Roxanne Davis Kelly

What's WRONG? Everything. At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Roxanne Davis Kelly, psychic, mother, devoted fan of The Beatles and the Kentucky Wildcats, and the center of my universe, dead at 56.

What goes around, comes around.

I began this blog as a way to express what I felt about people who have passed on. I knew that eventually, I would have to stop.

Perhaps I will stop.

Perhaps I'll continue it.

I don't know right now. I'm so totally off kilter, I don't know how to begin to describe it.

Tonight, I come here to write about someone who died a few hours ago, someone who lived in my every thought for over thirty years. I debated whether to include her on this blog. Would she think it in bad taste, I wondered. But I know the answer is no. She was so much a part of everything I did on the air, it would be wrong not to eulogize her. She would want to be included.

Tradition has it that when a loved one passes, you should surround yourself with friends, associates, anyone who can provide comfort and distraction.

That's not how I choose to spend my first night without her. FIve minutes with her was always preferable to years with anyone else. So I'll be alone with my thoughts, my prayers, and seek the distraction that comes in writing these words.

I want to remember her. I want to dwell on the bounty of wonderful memories she left me. I want to believe that in whatever may lie beyond the mortal life, she has been welcomed and is healed. I want to believe that she will touch me tonight in my dreams, and that she will continue to do so often.

I'm determined not to cry, although I'm sure I'll lose that battle. Roxanne hated it when I would cry. I like to think it's because she saw me as too strong to need tears. More likely it's that she didn't want to face the fact the she married a wuss.

Roxanne was unique. Not one to be lost in the crowd, she touched everyone she came in contact with. She would have been the first to say that many people found her overbearing. She was abrasive, quick, to the point, yet loving, caring, and sensitive.

What made her smile? The Beatles, great food, Mozart, classic black-and-white films, and color ones as well. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of movies and television. Pretty good with music, too -- handy when you're married to someone in radio.

Living with me, Roxanne became a devoted fan of the University of Kentucky basketball team. It's going to be strange watching the Cats without her. That may be when I need that company and distraction which I'm not partaking in tonight. The last time I didn't discuss a game with her, Kyle Macy was playing the point and Goose Givens was putting on the show of his life against Duke. That's a long time.

She had spent a year in the hospital as a child. Much of her outer tougness was hatched from a needed instinct to survive. After our daughter was born, she decided to stay home... a typical wife and mother through good times and bad.

Our story was never one of love at first site. but of love nurtured and tenderly grown. Truth be told, that gruff exterior put me off at first, too. As we began to find each other, she began to trust me enough to show the loving, caring side of her personality. And she discovered the same part of me. Through the success and heights of my career, she was there, helping at every turn.

When failure followed my sucess, I was generally an ass. Roxanne stayed by my side long after most women would have left. Maybe it was for our daughter's sake. I only know it took me until age 42 to grow up. By then, the familiarity and comfort was intact, but the thought of love was streching thin. But despite a few years apart, we continued together, as best friends and devoted allies. The time apart made our reunions that much sweeter.

Seventeen years ago, Roxanne began to re-discover the psychic abilities which had fascinated her early in life. She began to connect with people, and as the psychic industry emerged from the shadow into mainstream America, she helped lead the way.

I often told her how much I held her in awe. The people she counseled were generous in their praise. I long ago lost count of the number of people whose lives she touched, not just in passing, but with substantial influence. She helped people. Many people.

And people loved her. But -- forgive me for being selfish -- no one loved her as I did. Strike that. As I still do. My faith tells me that from beyond, she is still in my life. If it's simple to believe that she and her parents are re-uniting tonight, somewhere in God's great universe, then I shall be simple.

We look for any sign, so I've found one tonight. The movie "Sister Kenney" has appeared on TV. It's certainly obscure enough to take note of. Roxanne saw it as a child in the hospital; in fact, it inspired her to study nursing. As I remember, it's the first old movie she ever showed me. It doesn't seen that long ago, that first night of many we would share as she passed to me her love of classic cinema. To see it tonight, of all nights... just say I'm closing my mind to the idea of coincidence.

If I'm right, I imagine her parents and mine will have welcomed her by now. Could be she's busy figuring out how to find John Lennon, George Harrison, Bob Marley, and Vivien Leigh. Perhaps she's already been to the Rainbow Bridge and exchanged kisses with our four beloved Shar-Pei.

And I hope she's checking how to help her big honey, who's a more than a little bit lost right now.

Here is the message I posted to the WABX listeners on our web site.


September 29, 2009

I am heartbroken to tell you that my Roxanne passed away today. Despite our estrangement we were still best friends and shared intertwined lives. I thank God for the over thirty years we had together, and that she died without pain.

Roxanne was a psychic advisor who had brought endless joy and needed counsel to thousands of clients over the years. We all hope to make a contribution in this world. I can truly say she made a huge difference in many peoples' lives.

Roxanne was a proud Kentuckian by way of Atlantic City. She was a Jersey Girl, through and through. Tough as steel, with a heart as tender as any. Beneath her brittle shell lived a passionate, vibrant soul. From her, I took a love for Mozart, Bob Marley, old movies, and my Serbian Orthodox faith. In return, through me, she gained an appreciation for politics, barbeque, and the unique lovingly cynical viewpoint available only to radio spouses.

She also assimilated by love for the Kentucky Wildcats, maybe even eclipsing my own place in the Big Blue Nation. This is no small thing. Is it selfish of me to wonder how I'll react without her?

I also treasure the things we discovered together: The joys and aches of parenthood, the rigors of road trips, and the irony of British comedy. And most of all, the incredible rush of tackling life while being coupled with someone who adores even your worst faults.

I have no idea why she loved me. I only think God she did.

Obviously, this is an awkward time. To my friends, please don't hesitate to call or mail, though I may not respond quickly. I appreciate your love and support and I shall thank you individually when circumstances permit. Anyone knows me personally knows how Roxanne has been the shining light which has guided me almost all my adult life.

To the listeners, just know that whatever pleasant moments I have been able to bring you came through the love and support she gave to me, even through the times when we were no longer "in love." I can only wish that you have, or will find, someone which brings you such richness as she brought to me.

Dobro vece, pila moya.

Steven

Walter Cronkite

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Walter Cronkite, the Most Trusted Man In America, dead at 92 at his New York home, following a long illness. He didn't just bring us the news, he was family, the gentlemanly uncle we all admired.

Walter Cronkite's words resonate in the memory of anyone alive on November 22, 1963.

"From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official: President Kennedy died at 1pm Central Standard Time, 2 o'clock Eastern Standard Time, some 30 minutes ago.".

America remained glued to the television for next few days, watching Cronkite. It was his words, his demeanor, that told us we would survive; we would move ahead.

Walter Cronkite was our witness to the events which shaped our lives. All the mileposts which defined the path of the world are permanently embedded with our memories of hearing Walter describe them.



It was Cronkite who, disillusioned with the American presence in Vietnam, publicly called for an end to the war. It's probably an exaggeration to say he ended Lyndon Johnson's Presidency. He was far from the first public figure to decry the war. War protests had become so commonplace as to attract little attention. Yet there's no way to know the nature of Johnson's plans when, after watching Walter's broadcast, he turned to his advisors and said, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost Middle America."

It was Cronkite who spoke to an already racially polarized nation on April 4, 1968, and told them the sobering news that America's best hope for the peaceful advancement of civil rights lay dead in a Memphis hospital. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been silenced by a sniper's bullet, and no one could know what lay in store.


It was Walter Cronkite who later that year, dared to call the Chicago security officers "thugs" as they roughed up correspondent Dan Rather on the floor of the Democratic national convention.

And it was Cronkite, 40 years ago this week, who was there when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldren walked on the moon.

Walter Cronkite started at the very bottom, as a newsroom 'gofer,' as he described it, going for cigars, egg rolls, whatever the reporters needed. He cut his teeth in Kansas City in the days when Boss Prendergast ran the city. He went to war, came home, fell in love with and married Betsy. He worked his way up to the CBS newsroom in New York, and in 1962, was tapped as the replacement for Douglas Edwards on the evening newscast.

As a boss, he never asked a correspondent or editor to do anything he hadn't done himself. He edited his own copy, and in the days before teleprompters, scribbled story notes to himself. He talked to us. He was not the lofty soothsayer proclaiming the great truth. He was a friend, someone we could trust.

Frequently, polls showed him to be the most trusted man in America, The nickname stuck. His singsong delivery and signature closing "And that's the way it is..." were quoted and parodied by all, including Johnny Carson.



He was witness to America's darkest days: the Cold War, Vietnam, race riots, the energy crisis, Three Mile Island, the Iran hostages. He told us of the murder of a young President. He brought us through the trying days of the two administrations which followed: Lyndon Johnson, whose albatross was the war in Southeast Asia, and Richard Nixon, whose term ended like none before, collapsing under the weight of its own paranoia.

Walter was also with us through our finest hours: conquering the moon, bringing peace, albeit temporarily, to the middle east, and standing tall on July 4, 1976 as America rose to celebrate its Bicentennial with pageantry like had never before been seen.

Against his instincts, Cronkite left the CBS Evening News anchor desk in 1981, a casualty of CBS' policy of mandatory retirement at age 65. He was disappointed to learn he would no longer be anchoring specials, political conventions, and breaking news events; duties which he believed he would be able to continue after foregoing anchor duties.


He watched as television news became a hodgepodge of rumor, opinion and sculpted, homogenized content. It was no longer information; it was product. Young people sought to be news reporters, but not to report the news, not to seek the truth, but because it was a way to be on television.

His personality was certainly the greater part of the giant figure he became. Dan Rather once said we wasn't sure if a movie could be made of Cronkite's life, for no actor could be found who could portray his combination of grace, dignity, and integrity.

And that's the way it is.


Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Karl Malden

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Karl Malden Hoosier, Serb, sometimes the hero, sometime's the hero's best friend, dead at 97.

Mladen Sekulovich came of age in the close-knit Serbian community in Gary, Indiana. Handsome, strong and determined, he made a great impession on those who new him. Diversions came in two forms, sports and performing. His father was active in choirs and plays in their church, and young Mladen was encouraged to join in.

The early decades of the 20th Century were the glory days for Gary, when the steel mills meant opportunity and financial stability for the men who could handle the inferno. There was little doubt that Mladen would one day take his place in the mills, following in the footsteps of so many other first and second generation members of the immigrant families who had settled on the Indiana shore of Lake Michigan.

But after three years of the daily grind, his dream of an acting career finally broke through. Surpisingly, his father, who had encouraged such things within the church, felt such goings on were not proper fodder for a career. Undaunted, the young man made his way to Arkansas, enrolled in college. A name change to the more American-sounding "Karl Malden" followed, and within a few years, he was pounding the boards in New York. Broadway soon called, then after service in World War II, Hollywood.

So many movie classics bore his imprint: The Gunfighter, A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, Baby Doll, Pollyanna, The Great Impostor, One-Eyed Jacks, Birdman of Alcatraz, How the West Was Won, Gypsy, Cheyenne Autumn, The Cincinnati Kid, Nevada Smith, Hotel, Patton, The Wild Rovers...

One of his best friends in New York had been Issr Danielovich, another Eastern European immigrant who became famous after changing his name to Kirk Douglas. When Karl's TV cop show "The Streets of San Francisco" was being cast, a young actor showed up to audition for the part of the young hotshot officer who provided the counterpoint to Malden's seasoned, experienced detective. "That's a Douglas chin," remarked Malden with a smile, recognizing the famous cleft. And so Michael Douglas got his big break. With solid performances, and the great scenery of the city, "The Streets of San Francisco" was a fixture on ABC for several seasons.

He remained humble and never forgot his working-class upbringing, nor his Serbian Orthodox heritage. His TV show "Skag" told of a Serbian man who raised a family while toiling in the steel mills. It was a critical sucess, if not a commercal one. And in most of his movies, there is a charater or reference to someone named "Sekulovich."

He was universally lauded and respected by his peers. He recieved several Academy Award nomitations, and won the 1952 Oscar as Best Supporting Actor for A Streetcar named Desire." In 1988, he was elected president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, a title he held for five years. His characters were memorable, and always crafted with painstaking detail.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Michael Jackson

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Michael Jackson the King of Pop, dead from cardiac arrest in Los Angeles at age 50. Some people can not be described in just a few words. He was one of those people.

How to talk to your kids about MJ's death
Michael Jackson had so many personas.

There was the "Little Michael Jackson of the Jackson Five," with the purple hat and the big Afro hair, belting out pop anthems. Seldom does anyone grow up so publicly. The Jackson family --five brothers dancing and singing happy, catchy pop songs, came to national attention when Michael was still very young. Motown head Berry Gordy spread the word that Diana Ross had discovered the group, but that was so much p.r., an attempt to use her fame to endorse their talent.

There was the actor, singing and sliding his way through Oz in the role of the scarecrow in "The Wiz."

Later, after reaching legal age, and gaining control of his money, Michael teamed with producer Quincy Jones to record 1979's "Off The Wall." It won the Grammy for Best Album, and established Michael as more than just another former child star.

"Thriller" followed in 1982, and would become the biggest selling recording in history. Michael was a fan of the movie "An American Werewolf In London," especially the scary special effects. "Werewolf" director John Landis came on board to shoot the long, long "Thriller" video that sent a standard in the early days of music video. He brought "moonwalking" into our vocabularies. His performance on the Motown 25 television special was nothing short of spectacular.

There was the entrepeneur who in the early months of MTV, threated to make a statement on CBS's morning show (Jackson recorded for CBS Records) accusing the channel of racist policies for not playing his videos. And he was the man who as his carer stumbled, brought the same charge against Tommy Mottola, the head of Sony Music.

There was the elaborate hair, the one sequined glove, the huge commercial deal with Pepsi, and the explosion on the set of one of the commercials. He had become the most popular entertainer in the world, perhaps the best-know person on the planet.

There was the host of Neverland Ranch, rejoicing in a middle-aged childhood.

There was the husband, first of Lisa-Marie Presley, then of Debbie Rowe, with whom he had two children. The thought of Michael Jackson as a father unnerved more than a few people. He had always shown a fondness for young children, but his eccentricities seemed to call for caution.

There was the bleached-faced man who dangled his child over a balcony.

There was the eternal man-child sharing his bed with young boys, drawing universal scorn, then being cleared of any wrongdoing. There was the sad recluse, the one we feared would mimic Sunset Boulevard's Norma Desmond, always working toward the next comeback.

His death came unexpectedly, when he stopped breathing as he was preparing for European concert dates. Paramedics were called to the Bel Air mansion he had been renting, but were unable to fully revive him.

Whether Michael Jackson is remembered as a sucessful, accomplished entertainer, or as a pop-culture enigma, he will be mourned as few ever have.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Farrah Fawcett

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Farrah Fawcett, dead from cancer at age 62. She passed with longtime companion Ryan O'Neal and close friend Alana Stewart at her bedside. With er courage in the face of illness, maybe in the end, she earned the respect to paralel her fame.

"She was an angel on Earth and now an angel forever," said former husband Lee Majors.

The hair. That's what stood out for me. There was the smile, those white teeth, the poster, and of course, the jiggle.

Farrah Fawcett was a phenomenon. Image careflly nurtured by superagent Jay Bernstein, her poster graced thousands of walls. She attained that untimate level of celberity, those who could be indentified with one name. everyone knew who Farrah was.

"Charlie's Angels" ushered in a new TV era, the "jiggle" show. The show boasted three sexy women (Farrah, Kate Jackson, and Jaclyn Smith) who worked as private investigators for the mysterious heard-but-never-seen Charlie. The show debuted in the fall of 1976 and soared to the top 5. But Farrah yearned for more challenges, and more respect.

She left Charlie's Angels at the height of her popularity, hoping for a great movie career, only become the butt of jokes. Her first film, "Somebody Killed My Husband" was such a disaster that the buzzword for it around Hollywood was "Sombody Killed My Career."

Although things didn't pan out as hoped, she did attain a measure of credibility later on. Her TV movie, "The Burning Bed," told of a desperate abused woman, and earned her an Emmy nomination. On stage, in "Extremities," she played a rape victim who wounds and imprisons her attacker. The play required her to brawl on stage night after night. The physically demanding role required that she battle on stage night after night, leaving her beaten and exhausted.

Her recent health battles have been well documented, so much so that many of her eulogies have expressed relief at the end of her suffering.

She was truly a cornerstone of the glamorous late seventies, and a woman who held her head -- and that glorious hair -- high through good times and bad, not an easy thing to do.

Then again, screw her, she's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

Ed McMahon

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Ed McMahon, longtime sidekick of Johnny Carson on NBC's Tonight Show. dead at 86. McMahon died at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center surrounded by his family. Publicist Howard Bragman didn't give a cause of death, saying only that McMahon had a multitude of health problems the last few months.

In the past few years, Ed McMahon, as many in todays world, had been beset with financial troubles as well as health problems. But he will be remembered as a brave war veteran, a dedicated worker, and the man whose "Heeeeere's Johnny!" told us it was time to laugh.

Ed McMahon began his television career as a weatherman on John Facenda's Philadelphia news program. (Yes, the same John Facenda, the longtime voice of NFL films) After stints on several game shows, he was paired with Johnny Carson on a show called "Who Do You Trust?" When the young comedian inherited Jack Parr's Tonight Show, Ed followed.

In the three-channel days, Johnny and Ed were friends we saw every night. Thanks to video libraries and you tube, so many of their moments live on. Here he is, doing what he did best... setting up Johnny.

Ed showed us you can be near to greatness and enable someone else to shine, thereby increasing your own level of celebrity. Content to be Johnny's second banana, he was neverless accomplished on his own, as host of "Star Search," co-host of Jerry Lewis' MDA Telethon, pitchman for various companies and causes. He was a veteran of World War II and Korea, a devoted husband and father, an avid booster of his adopted home town of of Avalon, NJ., so much so that he even insipred good-natured ridicule from the king of late night.

One night, probably sometime during the summer of 1970, Johnny Carson did a comedy skit from his desk that brought the nation’s focus to Avalon. It’s similar to the “Headlines” segment that often occured on the “The Tonight Show” in which Jay Leno held up a funny but true newspaper headline that often has multiple meanings. Here, Johnny held up old photographs from the Wild West that showed dilapidated, old buildings. As a spoof, he identified each photo as a location in Avalon: the police station, the Borough Hall – everything was fair game.
(courtesy avalonspast.com)

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Now, he and Johnny are together again. I visualize a heavenly stage, and a command performance featuring Carnac The Magnificent...

Ed: I hold in my hand the hermetically sealed envelope. Carnac will now attempt to divine the answers without ever having seen the question...

Johnny (holding the corner of the envelope to his forehead): "A rodeo bull, a chicken, and the Tonight show since we left."

Ed: "A rodeo bull, a chicken, and the Tonight show since we left."

Johnny:(opens envelope, blows in it, removes the slip of paper and reads it): "Name something that bucks, something that clucks and something that sucks."

It was Ed McMahon's childhood dream to be a broadcaster. He lived that dream. We should all be so lucky.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Bea Arthur

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Bea Arthur, ballsy actress, who brought to life two legendary television characters. She began as a torch singer, but her gravely voice and stocky build made audiences unreceptive to her love songs. Then someone told her she should try comedy.

Bea Arthur gave us two of televsion's most memorable characters, Maude Findlay of "Maude" and Dorothy Zbornak of "The Golden Girls."

She also was a Tony-winning stage actress, veteran of such legenday Broadway shows as "Fiddler on the Roof," and "Mame," as well as her own one-woman Broadway show. In her personal life, she was active with AIDS charities, and other social issues.

Most of America met her on "All In The Family" when the entire household took sick, and Edith's liberal cousin Maude came to look after the family. She was everything Edith was not: worldly, agressive, demonstrative, bossy, and most of all, opinionated. Maude could hold her own against Archie... for that alone she deserves a place in televsion lore.

When she was spun off into her own show, Archie and Edith retuned the favor by appearing in the "Maude" pilot episode, as guests at the upcoming wedding of Maude's daughter, Carol. I can't recall the name of the actress who played Carol in the pilot, because they recast Adrienne Barbeau in the role.

(Pardon me a moment... Adrienne Barbeau... inspiration for so many adolescent fantasies... okay, I can breathe again.)

Naturally, the show was a hit. Maude's catch phrase, "God'll get you for that!" was repeated from coast to coast, and even spwaned a hit country song for George Jones and Tammy Wynette.

Like "All In The Family," "Maude" was a groundbreaking show, tackling feminism, civil rights, divorce, racial predjudice, social inequality, alcohol/drug abuse, domestic violence, and reproductive rights. Among the television benchmarks was Maude's decision to terminate an unplanned pregnancy. This was 1972, before the Roe v. Wade decision, and CBS was roasted by more than a few organizations and viewers.

One of the writers of that episode was a woman named Susan Harris. Several years later, now a successful series creator, she cast Bea Arthur for a new show about four retirement-age ladies sharing a house as roomates. Critics and network execs balked.

"Who wants to see a bunch of old women sitting around kvetching?" they wondered. As it turns out, a lot of people did. "The Golden Girls" ran for years, and proclaimed that adventure and romance are not the excusive province of youth.



Bea Arthur's Dorothy was the glue that held the ensemble together. (Actors call it the "Kermit" role, refering to the Muppet who was the island of sanity in the midst of constant chaos.) Dorothy was calm, poised, and confident, providing the perfect counterpoint to childlike Rose, promiscious Blanche and rascally Sophia.

We all have our favorite lines; here's mine:

Dorothy (a substitute teacher) was examining the remarks written on the cast of one of her students who had broken a limb. Noticing a comment about her, Dorothy picked up a marker, saying "Let's just change this to 'Mrs. Zbornak eats shiitake mushrooms'"

I hope I don't appear rude to point out a couple of her duds.. as Lucy's pal in Lucille Ball's curious movie verson of "Mame," and the obnoxious innkeeper in "Amanda's-by-the-Sea," the awful American adaptation of "Fawlty Towers." But even in both of these fiascos, she stood out above the miserable crowd.

She recieved the respect and admiration of her audience, and her peers. After declining an earlier nomination, Bea Arthur was inducted into the Television Hall of Fame last December.

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I have no idea about the off-screen relationship she had with Estelle Getty, who played her mother, Sophia, on "Golden Girls." But in that extended-TV world, I can see their characters this evening, catching up with each other while sharing coffee and cake around the kitchen table.

"It's good to see you, Pussycat. This place was just no damn fun without you."

"Ma, you can't swear here. This is Heaven."

"Oh please, Dorothy. Compared to Sicily, this is a walk in the park."

As Maude would say, "God'll get you for that."

Then again, screw her, she's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Mark Fidrych

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Mark Fidrych, The Bird, dead from a mishap while working underneath a truck on his Massachusetts farm, at the age of 54. One great year, and a slew of comebacks. The bird will be remember for his boundless joy, and maybe as the first example of the Sports Illutrated "cover jinx."I hope he had the time of his life.

All too brief.

That's the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Mark Fidrych's time at the top. One beautiful summer... the summer of America's Bicentennal... that glorious time when excesses were at their peak. Hard to remember now, and certainly not PC to talk about it, 1976 was one of those years we thought about when, later in life, we lectured our kids how to behave.

And certainly, we hid the memories of how we spent our spare time. Hedonism was in full swing. Recreational substances were still something people shared as a communal experience. It had not yet become a vehicle for quick cash. Sex was plentiful, easy to get, and aside from pregnancy, led to no medical complications that couldn't be solved with penicillin.

Mark Fidrych on the cover of "Sports Illustrated" June 6, 1977. Was he the first example of the SI cover jinx?

1976 seems like another time. It was another time. Closing my eyes, I can taste the biscuits at Busler's on St Joe, and the chicken from the Farmer's Daughter. In my mind, I can negotiate the tight crowds at Washington Square, and feel the thumping disco beat on Funky's dance floor. Traffic jams on Outer Division, bikinis and beach balls at Kramer's Lake, steaks at F's and the whole menu at Das Kolker Haus.

In Cincinnati, the Big Red Machine was rewriting the record books and personifying how to play the game. They would sweep the World Series from the Yankees, who had run away from the pack in the American League East. And on TV, Saturday afternoon was for Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek with the Game of the Week. In that summer of 1976, we saw more and more of the Detroit Tigers, and the rookie who bore no small resemblance to a famous feathered Muppet. It was the summer we would come to know "The Bird," Mark Fidrych.

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Mark Fydrich was working at a gas statioin for 2.00 an hour when he was signed by a Tigers scout. e acted like we wished all plyers would... like he was SO happy just to be there. He did look like a big happy bird, gangly, wobbly, arms flailing, and bursting with joy. Lots of players were happy, but he was infectious. He sprinted onto the field. He sang and smiled. He talked to the ball, played to the crowd, and reveled in that dream so common to young boys. Somehow we knew what he meant. And in Evansville, we saw him as one of our own. His 4-1 record and 1.59 ERA the previous year for the Evansville Triplets (the Tigers' AAA afilliate) were indicators of his potential.

"Yes," said Mark Fydrich, "it's just as much fun as we all imagined it would be." He was having the time of his life, and wanted us all to share in it. In his first start, he threw a two-hitter. He was one of only two pitchers to ever start an All-Star game as a rookie. Of his 29 starts, he pitched 24 complete games. His ERA was a league-best 2.34, and he was the American League Rookie Of The Year.

Of course, the fans loved him. They flocked to Tiger Stadium in droves on days he was slated to pitch. A post-season analysis by the Wall Street Journal estimated that he was personally responsible for something in the neighborhood of one million dollars of revenue for the Tigers.

The next question should be obvious: Was this the start of the Sports Illustrated cover jinx? The preseason 1977 issue featured a cover shot of Fidrych and his Sesame Street namesake.

And then, it all went to hell.

Warming up in the outfield before a spring training game, Fidrych tore the cartilage his knee. He came back, but finished the year only 6-4. He spent most of the next year on the disabled list, and managed only fifteen innnings in 1979, with an ERA of 10.43.

Ouch.

The Tigers released him after a mostly unemorable 1980 season. He was picked up by the Red Sox and spent time in the minors, including return stints with the Triplets in 1980 and 81 (12-10, 4.68 ERA) before retiring in 1983.

Mark Fidrych had mounds of courage, the kind of courage which made him able to launch comeback after comeback when the injuries mounted. in a brilliant column, Tom Gage of the Detroit News recalls Fidrych's last fleeting brush with glory in his final major league season of 1980.

After baseball he went home to Massachusetts, and worked on his farm. By all accounts, he continued to embrace life, and didn't dwell on thoughts of what might have been. For thar alone, he was an incredible figure.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Ron Silver

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Ron Silver, dead from cancer at the age of 62. Actor, and so much more, he used his celebrity and affluence to speak out on political causes... causes he believed in, trendy or not.

Characters you believe. Characters you believe in. Special people who remain in your mind once the set lights go dim. That was the triumph of Ron Silver's acting. He also raised eyebrows with his support of President Bush's policies in the wake of the terrorist attacks on the United States. Talk radio aside, the entertainment world is not fond of conservatives. Not only did Ron Silver, the actor, portray men of determination, it seems Ron Silver the man, was quite determined as well.

I don't pretend to be an expert, so I'll speak only of the four characters which come to mind at once, when I think of Ron Silver.

• From "Garbo Talks," Gilbert, the devoted son whose obsession is to fulfill his dying mother's wish to meet her idol, Greta Garbo. Anne Bancroft co-stars in that hardest of films to make, a story of death that is neither desolate nor heart-swelling.
  
• From the TV series "Wiseguy," fashion mogul David Sternberg, striving to gain acceptance from the father (Jerry Lewis) who built a clothing empire on Seventh Avenue. When the father is a giant, how can the son be expected to be anything less?
  
• From "Reversal of Fortune," as noted lawyer Alan Dershowitz. His client, Rhode Island socialite Claus Van Bülow (Oscar winner Jeremy Irons) was suspected of inducing his wife's diabetic coma, leading to her death.
• And finally, as Democratic puppetmaster Bruno Gianelli, part of the greatest ensemble cast ever assembled on television, from "The West Wing." It's worth noting that in the art-imitates-life department, his character spent the last two seasons cafting the campaign of the Republican candidate played by Alan Alda.

Much has been made of Ron Silver's sharp right turn in political thought following the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. Somewhere, buried in a maze of DVD's beside my desk, is a copy the the gifted interpretive commentary he did for NBC on election night 2004. So precise was his understanding, that I almost felt I was watching Gianelli, the political image maker and wünderkind from "The West Wing."

In Hollywood, it takes real balls to go against the flow, to abandon the mantle of the politically correct. Ron Silver remained true to what he felt. Political battles are not to my taste. Suffice to say, he listened to his heart, and damn the consequences, he remained true to them.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Paul Harvey

Paul Harvey was trusted. Peoople related to him because he
spoke from the heart, to the heart. His daily broadcasts from
the heartland gave Americans a honest friend's outlook on the day's
events.

Paul Harvey disdained pretention. He was based from Chicago
until satellite technology made it possibile to broadcast from
his ranch. He did not like the media centers of New York and
Los Angeles. One audition in New York early in his career was
enough for him. Asked to do a 'cold read" (no practice)
he asked one of the other applicants how to pronounce a
particular name. He was told wrong, an obvious attempt to
poison his big chance. "If this is New York," he thought,"I
want no part of it." Same for Los Angeles, He was what he was: a boy from Oklahoma most st home far from the crowd.

I don't know that we can really compare him to anyone out there today. Everyone, it seems, has an agenda. To enjoy Limbaugh or Olbermann, or Liddy or Dr. Laura, listeners need a particular attitude... a slant, if you choose to call it that.

No such requirement needed for Paul Harvey. a boy from Oklahoma City whose father was a police officer. On Paul's fourth Christmas Eve, his father didn't make it home, having died while thwarting a robbery. Some who suffer such a loss choose to use it as license to live as they will, without regard to others.

Paul chose the high road.

He was everyman, friendly uncle to all, generous in his praise, and direct in his critique. He was an unabashed patriot, but not afraid to call out the commander-in-chief. When the Vietnam War escalated into Cambodia, he used his microphone to proclaim to Richard Nixon, "Mr. President, you are wrong." He was without frills, a guy from Middle America telling his listeners what was happening around the world, and why they should care.

In tribute, arguably his most popular piece, the story of the man and the birds.

Unable to trace its proper parentage, I have designated this as my Christmas Story of the Man and the Birds.

You know, THE Christmas Story, the God born a man in a manger and all that escapes some moderns, mostly, I think, because they seek complex answers to their questions and this one is so utterly simple. So for the cynics and the skeptics and the unconvinced I submit a modern parable.

Now the man to whom I'm going to introduce you was not a scrooge, he was a kind, decent, mostly good man. Generous to his family, upright in his dealings with other men. But he just didn't believe all that incarnation stuff which the churches proclaim at Christmastime. It just didn't make sense and he was too honest to pretend otherwise. He just couldn't swallow the Jesus Story, about God coming to Earth as a man.

"I'm truly sorry to distress you," he told his wife, "but I'm not going with you to church this Christmas Eve." He said he'd feel like a hypocrite. That he'd much rather just stay at home, but that he would wait up for them. And so he stayed and they went to the midnight service.

Shortly after the family drove away in the car, snow began to fall. He went to the window to watch the flurries getting heavier and heavier and then went back to his fireside chair and began to read his newspaper. Minutes later he was startled by a thudding sound. Then another, and then another. Sort of a thump or a thud. At first he thought someone must be throwing snowballs against his living room window.

But when he went to the front door to investigate he found a flock of birds huddled miserably in the snow. They'd been caught in the storm and, in a desperate search for shelter, had tried to fly through his large landscape window. Well, he couldn't let the poor creatures lie there and freeze, so he remembered the barn where his children stabled their pony. That would provide a warm shelter, if he could direct the birds to it.

Quickly he put on a coat, galoshes, tramped through the deepening snow to the barn. He opened the doors wide and turned on a light, but the birds did not come in. He figured food would entice them in. So he hurried back to the house, fetched bread crumbs, sprinkled them on the snow, making a trail to the yellow-lighted wide open doorway of the stable. But to his dismay, the birds ignored the bread crumbs, and continued to flap around helplessly in the snow.

He tried catching them. He tried shooing them into the barn by walking around them waving his arms. Instead, the scattered in every direction, except into the warm, lighted barn. And then, he realized, that they were afraid of him. To them, he reasoned, I am a strange and terrifying creature. If only I could think of some way to let them know that they can trust me. That I am not trying to hurt them, but to help them. But how? Because any move he made tended to frighten them, confuse them. They just would not follow. They would not be led or shooed because they feared him.

"If only I could be a bird," he thought to himself, "and mingle with them and speak their language. Then I could tell them not to be afraid. Then I could show them the way to the safe warm barn. But I would have to be one of them so they could see, and hear and understand."

At that moment the church bells began to ring. The sound reached his ears above the sounds of the wind. And he stood there listening to the bells - Adeste Fidelis - listening to the bells pealing the glad tidings of Christmas. And he sank to his knees in the snow.

His historical feature, "The Rest of the Story" told listeners ironic tales designed to set up a suprising closing twist. Did you know about the bum found drunk and dying in a Bowery flophouse with only 37 cents in his pockets (Stephen Foster)? Or the popular hairdresser, top of his class, who chucked it all for a shot at acting (Danny DeVito.) We did, if we listened to Paul. And we'll miss him.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

CLUB DEAD: Ricardo Montalban

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Ricardo Montalban dying at 88 of complications related to old age. He could sing, dance, grant wishes, even fantasies. He could convince us of the decadent luxury of "soft Corinthian leather," even though there is no such thing, but he still couldn't kill Captain Kirk.

Ricardo Montalban described "the five stages of an actor's career", which are...

1. Who is Ricardo Montalban?
   
2. Get me Ricardo Montalban.
   
3. Get me a Ricardo Montalban type.
   
4. Get me a young Ricardo Montalban
   
5. Who is Ricardo Montalban?
   

He would know. He saw Hollywood like few ever have.

Ricardo Montalban was a suave latin lover in the movies, at a time when that was exactly what audiences wanted. The youngest of four children of Castailian immgrants, he was raised in Mexico. He had followed his older brother to California and into the movies, but returned home to live when his mother grew increasingly ill. He continued to act in Mexican movies until the chance came to star in a Hollywod musical, "Fiesta" which led to a contract with M-G-M.

He eventually was nominated for a Tony award for his work on Broadway in "Jamacia." Later on , he would win an Emmy for his portrayal of an Indian chief in "How The West Was Won." His occassional TV appearances had included a role in the first Gene Roddenberry-written science fiction teleplay, "The Secret Defense of 117." He also had a shot on "Bonanza" with the actress Madlyn Rhue. Years later, they would re-unite on screen in the Star Trek TOS episode "Space Seed." Rhue, his wife from "Bonanza," played the Starfleet historian who elects to and join him in exile, only to die soon after.

He made dozens of movies in the 40's and 50's but would not remain silent when his conscience told him to speak. According to the Los Angeles Times, "Although Montalban expressed appreciation for his success, he complained that Hollywood lacked respect for Mexican American actors. He said that while under contract at MGM, he portrayed Cubans, Brazilians and Argentines, but almost never Mexicans."

He fought for better treatment of Latinos in Hollywoood, was branded a troublemaker, and his career greatly suffered due to his efforts. But in one of the great second acts ever, he bounced back with a tripleheader performance.

As spokesman for Chrysler, he extolled the virtues of "soft Corinthian leather," which was actually an invention of the advertising people. Then Aaron Spelling cast him as the mysterious benefactor of "Fantasy Island" where guests were treated to the ulltimate in creature comforts, and dreams came true. This later led to parts in Spelling's "Dynasty" and "The Colbys."

And in 1982, he also reunited with Roddenberry. Montalban registered a turn as one of the best ever Star Trek villians, first in "Space Seed," then in the film "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan." Montalban reprised his TV role as Khan Noonien Singh, the leader of a group of genetically engineered super humans. Khan had returned to seek revenge on Captain James Kirk for stranding his crew on a desert planet. In "Space Seed" Rhue, his wife from "Bonanza," had played the Starfleet historian who elects to become his wife and join him in exile, only to die soon after.

Montalban played the character with delightful terror, vengeful even in death, and was the best of the movie villians which sprang from TOS.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK