Welcome to August. It’s one of my favorite months. Vacations, getaways, and my birthday which, frankly, I no longer want to think about or acknowledge. It is, however, an historical fact I must live with.
Anyway, looking back to those we’ve lost in July I will start with a woman who died in July, but not this July. While this blog generally covers the recently departed, when you have a song written about you, I may give you credit well beyond the year of your death. That is where Marie Provost finds herself. She was a silent screen star who never really translated to talkies. Thus, her life spiraled downward and she took to drinking and died alone of acute alcoholism in 1937 at the age of 40. That type of epic drinking was rivaled, in my knowledge, by only Bonn Scott, the original lead singer of AC/DC, who succumbed to the sauce at age 33. While Bonn’s loss is mourned yearly by my younger brother, Scott was a singer who, as far as I know, never had a song written about him as Ms. Provost did. As it turns out, Ms. Provost did not die completely alone, she had her dachshund, Maxie, with her. It took a while for people to realize she was gone and Kenneth Anger wrote a book about her in which he posited that the dog had to eat something. Turns out that was not the case. Nick Lowe however, in his Album Pure Pop for Now People (In the UK, Jesus of Cool but that’s a story for a different day), wrote a song about Ms. Provost with the tag line “She was a winner who became the doggie’s dinner.” Notwithstanding, its inaccuracy, it is a fine tune which has garnered Ms. Provost a place in this blog and one I note each year on the day of her death – July 29. As for immortality, she has a star on the Hollywood walk of fame and while they didn’t pay her much mind when she was in decline, her funeral was attended by Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Clark Gable, Wallace Beery, Mack Sennett, Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Crawford who picked up the tab. Not a bad group of A-listers.
Now on to more current, less scandalous, exits. Another person made famous in a song did pass this month -- Chuck E. Weiss. Chuck E. who you say? Well at one time he fell in love and Ricki Lee Jones turned it into a big hit on her debut album. Chuck E’s in Love rose to number Four on the Billboard charts and still stands up when played. The lesson here is befriend a songwriter and have them wax on about you and you will gain a modicum of fame. Mr. Weiss was 76.
Perhaps the biggest loss of the Month was Ron Popeil who died at 86. Before QVC and Barry Diller, there was Ron Popeil, hawking his Veg-O-Matic chopper, spray-on-hair and my personal favorite, the Pocket Fisherman on half-hour infomercials. His tag line, “but wait, there’s more,” is indelibly etched into the minds of folks my age. He was marketing genius. He sold all his life. He sold at Woolworths, in open-air markets in Chicago and at state and county fairs where he found he did best when his product demonstrations were near the women’s bathrooms. Go figure. Who could resist the urge to buy an inside-the-shell-egg-scrambler for God’s sake? How many attics contain his crap – the Ronco Electric Food Dehydrator, Popeil’s Pasta & Sausage Maker or Mr. Microphone. As an Aside, Ron Popeil also had a song written about him as well (sensing a theme here) but it was by Weird Al Yankkovic so I am not sure that really counts. One aside about Mr. Popeil’s dad because I can’t resist. His second wife hired two people to kill her then husband. The plot was foiled and she did 19 months in jail, after which they remarried. And you didn’t think I was a sucker for a romance story. That must have been the ultimate sales job. Anyway, the hereinafter will now have lots of schlock products. Perhaps a self-playing harp.
And speaking of schlock, Jackie Mason left us at 93. Born Yacov Moshe Maza, he, like the rest of the males in his family, became a Rabbi. However, his heart was not in it. He once said that he lacked the religious conviction and “started telling jokes at bar mitzvahs and weddings. The jokes started getting better and I decided to charge a cover and minimum.” He ultimately gave up religion for comedy which some might say isn’t a great leap. He didn’t stray too far, once quipping as to Jesus that “the Vatican Council decided we didn’t kill Him. We just sold the lumber.” His direct style of comedy, replete with lots of hand gesturing, had the ability to offend people. He made a gesture on the Ed Sullivan Show that Eddie believed vulgar and he was off television for years. He made jokes about Frank Sinatra in Vegas (after his marriage to the much younger Mia Farrow, Mason quipped: “Frank soaks his dentures at night while Mia brushes her braces”) and someone fired a few gunshots into his hotel room After his career went south, he revived it on Broadway with several one-man shows giving him the last laugh. His and others’ brand of Borscht-Belt comedy is sadly coming to an end.
The Love Boat, by the way, suffered no losses this month so it may be righting itself. However, the wrestling world, as well as the rest of us, has lost Mr. Wonderful who succumbed to dementia. Paul Omdorff, who once proclaimed that “every time I look at the cameras, another woman leaves her husband for Mr. Wonderful,” was drafted by the New Orleans Saints in the 12th round but decided on a career in professional wrestling instead. Mr. Wonderful, along with Rowdy Roddy Piper and Hulk Hogan were the main attractions in Wrestlemania I (they just had number 37) which has become an enduring franchise for the then World Wrestling Foundation, now known as World Wrestling Entertainment after the World Wildlife Fund kicked its ass in court which isn’t scripted in quite the manner that WWE events are. I mean being beaten by a bunch of tree huggers was a big blow to the then WWF. Oh well, none of it diminished the popularity of the now WWE which had nearly $100 Million in revenues in 2020. While undoubtedly, his choice of careers lent to his dementia, in 2018 he was quoted as saying, “I’ve had concussions and stuff, broke my neck and stuff, and I regret none of that.” Seventy-one and a company man to the end.
I love New Orleans and being from New Jersey, can’t help being intrigued with its colorful politics. Bad as we may be in the Garden State, we are pikers when compared to the kings of corruption – Louisiana politicians. One of the best of ‘em, Edwin Edwards, left us in July at the age of 93. He once admitted to having been questioned by 22 state and federal grand juries and was reported to have taken trips to Las Vegas with suitcases full of cash, engaged in plenty of all-night poker parties with $10,000 antes and was a prodigious womanizer, which he did not deny. He was once asked whether he was concerned about his phone being tapped and responded that he couldn’t “imagine who would do it except for some jealous husbands.” He served four terms as the Governor of Louisiana. He was first elected in 1972 and again in 1976. Louisiana has term limits so he had to sit out for a time and won the Governorship again in 1984. It was during this, his third term, that he was indicted by a federal grand jury for conspiring to sell hospital and nursing home building permits. While he admitted to receiving $1.9 million, he claimed to have done nothing illegal. The jury deadlocked on a verdict and the case was tried a second time where he was found not guilty. Only in Louisiana. He ran and won for a fourth gubernatorial term in 1992 with bumperstickers that read: “Vote for the Crook - It’s Important.” He was aided in his campaign by the fact that his opponent was David Duke, the grand wizard of the ku klux klan. Thankfully, Louisianans had enough sense to heed his bumper stickers. One of his followers summed it up best saying: “We all knew he was going to steal, but he told us he was going to do it.” A voter who values honesty, even in the dishonest. Edwards summed it up best, perhaps channeling a politician yet to start out, when he said, he couldn’t be brought down by scandal unless he was “caught in bed with a dead girl or live boy.” Not quite shooting someone on 5th Avenue, but close. His legal luck finally ran out when he was indicted and convicted of selling riverboat casino licenses to none other than Edward DiBartolo, then the owner of the San Francisco 49ers. He was sentenced to ten years but quipped that if they gave him “credit for all the times he spent in court and before grand juries, I could walk out tomorrow.” A non-drinker who didn’t smoke, he once considered a career as a preacher. Think Jimmy Swaggart. John Maginnis, who wrote an Edwards biography entitled “The last Hayride,” once asked a Louisiana preacher how pious people can support a man who is known to gamble, chase women, and constantly face investigation for corruption? After giving it some thought, the preacher responded: “Well, he don’t drink or smoke.” Everyone has positive attributes.
Although July 15th was quiet, musicians, and especially bassists, took a big blow in July. While I think drummers don’t get enough credit, they are headliners compared to bass players. Other then Geddy Lee, it is not really a glory position. I mean, when John Entwistle died the day before a 27 date Who tour, they quickly subbed in Pino Palladino (I know, who’s he?) to take his place and didn’t miss a show (thankfully, Mr. Palladino is Still Alive and Well to quote Johnny Winter, who sadly is not). I mean, come on. Didn’t miss a single show? The ultimate lack of respect for Mr. Entwistle. Anyway, Dusty Hill, ZZ Top’s bassist died this month. Hard to tell if people knew who he was since he was always mistaken for the more popular lead guitarist Billy Gibbons since they both sported waist-length beards. The three-piece band, which became somewhat synonymous with facial hair, also included drummer Frank Beard who lacked one. With many million selling albums such as Tres Hombres and Eliminator, and songs filled with sexual innuendo, the band made its mark. Mr. Hill once described his sound as “like farting in a garbage can,” meaning “it’s raw but you’ve got to have the tone in there.” In what may be the ultimate accolade for a bass player, after Mr. Hill fell in a tour bus and damaged his hip, the band cancelled the tour. Either they really cared for him or Pino Palladino was busy with the Who.
July also saw the passing of Rick Laird. Just note that when you ask yourself who is that about someone, there’s a good chance it’s a bass player. Mr. Laird was the bassist for the Mahavishnu Orchestra, whose other members, John McLaughlin, Jan Hammer and Billy Cobham are much more well-known to musicians, if not others. I am discounting the violin player, Jerry Goodman, because no one knows who violinists are unless you’re Itzhak Perlman or Anne-Sophie Mutter. (And here I note that Byron Berline, a world-class fiddle player who played with everyone from Bob Dylan to the Rolling Stones, and who played on Gram Parsons incredible Grievous Angel album, died this month). While the band was experimental with jazz and fusion, according to Mr. Laird: “someone had to stay on one.” I once talked to a drummer who sat in with the band and asked how he did it? Simple, he said, “I just followed Rick.” After his death, Billy Cobham wrote, among other laudatory things: “He played what was necessary to keep the rest of us from going off our musical rails.” As he got older, he feared that a musical future would not be beneficial and took up photography as a business, often doing portraits for law firms. If only I had known.
Drummers, not to be left out, lost Joey Jordison, a heavy metal virtuoso, at 46. He played with Slipknot, a band that is admittedly not on any of my Spotify playlists. His New York Times obit said that he helped to write many of the band’s best-known songs and all I could say was best known to whom? His genre of choice, however, did not detract from his talent which was first-rate. He was a technical drummer with impeccable chops and a flair for the solo which many drummers do not do well. When performing, he often wore a crown of thorns and a demonic mask. My older brother once saw him unmasked at a sound-check and pronounced him pretty good looking. In describing the dual reaction to the band’s first album as both “utter disgust” and “adoration,” Mr. Jordison showed a keen understanding of the audience. While Lady Gaga refers to her fans as Little Monsters, Slipknot fans are lovingly, I am sure, known as maggots. Mr. Jordison was unceremoniously dumped from the band when they found out he had transverse myelitis which is an inflammation of the spinal cord that can cause sensory problems and limb weakness. As far as I know, he was not replaced by Pino Palladino but his dismissal speaks not only to the low regard with which drummers are held but also to the band’s ignorance of the Americans with Disabilities Act. OSHA ought to start looking at the Rock industry. Mr. Jordison was 46 and no cause for his death was given.
As a bike rider, I view cars as the enemy while I ride. This month, three prominent folks lost their lives while riding, two to cars. The first was Boryana Straubel who was hit by an oncoming car in Nevada. She was 38. Born in Bulgaria, she was a self-described math nerd who was shunned by her hip friends but who came to America, studied in California and became a Tesla executive, ultimately marrying one of its co-founders, Jeffrey Brian Straubel, known as J.B. Post-Tesla, she and her husbanded founded the Straubel Foundation, a philanthropic endeavor and she founded Generation Collections, a jewelry company that used recycled metals.
The second victim was the to-be Jet’s quarterback and passing specialist Assistant Coach, Greg Knapp, who was hit by a car while bicycling near his home in San Ramon, California. Among other places he coached was Atlanta and Denver where he helped the Broncos win the Superbowl in 2015.
And since death often comes in three’s I have been told, Senator Michael Enzi, a four-term Senator from Wyoming was killed while riding his bike in Gillette. Apparently no other bike, vehicle or person was involved in the accident. Senator Enzi was consistently conservative but not in a loud or obnoxious way. He always tried to build a consensus much to his credit. He was from Wyoming so there is not a lot of color to add.
I have some legal leanings so for David Lat I will note that Judge William Pauley died this month at the rather young age of 68. Judge Pauley was nominated to the bench by President Bill Clinton and by accounts was a very careful and exacting jurist. Most recently, he sentenced President Trump’s personal lawyer Michael Cohen to three years which didn’t last that long due to an early release for pandemic reasons. Earlier in his career he ruled that the Patriot Act permitted the government to collect metadata on nearly every phone call made in the Country. My feeling on that is they can have all the telemarketer information from my phone they can get as those pretty much are the only calls I receive. The Second Circuit, however, disagreed and reversed him. Such is the life of a district court judge.
While I am on the judiciary, Charlie Robinson, the actor who played Macintosh Robinson (actually a relation, I guess), or Mac, the Court Clerk in the sitcom, Night Court, also died. He was much more of an actor than just that role but in that field, folks can get typecast by a single character. Not that I can feel too bad for him because that role I am sure treated him very well financially. Anyone who wants to typecast me in a multimillion-dollar endeavor is free to do so. His character in the show was the level-headed clerk operating in the mosh pit of madness that is often the courtroom. Not far from the reality of many courtrooms that I have been in. Often it is the Courtroom deputy who wields the real power in the system and gets things done.
Finally, Ruth Pearl, the mother of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal’s South Asia Bureau Chief, who was brutally murdered after having been abducted in Pakistan, died at 85. Her obituary in the New York Times chronicles an amazing life. I encountered the Pearls during the time their son was abducted and have always marveled at the grace and elegance she and her husband, Judea, exhibited then and in the aftermath of such an enormous loss. Easy to see why their son was such an amazing fellow in his unfortunately short life.
Okay, four months in and while I enjoy writing this, I want it to be more than an echo. If you like it, please subscribe by hitting the button somewhere at the end of this piece and if you don’t, please send it to friends to torture them. Just so long as you send it. I shall not care the reason. I want to generate a legion of adoring fans so help the cause. Thanks.
I think that I enjoyed this post the most so far, :)