Bobby Fischer died yesterday, in Iceland. He was 64.

In these days and times where, if you wait long enough, every mystery is solved (I still can’t believe I know who Deep Throat is?!), I simply assumed he would show his face in the States. Perhaps have some fun, showing off at a random park amidst the patzers.

Alas.

I still love that movie. I try to use the line “you’ve lost, you just don’t know it yet” every chance I get (which, admittedly, is not that often).

I had absolutely no idea that Aaron Spelling produced Starsky and Hutch, Charlie’s Angels, The Love Boat, Hart to Hart, Dynasty, T.J. Hooker, and Twin Peaks (among other things).  I only knew about Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place.

Richard Pryor died today.

What blows my mind about Richard is that when you listen to much of his material, it doesn’t sound all that different from the likes of Chris Rock or a Eddie Murphy. Then it dawns on you. He was talking about having sex with white women on stage in the early 1970s! That was less than a decade after the death of Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and John F. Kennedy. It was less than a decade after the Supreme Court ruled in Loving v. Virginia that anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional. I read somewhere that Pryor was the Malcom to Dick Gregory’s Martin. I haven’t had any exposure to Gregory’s work, but I can see where the Malcolm reference is apropos. Pryor’s routines must have scared the bejesus out of some white folks at the time. When viewed in that context, Pryor’s material was truly political (and revolutionary).

Later tonight, I am going to dust off my copy of the Bicentennial Nigger LP, pore a glass of bourbon over ice, and spend some time with Mr. Pryor.

Rest in Peace Richard.

Update: I really hope that they do a tribute show for Pryor. The talent that would line up for that show might be unmatched in history.

One of my favorite songs of all time is a Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton collabo entitled Sign Language. In the second verse Dylan sings:

Link Wray was playing on a jukebox, I was paying
For the words I was saying, so misunderstood.
He didn’t do me no good.

One would think that if Dylan mentions another artist in a song, he is probably worth checking out. Oddly, I never did. Sign Language is on my mind because apparently Link Wray died this month in Denmark. I think it is about time I check out his music.

The poet, Lucie Brock-Broido, came and taught my poetry class at Amherst one day back in 1997. She read this poem and I rushed to the store and bought her book that very same day. For some reason, looking at the Roster of the Dead^[1] yesterday in the New York Times brought this poem back to the forefront of my mind. Of course, this poem and the war are not related, but of course, that is how the mind often works.

Did Not Come Back
By Lucie Brock-Broido

In the roan hour between then & then again, the now, in the Babel
Of a sorrel ship gone horizontal to a prow of night, the breach of owls
Abducted by broad light, but blind, in the crime, the titanesque of rare
Assault–we who have come back–petitioning, from the chair
Electric with bad news, from the stunning, from the narrows
Of an evening gall, from the mooring of an hour slanted on the follow
Bow, she rose from a bed of Ireland like a flyted trout, a shiny
Marvel on the sailor’s deck, an apologia–divining–
As once, as at a salted empire port, he washed
Her fleeted body & they lied, the best of them, the cream & crush
Of this, the madrigal & sacrifice of that, the best of them,
The slowest velvet suffocation of their kind, did not come
Whittled back by autumn, at an hour between thorn & chaff,
Not come riddled with oblivion, the crossing & a shepherd’s staff,
The moment between Have & Shall Not Want, we who have salt
Always know, that we who have–the best of us–did not come back.

=-=-=-=-=-=-
The Roster of the Dead in the print edition was stunning in its breadth. Printed on several pages were the photos of the just under 1000 soldiers that have died since September 2005. That is almost half the total of all soldiers killed since the beggining of the war…

August Wilson died today. His Joe Turner’s Come and Gone singlehandedly got me into reading plays when I was in college. His 10-play cycle exploring the 20th century black experience, decade by decade, is truly a stunning work of art. I have seen a handful of his plays and read a few more. I plan to see them all (production schedules permitting). My favorite, to date, was a revival of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, starring Whoopi Goldberg and Charles S. Dutton.

Pick a play. Read it. They are wonderful.

Radio Golf (2005)

Gem of the Ocean (2004)

King Hedley II (2001)

Jitney (2000)

Seven Guitars (1996)

Two Trains Running (1992)

The Piano Lesson (1990)

Joe Turner’s Come and Gone (1988)

Fences (1987)

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (1984)

I just realized that my favorite comic died last week.

Mitch Hedberg was the last comic to make me cry with laughter. Somehow I never grew tired of his simple insights and stoner delivery. A few of his gems follow:

On Pringles

I think Pringles’ initial intention was to make tennis balls. But on the day that the rubber was supposed to show up, a big truckload of potatoes arrived. But Pringles was a laid-back company. They said “Fuck it. Cut ‘em up.”

On Yoplait

I opened up a container of yogurt, and under the lid it said “Please Try Again” because they were having a contest I was unaware of. But I thought I might have opened the yogurt wrong, or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me. “C’mon, Mitchell, don’t give up. Please try again. A message of inspiration from your friends at Yoplait. Fruit on the bottom, hope on top.”

I am having a hard time wrapping my brain around the loss in Southern Asia (and surrounding areas). As of today, 76,000 people are dead and they believe that the number is certain to go up in the coming days as they reach remote islands with poor or no communication networks.

When I localize these numbers, the sheer volume of the loss comes into focus, but does not become anymore fathomable.

The Tsunami took the equivalent of my entire hometown and half again…

I offer my prayers to the survivors, the displaced, and the families of those lost - though they seem so insufficient.

Ol’ Dirty Bastard aka Osirus aka Joe Bannanas aka Dirt McGirt aka Dirt Dog aka Unique Ason aka Big Baby Jesus passed this afternoon.

I didn’t understand half the things he said, but I always enjoyed litening to him anyway.

Rest in Peace Dirty.

Back in the mid to late 90s I was leaving the mall in Pentagon City. As I walked through the doors a huge contingent of black sedans with tinted windows approached the hotel next door.

I walked to the entrance of the hotel and waited for the cars to empty. I was excited. I thought maybe I would get to see a movie star or a famous rock band.

Instead, I got to see Yasser Arafat. I remember thinking, as he exited the car and approached me, that he was much smaller than I imagined. He was wearing his trademark kaffiyeh headdress, folded in the shape of Palestine. He walked within 2 feet of me and as he passed he nodded and smiled and then entered the buidling.

I am amazed sometimes at how easily I forget how much things have changed since 9/11. This brief encounter would never have happened in 2004. For many reasons of course, but even if he had been allowed to travel outside of his compund in his last years, the security team would have never let me get within 100 yards of the entrance to the building. But back then, it never occurred to me that I wasn’t supposed to be standing there, trying to get a glimpse of this diminutive man from Palestine.

Rest in Peace Mr. Arafat.