Burt Reynolds, RIP

Burt Reynolds died on Thursday at the age of 82, and we were sad to hear about it. He was in a few movies we quite liked, a few more that were forgettable but well worth a couple of hours and the ’70s and ’80s prices for a movie ticket, and even in the lousy movies that made up the most of his filmography he was always an appealing figure on the screen. Also, his passing makes us feel old.
At our age we can remember way back when the handsome and hunky and hirsute Reynolds was the biggest box office star and premier male sex symbol of the day, and suddenly it seems a long time ago. Reynolds was good-looking in a hyper-masculine way that is out of fashion with women in these oh-so-sensitive times, and he offset it with a self-aware sense of humor that today’s tough guys eschew, and his biggest hits had a low-tech earnestness about them that will probably strike the current crop of movie-goers as downright corny. There’s something to be said for such modern sensibilities, perhaps, but we hopefully expect that the best of Reynolds’ work will endure in our popular culture.
After an injury ended his promising career as a football player at Florida State University, Reynolds joined the theater department at the school in hopes of meeting hot co-eds, and thus began an acting career that started with co-starring roles in “Gunsmoke” and other television shows, followed by co-starring roles in some forgettable low-budget movies. He got his big break when he was cast in “Deliverance,” a hard-to-watch but must-see classic, and gave a clean-shaven and critically acclaimed performance as a hyper-masculine city slicker on an ill-fated canoe trip in hillbilly country, and after that he was for several years a very big movie star.
The eventual hero of “Deliverance” was the oh-so-sensitive character played by Jon Voight, and despite Reynolds’ nuanced performance it was his undeniable on-screen machismo and charmingly self-deprecating wit on all the talk shows that made him a much bigger movie star. Reynolds had a long run at the the top of the box office with the likes of “Smokey and the Bandit,” an extended car chase involving Reynolds’ macho-but-self-deprecating “Bandit” character trying to win a bet involving a six pack of Coors while a stereotypical southern sheriff played by Jackie Gleason pursues, and it’s not nearly so bad as it sounds. Another big hit was “Cannonball Run,” which has a cast of B-list all-stars on a coast-to-coast interstate highway race, and you could do worse on a rainy day of movie watching, although we can’t say the same for “Cannonball Run II.” He also made movies such as “Gator” and “The Longest Yard” for the southern white boy exploitation drive-in market, which were also huge hits, and despite our art house tastes we can heartily recommend “The Longest Yard.” Reynolds quite convincingly portrays a wisecracking football star who winds up in prison, where he leads an excellent cast of tough-guy character actors to victory over the guards’ semipro team, and it’s a faded color testosterone-laden little flick that is far better than it sounds.
While he was hot Reynolds also directed and starred in “The End,” a very dark comedy about a businessman with a terminal illness, and although it bombed at the box office we and the rest of the critics agreed that it was well worth watching, and that Reynolds really could act when given the chance. After years of relative anonymity his last round of critical acclaim and Oscars came with “Boogie Nights,” a very fine film about the pornography industry of the late ’70s and early ’80s, with the the graying but still-handsome Reynolds playing a pornographer with with artistic ambitions he could never achieve.
Although he always seemed a likable enough enough fellow to us, he was such a fixture of the news for so many years that we also read about what a jerk he could be, and we don’t doubt that at least some of it is true. He was married to Judy Carne, the British actress who went on to be the bikini-clad “Sock it to me” girl on “Laugh In,” and after the divorce and at the height of his male symbol status he dated the 20-years-older diva Dinah Shore, followed by a well publicized romance with “Smokey and the Bandit” co-star and America’s Sweetheart Sally Fields, and then a very public and acrimonious divorce from the blond and buxom sit-com star Loni Anderson. He always admitted everything in his self-deprecating way, however, and we’ll miss having him around in America’s increasingly crazy popular culture.

— Bud Norman


Sen. John McCain, RIP

Over the past many decades we had several serious disagreements with Arizona Sen. John McCain, as did just about anyone of any political viewpoint who was paying attention to the news, but we always disagreed with all due respect to the man, as did any fair-minded and well-mannered person of any political viewpoint. McCain died on Saturday at the age of 81 after a courageous fight against brain cancer, and we worry that an age of rough and tumble yet duly respectful American politics might pass with him.
McCain always laughingly admitted that he didn’t earn much respect at the United States Naval Academy, where he was a legendarily mischievous midshipman and finished sixth-from-last in his class, but after that his military career was distinguished by strength and skill and physical courage and patriotic selflessness as extraordinary as anything in America’s horrible and glorious history of war. He’d only gone to Annapolis because his dad and granddad were both four-star Navy admirals with impressive war records, and several other ancestors had served with similar distinction, and the rebellious youth didn’t plan to make a career of the Navy, but he’d been inculcated with a sense of duty to God and family and country that required him to play some small part during his deployment. Although a deadly and unpopular was being in waged in Vietnam, McCain signed up for and then easily passed the Navy’s rigorous fighter pilot training program, and thus volunteered for combat duty in the worst of it.
He was top gun enough to return from 22 risky combat missions, including one very-near miss, but on the 23rd try he was shot down in enemy territory, where his gruesomely broken body was quickly captured by enemy troops, who immediately added several more serious injuries at they dragged him away. For the next five-and-a-half years he survived routine torture at the “Hanoi Hilton” — the most notorious prisoner-of-war camp since the Confederacy’s Andersonville prison — and made only the most meaningless concessions. At first the torture was worse than usual because the captors were aware that McCain’s father was commanding America’s Pacific Fleet, but the North Vietnamese then thought they might gain some political advantage and demoralize his fellows by offering him early release because of his family ties, and no fair-minded American of any political viewpoint can deny that McCain earned everlasting respect by signing up for a few more years of torture rather than hand the enemy a propaganda victory and his leave his men behind and betray everything he ever believed about God and family and country.
The undeniably tough old cuss somehow survived it all, and wound up limping out of a post-war Air Force plane to a brass-band-and-red-carpet hero’s welcome on a landing strip in his home state of Arizona in the good old United States of America. He finished out his Naval obligations in a series of desk jobs as he more or less recuperated from his injuries, and then he naturally went into politics. McCain’s gruesome yet undeniably all-American heroism made him a natural candidate for a House of Representative seat, but after all those years in a bamboo cage he could also articulate a persuasive case for the vigorous foreign policy and limited domestic government that was the Republican fashion of the time, and he soon demonstrated an unsurprising knack for getting by and getting things done with unpleasant but necessary compromises.
After a couple of easy House elections in oh-so-Republican Arizona, McCain succeeded the then-quintessentially conservative Republican Sen. Barry Goldwater in the Senate, and after that he both earned respect and caused serious disagreements with just about anyone of any political viewpoint. He voted with the ever-evolving Republican caucus on most fiscal matters, and was as hawkish as any of them on matters of national defense, but he also seemed to take a mischievous delight in bucking his party on certain of his party’s ever-evolving stands. Sometimes it was some long forgotten continuing budget resolution or another, on other occasions the border-state Senator with lots of Latino Republican voters was bucking the base on on the simmering matter of immigration, and our free speech sensibilities strongly disagreed with his awful McCain-Fiengold Act.
Way back in the long-forgotten headlines of the late-’80s McCain was one of the “Keating Five” Democratic and Republican Senators who were caught up in a corruption scandal involving donations from a shady savings-and-loans finagler right before the savings-and-loan meltdowns of ’89, and although he was largely exonerated by the subsequent investigations McCain repented by joining left-wing Wisconsin Sen. Russ Feingold in coming up with some campaign finance rules that we considered an affront to free speech. That was one reason we opted for Texas Gov. George W. Bush over McCain in the ’00 Republican primary, along with the fact that Bush had been a pretty good chief executive of a large and largely Latino state, and seemed less leery of dangerous and unpopular wars. Thus Bush made his case and we cast our vote with all due respect to McCain.
As things turned out President George W. Bush wound up signing that awful McCain-Feingold Act, and the Supreme Court eventually wound up overturning the worst of it in that Citizens United decisions the left is is still squealing about, and the terror attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, left the Republicans embroiled in a couple of unpopular wars. Bush nevertheless narrowly re-election against decorated combat veteran but defeatist Democratic Sen. John Kerry of Massachusetts, and McCain vigorously campaigned for the Republican. After that the Iraq War become an even less popular slog, and McCain once again bucked the party by advocating a more vigorous effort rather than a retreat. When Bush followed the advice with a so-called “surge” the American casualties fell by more than 90 percent, McCain was vindicated and wound up winning the Republican nomination for the presidency.
McCain might have had a chance if the economy had kept going as well the war, but about a month before the election the stock markets melted down as a result of some long-forgotten subprime mortgage regulations from the long-forgotten administration of President Bill Clinton, and America was plunged into a deep recession. After eight years of constant media griping about Bush any Republican faced a hard race against a such charming and charismatic Democratic nominee as Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, whose African heritage promised an improbable chance at national racial redemption that even McCain’s heroic war record could not trump. By the end McCain knew he was fighting another losing war, and he accepted his faith with a sense of honor to God and family and country.
Even by 2008 the the ever-evolving base of the Republican party wasn’t fully on board with McCain’s old-fashioned Republicanism, and he steadfastly refused to go along with their partisan fever for rather than his principles. When his Republican rally-goers denounced Obama as an “Arab” and anti-American scoundrel, McCain insisted that Obama was merely a decent American family guy with some crazy liberal ideas, and we think it was at that very point when the ever-evolving base of the Republican party abandoned him. McCain was frequently critical of Obama, and as far as we’re concerned he was completely vindicated in his criticism of Obama’s premature withdrawal from Iraq, but at that point the base of the Republican party regarded anything less than complete vilification of Obama as insufficient.
Way back in ’12 the Republicans wound up nominating the even more old-fashioned Republican nominee Mitt Romney, whose dad had been a centrist Republican governor and one-time presidential contender, but the ever-evolving Republican base was even less enthused and Obama cruised to reelection. After another four years of Obama’s odious administration the ever-evolving base of the Republican party had decided that such fair-minded and well-mannered candidates as McCain and Romney weren’t up to the fight against those damned Democrats, no matter how heroic their war records, and they wound up choosing President Donald Trump.
Say what you want about both Bush and Obama, and their bitter political fights with McCain, the candidates of all parties paid due respect to the man they opposed. By the late summer and early fall of ’16, Trump won the Republican nomination and then the presidency despite sneering on videotape that MccCain was “only a hero because he was captured. I hate to tell ya’, but I like a guy who didn’t get captured,” and another audio recording about grabbing women by their private parts,” and mockeries of people’s looks and physical disabilities, and boldly proclaiming a new style of presidential politics. So far it’s working better politically than the more polite practices of McCain and Romney, at least for now, although we still wish either of them had beaten Obama, and we still expect it to work out badly in the end.
In all of his obituaries McCain is getting far more praise than he did back when he challenged the media darling Obama, and almost as much as he did when challenged the media pariah Bush, but the right media have been less muted, and so far Trump has only briefly “tweeted” his prayers and respect for McCain’s family, and although the flags have been lowered to half-mast there’s no official presidential statement about it. Trump had family-doctor-attested bone spurs that prevented him from serving in Vietnam, even if they didn’t prevent him from playing golf and tennis and chasing casual sexual encounters in New York City’s swankier nightclubs while McCain was being tortured inside a bamboo cage, and being such a self-proclaimed tough guy Trump can’t recant his infamous slur that McCain was “only a hero because he got caught.”
At such a sad time and such a low moment in political disourse we hate to take a swipe at Trump, but McCain made clear that he would be honored to have both Bush and Obama speak at his funeral and would not appreciate Trump’s presence at all, and we can’t say we disagree with this final request. At the end of a horrific and heroic and admittedly imperfect life, the best of which he attributed to his years of getting by and getting things done in the public service, we pay due respect to McCain and his dying nostalgia for a more rough and tumble yet duly respectful era of American politics.

— Bud Norman

Tom Wolfe, RIP

Tom Wolfe was our favorite living writer in the world  until he died Monday at the age of 88. From now on, we’ll have to regard him as merely one of the four or five greatest writers in the history of American literature.
Although we’re far too old and wised up for hero worship, that’s a fair description of how greatly we have always esteemed Wolfe’s inventive and elegant prose style, observant eye for the details of daily and keen insights about what they mean, and his bold willingness to defy the ridiculous fashions of his ridiculous times. He rescued American literature from the quicksand of solipsistic post-modernism, as far as we’re concerned, and he exerted an even more profound influence on our lives of letters.
Way back in our junior high school days we checked out from the Wichita Public Library a collection of the best of “new journalism” that Wolfe had edited, and after reading and then re-reading it we had made our mind up about what we wanted to do for a living. The book featured pieces by such notable writers as Truman Capote, Hunter S. Thompson, Robert Christgau, Joan Didion, George Plimpton, Gay Talese and Norman Mailer, and with characteristic immodesty Wolfe also included a few pieces of his own, which were by far the best of an impressive lot. The book demonstrated how true stories can most truthfully be told with the narrative brilliance of the best fiction, and it made an indelible impression on our literary sensibilities.
After that we eagerly consumed every book and magazine article that Wolfe ever wrote, and we loved every word of it.
Wolfe was born into an educated and well-to-do and very old-fashioned southern family in Richmond, Virginia, and was a star student at Washington and Lee University and earned a doctoral degree in American studies from Yale University, but he preferred the rough-and-tumble worlds of baseball and newspapers to academia. At a hard-earned tryout with the New York Giants he realized that his fastball would never be good enough to take him far beyond the semi-pro leagues he’d played in, so he took a job at The Springfield Union in Massachusetts, soon rose to a reporting gig at The Washington Post, then moved to The New York Herald Tribune for the chance to write feature stories, which every newspaperman knows offers the chance to add a little literary flair to the copy. During one of the intermittent New York City newspaper strikes of the era, Wolfe convinced the editors at Esquire Magazine to commission an article about the custom car craze that currently sweeping California, and after that was published he was a literary sensation.
The article celebrated the supposedly low-brow car customizers as modern artists of the highest rank, and did so with a prose style just as revved-up and ostentatious outrageously brilliant as his subject. He used alliteration and onomatopoeia and hyperactive punctuations and obscure words and complex sentence structures that still drive your typical dullard newspaper editor crazy — trust us — but to the average reader he compellingly explained the quintessentially American beauty of those crazy customized cars. It was included in a hard-cover collection of Wolfe’s other “new journalism” magazine pieces called “The Kandy-Colored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby,” and after that he was not only a literary sensation but also a best-selling author.
He followed that up with “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,” his exquisitely objective and thus downright hilarious first hand account of justly famed novelist and hard-core hippie Ken Kesey’s hallucinogenic drug-fueled bus trips through California with his band of “merry pranksters,” and that was another still-in-print best-seller. Another collection of “new journalism” called “The Pump House Gang” was released in the same crazed year of 1968 to less enthusiastic reviews and a slightly lower position on the best-seller charts, but is still in print and is still well worth reading. Two years later “Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers” was published, and Wolfe could have quit there and still made our top four or five list of America’s greatest writers.
The first half of “Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers” was a previously published magazine piece called “Radical Chic,” an exquisitely objective and thus downright hilarious first-hand account of famed maestro and notorious bleeding-heart liberal Leonard Bernstein’s fund-raising soiree with New York City’s cultural elite for murderous Black Panther Party. With the observant eye of a ink-stained newspaper wretch and son of the well-to-do south Wolfe noticed all the servants-of-color who were handing out the drinks and hors d’oeurve, and how very strained were the conversations between the well-attired elite northeastern white folk and the leather clad and black-beret-wearing ghetto black folks who were seeking their contributions to their openly proclaimed cause of overthrowing white supremacy and killing whitey.
The second half was “Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers,” a previously published first-hand magazine account of the middle class white bureaucrats running the government’s anti-poverty programs who had to deal face-to-face in less genteel circumstances with black clients who had lately realized, after years of being cowed by white supremacy, that most white people had a deep-seated fear of black people. Wolfe’s written-down-in-his-notebook observations about the ridiculousness of it all rang true then, as it still does now, and at this point in time we’re all the more impressed by Wolfe’s daring in writing it down and having it published.
Wolfe’s collection of “The New Journalism” came next, which led to us reading all that had come before, and in ’75 he published “The Painted Word,” a brief but sufficiently long critique of modern art that confirmed our faith in the heartfelt realism of the Winslow Homer and Thomas Eakins Mary Cassatt paintings at the Wichita Art Museum. After that was “Mauve Gloves & Madmen, Clutter and Vine,” another collection of magazines pieces that included a tribute to the great Russian anti-communist novelist Aleksander Solzhenitsyn, and although it was also a best-seller Wolfe was suddenly controversial as a conservative. Rolling Stone Magazine had published most of his best known work, and there was something deceptively hip about his prose, and his enthusiasm for car customizers and moonshine-running stock car racers and the time he spent with drug-addled hippies had given him a certain counter-cultural cachet, but at that point he was outed as a cultural conservative.
He followed that up with “The Right Stuff,” a lengthy and meticulously detailed account of America’s space program that became his best-selling book and was eventually made into a star-studded hit Hollywood movie. In addition to its insightful historical accuracy, it’s also celebration of the quintessentially cutting-edge engineering feats and old-fashioned machismo that landed America on the moon and beyond. That masterpiece was followed by the still-in-print and still-worth-reading collection of magazine pieces called “In Our Time,” and a delightful screed against modern architecture called “From Bauhaus to Our House,” and another fine collection of magazine pieces titled “The Purple Decades.”
Wolfe had long championed the “new journalism” as superior to all those self-indulgent novels about academic sexual affairs that all the creative writing program graduates were churning out, and he was right to do so, but in another magazine piece he conceded your can’t really “sit at the grown-up’s table” of literature without writing a novel, so he took a few years off from freelance work and penned a bona fide classic American novel titled “The Bonfire of the Vanities.” Just as Wolfe’s journalism had long been enhanced by novelistic techniques, his first novel was enhanced by his journalistic understanding of the peculiar New York City scene he depicted. It included all of the racial and class conflicts that defined the the time and place, the same derring-do to confront them honestly no matter what races or classes might be offended, and an even more refined crazy-ass prose style, and it was his biggest selling book to date and was made into a lousy movie.
He followed that with “A Man In Full,” another epic novel about an egomaniacal and deep-in-debt real estate mogul embroiled in racial controversies, and although it’s set in Atlanta rather than New York City or Washington, D.C., it’s still a masterpiece and as relevant as ever. There was another excellent compilation of magazine pieces called “Hooking Up” in 2000, with some excellent essays on the high-tech revolution that was taking place in California during the car-customizing craze and the concurrent sexual revolution’s effect on modern day college life, and after that another essential novel called “I Am Charlotte Simmons.” The book was about a poor but brilliant daughter of the south who wound in modern academia, and the depression she suffered when confronted with longstanding class differences and the newfangled rules of sexual morality, and it might be our favorite Wolfe book of them all.
The high-brow critics of the time hated it, of course, and accused Wolfe of being a prurient old southern cultural conservative, but since then the cutting-edge left has taken to decrying the “culture of rape” in higher education and setting up kangaroo courts to expel the sort of drunken frat boys Wolfe so effectively lampooned. Wolfe always seemed to win these arguments in the long run.
By that point Wolfe was getting old, and although the books came slower his final works are likely to be in print for a long while and are still worth reading. His final novel “Back to Blood” is an honest account of race and class in the Latino-dominated town of Miami, with the prose as revved-up as ever. His last work was “The Kingdom of Speech,” an extended essay about the sciences of the brain and linguistics that seems to argue against free will and for pre-determinism, and although it’s our least favorite of his works we highly recommend it.
Wolfe was more of a cultural conservative than a political one, and we weren’t much surprised to learn from the many obituaries in the big newspapers that he often voted for Democrats in presidential elections, but we’ll always appreciate how he so eloquently celebrated the car customizers and stock car racers and semi-pro ball players and the crazy-ass fighter pilots who sat atop the dubious rockets that America launched into space, and that crazy-ass American spirit in general. We’ll also always appreciate the way he so perfectly skewered all those elite white folks who made cocktail party contributions to the ghetto thugs who openly wanted to kill them, and with such exquisite objectivity and notebook accuracy that it was downright hilarious.
Like Emile Zola and Charles Dickens and the rest of the best of western literature’s greatest writers, the notoriously ostentatious and self-promoting Wolfe realized that all the great novels and non-fiction aren’t about the author but rather about his life and times. Like Mark Twain and Walt Whitman and Sinclair Lewis and the other greatest American writers who also started in the newspaper racket, he captured the best and the worst of the great and awful time and place he lived such a rich life in. His own quintessentially American yet entire unique personality was part of every tale, of course, and we’ll hold out faint hopes the country will see the likes of it again.

— Bud Norman



On a cold and windy Wednesday afternoon we heard the news that Mary Tyler Moore had died at the age of 80, and it felt like a sunnier and spunkier era of American popular culture had passed along with her. She really could turn the world on with her smile, not to mention that body of hers, and the body of work she created over her long and varied career is even more impressive.
Moore began her show business career as a dancer, most notably as the perfectly lithe female figure in the skin-tight suit prancing around in the Hotpoint appliance company’s commercials for the “Ozzie and Harriet” show, but she soon moved into acting and got a number of small television roles on small shows, most notably as the elegant legs and inviting lips and mesmerizing eyes of an otherwise unseen answering service girl on “Richard Diamond, Private Detective.” She was reportedly turned down for the forgettable role of Danny Thomas’ daughter on the lame sit-com “Make Room For Daddy” because her perfectly upturned nose would have raised doubts about the famously well-schnozzled star’s paternity, which turned out to be a lucky break when she instead landed the plum role of the suburban housewife on the still-dazzling “Dick Van Dyke Show.” America got to see all of Moore’s top-to-bottom beauty in the program, along with the charming personality and comedic flair and undeniable intelligence and wide range of talent that went with it, and after that Moore was pretty much a permanent star.
This was right around the same time we were starting to notice women and all that, and Moore made an indelible impression on our impressionable minds. We were gobsmacked by the beauty and charm and flair and smarts and talent, and how nicely it was all packed into those capri pants and belly-revealing sweaters that became all the fashion back then and still look good on similar women even to this day, but we were also forewarned by the comedic genius of her portrayal of a perfect suburban housewife that even the best of women can be insecure and prone to cry and and shout “oh, Rob” and will occasionally put a dent into your beloved sports car. Re-watch some of those scenes on the late-night UHF re-runs and you’ll marvel at how brilliantly Moore played them for laughs, and how utterly appealing even her most flawed womanhood was.
After that Moore tried for the upper rung of movie stardom, but despite some memorable performances in some otherwise forgettable movies she wound up back in television, which was another lucky break because it resulted in the still-dazzling “Mary Tyler Moore Show.” Her first marriage to a salesman who was the father of her only child ended in divorce, she re-married a big-wig at 20th Century Fox, and although the marriage produced no children it did result in a production company that made some of the best television of the next several decades. Moore’s eponymous sit-com was the first of it, and would have made the partnership notable by itself.
The situation for the comedy was an unmarried woman in her  mid-30s trying to make a living as a producer for a low-rated television news program in frigid Minneapolis, with a lovably neurotic Jewish neighbor and a meddling Nordic landlady and a gruff-but-sweet editor and bored but droll news writer and inept yet arrogant news reader thrown into the mix, and if you’re up late enough to catch one of the re-runs that are still playing on the UHF channels you’ll still notice how well the cast of veterans from small roles in small shows pulled it off. Valerie Harper and Cloris Leachman were so good as the Jewish neighbor and Nordic landlady they had their own hit spin-offs, Ed Asner was so good as the gruff boss he had a popular and critically-acclaimed hour-long drama spin-off, and Ted Baxter’s pitch-perfect portrayal of the bumptious broadcaster landed him that unforgettable role in “Caddyshack.” Betty White also did such a good job exploiting her previous image as a television sweetheart a the man-hungry and amoral but almost convincingly sweetheart “Happy Homemaker” that she’s still a star even in her ’90s, but despite her willingness to assume a ensemble role Moore stood out.
At the time Moore was hailed as a feminist heroine, being 30-something and still unmarried and fighting for wage equality in the workplace and perhaps even having sex and all the rest of it that was still slightly cutting-edge in the ’70s, but she also continued to perfectly portray the insecurities and crying jags and the lament of not having a husband to cry out to and everything else you need to be forewarned about women, and it’s hard to imagine any feminist heroes of the moment being so universally desired by men. Moore never did embrace that feminist heroine status, and we’d like to think it’s because she didn’t like how it how it failed to appreciate the very subtle nuances of her performances, but her work in television gave women plenty of reason to be proud. Her subsequent attempts at name-in-the-title television were dull variety shows and mostly lame sit-coms that were short-lived and quickly forgotten, but the production company she’d formed with her husband gave birth to such excellent television-of-the-time as “The Bob Newhart Show” and “Newhart” and “WKRP in Cincinnati” and “Hill Street Blues,” and the talent they nurtured also led to such worthy entertainment as “The Simpsons,” which is still occasionally dazzling after 30-some years on the air. If you haven’t seen any of it don’t worry, it’s just TV, but at a time when everyone was watching TV it was as good as it got.
Moore continued to act on both the large and small screens until not along ago, and although her youthful beauty had aged her talents had ripened. She played an embittered mother who passively-aggressively tormented her son after the death of a favored sibling in “Ordinary People” with exquisite iciness, won Emmy Awards for made-for-TV roles as a breast cancer survivor and a Mary Todd Lincoln succumbing to mental illness, and the former comedic beauty was always undeniably good. We also liked that she was almost always quite reserved about her private life and political opinions, but it leaked out that the sunny sweetheart who could turn the world on with her smile and make a nothing day suddenly seem worthwhile had endured a harsh girlhood with two alcoholic parents, suffered the death of her only child due to a gun accident caused by a manufacturing glitch, endured the deaths of both of her husbands, fought her own alcoholism and childhood demons and diabetes and other health problems throughout her life, and did so with an interview-denying dignity that is all too rare these days. You can sense something of it from almost every moment she spent on screen, and everything else she poured into her other projects, but the laughs that she and the rest of the world of got from it are the most of what remains.
We’ll be needing some of that sunniness and spunk and best sort of feminism in the coming days, and we’re grateful that it will still be showing up on the late night UHF channels for a while, and we hope Laura Petrie and Mary Richards and all the other beguiling creations of Mary Tyler Moore will rest in peace.

— Bud Norman

Justice Antonin Scalia, RIP

There is supposed to be no such thing as an irreplaceable man in a constitutional republic, where the rule of law and the God-given rights of the people are supposed to persist through the passing of the generations, but the death of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia on Saturday at the too-young age of 79 will sorely test that dubious proposition.
One of the greatest jurists in American history, Scalia’s long career was devoted to defending the rule of law and the God-given rights of the people by insisting on the plain language and clear meaning of the Constitution. He did so when the Constitution favored liberal interests, he did so when the law and the Constitution favored conservative interests, and he most notably did it even went it against the prevailing tides of fickle public opinion that the Constitution was always intended to thwart. More importantly, he did it with a rare steadfastness and even rarer brilliance that in crucial moments that enabled his originalist theory of the Constitution to prevail over the idea that a mere five black-robed justices should be able to impose their beliefs on the other 300 million or so of the country no matter what the framers wrote or the states ratified or the people have long understood was the binding agreement.
Scalia was not only a decisive vote but also the the author of the very persuasive decision in Heller v. District of Columbia, which found that the Second Amendment’s guarantee of a right to keep and bear arms does indeed mean just that, even for the average schmuck who might need to defend his home and not just for a “well-regulated militia” that the left would happily regulate out of existence. He was a key voice in that Citizens United decision that all the Democrats and even some of the dimmer Republicans are still noisily insisting be overturned, and he wrote the far more persuasive concurring opinion, and all those soft-headed Bernie Sanders fans who share his indignation about it should know that its plain-meaning reading of the First Amendment basically said the government doesn’t have the right to exercise prior restraint of speech critical of Hillary Clinton or any other candidate of either party or any ideological persuasion, and that none of us would have a meaningful First Amendment without it. On every other occasion he was a reliable vote for whatever law had been passed by the people’s legislature and signed and by their duly-elected president which was not clearly in violation of the basic individual rights defined by the plain language of the Constitution, even if it was some dumb-ass law he and another four wised-up and black-robed jurists would have never voted for.
Even on those all-too-often occasion’s when Scalia insistence on the rule of law and the God-given rights of the people did not prevail, he wrote such brilliantly dissenting opinions that he will no doubt be quoted in some inevitable upcoming challenge, so he might yet prevail posthumously. His dissent in the Obergfel v. Hodges decision that legalized same-sex marriage will no doubt be cited in the countless forthcoming sentences against any bakers and photographers and churches who don’t want to participate in a same-sex wedding ceremony, so there’s hope that Scalia’s legacy will persist. There were enough times when Scalia thwarted George W. Bush and there’s some residual bipartisan spirits that obliges the likes of President Barack Obama and House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi to pay him some lip service, and the press is being strangely respectful, and Scalia has earned his moment of national respect.
The petty politics immediately intrude, though, and there’s the legally-required matter of how to replace such an irreplaceable man. While we hate to presume what such a more learned jurist as Scalia might opine, our reading of the plain language in the Constitution suggests that Obama has every constitutional right to name an appointee at a time of his choosing, the Senate has every constitutional right to ignore it at its own leisure, and our guess is that Scalia wouldn’t mind a bit if the inevitably messy fight stretched out noisily into the next presidency. If the next president is Sanders or the soon-to-be-constitutionally-protected-from-criticism Clinton, a lot of those 5-4 decisions from the good old days of the plain meaning the Constitution will suddenly mean that the the First Amendment doesn’t allow criticism of public officials and the Second Amendment doesn’t guarantee a right to keep and bear arms, and the rest of the Constitution will mean whatever five black-robed jurists and fickle pubic opinion think it ought to mean. At the moment the the front-runner for the Republican nomination has mentioned his sister, who authored a soon-to-be-overturned opinion finding a right to late-term abortion, would make a “phenomenal” Supreme Court Justice, and who joined in a ridiculous politically-correct outcry that Scalia was racist for questioning the effect that affirmative action admission policies at universities have on its supposed beneficiaries, and although the rest of the field are making more reasonable suggestions their party doesn’t have a good track record of lately finding jurists such as the Reagan-appointed Scalia. Our guess is that the even the most weak-kneed Republicans won’t dare allow a lame duck appointment, and after a respectful moment or two the Democrats will revert to screaming about censoring anti-Democrat speech and compelling same-sex-wedding-cake-baking laws, and that there’s no guessing how that might come out. So far even the squishiest Republicans are digging in their heels, Obama has backed off a recess appointment, and we don’t think there’s much sentiment in of the recently outraged parties for a new Supreme Court Justice to ban anti-Hillary Clinton speech and repeal gun rights and whatever else five black-robed justices might come up with, so we’ll hold out hope.
Such petty politics aside, we’ll also take a moment to note that by all accounts Scalia was a good man. He was a devoted husband for 56 years, beloved father to nine children, and was such a remarkably genial gentleman that he even maintained a famously affectionate relationship with his constant nemesis Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. He once spoke at the high school graduation ceremony of one of his many grandchildren, and we think he spoke best for himself when he urged them “not just to be zealous in in the pursuit of your ideals, but to be sure that your ideals are the right ones. That is perhaps the hardest part of being a good human being. Good intentions are not enough. Being a good person begins with being a wise person. Then, when you follow your conscience, you will be headed in the right direction.”
We pray that Justice Scalia’s wisdom has led him in the direction to eternal peace, after so many years of toil on this troublesome earth, and that somehow the rule of the law and the God-given rights of the people it is meant to protect will persist through the passing of the generations.

— Bud Norman


The wife of our old friend J.B. has recently updated his Facebook status to “dead,” and although you’re unlikely to have ever heard of him we think his passing is worth noting. J.B. was one of those American boys who went off to fight a war in Vietnam and never really came back, and between his rough and rowdy ways and his exquisitely sensitive soul he was something of a local legend around here, and he was another small but important piece of a more ruggedly individualistic America that seems to be slipping away.
It took years of beery and heartfelt conversations before we found out that his name was actually Gerald Brown. Even in the tough south side neighborhood where he grew up no one would dare call him by such an inappropriately refined moniker as “Gerald,” however, although he would tolerate the less pretentious “Jerry” from a select group of childhood chums, and most of the rest of us acceded to his preference for J.B., which somehow seemed most apt for such an colorfully abbreviated character. To an even more select group of friends that he served with in Vietnam he was “Rap” Brown, which had nothing do with the black nationalist leader H. “Rap” Brown, whom our south side white boy friend hadn’t even heard of at the time, and instead was earned by how well he “rapped” on the radio when calling in an airstrike. It took many more years of beery and heartfelt conversations before he divulged that to us, though, and even then we were warned to keep calling him J.B.
Those conversations started when he was owner of The Spot Recreation Center, a notorious dive that just happened to be located exactly halfway between the newspaper where we toiled and the cheap apartment where we resided. The Spot had a pool table and a shuffleboard table and a straight-out-of-a-western-movie bar and an authentic dive flavor, and drew its clientele from the more disgruntled downtown office workers and neighborhood derelicts and local biker gangs, and the chili and the burgers were the greasiest in town, and it regularly booked such spectacular rockabilly acts as Sleepy LaBeef and The LeRoi Brothers, and there was this very attractive barmaid who sometimes wore the most provocative attire, and it was quite conveniently located, so we spent enough time there to strike up an acquaintance with the proprietor. We enjoyed his ribald sense of humor, admired the way he kept a watchful eye out for that attractive barmaid in the provocative attire, and we weren’t the least intimidated by his unmistakeable aura of danger.
J.B. wasn’t a big man, and in fact was several inches shorter than ourselves and possessed of a physique that can most charitably described as wiry, and he had a lot of years and even more miles on him, but anyone with a modicum of street smarts would have immediately  recognized that he was not someone to be messed with. We hadn’t the slightest desire mess with him, of course, and his far superior street smarts immediately recognized this, and he wasn’t the type to menace such friendly types, and he seemed to enjoy our highfalutin conversations about the latest events, and thus we gradually became friends. Eventually he even asked us to write about his war.
J.B. freely admitted he only went to war because he was drafted, not being the sort of guy who could swing an educational deferment, but once he was dragged in he went full hog. He volunteered for paratrooper and Ranger duty and anything in the worst of it. There was a certain exhilaration in his war stories, but also a horror, and he had a drawer full of snapshots that confirmed the worst accusations about America’s behavior in the war, and first-hand accounts that the enemy had behaved at least as badly, and this rough and rowdy man confirmed to us that war truly is hell. He had stories about his jeered return to civilian life, too, still too young to drink in the bar he would later run, and it was always obvious to us that his war had never ended.
We did our best to write that story for the newspaper where we toiled, and we can’t say it did our career any good. Some readers objected to our sympathetic portrayal of such a rough and rowdy fellow, who had done a little time in prison on a rap involving some fraud scheme or another, and who ran a notorious dive just east of downtown, and who was known as someone not to be trifled with, but we still wonder what sort of men they expect to fight their country’s battles. The story also  raised some money for a charity that helped Vietnam veterans by taking them back to their battlefields to find healing, we proudly note, and  J.B. was one of those veterans who took the trip. He wound up moving to Vietnam several decades ago and spent most of the rest of his life there.
After a couple of marriages we know of, one of them with a woman we thought quite sound, he wound up marrying a much-younger Vietnamese woman, who was kind enough to send news of his recent illness and ultimate death, and that’s pretty much all we know about the intervening years.
An occasional e-mail or Facebook posting from “Rap” Brown would invite us to join him for a vacation in Vietnam, where he promised all manner of carnal delight and other great deals on the Yankee dollar, but that was about all we heard of him the past couple of decades. He was going by the name of “Rap” Brown at that point, having decided to fully embrace his nom de guerre, but we’ll still think of him as J.B. We rather liked that south side kid who wasn’t  to be messed with, and we can’t be sure that he was ever really reconciled with his war, so we choose to remember all the spectacular rockabilly and the fine  friendship and the greasy chili and our pal J.B.

— Bud Norman

Yogi Berra, RIP

Although we rarely comment about sports, even on those all-too-frequent occasions when it spills over into the political news, we do try to take note of matters of importance to the broader American culture. The death of New York Yankee legend Yogi Berra, therefore, demands respectful mention.
Berra was, by consensus of expert opinion, one of the very best to ever play America’s pastime, and by objective measure he was he one of the most successful athletes in the entire history of American professional team sports. By all accounts he was also a man of high moral character, who bravely served his country in war and was devoted to his wife from their courtship until her death and played the game by the strictest standards of sportsmanship and spent 70 years in the public eye without a hint of any scandal. Somehow, though, he is best remembered as a funny-looking guy who said things funny. Add it all up, and he was one of those all-too-infrequent characters who enriched the American scene by pure American individualism.
You wouldn’t have known it by looking at his short, squat, graceless body, but a glance at Berra’s numbers makes clear that he could play some serious ball. You can look it up, as they like to say in baseball. He was a three-time Most Valuable Player, finished in the top four in MVP voting four other times, was an 18-time All-Star,  smacked 358 homers and batted in 1,430 runs, and as a catcher he earned a reputation as the best friend a pitcher ever had, among many other notable individual accomplishments. What his teams accomplished with him behind the plate was even more impressive, as The New York Yankees played in 14 World Series, won ten of them, and were almost always in contention. Those teams were loaded with such all-time talents as Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, to be sure, but there were seven seasons when Berra led the team in RBI and never a time when even his more heralded teammates didn’t acknowledge that he was the most essential Yankee. All those World Series appearances allowed Berra to set seemingly unbreakable “Fall Classic” records for games played and at-bats and hits and RBI and doubles, not to mention the perfect game he caught from journeyman pitcher Don Larsen, and he trails only Mantle and Babe Ruth for most home runs hit in October. In American professional sports history, the ten championships he won are surpassed only by the 11 that Bill Russell won with the Boston Celtics in the National Basketball Association and Henri Richard won with the Montreal Canadiens in the National Hockey League, and both of those guys also played on teams laden with all-time talent.
The New York Yankees’ many years of dominance, which had begun even before Berra arrived, with his mentor Bill Dickey manning the plate, made the team so hated everywhere outside the five boroughs that they became better known as The Damn Yankees. Berra, though, was such a appealing fellow that even a Boston Red Sox fan found it hard to work up a mild dislike for him. It helped that he wasn’t a handsome hunk who was always being photographed at a  swank nightclub with a couple of hotties hanging on his arms, like DiMaggio or Mantle, but was instead going home to his beloved and equally plain wife in a simple place in New Jersey that he described as “nothing but rooms.” He didn’t like to talk about his years in the Navy, which included hazardous duty just a hundred yards off Omaha Beach on D-Day, but the stories got out and enhanced the good guy reputation he so earnestly earned on the field. Teammates and opponents alike vouched for the quality of the man, and so far as we know no one ever disputed it over the many decades he spent in baseball as a coach, manager, and goodwill ambassador of the game.
Despite all that, the first thing people think of when Berra’s name is invoked are all the “Yogi-isms,” and the inadvertently comic character they created. A “Yogi-ism” is something that Berra would blurt out which makes no sense at all if parsed according to the rules of the English language, but makes perfect and often profound sense if you hear them the way he meant to say it. The brilliantly redundant “It ain’t over ’til it’s over” and “It’s deja vu all over again” are now part of the popular lexicon, and his observations that “baseball is 90 percent mental, the other half is physical” and “in baseball you don’t know nothing” are probably the most oft-cited explanations of the seemingly complicated game. Another record that Berra holds is the most citations in Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations of any athlete, and we note that he also has more than any living president. Some of Berra’s gems are less well-known, but prove to us that Berra truly was a sort of Yogi. His advice that “You should always go to other people’s funerals, or they won’t go to yours,” and that “If you don’t know where you’re going, you might wind up someplace else,” and “If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be,” and “You can observe a lot by watching,” or that line about “When you reach a fork in the road, take it,” which is by now a staple of college commencement speeches, all strike us as more eloquently deep than anything Shakespeare could think of for Polonius to tell Laertes. Berra always insisted such philosophical malapropisms simply fell out of his funny-looking face, and he titled his autobiography “I Really Didn’t Say Everything I Said,” but they’ll probably be what ensures his place in American mythology next to Mike Fink and Huck Finn and Mr. Dooley and all those other quotable fictional characters.
Berra became such a myth that one must take care to sadly note the passing of the man, and of the better era of baseball and America from whence he came. A more careful observer of the current sporting scene notes that the San Francisco Giants’ Buster Posey is widely regarded as the best catcher of this day, and that he needs to triple his numbers to approach Berra’s achievements. Nor do we note anyone in professional sports who can boast of Berra’s military record or exemplary personal life or stellar reputation as one of the good guys, and if there were someone who could he probably would boast of it, which Berra never did. Baseball still offers such stellar wits as Bob Uecker and John Kruk, and something about the way the game forces even its greatest players to constantly confront failure ensures that it will always have the best sense of humor, but it just doesn’t seem to fall right out of their funny-looking faces with the same profundity.
Yogi Berra was the kind of guy who went to other people’s funerals, so we’re sure that they’ll all go to his, and he lived 90 years in a world that wouldn’t have been more perfect even if it had been perfect, and he won ten World Series, and in this imperfect world he got to lose four of them, and he was always in contention, and he spent the rest of his life in the game he loved and most of it with the woman he loved, and he wasn’t the sort to complain, so we’ll take comfort in that. When his wife once asked if he’d like to be buried in St Louis, where he grew up in an Italian slum, or New York City, where he became a legend, or New Jersey, where he quietly lived most of his life in that house full of nothing but rooms, Berra reportedly told her, “Surprise me.” Wherever that short, squat, graceless, and yet three-times most valuable body ends up, we hope and pray that his spirit is at long last safe at home. And we hold out faint hope that we’ll see the likes of him again.

— Bud Norman

Mickey Rooney, RIP

Mickey Rooney died Sunday at the ripe old age of 93, ending one of the longest and most impressive careers in the history of American show business, and thus ends an era of American popular culture.
That era actually ended so long ago that Rooney’s death has been relegated to a few inches deep inside most newspapers, while the golden age of entertainment he exemplified is now seen only on the cable channels devoted to the old-fashioned movie buffs or the late-late-shows of the cheaper UHF stations. Those who do chance upon Rooney’s better efforts will likely find it a bittersweet experience, as it provides a stark reminder of our society’s decline.
Rooney started in show-biz way back in the vaudeville days, when he debuted as a 17-month-old in his parent’s hard-luck burlesque act, and he was a seasoned pro by the time he made his first move at the age of 6. As an example of his natural talent and precocious polish we recommend the 1935 production of “A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.” It’s a slick Hollywood take on Shakespeare that stars Olivia de Havilland and Dick Powell and Victor Jory and all the high-toned stars you’d expect to see in a silver-screen Shakespearean epic, but the stand-out performances are James Cagney’s cocky turn as Billy Bottom and Rooney’s perfectly nasty portrayal of the supernaturally mischievous Puck. Such talent kept Rooney busy at the studios in a wide variety of roles for the next several years, including such notable flicks as “Captains Courageous” and “Ah, Wilderness,” and by the end of the decade he was arguably the biggest star in pictures.
The persona that made Rooney so popular was far from the evil sprite of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” however, and instead expressed the squeaky-clean earnestness of the era when America was coming out of the Great Depression and into World War II. He was the titular character of the hugely popular “Andy Hardy” series, about an all-American boy in an all-American small town, and co-starred with all-American girl Judy Garland in a number of wholesome musicals about all-Americans kids putting on a show in somebody’s suspiciously opulent barn. He got to revive his earlier tough-kid persona in “Boys Town,” opposite Spencer Tracy as the saintly Father Flanagan, but by the final reel he had reverted to suitably endearing form.
At the height of his box-office popularity Rooney went off help out with World War II, and by all accounts his service was brave and distinguished. Originally turned down for duty because of health problems, he joined the USO to entertain the troops until he was allowed to enlist, then continued to entertain his fellow soldiers on makeshift stages built atop jeeps in between battles. He declined to draw any attention to his war record when he returned to Hollywood, and although he retained his popularity for a while he soon found himself struggling to maintain his career in a rapidly changing world.
Part of the problem was that Rooney was now too old for the wholesome lad roles that had once been his specialty, and the barely-five-foot-tall actor was attempting to play prize fighters and race car drivers and other grown-up variations on the tough kids of his earlier career. By the mid-’50s the movies were taking a turn toward film noir and gritty-but-preachy social justice screeds, and by the early ’60s Rooney’s Andy Hardy character and the let’s-put-on-a-show wholesomeness of his musicals was slightly embarrassing to a properly hip movie-goer.
Rooney’s career probably would have ended there if not for his formidable talent, which enabled him to play a variety of character roles with convincing ease. He was one of the slightly disreputable characters chasing after a hidden treasure in the brilliant “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World,” a nosy Japanese neighbor in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” a gambling-addicted soldier in “The Bold and the Brave,” and countless other roles in movies and television programs ranging from outstanding to downright awful. The former kid actor proved adept at old-man roles in the ’70s, earning him praise as a horse trainer in “Black Beauty” and an Emmy Award as the mentally-challenged “Bill” on a television movie of the same name, but he never regained his superstar status or quite shook the lingering image of good old Andy Hardy.

<div-style=”text-indent:20px;>Rooney got some revenge in the ’80s, when he applied his still-strong talents for piano playing, singing, dancing, and stand-up comedy in the hit Broadway revue “Sugar Babies.” With co-star Ann Miller, who had been the top-billed star of B musicals at Columbia before moving on to second-billed roles in the A+ musicals at MGM back in the ’40s and ’50s, the show went on the road for years and routinely out-drew such rock ‘n’ roll acts as the Rolling Stones. There was still a gray-haired audience for old-fashioned entertainment, and it had the disposable income for the tickets, and even the grumpiest critics acknowledged it had a certain charm. Despite all the money he made from “Sugar Babies,” Rooney continued to work in small roles in such big-budget pictures as “Night at the Museum” and then take to the road to play dinner theaters in mid-sized cities. He was well into his 80s when he played a second-rate venue here in Wichita, which afforded us the opportunity to interview him, and although he was rather cranky at that early-morning appointment he gave an energetic and well-received performance.

According to the obituary writers Rooney found religion and a lasting marriage and some peace with himself in his later years, a marked change from the eight-times divorced life of debauchery that had characterized his earlier days, and we’d like to think his early roles had helped prepare him for the part. All those marriages and the seamier sorts of legends have often been cited as proof of the phoniness of those all-American movies that once made Rooney the biggest star in movies, and that whole era now seems uncomfortably cornball to a properly jaded modern perspective, with Andy Hardy and “let’s put on a show” reduced punchlines in the ironically detached hipster humor, and Father Flanagan and “Boy’s Town” are deconstructed by the post-modernist critics for any subtle signs of pedophilia or some other darkness lurking beneath the surface, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity of those pictures. That’s part of the problem, of course, as sincerity is another one of those cornball qualities that offend the modern sensibility.
Call it progress if you want, but we have our doubts. In an age when “reality” stars become celebrities without any noticeable talents, it’s sobering to look back at an age when a singing, dancing, piano-playing, joke-telling actor who could play anything from Shakespeare to slapstick was what Hollywood was looking for. That gosh-golly gee-willikers enthusiasm of those great Rooney-Garland pictures and the Andy Hardy series got America through the Great Depression and whipped the Axis, whatever else you might say about it, and it’s hard to imagine that ironic hipster detachment that has replaced it will work as well in the coming challenges.

— Bud Norman

About the Author

Our longtime friend Jake Euker died Friday at the tragically young age of 50, a victim of pneumonia and the way life works out sometimes.

Jake was an outstanding writer and a first rate wit, an astute reader, movie-watcher and music-listener, always meticulously careful with the English language and dangerously reckless with his own well-being, and he was an effortlessly strange fellow and an invaluable contributor to the cultural life of an old-fashioned prairie community that he so dearly and inexplicably loved.

More importantly, Jake was a good friend. For more than 30 years he provided us with hearty laughs and wild times whenever possible, and was a source of sympathy and compassion whenever necessary.

To tell a little more about his remarkable life, and with hopes that he wouldn’t mind, we proudly publish the following autobiographical sketch that Jake shared with us many years ago:


Jake Euker was born and raised in Hutchinson, Kansas. He relocated to New York City at age thirteen, where he attended law school at Fordham University. He left school two years later to pursue his passion for poetry, a quest that resulted in the publication of his first collection, Things I Left Up to My Mom, in 1980, when the author was only sixteen years old, and the Pulitzer Prize-winning Adventures With Sticky later that same year. Adventures With Sticky was also selected as a Brandeis University Creative Arts Citation in Poetry finalist. Mr. Euker’s subsequent poems appeared in The Atlantic, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, Grand Street, The Selected Writings of Guillame Apollonaire and the film “Top Gun.” His poem “Photo of Nut Trees” was included in the Best Short Stories 1981 anthology, an honor rarely accorded verse.

Mr. Euker entered Yale as a freshman in 1983, graduating from Harvard summa cum laude only eighteen months later. Upon graduation he was the recipient of the Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship and the Henfield/Transatlantic Review Award. In 1984, at age seventeen, Mr. Euker underwent a much-publicized sex change operation, becoming a twenty-nine-year-old woman named Phyllis who never really trusted her mom. The move won Ms. Euker the coveted Orlando Life Achievement Prize. Influenced by such works as Nancy Friday’s My Mother/My Self, Ms. Euker became a visual artist and spent the next seven months in isolation, brooding. She developed a passion for romance novels and, subsequently, men nine to twelve years older than herself who were always wealthy and handsome, and often tall. These men were given to volatile moodiness, while remaining very loving and tender, and usually had British-sounding or compound last names. Ms. Euker’s lifestyle during this period won her the “Like a Virgin” Award for Wicked Immorality and, conversely, the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. It was also this period that produced the now-legendary “Hero” series of canvasses, paintings which later provided the substance of the infamous 1985 opening at the Leo Castelli Gallery in Manhattan’s Soho district, and for which — despite popular belief — no formal charges were ever brought against Ms. Euker herself. Her romance novels of this period, written under the name July Prentiss, have sold over seventeen million copies and have been translated into most known tongues. Autumn and Forgiveness, her last romance, was selected by NASA for inclusion in its American Tribute ™ Intergalactic Culture Capsule, slated for launch in 1991.

In 1985 Ms. Euker was made a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire — an unheard of honor for a transsexual Kansas native — and two weeks later underwent a second sex change, this time becoming a man. The author’s hospital visitors included such luminaries as Michael Jackson, Congresswoman Pat Schroeder of Colorado, Mother Teresa, Season Hubley and Queen Elizabeth II. After recovery, Mr. Euker eschewed what he called the “visualness” of painting, renounced his own works, and became a stage actor, making his first appearance as Pendel in an off-off-Broadway production of “Grrt.” In 1986 he appeared on Broadway as Lew in “Hispanic Beefcake,” a role that demanded grueling physical training and for which he won glowing reviews, a Tony nomination and a place in the top 10 finalists in the Mr. Universe competition of that year. It was while touring Europe with “Hispanic Beefcake” that Mr. Euker met his future wife, journalist June Carter Cash; the two were married in 1987, and later that year collaborated on the film “Candy’s Favorite,” for which Mr. Euker won Best Supporting Actor and Best Director Oscars. The couple’s only child, Joshua, was born that year as well, and was subsequently named Best Infant of 1989. The marriage ended in excellence shortly thereafter, and Mr. Euker went on to direct “Patience, Patience,” “Speedtrap!” (Palme d’Or, Cannes), “Blue Velvet” and “Because …”

Mr. Euker’s most recent works have explored the kind of uniquely diverse experience that his own full life best characterizes. His radical approach to narrative — especially in Light in August and Sanctuary — promises to expand the scope and function of “literature” as it is traditionally known. Norman Mailer, in his review of Sanctuary, called Mr. Euker “the one true voice of his generation, explosively so … The future of fiction,” Mr. Mailer continued, “is clearly encompassed within the broad confines of Jake Euker’s fertile mind.” The author’s current projects include guest hosting “The Tonight Show” and completion of a medical degree. He is currently sixteen all over again, and lives in a treehouse Downtown.


Rest in peace, Jake. You live on in a treehouse in the downtown of our memories.

— Bud Norman