The Wall

People Who Died - April, 2022

Happy birthday to this.  If you have been reading this blog from the start, this is its birthday.  It means I have been writing it for a year which is fine with me because it is a major detour from my day job which give me balance.  What’s your excuse for wasting your time here?  I can claim it helps my mental health but you all have spent time reading this which you will never get back.  Actually, I appreciate your support and comments, even if they aren’t always effusive in their spirit.  When I started this, on the prodding of a few of you who knew the Wall in its original format, I wasn’t sure what it would be and it is still evolving.  Bottom line, I am still enjoying writing about interesting people and hopefully not too many of you have become too weary to pay attention. So, after blowing out the candles, on to April.   Get comfortable because we lost some good ones. 

A few months ago, I wrote about Connie Hamzy who slept with pretty much any rock-star (and Bill Clinton) who passed through her town. This month the queen of groupies, Cynthia Albritton, better known as Cynthia Plaster Caster, died at 74.   In a college art class, she was assigned to "plaster cast something solid that could retain its shape."  Rather than casting a light bulb or some other inanimate object, she decided (and don’t ask me how) that her casting would be of the erect (yes, Tammy, erect) male penis.  Now technically, that particular object does not retain its shape, although it does occasionally re-attain it but who is counting?  But not just any erect male penis did she want to cast.  No folks, she wanted the erect male penis of a rock star.  More easily said than done I expect.  She first tried it on Mark Lindsay of Paul Revere and the Raiders but she hadn’t come on the right molding material.  Using the dental mold alginate, she figured she could cast the object and, as it lost its fully erect status, it would easily exit the cast and voila, she would have it.  Jimmy Hendrix became her first successful model.  How she got him, I do not know.  After that she met Frank Zappa who, while totally intrigued with the idea, refused to submit his organ to the art form.  He did, however, become somewhat of a patron to her, moving her to Los Angeles where she could find more willing participants.  She found them and casts of Eric Burden, Noel Redding, Aynsley Dunbar and Jello Biafra, among others, adorn her collection that swelled to 50.   Kiss recorded the song “Plaster Caster” and a documentary by the same name was filmed.   Not to be sexist, she also expanded into women’s breasts and Karen O of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s, and Laetitia Sadier of Sterolab, amongst others, agreed to model.  Zappa thought the casts to be valuable and after her apartment was robbed, had her turn some of them over to his legal partner, Herb Cohen, for safe keeping.  She eventually had to sue Cohen for their return and in another twist that I cannot find a reason for, she got all but three back.  One can only wonder what Cohen’s winning argument was for keeping the three.   Albritton ran for Mayor of Chicago in 2010 on the “Hard Party,” ticket (no kidding).  I assume that now that she is gone, the plaster casts will soon be hitting the auction block.  Save your money now because if you play your cards right, you could own a piece of Jimi Hendrix that certainly no one else has, although there are others who have had.  Having seen some of the casts in researching this piece, a few of our heroes may have some explaining to do as some of them are hardly rock star material.   With all that said, I couldn’t’ find out what grade she got in the art class.              

When I was a kid, I loved the Mr. Haney character (played by Pat Buttram who died in 1994) who appeared both in Petticoat Junction and on Green Acres.  He was the ultimate huckster who sold everything anyone needed.  Only problem was no one needed what he sold and it was all junk.  He could sell it, though.  That is perhaps why I have been enthralled with guys like Ron Popiel (Pocket fisherman), Don Poyntner (whisky flavored toothpaste) and Donald Trump (himself).  Well, we lost another one this month when Joseph Sugarman went to the big flea market in the sky at 84.  He sold things such as the bone phone, which was a horseshoe shaped radio that you wore around your neck.  It did not last long in the face of the Sony Walkman.  He marketed a mousetrap for $1,500 that had a walnut base and a laser beam that detected mice.  He didn’t sell a single trap but the ads were nice.  He once printed 250,000 Batman credit cards as a promotional gag but, like the mousetrap, didn’t sell a one.  He sold mailboxes that he claimed were capable of withstanding a nuclear attack which came with a money-back guarantee, although one wonders who would be around to collect if it failed.  One also wonders who would give a shit about the mail during the apocalypse.  Proving, however, that if you stick with anything long enough you can be a success, he ultimately made millions in the early 1970’s selling Blue Blocker sunglasses.  Thus, he had a home on Maui, flew airplanes and drove a Ferrari Testarossa.  He got the last laugh.  I suspect also that he had a nuclear proof mailbox and a pocketful of Batman credit cards when he died.    

When I read that Bobby Rydell died at the age of 79, I knew immediately that he would make the Wall.  That said, when I sat down to think about his career, I could not think of a single song that was a hit for him.  That is the essence of his fame.  Known as a singer that could make young women swoon, he was never a performer of the magnitude of say Elvis, but yet had incredible staying power.  Perhaps Cynthia Plaster Caster missed a good chance there.   While I couldn’t think of a single tune he did, Paul McCartney once said that he and John Lennon wrote “She Loves You,” basing it on a Rydell tune, although he too did not say which one.   Another fun fact about Rydell is that he grew up within blocks of Fabian and Frankie Avalon, two other famous guys whose songs I cannot recall but whose names are, like Rydell’s, instantly recognizable to people of a certain age.   The three of them toured for years as an oldies show.  Rydell also had a thing for Linda Hoffmans.  His personal assistant for years was Linda F. Hoffman and after his first wife (who was his high school sweetheart) died in 2003, he married Linda J. Hoffman who was apparently no relation to his assistant.  He succumbed to the sauce for many years and it affected his health to the point that the list of spare parts transplanted in him included a kidney and liver.  He performed pretty much right up to the end. Oh; and as for the tunes “The Wild Ones,” “Swingin’ School,” “Forget Him,” “Kissin’ Time” and “Wildwood Days,” to name a few.  Don’t know a single one.

Country music has another sad song to write as Naomi Judd has died at 74. The Judds; Naomi, along with her daughter Wynonna, are like Country music royalty and were due to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame on the day this is published.  Naomi was a nurse and started singing with Wynonna professionally.  She was so young-looking people mistook them for sisters.  They put out six albums and had 14 number one hits.  Naomi was married to Larry Strickland who sang backup for Elvis.  The Judds called it quits in 1991 and Wynonna went on as a solo. Another daughter, Ashley, is an actor (still haven’t figured out how the word actress got dropped).  Anyway, Naomi is now “Rockin’ with the Rhythm of the Rain.”

Couldn’t let this month go by without acknowledging the death of Bill Fries at 93.  Fries went by the name C.W. McCall and had a huge Country music hit with “Convoy,” a song loaded with CB radio lingo.  Fries was working at an advertising company and came up with a campaign for the Metz Baking Company which featured the C.W. McCall character as a truck-driver who hauled Metz’ Old Home bread and a waitress by the name of Mavis.  The tag line of the commercials was “Old Home is Good Buns.”  Fries parlayed that ad campaign into a Nashville recording contract and the single that sold 20 million copies.  He ultimately released nine albums never replicating the “Convoy” success.  After his musical life he moved to Ouray Colorado and was its mayor for a number of years.  10-4.

On the other end of the spectrum from Mr. Haney was Sean Dillon, a classically trained actor who was a member of the IRA who nearly carried out a plot to kill the British Prime Minister.  He got jammed up and eventually agreed to cooperate with Scotland Yard and spent the rest of his time, like Dirk Pitt, saving the world from one sinister plot or another.  Mr. Dillon, a hard drinking man of literature who could always escape danger and snare the exotic woman was just the kind of guy I would never be (save for the drinking).  He is also the kind of guy who only lived on the pages of books written by Jack Higgins, a popular pseudonym for Henry Patterson who died at 92.  Perhaps best known for his book “The Eagle Has Landed,” which involved a group of German commandos who tried to kidnap Winston Churchill during WWII, Higgins (who he was known as irrespective of it being a pseudonym) was universally told that the whole premise of the book was ill-conceived and no one would read such a thing.  Fifty million copies later, he could safely claim victory.   As a youth, Higgins was not a good student and had a slew of menial jobs after school before joining the army which gave him a sense of self-worth.  Post-army he studied to be a teacher, taught high school and started writing.  It all sounds so easy.  Anyway, he has sold over 250 million books which have been translated into 55 languages.  I can’t tell if I am more broken up over Higgins’ death or Dillon’s, who I am sure died with him unless some ghost writer comes along.  Thankfully, Gabriel Allon is still amongst us.          

Seinfeld took it on the chin this month.  George was orphaned when Estelle Harris, the woman who played his mother (Estelle Costanza), died at 93.  Jerry Stiller, who played his father on the show died in 2020.  Her first appearance on the show was in an episode where she catches George using her Glamour magazine to assist in a moment of auto eroticism.  “I go out for a quart of milk and come home and my son is treating his body like an amusement park,” was her line. Not sure if she was referring to the Cyclone at Coney Island or the kiddie rides at Disney.  Ms. Harris bounced around dinner theatres and the like with an occasional commercial until she got her break in Seinfeld.  Then she got the role of a lifetime as the voice of Mr. Potato Head in the “Toy Story” movies.  If you ask me, the role of Mr. Potato head is career capping.  Anyway, in the words of Frank Costanza, “Serenity Now.”

If that wasn’t a big enough loss, Jerry himself was orphaned when Liz Sheridan, the woman who played his mom, also died at 93.  His dad, played by Barney Martin, passed on in 2005.  Truth be told, I liked Jerry’s mom more than George’s even if she wasn’t Mr. Potato Head.  She, herself even admitted to not liking Mr. & Mrs. Costanza in an episode.  Better than that, and even better than her role in Seinfeld, Sheridan played the nosy neighbor on ALF, a show I view to be one of the most underrated in television history.   Sheridan had a bunch of Broadway shows to her credit as well as scads of television appearances.  An interesting thing about her was she dated James Dean before he was famous.  According to her New York times obit, they used to check into hotel rooms as Mr. and Mrs. James Dean.  “Back in the days when nice girls didn’t, I did,” she was quoted as writing in her book “Dizzy and Jimmy: My life with James Dean: A love story.”  I now realize I have spent my life looking for her.  Well, her death, along with the other parents, means there will be no nursing home scenes if the Seinfeld cast ever gets back together. 

I am not a movie guy but as a kid I once went to Radio City Music Hall to see a movie.  As I recall, it was a double feature with a short intermission where the Rockettes danced.  The feature movie was “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying” starring Robert Morse who died this month at 90.  The role of J. Pierrepont Finch was one he originated on Broadway (and for which he received a Tony for best actor) which is where he did his best work.  In the play “Tru,” he did an amazing Truman Capote in both voice and mannerisms.  The one-man show netted his second Tony award and the PBS version got him an Emmy.  His career, which really took of with “How to Succeed…,” came full circle when he played the role of Bert Cooper, the eccentric advertising executive on “Mad Men.”  Once a businessman, always a businessman.   

Like I am not a movie guy, I was never a Gilbert Gottfried guy but there is no doubting his impact on comedy.  He died at 67 which is far too young by my standards, especially as I approach that number.  The New York Times referred to his voice as “Distinctive.”  I would call it chalk-on-a-blackboard and for that reason I could never listen to him.  Probably my loss as he had legions of fans.  While his live show was on the raunchy side, he is known by many for his Disney voiceovers in Aladdin and its various offshoots as well as for being the Aflac duck (a job for which he was fired after he posted an especially inappropriate joke, to the extent there is  such a thing, on Twitter), neither of which ventured into the filth of his live shows.  Notwithstanding his grating voice, he was a good impressionist.  He also had great comedic timing and was considered a comedian’s comedian.  Notwithstanding his standup persona, he was a true family guy as portrayed in the documentary “Gilbert” where he was a great father to his kids and husband to his wife. Gotta tip my hat to him there.        

Like Seinfeld, sports suffered a lot in April.  Mike Bossy, the scoring powerhouse for the New York Islanders, died at 65.  He helped the Islanders to four consecutive Stanley Cup wins in 1980 through 83.  They lost in the finals in 84 capping an amazing run, all to the chagrin of Ranger fans like myself.   He twice led the NHL in goals and scored more than 50 of them in each of his first nine seasons.  Never a fighter, he was a three time winner of the lady Byng trophy, generally awarded to the payer who is most “gentlemanly,” which in hockey is relative.   He was elected to the Hockey Hall of Fame and the Islanders retired his number 22.  Although his scoring was on par with that of the Great Gretzky’s, he never really got his due as a player.  He made it here however.

While in life Bossy was overshadowed by Gretzky, in death he left us the same month as Guy LeFleur who died at 70 so he might not even get is full due there.  LeFleur was the first player to score more than 50 goals and 100 points in six consecutive seasons and he led his Montreal Canadiens to five (not Bossy’s four) Stanley Cups.  Known as The Flower, he was awarded the Art Ross trophy for the league’s highest scorer three times and the Hart Memorial trophy for being the most valuable player twice.  As his career waned, he spent a year playing for the New York Rangers (doesn’t everybody?) and like so many before him, was unable to bring any hardware to the team.  He was inducted into the hockey Hall of Fame in 1988 and befitting his stature in the hockey-crazed Canada, he had a state funeral (an honor also bestowed on Maurice “the Rocket” Richard and Jean Béliveau) at the Mary, Queen of the World Cathedral.   Don’t you like the ring of that?  If you’ve gotta go, not a bad way out.                  

Tragically, Dwayne Haskins, the quarterback of the future for the Pittsburgh Steelers, died at 24 when hit by a truck on Florida Highway 535 at 6:37 in the morning.  According to reports, he had earlier called his wife to tell her he had run out of gas and was walking to get some.  When she did not hear from him, she called 911 but by then he had been hit by a dump truck and had died. The oddity there was there was no report of his car being found on the road.  A stand-out at Ohio State, he was third in the voting for the Heisman trophy in 2019.  He signed with the then Washington Redskins (can I still say that?) but luckily got out for Pittsburgh.  Unfortunately for everyone, this is all about untapped potential.  

While I am on quarterbacks, Daryle Lamonica, who led the Oakland raiders to Super Bowl II in 1967, losing to the Green Bay Packers (didn’t everyone back then), has tossed his last pigskin at 80 which, for a football player, is like 137.  Nicknamed the Mad Bomber by Howard Cosell, Lamonica was one of football’s leading passers in the late 60’s and early 70’s. Most notable for Jet’s fans, he was the quarterback during the Heidi game.  To the uninitiated, the Jets were winning 32-29 with 1:04 left in the game when NBC cut away to air Heidi.  In the remaining time, Lamonica threw a touchdown to Charlie Smith with 43 seconds left to have Oakland go up 36-32.  The Raiders scored again when the Jets fumbled the ball on the ensuing kickoff leaving the score 43-32.  While Jet’s fans wailed, they were actually saved from having to watch the carnage by Heidi. In that respect they owe the imbecile who made that decision a debt. Moreover, they got their revenge when the Namath-led Jets bested the Raiders in the 1968 A.F.C. Championship game, 27-23.   In retirement he owned a trucking company and was the host of a celebrity fishing show.  Nice life.

Tommy Davis, a standout player for the Dodgers, died at 83.  Davis was born in Brooklyn and signed with the Dodgers when they were in their rightful home. He had originally agreed to sign with the Yankees (this was before the draft when new players could sign with anyone) but got a visit at his home from Al Campanis of the Dodgers who told him a Brooklyn kid should stay in Brooklyn. That, along with a phone call from Jackie Robinson, sealed the deal except that by the time he hit the majors, the team had moved to Los Angeles, thus dashing his hopes of playing for the hometown crowd.  In LA he played alongside Willie Davis who many believed to be his brother but in actuality, there was no familial relationship.  Davis won two consecutive NL batting titles and was a two-time Allstar, destined for the Hall of Fame. However, he broke his ankle in 1965 and was never the same again.  He was good, but not great.  That said, to a kid like me who idolized Koufax, any teammate of his was great – except when they played the Mets.      

Orrin Hatch died at 88.  I love a rags to riches story and he is it.  His parents, Mormons from Utah, emigrated to Pennsylvania after they lost their house in the depression.  His father paid $100 for a piece of land and built a house with lumber that was salvaged from a fire.  One of nine children, he grew up in the house that had no indoor plumbing.  The New York Times described his formative years as a “grim Dickensian childhood.”  He put himself through Brigham Young University working as a lathe operator.   While on a law school scholarship at the University of Pittsburgh, he lived with his wife and kids in a chicken coop in his father’s backyard.  He went on to have a 42-year tenure as a United States Senator from Utah.  This drives term-limit people crazy.  He was the longest-serving Republican Senator but only the sixth longest-running Senator overall.  Discounting the Whigs, that would make the Democrats bigger term-limit violators than Republicans by a long-shot.  He was succeeded by Mitt Romney, who is not nearly as far to the right.  Notwithstanding his conservative bent, he was good friends with Edward Kennedy and while he seemed humorless, he played the piano, violin and organ and wrote songs, including a catchy tune about Hanukkah which is seemingly out of a Mormon’s lane.  On the other end of the Spectrum, Frank Zappa wrote an instrumental ditty entitled “Orrin Hatch on Skis.”  Forget about the Senate, getting Zappa to put you in a song, even if mockingly, makes it all worth it.      

Those of you who read this blog with any regularity know that I am totally taken by the stories of Holocaust survivors.  People who have suffered and witnessed the absolute worst horrors that humans can visit upon other humans.  So many of them bury that trauma (and I mean trauma, not the bullshit trauma I keep hearing millennials and other grouse about nowadays) and live these incredibly successful lives that me, with my incredible luck in winning the birth lottery, could never hope to attain.  I really do feel like such a failure when I measure my life verses theirs.  This month we have another example of that.  Carl Rosner, who died at the age of 93 was born in Hamburg.  After his parents divorced, his mother sought a way out of the Country due to Jewish persecution.  His youngest brother was sent to Sweden where his mother soon followed. Karl, 8 (who later changed the K to a C) and his younger brother, 7, were sent to an orphanage to await the possibility of emigration.   In an interview with the Shoah Foundation, he said: “As a child you accept things. You don’t question everything or worry about everything.”   Many of his friends were sent to concentration camps and he too wanted to go to be with them.  His father was Romanian and that saved him from that fate, at least for a while.  Ultimately, he and his brother were arrested and sent to the Buchenwald concentration camp where his head was shaved, he was hosed down with disinfectant and forced to watch hangings of other prisoners.  He was put to work making bricks but fell deathly sick from the starvation diet and the cold.  He survived with the help of an older prisoner, Erwin Lippman.  One day in 1945, everyone in the camp was summoned for a roll call.  Sensing something bad, he sought advice from Lipmann who told the 16-year-old Carl and his younger brother to hide in the sewer, which they did.  Days later, American soldiers liberated Buchenwald and he and his brother found their way to Sweden.  He married a holocaust survivor, Frieda Zeidshnur and in 1952 they emigrated to Newark, New Jersey.  He graduated from the Newark College of Engineering (now NJIT), was hired by General Electric to help develop superconducting magnets and ultimately became the CEO of the GE spinoff, Intermagnetics, which supplies materials for MRI machines.  His daughter, Elizabeth Rosner, wrote a book entitled “Survivor Café” which delves into how the trauma that people suffer is passed onto subsequent generations.  A phenomenon where the children of trauma survivors can exhibit the trauma that that their parents have internalized.  According to Ms. Rosner: “My father often talked about his luck in surviving. He was reluctant to credit himself.”  True of many of these incredibly resilient folks, “He was surprised when people considered him extraordinary.”  In his later years, he was playful with his grandchildren, ensuring that they had the childhood he did not.  His home was filled with books because as he told the Albany Times Union: “I want to know everything; I’m interested in everything.”  I am in awe. 

My brother-in-law wanted me to write about Douglas Trumball who was, according to him, “the special effects wizard responsible for much of the wonder and beauty of such
films as ‘2001: A Space Odyssey,’ ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’
and [his] all-time favorite, ‘Blade Runner.’”  Four problems with that.  One, I don’t know who the heck he is; second, this thing is already too long; third; he died in February, not April; and fourth, he’s no Eddie Van Halen.  All that said, two out of three (he got Rydell and Gottfried) ain’t bad.

Finally, Kane Tanaka died at 119.  She is purportedly the oldest woman in the world and she has (or rather had) a slew of Guinness and other certificates to prove it.  I have to admit to being somewhat dubious about these “oldest” claims, especially when there are mornings when I am certain I am the oldest person in the world.  Just the other day I saw a LinkedIn post with a photo of a woman who the post claimed was 122 so who knows.  However, the New York Times has listed Ms. Tanaka as the “oldest” in the world while I believe the Wall Street Journal hedged by calling her the oldest living person in Japan, who we now know is not living.  Regardless, 119 is pretty special so she gets some ink.  She made it through two world wars and both pandemics.  Never losing sight of her priorities, when recently asked by a reporter what kind of man she liked, without skipping a beat she replied “a young one like you.”  Good for her.  We now have a newest, oldest person in the world.  Sister Andre, a 118-year-old nun from France is on the clock.   

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