Khan!!!!!!!

Mr. Roarke, your plane has arrived ...

Too soon, times two ...

It's been a bad weekend to be black and famous in America. Many of us were still reeling from the news yesterday of the pneumonia-related death of Bernie Mac when the word broke just a few minutes ago that Isaac Hayes has been found dead in his Memphis home. Hayes was 65 and reportedly was dealing with some health issues, his body was discovered by family members next to a treadmill.

Beyond the obvious pain that the family of members of Mac and Hayes obviously are dealing with, the loss of these two men leave a large hole in the culture. Both men were pioneers in their own right. Mac's profane but profound comedic style owed much to the work of such talents as Bill Cosby, George Carlin and Richard Pryor, but he also brought his own edge and perspective to his stand-up act, reflecting the challenges of men dealing with new ways of thinking and dealing with life and its ups and downs. He told it like it was, whether on the comedy stage or on his acclaimed sitcom, The Bernie Mac Show, which earned him Emmy nominations an won a Peabody Award. He also made a mark in the movies, including a lead role one of the better baseball films in recent years, Mr. 3000 (we'll forgive that he played a Milwaukee Brewer), and a supporting role in the Ocean's 11 franchise, where he more than held his own with the likes of George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and Don Cheadle. Most of all, Mac, who was just 50, was a dedicated family man and a loyal friend.

Hayes was simply iconic. His musical talents helped turn the Stax Records label from just another record company to a major force in music and beyond moving the early 70s. He fused pop, funk and soul into a potent blend that paved the way for such musical genres as disco and hip-hop. He's best known, of course, for his soundtrack to the blaxploitation epic Shaft, including the title song that became a smash hit and won Hayes an Oscar, making him the first African-American to win a non-acting Academy Award. (Hayes, being his own man, famously wore a shirt made of nothing but chains during his Oscar ceremony performance.) But his previous album, 1969's Hot Buttered Soul, may be an even greater musical achievement, as Hayes' acclaimed spin on some favorite standards put him and his distinctive bald pate on the map. (After Soul, You'll never listen to Burt Bacharach the same way again.) Later on, Hayes found a new audience as the voice of the wise but eccentric Chef on the cartoon series South Park. But it's his music that will be his ultimate legacy.

Ironically, Mac and Hayes will co-star in the comedy film Soul Men later on this year. The movie stars Mac and Samuel L. Jackson as former signing partner who reluctantly reunite, with Hayes playing himself. Let's hope and pray that they won't have to dedicate Soul Men to anyone else between now and November.





A testament to the power of Issac Hayes:

Sh*t, George Carlin is dead ...

If there were any legitimate reason - like many of us needed a reason - to yell out the seven dirty words in a public place, it was last night upon hearing the news that George Carlin had left the room, for good, just when we needed him the most. With much of the world around us headed to Hades in a hand basket, it would seem that the current current events would be prime real estate for Carlin, who along with Richard Pryor had been the one of the pre-eminent comic sages of the past 40 years - often vulgar, always shocking, but always making us think as much as he peed our pants with laughter. A bad heart has finally ended Carlin's perpetual riff on society, culture and everything in between. But, of course, we have so much of his material to watch and remember and reflect on for the next 40 years and more. Many of us would pay good money to hear the joint routines that Carlin and Pryor are cooking up in the big comedy club in the sky. But at least we have two events in Carlin's honor to look forward to, if that is the appropriate phrase - his now posthumous presentation as the newest recipient of the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, scheduled for November at Washington's Kennedy Center; and, much sooner, whatever is going to be his public memorial service. Because when comedians die, their rites are as much roasts as anything else, and if any comic would demand that there be no tears of grief shed at his services, it would be George Carlin.

Rest in peace, motherf*****. And thanks - we needed that.

Nowhere without Mom ...

News of the death of Henry Aaron's mother, Estella, has just crossed the wire. Usually the passing of the parent of a big-league ballplayer wouldn't make a ripple in the news cycle, even if the player is someone of the stature of Aaron, one of the greats in the history of baseball. But Aaron's mother was more visible than most; few who watched the Atlanta Braves outfielder break Babe Ruth's all-time home run record on April 8, 1974 - 34 years ago today - will forget the site of Estella wading through the crowd of fellow players, officials and reporters to wrap her arms around the neck of her triumphant son within moments of his crossing the plate with his 715th home run on that crisp Georgia night.

Most everyone thinks that their mother is the best in the world. (I know for sure that my mother is at the top of the Mom Mountain.) Hank Aaron had more than enough proof of how great his mother was that night, and many nights before and after. I can't imagine the loss the Hall of Famer is feeling today, and pray that I won't have to know for many more years.

Bad day for British culture - or I'm not saying she's a golddigger ...

Not only did today see the passing of two major players on the English entertainment scene, Sir Arthur C. Clarke and Anthony Minghella - but Heather Mills, a.k.a. the newly ex-Mrs. Paul McCartney, proved to be the most pissed-off instant millionaire in the country's history by mouthing off about how she had gotten a bum rap because of the divorce settlement she received from the court. (Note to Ms. Mills: It doesn't exact behoove you to complain about only getting $50 million at a time when the global economy is in freefall.) Among other chestnut, she moaned about how her 4-year-old daughter with Sir Paul, Beatrice, won't be able to travel first-class anymore, and admitted to pouring a glass of water over the head of her ex's lawyer's head at the end of the legal proceedings. (The former Beatle spouse quipped that Fiona Shackleton had been "baptized in court" for her "unpleasant comments." Charming.) My mother taught me to respect women, and I am not a rapper by trade. But if the term "one-legged bitch" was ever appropriate to use to describe one person, it's Ms. Mills.

Ike spiked ...

Ike Turner, America's favorite rock-and-roll pioneer-slash-unrepentant wife beater, left us yesterday at the age of 76. This post is not to rehash the many peaks and valley's of Mr. Turner's appearance on Earth, but to applaud our friends at the New York Post for yet another subtle turn of phrase in their headline to Ike's obit.

Keep staying classy, Post guys.

The best and the brightest ...

It could be said that the word "tragedy," just like "hero," is thrown around too loosely these days, but there are times when it is very apt. Virginia Tech is an obvious example of a horrible tragedy - and so, in my mind, is the death yesterday of David Halberstam in a car accident in the Bay Area. He was 73, which counts in most books as a full life - but for Halberstam, one of the most vital writers of the last 40 years, there was so much more to do. He was one of those artists of the word who wasn't going to retire until he was six feet under - indeed, his book on the Korean War is due out later this year, and he was in San Francisco to, among other things, interview Y.A. Tittle for a tome on what may consider the greatest pro football game ever played, the 1958 NFL championship between Tittle's New York Giants and Johnny Unitas' Baltimore Colts. That we will never read what Halberstam would have written about that sports classic is its own little sadness.

Halberstam won a Pulitzer for his reportage on the Vietnam War for The New York Times in the early and mid 1960s - he was so good that John F. Kennedy unsuccessfully tried to get him kicked off his beat. He went on to write some of the best historical non-fiction of the era about Vietnam (The Best and the Brightest) and the media (The Powers That Be) and the aftermath of 9/11 (Firehouse). But he also wrote a series of acclaimed, wonderful sports books that could almost count as his hobby - his wife called them "his way to take a break" - but nevertheless were a delight to read and digest. Indeed, I have read two of Halberstam's books about baseball multiple times, and each time it's like I was reading them for the first time. Summer of ’49 is a blow-by-blow account of the 1949 American League pennant race between the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox, with a particular focus on Ted Williams and an injured but still noble Joe DiMaggio. Read that, and you'll know that the current Red Sox-Yankees blood feud has roots deep in the historical soil. And October 1964 (which I started reading yet again a few weeks ago) deals with the Yankees and St. Louis Cardinals as the two powerhouses rumbled and stumbled to a titanic World Series matchup in that year of transition, both in baseball and society in general. Even if you don't like baseball, I recommend both books to you as examples of some of the best sports journalism around. And it's work like that that will make you miss Halberstam all the more - though you know the first thing he'll do in heaven is demand an exclusive one-on-one with God Him/Herself.

Oooooooh ... fuuuuuuuuuudge ...

Much of the local news shows in L.A. this morning were devoted to covering a grisly car accident that closed down the Pacific Coast Highway for several hours. At the time all viewers were told was that two men were killed in the accident and that they appeared to be father and son. Now it's been revealed that the deceased victims were film director Bob Clark and his adult son Ariel. In the early hours of what was a very foggy morning, Clark's sedan was hit head-on by a GMC Yukon that had swerved into their lane, PCH being a two-lane road for much of its stretch. The driver of the Yukon faces serious charges, including vehicular manslaughter, as he was driving under the influence at the time.


The name Bob Clark may not resonate with a lot of people, but not unlike many people in the business of show, his work speaks louder volumes than his ID. In fact, he has the distinction of being at the helm of two of the most iconic films of the 1980s - two films that couldn't be further apart in genre and tone. In 1982 Clark made Porky's, a sex comedy about 1950s Florida teens obsessed with losing their virginity. The movie was a surprise commercial hit (indeed, it is the highest-growing Canadian film in history, having been financed and produced by Canucks) and opened the door for a new wave of R-rated fare in the days before softcore dominated Fridays nights on Cinemax. And along with the nudity and juvenile behavior (including an infamous sex scene that featured a very young and very loud Kim Cattrall), though, was a large dose of nostalgia and even a bit of poignancy and drama, as the sex-obsessed high school students also learned lessons about friendship and racism when they weren't concerned with getting their knobs polished.


Those sweet moments in Porky's also set the stage for Clark's more enduring movie, the 1983 holiday comedy A Christmas Story, based on the stories of the humorist Jean Shepherd. It didn't do much at the box office, but today the charming tale of little Ralphie's fervent campaign to get Santa to send him that precious air rifle has become a holiday staple, to the point where cable channel TBS has aired a 24-hour marathon of a continuous loop of the movie for the past several Christmases.

Bob Clark was not a filmmaker on the same level as a Spielberg or Scorsese. But how many directors are lucky enough to make one movie whose reputation endures long after their careers or even lives are completed. Clark has two. That's a life well lived, at least in professional terms.

P.S.: For the sake of this post, I'll ignore the fact that Clark also directed both Baby Geniuses flicks. Hey, no one's perfect.