Part One
The year
past, 2016, was not a pleasant 366 days, especially for many celebrities. It
appeared as if they were dropping like flies. It's all relative, as death
constantly circles us throughout our lives. We are rarely aware of that fact.
We do not recognize our own mortality until something rings true, reminding us
of this very thing. Last year was more like in your face with all this death.
The constant prompting by forces unknown, taking this one and that one, made
2016 the year of the dead end. So many famous people passed, right before our
very eyes. The list is rather grand, considering. I cannot remember a year
filled with so many renowned expiry dates. We can't take it with us, and
apparently, neither can the well known and well off. This cascade of doom can act
as an admonisher, duly noting that everyone loses everything when our time is
up. No one can escape it. It doesn't matter who you are, in the end we all meet
our dead end.
From Pat
Harrington, star of One Day at a Time,
who died January 6th, to William Christopher, Father Mulcahy on MASH, who died December 31st,
the year signalled a different kind of commemoration. Every other day or so (it
most certainly seemed), another famous, sometimes infamous, soul would leave it
all behind. Mass media and social platforms carried each passing as if a digital
epitaph, an almost engraved memorial with an almost instant gratification of
sorts. It was a strange mosaic. So many famous faces flashed before us in a
seemingly endless display of mortality. Each familiar name blended with sound
bites and clips of their legacy. It seemed a constant throughout the year. It
was perpetual, a daily harbinger of what was yet to become. Not since the death
of Whitney Houston on February 11th, 2012 have so many voices cried
out in such a song of grief and sorrow. Each obituary found yet another soul
added to the pile that was 2016. How sad that we need help recognizing the
futility of living. All these dead icons only act, or at least should act, like
a warning signal to our very own demise. The rest of us do not leave in such a
grand display.
It was like
pulling quills after a porcupine attack or ridding oneself of the stink after
you get sprayed by a skunk. Nothing could stop the lasting effect. You just couldn't
escape it. David Bowie died on January 10th and the world began to
take notice. It was like Jesus had died. It was everywhere, people sobbing,
memorials building, tributes layering on top of each other with no end in
sight. Harper Lee died, author of To Kill
a Mockingbird, one of my favourite books, and I started to take notice.
When Bowie
passed, I could not have cared less. Sure, he had a few songs I danced to in
the 80s. He even touched my life back in 1977, as I sat watching him and Bing
Crosby deliver, for the first time, the now classic Peace on Earth/The Little Drummer Boy. It was clear that his death
touched many in the most intimate of ways. You could sense their pain as they
publicly displayed their affection. The entire event was a harbinger of what
was to come and who was to go. When Harper Lee died, the world did not cry out
in the same manner. I did. The event was a little like losing a pet or your
first love. She had been with me ever since I was a boy and despite the sequel
to Mockingbird, Go Set a Watchman, my favour never waned. Her death affected me,
not deeply, but enough to notice.
A few days
after the death of Bowie ,
British actor Alan Rickman did not leave us with a "yippy ki-yay
motherfucker." As with so many of us mere humans, the cancer did its best
and won the race. It was at this point that I began to wonder just what the
hell was going on. The next day Dan Haggerty, best known as Grizzly Adams, lost his battle with
cancer of the spine. In the 1970s, I watched that show for its entirety, using
the theme song Maybe as a way of
collaborating with my Mother (who accompanied me) and as a mainstay in my
repertoire at the time. This demise chiseled away at my grief, a reminder of my
Mom and losing her just years before. It was a lamppost, a lighthouse, a beacon
that reactivated my sadness (not that it needed any help). It churned it all
up, stirring the pot. On my sister's birthday, January 18th, the pot
boiled over and spilled more doom. Glenn Frey's death convinced us all of this
new precedent. All over the internet, on every television channel, in print and
on radio, the cries of a dying generation venerated the former Eagles band member. It seemed that Jesus
had died all over again. Voices cried out into the night and relief failed to
come in the morning.
Apparently,
Abe Vigoda (Barney Miller), who died
at age 94 on January 26th, was simply an afterthought, a
transitional departure, a moment of reflection post a grand event. The world
barely noticed, or had enough space to, but I did. Like with dominoes, the die
was cast. It seemed to start and then to cascade like so many games of chance
do. The world had awakened to a new reality, one we should have
recognized years before. It doesn't matter who you are, how much money or fame
you have, you are going to die just like the rest of us. The victims just kept
coming. I suppose it was specifically the revelation of her Bi-Polar condition
that attracted me to Patty Duke. I had watched her in black and white when I
was a kid but her disclosure finally gave me someone I could look to, a face
rather than mere words. I then realized that I was not alone, I was not the
only one. This moment overshadowed the passing of Garry Shandling just days
before. I barely noted this one more name to a list from hell. I didn't really
appreciate him anyway. His death was not funny, just like him.
Whether it
was the loss of Merle Haggard, the end of Joan Marie Laurer (Chyna), or the final bow for Frank Sinatra Jr., the toll seemed to
never end. If God determines time of death, He went on a rampage against the
rich and famous. Hell, you didn't have to be rich and famous, just one would
do. It appeared the Lord of mercy was culling anyone who might have stepped in
his way. When Prince died of an apparent drug overdose on April 21st, the world seemed to stop in its
tracks, if even for the briefest of moments. This monumental event for many seemed
to awaken a sense of defeat in us all. God kills and we take it personally, not
that we have much of a choice. The wallowing went on and on as if the man had
been lost to the very image his long career had garnished. The world stood
shocked and less than amused by this turn of events. This time round, Jesus had
OD'd. I barely noticed all the flowers and the memorials and the shrines that
grew larger each day after. My sadness had been captured on April 17th
with the passing of Doris Roberts. I remember quite well watching her play Mildred
Krebs on Remington Steele. I loved
her from the moment I was exposed to her. Her role as Frances (Ellen's mother) in
National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation continues to make me laugh out loud. Her
death made me shed a tear or two, the first time and only time throughout the
year. It was her role as Marie Barone on Everybody
Loves Raymond that cemented the fondness I have always carried for her. Her
death saddened me, moved me. It was as if I had lost a long lost friend, a
kindred spirit that I didn't even know. It seems so strange to me, the
affection we have for many of the characters we discover in the entertainment
world. In a sense, our continuing exposure only deepens the suffering we
already know from our daily lives. They become part of us and losing one, or
more, or even more, initially hurts as if losing someone we know. For some, it
hurts even more.
There is
nothing sadder than someone dying in a manner that seems to have come before
their time. These people we remember for the event itself, but far more of our
attention fades with the passing of each life sentence. In fact, we all have an
expiration date. Some deaths just seem more natural than others. Morley Safer,
front man for 60 Minutes, died at the
age of 84. Garry Marshall, director of many films including Pretty Woman, died at the age of 81. Zsa
Zsa Gabor, well known diva and actress, finally died at the ripe old age of 99.
Death doesn't seem as tragic when the late person led a full life. When
children die it seems such a waste, but when the aged pass we don't sigh to the
same degree. Their end may be sad. It might even be a tragedy, but with that
end we add things like, "They had a long life" or "I hope I can
last that long."
If you pay
attention to such things, life itself is a dichotomy. Just through the act of
living, we are dying (tick tock, tick tock). Everyone will inevitably, and
eventually, meet their dead end. Every green banana will ripen and turn to
mush. Time goes by and so does our existence. We are often quite blinded to
this fact. The doldrums of our everyday can be deadening in and of themselves.
Like going bald, you just get used to it. As you go through your daily life,
you forget what's coming. You don't realize that your very moment could be now.
Most times, it comes without our awareness. How lovely that life has a way of
constantly reminding us. No matter who you are. No matter your lot in life. You
are doomed. It is by example that we find ourselves forewarned.
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