Whoa . . . . It’s very rare that we get three famous careers dying in the same week. Sure, we’re used to celebrity bodies piling up in stacks of three at the end of each week—like so many chopped logs of Hollywood kindling—but actual careers? That doesn’t happen very often. Even with Corporate America throwing employees overboard like passengers on an Arab ferry, you don’t see careers cut this short but once every few years.
As with all famous death trios, this week’s is certainly a mixed bag of nuts, both literally and figuratively. Careers don’t die easy, but they do die hard. And we’re seeing some serious hard dying this week by a corrupt politician, a genocidal maniac, and a bush league actress. You can expect to see these three careers on history’s wall of fame, but the actual humans will reside on some future sidewalk of shame. In the meantime, you can find them pushing up daisies in the Career Crematorium, reduced to little more than the ashes of asses.
Herewith, the departed.
Tom DeLay’s Senate career.
Tom can be proud that it took his career soooooooooo long to die. It was like “The Hammer” was fighting some sort of terminal cancer that everybody but him knew was going to win out in the end. Of course, most of us think that someone should have stepped in and cut the head off this smiling snake years ago. Perhaps no one in modern politics, including his buddy Jack “Off” Abramoff, has spent more time making sure that the U.S. Congress became the best government money could buy. If Tommy Boy doesn’t end up in jail as the wife of some axe murderer, he’ll probably become a lobbyist himself.
Sharon Stone’s acting career.
If Ms. Stone thought she was going to make the transition to respected actress in her old age, a la Meryl Streep and Anne Bancroft, she just flushed it down the toilet with “Basic Instinct 2.” Crossing one’s legs in the most famous R-rated closeup of all time is not the quickest path to cinema credibility—and neither is trying to repeat it 14 years later, well after gravity has taken its toll. Stone’s cinematic beaver may have made her a star, but the truth is that the quality scripts and free Internet porn have made her redundant. Maybe she should try selling bikini wax on QVC.
Charles Taylor’s warlord career.
Saying that African strongman Charles Taylor is a bad guy is like saying the Pope isn’t fully comfortable with homosexuals. Taylor single-handedly instigated some of the bloodiest wars in West Africa, looting $100 million dollars for himself and leaving behind nearly half a million dead people. His big claim to fame was convincing children to kill their parents and come join his militia. He was captured this week after hiding out in Nigeria for years, and even managed to break out of Boston jail cell a few years back (how the hell does that happen). Now he’s going to be tried for war crimes at the Hague. Taylor, like DeLay, will probably get off lightly. His preferred method of military assault was hacking off the limbs of unarmed villagers and the Hague doesn’t condone this method of retribution. Too bad. He’s a perfect candidate.
RIP, one and all.
The Buck Stopped Here
March 28, 2006 06:58 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Remember this classic seasonal chestnut?
Spring has sprung
the flowers are here
a new celebrity trio
just jumped off the pier . . .
Or something to that effect. It sounds familiar, anyway. The CDT ™ is back at if, after a brief respite, and it’s a strange trio this week: a country icon, a race car hopeful, and a longtime political fixture. Strange bedfellows, indeed, unless you consider that death makes for the most natural of bedfellows (especially when that bed is made out of natural Grade A premium cemetery dirt).
Now that Spring has arrived, we’re glad that winter has passed, but there is still some mourning to be done. In this case, we’ll do it at the Too Dark Park, located just off the Last Exit to Lucifer Land, across the street from Gabriel’s Garden of Full-Time Sleepers. There, you’ll find the most recent Celebrity Death Trio ™ in all their eternal glory.
Herewith the departed:
• Buck Owens.
Musician. Alvis Edgar “Buck” Owens pulled country music out of the trailer parks and intermarried backwaters of the Deep South and made it mainstream. Most of us probably remember Buck as one of the two guys from “Hee Haw” (the other being banjo player Roy Clark, a surely soon-to-be member of the Celebrity Death Trio™). Yet the big-toothed Buckster had serious industry credibility, creating the “Bakersfield sound” that helped make country a viable form of popular music—and garnering twenty Top 10 singles in the process. Yes, we know it’s clichéd, but the reality for Alvis Owens is that once and for all, the Buck stops here.
• Paul Dana.
Race car driver. It’s really too bad when someone becomes famous simply for dying, but that’s the case for Mr. Dana. A junior member of the race car circuit—as part of David Letterman’s team, no less—he was to supposed to hit the big time driving in the Indianapolis 500 this past weekend. Instead, he hit another car while going 200 mph. The impact made Dana an instant celebrity, but not in the way that anyone expected. And to show just how fleeting celebrity really is, the Indianapolis 500 carried on the next day without missing a (heart) beat.
• Caspar Weinberger.
Politician. Weinberger was Secretary of Defense under Ronald Reagan and oversaw the largest peacetime military buildup in history. He was instrumental in getting the Russians to give up the Cold War, but his legacy was tainted by his involvement with the Iran-Contra arms scandal. He resigned in disgrace but was pardoned by George Bush (the dad) just days before he was to have gone on trial for lying. He was an often contentious governmental figure in government, and apparently didn’t get along well with other politicians. That means it’s doubtful that Caspar will be ever be considered a friendly ghost.
RIP, one and all.
BONUS: three other famous things that died this week.
• White House Chief of Staff Andrew Card’s political career.
• Zacarias Moussaoui’s future. (Talk about an idiot; we expect Mr. Moussaoui to join the CDT, courtesy of the American penal system, in the near future.)
• Afghanistan’s effort to join the 21st century (they thought they’d accomplished this by pardoning a Christian convert, but they were wrong).
Remember this classic seasonal chestnut?
Spring has sprung
the flowers are here
a new celebrity trio
just jumped off the pier . . .
Or something to that effect. It sounds familiar, anyway. The CDT ™ is back at if, after a brief respite, and it’s a strange trio this week: a country icon, a race car hopeful, and a longtime political fixture. Strange bedfellows, indeed, unless you consider that death makes for the most natural of bedfellows (especially when that bed is made out of natural Grade A premium cemetery dirt).
Now that Spring has arrived, we’re glad that winter has passed, but there is still some mourning to be done. In this case, we’ll do it at the Too Dark Park, located just off the Last Exit to Lucifer Land, across the street from Gabriel’s Garden of Full-Time Sleepers. There, you’ll find the most recent Celebrity Death Trio ™ in all their eternal glory.
Herewith the departed:
• Buck Owens.
Musician. Alvis Edgar “Buck” Owens pulled country music out of the trailer parks and intermarried backwaters of the Deep South and made it mainstream. Most of us probably remember Buck as one of the two guys from “Hee Haw” (the other being banjo player Roy Clark, a surely soon-to-be member of the Celebrity Death Trio™). Yet the big-toothed Buckster had serious industry credibility, creating the “Bakersfield sound” that helped make country a viable form of popular music—and garnering twenty Top 10 singles in the process. Yes, we know it’s clichéd, but the reality for Alvis Owens is that once and for all, the Buck stops here.
• Paul Dana.
Race car driver. It’s really too bad when someone becomes famous simply for dying, but that’s the case for Mr. Dana. A junior member of the race car circuit—as part of David Letterman’s team, no less—he was to supposed to hit the big time driving in the Indianapolis 500 this past weekend. Instead, he hit another car while going 200 mph. The impact made Dana an instant celebrity, but not in the way that anyone expected. And to show just how fleeting celebrity really is, the Indianapolis 500 carried on the next day without missing a (heart) beat.
• Caspar Weinberger.
Politician. Weinberger was Secretary of Defense under Ronald Reagan and oversaw the largest peacetime military buildup in history. He was instrumental in getting the Russians to give up the Cold War, but his legacy was tainted by his involvement with the Iran-Contra arms scandal. He resigned in disgrace but was pardoned by George Bush (the dad) just days before he was to have gone on trial for lying. He was an often contentious governmental figure in government, and apparently didn’t get along well with other politicians. That means it’s doubtful that Caspar will be ever be considered a friendly ghost.
RIP, one and all.
BONUS: three other famous things that died this week.
• White House Chief of Staff Andrew Card’s political career.
• Zacarias Moussaoui’s future. (Talk about an idiot; we expect Mr. Moussaoui to join the CDT, courtesy of the American penal system, in the near future.)
• Afghanistan’s effort to join the 21st century (they thought they’d accomplished this by pardoning a Christian convert, but they were wrong).
Honeymoon's Over
March 21, 2006 04:55 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
The three famous things that died this week weren’t famous people. Yes, there was a mildly famous human trio that bought a bone bouquet, but they weren’t real celebrities. There was actress Maureen Stapleton, but everybody thought she was Jean Stapleton, who played Edith Bunker on “All In The Family.” Then there was Oleg Cassini, the designer favored by Jackie Kennedy Onassis—but everybody confused him with Halston or Pierre Cardin. And there was Humphrey, the cat who lived at the Prime Minister’s residence in London when Margaret Thatcher and John Major were there. Then Tony Blair kicked him out because of his wife’s allergies, and the cat died.
Famous, yes. Celebrities, no. The real dead celebrities this week were careers and ideas. They were reduced to just so much burnt toast over the past seven days, exactly like Martha Stewart’s friendship with Donald Trump. It was the death of “Love: Iraqi-America Style,” the end of a high-flying legal career, and a not-so-happy-finish for China’s richest convict. In the technical lingo of The World Baseball Classic (Japan 10, Cuba 6) it was “three up, three down under.”
Herewith, the departed:
• The Iraq War Honeymoon. Three years later, and this marriage between the Bush White House and the freedom-loving Iraqi people just isn’t working out. Dubya even had to admit that the nuptials hadn’t gone as planned, stopping just short of saying the love was all but gone. He’s going to give it the old college try (which is not encouraging, considering how much he tried at college) and he hopes the Iraqis will do the same. Of course, that’s like asking Michael Jackson and his ex-wives to take another stab at romance. Either way, this honeymoon has less life in it than Bill and Hillary’s marriage.
• Carla J. Martin’s legal career. Carla’s the bleached blonde government lawyer who single-handedly blew the death penalty phase of the only September 11th conspirator to be tried in court. Defying a judge, former stewardess Carla gave trial transcripts and coaching suggestions to aviation officials testifying against Zacarias Moussaoui. There’s nothing wrong with being a stewardess—we love stewardesses—unless you hold the key to one of the most important judicial moments to come down the pike since the Nuremberg Trials. Carla’s been put on leave, which means she may have to reactivate her flight attendant status. Because as far as the CDT is concerned, her career as a cracker-jack lawyer has been cremated and the ashes are waiting to be thrown in her face.
• The life of Yuan Baojing. He’s no celebrity, but he should have been. Mr. Yuan was worth nearly half a billion dollars, which would have bought off just about any jury in America. Unfortunately, Mr. Yuan made the mistake of committing his crime in China. As the incredibly wealthy head of the Jianhao Group, he tried to have a rival businessman killed. Then one of his accomplices threatened to blackmail Mr. Yuan, so he had the blackmailer killed. Then the legal system got hold of him. Found guilty, Mr. Yuan was given the death sentence—and executed fifteen minutes later. That’s right—fifteen. Swift justice, indeed. Too bad guys like Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling didn’t do their dastardly deeds in China. Watching Kenny Boy ride the bullet—literally—would have made the whole Enron debacle worth it.
RIP, one and all.
The three famous things that died this week weren’t famous people. Yes, there was a mildly famous human trio that bought a bone bouquet, but they weren’t real celebrities. There was actress Maureen Stapleton, but everybody thought she was Jean Stapleton, who played Edith Bunker on “All In The Family.” Then there was Oleg Cassini, the designer favored by Jackie Kennedy Onassis—but everybody confused him with Halston or Pierre Cardin. And there was Humphrey, the cat who lived at the Prime Minister’s residence in London when Margaret Thatcher and John Major were there. Then Tony Blair kicked him out because of his wife’s allergies, and the cat died.
Famous, yes. Celebrities, no. The real dead celebrities this week were careers and ideas. They were reduced to just so much burnt toast over the past seven days, exactly like Martha Stewart’s friendship with Donald Trump. It was the death of “Love: Iraqi-America Style,” the end of a high-flying legal career, and a not-so-happy-finish for China’s richest convict. In the technical lingo of The World Baseball Classic (Japan 10, Cuba 6) it was “three up, three down under.”
Herewith, the departed:
• The Iraq War Honeymoon. Three years later, and this marriage between the Bush White House and the freedom-loving Iraqi people just isn’t working out. Dubya even had to admit that the nuptials hadn’t gone as planned, stopping just short of saying the love was all but gone. He’s going to give it the old college try (which is not encouraging, considering how much he tried at college) and he hopes the Iraqis will do the same. Of course, that’s like asking Michael Jackson and his ex-wives to take another stab at romance. Either way, this honeymoon has less life in it than Bill and Hillary’s marriage.
• Carla J. Martin’s legal career. Carla’s the bleached blonde government lawyer who single-handedly blew the death penalty phase of the only September 11th conspirator to be tried in court. Defying a judge, former stewardess Carla gave trial transcripts and coaching suggestions to aviation officials testifying against Zacarias Moussaoui. There’s nothing wrong with being a stewardess—we love stewardesses—unless you hold the key to one of the most important judicial moments to come down the pike since the Nuremberg Trials. Carla’s been put on leave, which means she may have to reactivate her flight attendant status. Because as far as the CDT is concerned, her career as a cracker-jack lawyer has been cremated and the ashes are waiting to be thrown in her face.
• The life of Yuan Baojing. He’s no celebrity, but he should have been. Mr. Yuan was worth nearly half a billion dollars, which would have bought off just about any jury in America. Unfortunately, Mr. Yuan made the mistake of committing his crime in China. As the incredibly wealthy head of the Jianhao Group, he tried to have a rival businessman killed. Then one of his accomplices threatened to blackmail Mr. Yuan, so he had the blackmailer killed. Then the legal system got hold of him. Found guilty, Mr. Yuan was given the death sentence—and executed fifteen minutes later. That’s right—fifteen. Swift justice, indeed. Too bad guys like Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling didn’t do their dastardly deeds in China. Watching Kenny Boy ride the bullet—literally—would have made the whole Enron debacle worth it.
RIP, one and all.
Milosevic BBQ
March 14, 2006 03:11 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
It feels like the Celebrity Death Trio ™ is getting to be a regular way to start your week, doesn't it?
The CDT ™ used to be a semi-regular event that occurred several times a year. But somehow, it's happening almost weekly. Maybe it's because the generation that begat the Baby Boomers is giving up the ghost in some celestial race with time. Or maybe the popularity of the CDT ™ itself is reason enough for celebs to cash in their chips and pay the piper. We're not saying that it's a direct cause and effect relationship, but it seems like the more CDT ™ lists we put out, the more celebs start lining up to make our list. Coincidence? You be the judge.
Be that as it may, another week has brought us a trio of dead celebrities, and it's a decidedly odd group. A baseball hall-of-famer, a selfless wife and mother, and a genuine Serbian spawn of Satan. Despite their various personalities, odds are this week they're all equal in the eyes of the undertaker. And with odds like those, you can head on over to the gambling graveyard where you're sure to find this trio jockeying for position at the Divine Dirt Derby . . . on their way to the Finished Line.
Herewith, the departed.
• Slobodan Milosevic
Dictator, mass murderer. It's hard to believe that anybody could make Hitler look like a slacker, but former Yugoslav president Milosevic came close. Cold-hearted, ruthless, and unrepentant, his ongoing genocide of his fellow countrymen---while the world watched---is emblematic of one of the most vile lives of the last decade. Slobodan died in his cell while awaiting the conclusion of his international war crimes trial, thereby depriving many of what they felt was true justice. They need not worry. If hell is the ultimate BBQ pit, Slobo's guaranteed a daily bath in Bull's Eye Barbecue Sauce for all eternity.
• Dana Reeve
Actress, activist. The wife of actor Christopher Reeve, Dana gave up her career to care for him after his horsing around left him paralyzed. She also oversaw his charitable endeavors and actively promoted spinal cord research. Christopher died a little over a year ago---and shortly thereafter, Dana discovered she had lung cancer. She didn't even smoke, which proves that life can truly be unfair for people that simply deserve better.
• Kirby Puckett
Baseball player. Puckett led the Minnesota Twins to two World Series championships and appeared in 10 consecutive All-Star games. He was a Minnesota icon right up until he had a stroke that killed him in Scottsdale, Arizona---just as spring training was getting underway. When he was inducted in to the Baseball Hall Of Fame, Kirby said "I played every game like it was my last." That's something you'd normally find on, say, a tombstone. Way to plan ahead, Kirby.
RIP, one and all. Except for Slobodan. May he find himself the featured entrée now and forever at Beelzebub's Barbecue Of The Beyond.
BONUS: Three other famous things that died this week.
• President Bush's efforts to hand over control of U.S. ports to the United Arab Emirates.
• Pakistan's efforts to get the U.S. to approve its nuclear program.
• Gale Norton's career as Secretary of the Interior.
It feels like the Celebrity Death Trio ™ is getting to be a regular way to start your week, doesn't it?
The CDT ™ used to be a semi-regular event that occurred several times a year. But somehow, it's happening almost weekly. Maybe it's because the generation that begat the Baby Boomers is giving up the ghost in some celestial race with time. Or maybe the popularity of the CDT ™ itself is reason enough for celebs to cash in their chips and pay the piper. We're not saying that it's a direct cause and effect relationship, but it seems like the more CDT ™ lists we put out, the more celebs start lining up to make our list. Coincidence? You be the judge.
Be that as it may, another week has brought us a trio of dead celebrities, and it's a decidedly odd group. A baseball hall-of-famer, a selfless wife and mother, and a genuine Serbian spawn of Satan. Despite their various personalities, odds are this week they're all equal in the eyes of the undertaker. And with odds like those, you can head on over to the gambling graveyard where you're sure to find this trio jockeying for position at the Divine Dirt Derby . . . on their way to the Finished Line.
Herewith, the departed.
• Slobodan Milosevic
Dictator, mass murderer. It's hard to believe that anybody could make Hitler look like a slacker, but former Yugoslav president Milosevic came close. Cold-hearted, ruthless, and unrepentant, his ongoing genocide of his fellow countrymen---while the world watched---is emblematic of one of the most vile lives of the last decade. Slobodan died in his cell while awaiting the conclusion of his international war crimes trial, thereby depriving many of what they felt was true justice. They need not worry. If hell is the ultimate BBQ pit, Slobo's guaranteed a daily bath in Bull's Eye Barbecue Sauce for all eternity.
• Dana Reeve
Actress, activist. The wife of actor Christopher Reeve, Dana gave up her career to care for him after his horsing around left him paralyzed. She also oversaw his charitable endeavors and actively promoted spinal cord research. Christopher died a little over a year ago---and shortly thereafter, Dana discovered she had lung cancer. She didn't even smoke, which proves that life can truly be unfair for people that simply deserve better.
• Kirby Puckett
Baseball player. Puckett led the Minnesota Twins to two World Series championships and appeared in 10 consecutive All-Star games. He was a Minnesota icon right up until he had a stroke that killed him in Scottsdale, Arizona---just as spring training was getting underway. When he was inducted in to the Baseball Hall Of Fame, Kirby said "I played every game like it was my last." That's something you'd normally find on, say, a tombstone. Way to plan ahead, Kirby.
RIP, one and all. Except for Slobodan. May he find himself the featured entrée now and forever at Beelzebub's Barbecue Of The Beyond.
BONUS: Three other famous things that died this week.
• President Bush's efforts to hand over control of U.S. ports to the United Arab Emirates.
• Pakistan's efforts to get the U.S. to approve its nuclear program.
• Gale Norton's career as Secretary of the Interior.
Hey! You! Get Off McCloud
March 07, 2006 10:56 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Oh, ye of little faith.
When we issued this week's first Celebrity Death Trio ™ missive on Monday, we had quite a stellar bunch. Don Knotts, Darren McGavin, Curt Gowdy. TV giants, all. But eighteen minutes--a mere eighteen!--after the CDT went out, Dennis Weaver kicked the bucket. That's right; it appeared that McCloud had fouled the curve. "An abomination!" some subscribers cried. "That makes four!" shouted others. "The exception that proves the rule . . . whatever that means!" came yet another chorus. "It makes me want to kill someone! Or two someones!" wrote one confused, and possibly overmedicated, subscriber.
It cast enough doubt on the CDT ™ to make Jesus weep. And he's not scheduled to die for six more weeks.
But the fact that celebrities die in threes in a seven-day period is a fact of life, an immutable force of nature, not to mention a mathematical constant. It's part of our understanding of the universe, as pointed out in an addendum to Stephen Hawking's not-so-brief history of time. In that light, Dennis "McCloud" Weaver wasn't the fourth pungently slabbed celebrity in a week--he was the first celebrity in a brand new week.
So rest assured that the order of the world has been maintained. Even though Weaver is leading the way to the Cowboy Compost Heap, he's not going alone. Secure in that knowledge, raise your glass and drink a toast to our three dearly departed celebrities. They're in a grave situation, sure, but they're also partying at St. Pete's Palace like it's nineteen ninety-never.
Herewith, the departed.
• Dennis Weaver
Actor. Best known as McCloud, not to mention Chester Goode on "Gunsmoke," Weaver was also an acclaimed environmental activist. He appeared in dozens of films and made-for-TV movies, usually as some variation of the wise man of the Wild West (think Marlboro Man rather than Brokeback Man). We liked him best as the bewildered traveling salesman being chased by a homicidal trucker in "Duel." Rest assured that Dennis is finally taking those boots off . . . and cooling his heels for a spell.
• Robert Lee Scott
War hero and author. A World War II air force ace and member of the famed Flying Tigers, he was awarded the Silver Star for evacuating thousands of troops and refugees out of Burma. His life of adventure was fodder for books and movies, and he was the guy who first wrote that "God Is My Co-Pilot." From here on in, though, God is pretty much the pilot. Robert will be either flying coach or traveling as check-on luggage.
• Jack Wild
Actor. Came to fame playing the Artful Dodger in the movie version of "Oliver!" (his agent was Phil Collins' mum). For most of us, his greatest role was that of Jimmy, the kid with the magic flute, who was the star of "H.R. Pufnstuf." The show turned out to be the end of the road for Jack, who sank into drugs and drink for the rest of his career. But you can't blame him; watching the psychedelic Pufnstuf and Witchiepoo was enough to cause industrial-strength hallucinations in any hyperactive adolescent. And Jack lived it every Saturday morning. It's a wonder he lived as long as he did.
RIP, one and all.
Bonus! Three other famous things that died this week:
* Gary Glitter's Vietnam vacation.
* Michael Chertoff's attempts to blame Katrina solely on Michael "Heckuva Job" Brown.
* Pat Robertson's career as a director of the National Religious Broadcasters.
Oh, ye of little faith.
When we issued this week's first Celebrity Death Trio ™ missive on Monday, we had quite a stellar bunch. Don Knotts, Darren McGavin, Curt Gowdy. TV giants, all. But eighteen minutes--a mere eighteen!--after the CDT went out, Dennis Weaver kicked the bucket. That's right; it appeared that McCloud had fouled the curve. "An abomination!" some subscribers cried. "That makes four!" shouted others. "The exception that proves the rule . . . whatever that means!" came yet another chorus. "It makes me want to kill someone! Or two someones!" wrote one confused, and possibly overmedicated, subscriber.
It cast enough doubt on the CDT ™ to make Jesus weep. And he's not scheduled to die for six more weeks.
But the fact that celebrities die in threes in a seven-day period is a fact of life, an immutable force of nature, not to mention a mathematical constant. It's part of our understanding of the universe, as pointed out in an addendum to Stephen Hawking's not-so-brief history of time. In that light, Dennis "McCloud" Weaver wasn't the fourth pungently slabbed celebrity in a week--he was the first celebrity in a brand new week.
So rest assured that the order of the world has been maintained. Even though Weaver is leading the way to the Cowboy Compost Heap, he's not going alone. Secure in that knowledge, raise your glass and drink a toast to our three dearly departed celebrities. They're in a grave situation, sure, but they're also partying at St. Pete's Palace like it's nineteen ninety-never.
Herewith, the departed.
• Dennis Weaver
Actor. Best known as McCloud, not to mention Chester Goode on "Gunsmoke," Weaver was also an acclaimed environmental activist. He appeared in dozens of films and made-for-TV movies, usually as some variation of the wise man of the Wild West (think Marlboro Man rather than Brokeback Man). We liked him best as the bewildered traveling salesman being chased by a homicidal trucker in "Duel." Rest assured that Dennis is finally taking those boots off . . . and cooling his heels for a spell.
• Robert Lee Scott
War hero and author. A World War II air force ace and member of the famed Flying Tigers, he was awarded the Silver Star for evacuating thousands of troops and refugees out of Burma. His life of adventure was fodder for books and movies, and he was the guy who first wrote that "God Is My Co-Pilot." From here on in, though, God is pretty much the pilot. Robert will be either flying coach or traveling as check-on luggage.
• Jack Wild
Actor. Came to fame playing the Artful Dodger in the movie version of "Oliver!" (his agent was Phil Collins' mum). For most of us, his greatest role was that of Jimmy, the kid with the magic flute, who was the star of "H.R. Pufnstuf." The show turned out to be the end of the road for Jack, who sank into drugs and drink for the rest of his career. But you can't blame him; watching the psychedelic Pufnstuf and Witchiepoo was enough to cause industrial-strength hallucinations in any hyperactive adolescent. And Jack lived it every Saturday morning. It's a wonder he lived as long as he did.
RIP, one and all.
Bonus! Three other famous things that died this week:
* Gary Glitter's Vietnam vacation.
* Michael Chertoff's attempts to blame Katrina solely on Michael "Heckuva Job" Brown.
* Pat Robertson's career as a director of the National Religious Broadcasters.
TV Guys Sign Off
February 27, 2006 10:55 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
Welcome to a brand new week of the Celebrity Death Trio (TM). Like you, our first reaction was "Whoa. Not again." Even we were thinking "Wow, there can't be this many celebrities dying, let alone this many who've died in threes in the first two months of 2006."
Well, we've got news for you. Celebrities die in threes regardless of the calendar, proving that their commitment to holding three funerals in a single week is an unstoppable force of nature. And here at the CDT (TM) we're ticking them off as fast as the Heavenly Hosts can mow them down.
We have to admit, this week was pretty astounding. Some of TVs greatest names signed off for the last time, all deciding to slowly cool to room temperature while watching the final curtain come down. In fact, as far as Hollywood is concerned, they've all decided to "taking acting lessons from Shatner" which is about as stiff as it gets. So, tip your hat to these TV land greats who will live on forever at the Reaper's Rerun Resort, where every actor gets the lead and the drinks are always free over at the Horizontal Hilton.
Herewith, the departed:
* Don Knotts
Actor. One of the greatest character actors of all time, he created one of the greatest icons in the early days of TV-the hapless Mayberry boyfriend of Thelma Lou, Deputy Bernard P. Fife. While he'll always be Barney Fife and the incredible Mr. Limpet in our hearts, he also won five Emmy in five years and appeared in 25 movies and seven TV shows. We'll send him off with these immortal words from "The Ghost And Mr. Chicken" . . . "Atta boy, Luther!"
* Darren McGavin
Actor. Earned everlasting fame with his lead role in "Kolchak: The Night Stalker," the spooky TV series that preceded the X-Files by decades. Yet McGavin appeared on almost every show you can think of from the heyday of the boob tube: Dr. Kildare, Gunsmoke, Ben Casey, The Name Of The Game, The Rookies, Mannix, The Six Million Dollar Man . . . the list goes on and on. He also appeared in a few films, notably "The Man With The Golden Arm" and "A Christmas Story." Often confused with Patrick McGoohan, the guy from "The Prisoner" and "Silver Streak." The way to tell them apart is that Patrick McGoohan is still breathing oxygen and not cemetery dust.
* Curt Gowdy
Sportscaster. The famous voice that hosted seven Super Bowls, seven Olympics, ten World Series, 12 Rose Bowls, and 24 NCAA championships. If you listened to sports in the last 50 years, you heard his raspy voice just about everywhere, including his popular series, American Sportsman. By the way, there's no truth to the rumor that he died this past week from watching the horrible color coverage of the Torino Olympics. Listening to Scott Hamilton and Sandra Bezic almost killed us, so we could see how it might play a roll in understanding Curt's recent trip to the Decay Buffet.
FYI, all of these guys were over 80 years old. RIP, one and all.
BONUS from the CDT (TM)! Here are three other famous things that died this past week:
• Bode Miller's 15 minutes of fame
• The city of Torino's appeal as a tourist destination
• George Bush's promise to get tough on port security
Welcome to a brand new week of the Celebrity Death Trio (TM). Like you, our first reaction was "Whoa. Not again." Even we were thinking "Wow, there can't be this many celebrities dying, let alone this many who've died in threes in the first two months of 2006."
Well, we've got news for you. Celebrities die in threes regardless of the calendar, proving that their commitment to holding three funerals in a single week is an unstoppable force of nature. And here at the CDT (TM) we're ticking them off as fast as the Heavenly Hosts can mow them down.
We have to admit, this week was pretty astounding. Some of TVs greatest names signed off for the last time, all deciding to slowly cool to room temperature while watching the final curtain come down. In fact, as far as Hollywood is concerned, they've all decided to "taking acting lessons from Shatner" which is about as stiff as it gets. So, tip your hat to these TV land greats who will live on forever at the Reaper's Rerun Resort, where every actor gets the lead and the drinks are always free over at the Horizontal Hilton.
Herewith, the departed:
* Don Knotts
Actor. One of the greatest character actors of all time, he created one of the greatest icons in the early days of TV-the hapless Mayberry boyfriend of Thelma Lou, Deputy Bernard P. Fife. While he'll always be Barney Fife and the incredible Mr. Limpet in our hearts, he also won five Emmy in five years and appeared in 25 movies and seven TV shows. We'll send him off with these immortal words from "The Ghost And Mr. Chicken" . . . "Atta boy, Luther!"
* Darren McGavin
Actor. Earned everlasting fame with his lead role in "Kolchak: The Night Stalker," the spooky TV series that preceded the X-Files by decades. Yet McGavin appeared on almost every show you can think of from the heyday of the boob tube: Dr. Kildare, Gunsmoke, Ben Casey, The Name Of The Game, The Rookies, Mannix, The Six Million Dollar Man . . . the list goes on and on. He also appeared in a few films, notably "The Man With The Golden Arm" and "A Christmas Story." Often confused with Patrick McGoohan, the guy from "The Prisoner" and "Silver Streak." The way to tell them apart is that Patrick McGoohan is still breathing oxygen and not cemetery dust.
* Curt Gowdy
Sportscaster. The famous voice that hosted seven Super Bowls, seven Olympics, ten World Series, 12 Rose Bowls, and 24 NCAA championships. If you listened to sports in the last 50 years, you heard his raspy voice just about everywhere, including his popular series, American Sportsman. By the way, there's no truth to the rumor that he died this past week from watching the horrible color coverage of the Torino Olympics. Listening to Scott Hamilton and Sandra Bezic almost killed us, so we could see how it might play a roll in understanding Curt's recent trip to the Decay Buffet.
FYI, all of these guys were over 80 years old. RIP, one and all.
BONUS from the CDT (TM)! Here are three other famous things that died this past week:
• Bode Miller's 15 minutes of fame
• The city of Torino's appeal as a tourist destination
• George Bush's promise to get tough on port security
A Blizzard Of Burials
February 14, 2006 10:54 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
You'll never guess what we found while digging out from the biggest single snowstorm in NYC history. Yep---a brand new, shiny as a penny, completely original Celebrity Death Trio! It's not often you find them lying around, but lately they seem to be showing up everywhere, like paramedics at a Dick Cheney hunting trip.
This is the fourth CDT of the year, and not even the storm of the century could knock the life out of this run. A new slate, or slab, of celebs have signed on to the CDT, and they're going to spend this Valentine's Day making hearts in Frankenstein's workshop. But soon these newly dead famous people will be celebrating their newfound downtime by dancing at the Dust-To-Dust Discotheque, where the drinks are always free and the jukebox only plays Norman Greenbaum's classic "Spirit In The Sky."
Herewith, the departed.
• Al Lewis
Actor. Despite his numerous TV roles, Al will always be Grandpa Munster in our hearts. He owned a restaurant in NYC, ran for governor of New York (getting 52,000 votes) and campaigned for marijuana legalization. Grandpa a pothead? Never would have guessed. Herman, maybe. One of the benefits of being a vampire on TV was that Al already had a pretty good idea of what sleeping in a coffin would be like. On the show, though, he was able to climb out of it. He's probably not going to get to do that anymore.
• Freddie Laker
Airline innovator. Laker was the originator of low cost airfares, and his Laker Airways was the original cheap airline. Back in the late '70s, he introduced trans-Atlantic fares for a couple hundred dollars-pissing off British Air and Pan Am, which were happy to gouge customers for the privilege of flying across the pond. Freddie was also the Donald Trump of his day, only with better hair, and promoted himself like no one else at the time. For being such a good friend to international travelers, Sir Freddie is now flying to a better place-at the lowest rate possible.
• Peter Benchley
Author. Benchley wrote "Jaws," thereby screwing up just about everyone's trip to the beach for years. When he realized how badly he had damaged the reputation of great white sharks, he became a wildlife conservationist, traveling around the world and preaching against the wanton killing of sharks. He was also the grandson of humorist Robert Benchley, and one of his first jobs was writing obituaries for the Washington Post. As a once revered shark advocate, he can now add shark food to his resume'.
RIP, one and all.
FYI: as a bonus, here are three other famous things that died this week:
Michelle Kwan's Olympic career
Neil Entwistle's plan for becoming an international playboy
Britney Spears' dream of being named "Mother Of The Year."
You'll never guess what we found while digging out from the biggest single snowstorm in NYC history. Yep---a brand new, shiny as a penny, completely original Celebrity Death Trio! It's not often you find them lying around, but lately they seem to be showing up everywhere, like paramedics at a Dick Cheney hunting trip.
This is the fourth CDT of the year, and not even the storm of the century could knock the life out of this run. A new slate, or slab, of celebs have signed on to the CDT, and they're going to spend this Valentine's Day making hearts in Frankenstein's workshop. But soon these newly dead famous people will be celebrating their newfound downtime by dancing at the Dust-To-Dust Discotheque, where the drinks are always free and the jukebox only plays Norman Greenbaum's classic "Spirit In The Sky."
Herewith, the departed.
• Al Lewis
Actor. Despite his numerous TV roles, Al will always be Grandpa Munster in our hearts. He owned a restaurant in NYC, ran for governor of New York (getting 52,000 votes) and campaigned for marijuana legalization. Grandpa a pothead? Never would have guessed. Herman, maybe. One of the benefits of being a vampire on TV was that Al already had a pretty good idea of what sleeping in a coffin would be like. On the show, though, he was able to climb out of it. He's probably not going to get to do that anymore.
• Freddie Laker
Airline innovator. Laker was the originator of low cost airfares, and his Laker Airways was the original cheap airline. Back in the late '70s, he introduced trans-Atlantic fares for a couple hundred dollars-pissing off British Air and Pan Am, which were happy to gouge customers for the privilege of flying across the pond. Freddie was also the Donald Trump of his day, only with better hair, and promoted himself like no one else at the time. For being such a good friend to international travelers, Sir Freddie is now flying to a better place-at the lowest rate possible.
• Peter Benchley
Author. Benchley wrote "Jaws," thereby screwing up just about everyone's trip to the beach for years. When he realized how badly he had damaged the reputation of great white sharks, he became a wildlife conservationist, traveling around the world and preaching against the wanton killing of sharks. He was also the grandson of humorist Robert Benchley, and one of his first jobs was writing obituaries for the Washington Post. As a once revered shark advocate, he can now add shark food to his resume'.
RIP, one and all.
FYI: as a bonus, here are three other famous things that died this week:
Michelle Kwan's Olympic career
Neil Entwistle's plan for becoming an international playboy
Britney Spears' dream of being named "Mother Of The Year."
The Hits Just Keep On Coming
January 31, 2006 02:53 PM
Dear CDT Subscriber,
Nothing says "Hey, this week's off to a great start!" quite like another entry for the Celebrity Death Trio. And with three CDTs in one month-the first month of the year, no less-you know that things are looking up. Because when you're six feet under, there's really no looking down, at least from a technical perspective.
This week, we have a surprising reversal of fortune, if you will. Instead of the famous men leading the women down the aisles of the All Souls Supermarket, the ladies take center stage by beating the guys two out of three. In addition, this was not a group known for populating the pages of People magazine, so it's unlikely that they'll be fighting over who gets to be this week's Purgatory Piñata. Nonetheless, we're sure they will all be celebrating the Chinese New Year with the proper amount of fireworks, feasting, and funerary fanfare. So with the blessings of all of us here at the CDT, we give them their last fifteen minutes of flame . . . er, fame.
Herewith the departed:
• Coretta Scott King.
Famous wife and political activist. The long-suffering wife of Dr. Martin Luther King, Coretta admirably kept the civil rights dream alive. She also kept Dr. King's legacy alive, despite his kids' recent attempts to bury it alongside their father. Coretta occasionally courted controversy, like when she tried to get her husband's killer, James Earl Ray, exonerated. That will probably give her and Martin a little something to talk about from here to eternity.
• Chris Penn.
Actor. Known as a stocky character actor who played movie toughs, he was good in "At Close Range" and great as Nice Guy Eddie in "Reservoir Dogs." However, he'll probably be best remembered as the least successful of the Penn brothers. Actor brother Sean and musician brother Michael are both better known, and both have the ongoing advantage of not being dead. That's a big plus when you've got a sibling rivalry going.
• Wendy Wasserstein.
Playwright. Wendy helped usher in a whole generation of New York feminist writers who used the theater as a place to explore the angst of being a single woman in the baby boom era. Her essays and plays, notably the Pulitzer-winning "The Heidi Chronicles" paved the way for "Sex And The City" (we'll reserve comment on that) as well as enough chick-lit to bury Oprah's memory of James Frey for years to come. She leaves behind her brother, Bruce Wasserstein, who is one of Wall Street's all time biggest dealmakers---and someone potentially rich enough to buy his way off of Satan's Shuttle when his own time comes.
RIP, one and all.
Nothing says "Hey, this week's off to a great start!" quite like another entry for the Celebrity Death Trio. And with three CDTs in one month-the first month of the year, no less-you know that things are looking up. Because when you're six feet under, there's really no looking down, at least from a technical perspective.
This week, we have a surprising reversal of fortune, if you will. Instead of the famous men leading the women down the aisles of the All Souls Supermarket, the ladies take center stage by beating the guys two out of three. In addition, this was not a group known for populating the pages of People magazine, so it's unlikely that they'll be fighting over who gets to be this week's Purgatory Piñata. Nonetheless, we're sure they will all be celebrating the Chinese New Year with the proper amount of fireworks, feasting, and funerary fanfare. So with the blessings of all of us here at the CDT, we give them their last fifteen minutes of flame . . . er, fame.
Herewith the departed:
• Coretta Scott King.
Famous wife and political activist. The long-suffering wife of Dr. Martin Luther King, Coretta admirably kept the civil rights dream alive. She also kept Dr. King's legacy alive, despite his kids' recent attempts to bury it alongside their father. Coretta occasionally courted controversy, like when she tried to get her husband's killer, James Earl Ray, exonerated. That will probably give her and Martin a little something to talk about from here to eternity.
• Chris Penn.
Actor. Known as a stocky character actor who played movie toughs, he was good in "At Close Range" and great as Nice Guy Eddie in "Reservoir Dogs." However, he'll probably be best remembered as the least successful of the Penn brothers. Actor brother Sean and musician brother Michael are both better known, and both have the ongoing advantage of not being dead. That's a big plus when you've got a sibling rivalry going.
• Wendy Wasserstein.
Playwright. Wendy helped usher in a whole generation of New York feminist writers who used the theater as a place to explore the angst of being a single woman in the baby boom era. Her essays and plays, notably the Pulitzer-winning "The Heidi Chronicles" paved the way for "Sex And The City" (we'll reserve comment on that) as well as enough chick-lit to bury Oprah's memory of James Frey for years to come. She leaves behind her brother, Bruce Wasserstein, who is one of Wall Street's all time biggest dealmakers---and someone potentially rich enough to buy his way off of Satan's Shuttle when his own time comes.
RIP, one and all.
Still Hungover, and Hanging
January 20, 2006 09:52 PM
Dear CDT Reader,
If we didn't know better, we'd think that a lot of celebrities had made a recent New Year's resolution to die as quickly as possibly this year. Two full weeks of the year, and we're now at CDT #2 for 2006. If this keeps up, everybody who's ever appeared on the cover of US Weekly magazine, including Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, will be dead by the end of the year. And then we'll all be out of business. I mean, what's the point of a "non-celebrity death trio?" It just doesn't have the same ring to it. Plus, you can get those every day in your local paper. Or in your alumni magazine.
But we're not in crisis mode yet. What we have is three celebs who are not going to have to worry about sending out Valentine's cards this year. Or doing their taxes. Instead, they'll be sending change of address forms for their new residence . . . Hades' Shady Acres--The Rest & Retiring Home where residents are guaranteed to be a good meal and get an eternal night's slumber.
And now to the departed:
• Wilson Pickett: Singer. Let's start off by saying it's been a rough ride for male R&B singers so far this year, and we're only 20 days in. Lou Rawls already caught the midnight train this year; now we have Wilson hitching a ride. Known as Wicked Pickett, Wilson wrote and recorded raw gems like "In The Midnight Hour" and "Mustang Sally"--songs that put the sultry in soul. He exposed more of America to R&B than anyone this side of Barry White and James Brown. Speaking of James Brown, he's still alive, but the way things are going . . . well, let's just say we'd be careful with those loaded firearms and ex-wives if we were "The Godfather Of Soul" this year.
• Shelley Winters: Actress. It's too bad that most people remember Shelley as the fat broad who swam like Jaws in "The Posiedon Adventure" or as Ma Parker in the "Batman" TV series. But she was a superb actress and quite the bombshell in her early days, notably in the stunning thriller "The Night Of The Hunter" and "A Place In The Sun." But we all get old, a little out of shape, and then we die. As Shelley just proved.
• Sheik Jaber al-Ahmad al-Sabah: The Emir of Kuwait. You don't know the name. Hell, you can't even pronounce it. But America went to war to help this guy in 1990, setting us on a course of Middle East intervention that could last many lifetimes. After Saddam Hussein--the buffoon currently on trial in Iraq--attacked Kuwait, the U.S. went in to help the emir. He was considered the founder of modern Kuwait, and unlike his Saudi brethren, didn't spend all his money finding ways to skirt the Koran. If more rulers in the Middle East were like him, maybe our troops wouldn't have to be there.
RIP, one and all.
If we didn't know better, we'd think that a lot of celebrities had made a recent New Year's resolution to die as quickly as possibly this year. Two full weeks of the year, and we're now at CDT #2 for 2006. If this keeps up, everybody who's ever appeared on the cover of US Weekly magazine, including Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, will be dead by the end of the year. And then we'll all be out of business. I mean, what's the point of a "non-celebrity death trio?" It just doesn't have the same ring to it. Plus, you can get those every day in your local paper. Or in your alumni magazine.
But we're not in crisis mode yet. What we have is three celebs who are not going to have to worry about sending out Valentine's cards this year. Or doing their taxes. Instead, they'll be sending change of address forms for their new residence . . . Hades' Shady Acres--The Rest & Retiring Home where residents are guaranteed to be a good meal and get an eternal night's slumber.
And now to the departed:
• Wilson Pickett: Singer. Let's start off by saying it's been a rough ride for male R&B singers so far this year, and we're only 20 days in. Lou Rawls already caught the midnight train this year; now we have Wilson hitching a ride. Known as Wicked Pickett, Wilson wrote and recorded raw gems like "In The Midnight Hour" and "Mustang Sally"--songs that put the sultry in soul. He exposed more of America to R&B than anyone this side of Barry White and James Brown. Speaking of James Brown, he's still alive, but the way things are going . . . well, let's just say we'd be careful with those loaded firearms and ex-wives if we were "The Godfather Of Soul" this year.
• Shelley Winters: Actress. It's too bad that most people remember Shelley as the fat broad who swam like Jaws in "The Posiedon Adventure" or as Ma Parker in the "Batman" TV series. But she was a superb actress and quite the bombshell in her early days, notably in the stunning thriller "The Night Of The Hunter" and "A Place In The Sun." But we all get old, a little out of shape, and then we die. As Shelley just proved.
• Sheik Jaber al-Ahmad al-Sabah: The Emir of Kuwait. You don't know the name. Hell, you can't even pronounce it. But America went to war to help this guy in 1990, setting us on a course of Middle East intervention that could last many lifetimes. After Saddam Hussein--the buffoon currently on trial in Iraq--attacked Kuwait, the U.S. went in to help the emir. He was considered the founder of modern Kuwait, and unlike his Saudi brethren, didn't spend all his money finding ways to skirt the Koran. If more rulers in the Middle East were like him, maybe our troops wouldn't have to be there.
RIP, one and all.
New Year's Bashed
January 06, 2006 01:51 AM
Dear CDT Reader,
It's the first full week of the New Year, and that means it's time for the very first edition of Celebrity Death Trio 2006. And what a week it's been.
Before we get down to business, let's get one dirty little secret out of the way. Admit it: Every one of you was thinking "Ariel Sharon---man, that guy's definitely going to top the CDT list this week." But guess what? Ariel's having the last laugh. Well, it's not technically a laugh, because he's in a medically-induced coma, but you get the drift.
Instead, Lou Rawls bumped him out of the spot at the, er, deadline. Who knew? Then again, maybe Ariel will take the spotlight next week. He's been known to do that.
So, as you put away your Christmas trappings this weekend and settle into a haze of impending football overdose, knock back an eggnog for the first graduating class of Grim Reaper High, 2006. Motto: "They've got their cap and gowns, and now they're laying down."
Herewith, the cemetery scholars:
• Lou Rawls
Singer. Known for his silky smooth R&B baritone and four octave range, Rawls was a longtime favorite of the CDT. His voice graced everything from Christmas albums to Budweiser commercials. He also spent a good deal of time doing charity work, which should stand him in good stead during his review later today in front of St. Peter.
• Barry Cowsill
Musician. Some of our younger readers may not recognize the Cowsill name right away. Suffice it to say that once upon a time, way back in the 1960s, there was a squeaky clean, new-fangled "rock and roll" band made up of a bunch of wacky kids and their ultra-cool mom. No, not The Partridge Family-The Cowsills, who were the inspiration for the Partridges (The Cowsills actually turned down the opportunity to play themselves in the sitcom). It's kind of a shame that younger brother Barry was more popular the past few months for being a missing Katrina victim than for being the bass player for the band (and thus the role model for Danny Bonaduce).
• Frank Cary
IBM Chairman and CEO. More than a few CDT subscribers are technogeeks, so they'll be lighting a candle for Frank, the man who ushered in the age of the personal computer by investing in the development of the first IBM PC during the late 1970s. Though IBM eventually got its ass kicked in the PC market, that one machine changed everything. Need proof? You're reading this on your personal computer right now, aren't you? Way to go, Frank.
RIP, one and all.
It's the first full week of the New Year, and that means it's time for the very first edition of Celebrity Death Trio 2006. And what a week it's been.
Before we get down to business, let's get one dirty little secret out of the way. Admit it: Every one of you was thinking "Ariel Sharon---man, that guy's definitely going to top the CDT list this week." But guess what? Ariel's having the last laugh. Well, it's not technically a laugh, because he's in a medically-induced coma, but you get the drift.
Instead, Lou Rawls bumped him out of the spot at the, er, deadline. Who knew? Then again, maybe Ariel will take the spotlight next week. He's been known to do that.
So, as you put away your Christmas trappings this weekend and settle into a haze of impending football overdose, knock back an eggnog for the first graduating class of Grim Reaper High, 2006. Motto: "They've got their cap and gowns, and now they're laying down."
Herewith, the cemetery scholars:
• Lou Rawls
Singer. Known for his silky smooth R&B baritone and four octave range, Rawls was a longtime favorite of the CDT. His voice graced everything from Christmas albums to Budweiser commercials. He also spent a good deal of time doing charity work, which should stand him in good stead during his review later today in front of St. Peter.
• Barry Cowsill
Musician. Some of our younger readers may not recognize the Cowsill name right away. Suffice it to say that once upon a time, way back in the 1960s, there was a squeaky clean, new-fangled "rock and roll" band made up of a bunch of wacky kids and their ultra-cool mom. No, not The Partridge Family-The Cowsills, who were the inspiration for the Partridges (The Cowsills actually turned down the opportunity to play themselves in the sitcom). It's kind of a shame that younger brother Barry was more popular the past few months for being a missing Katrina victim than for being the bass player for the band (and thus the role model for Danny Bonaduce).
• Frank Cary
IBM Chairman and CEO. More than a few CDT subscribers are technogeeks, so they'll be lighting a candle for Frank, the man who ushered in the age of the personal computer by investing in the development of the first IBM PC during the late 1970s. Though IBM eventually got its ass kicked in the PC market, that one machine changed everything. Need proof? You're reading this on your personal computer right now, aren't you? Way to go, Frank.
RIP, one and all.