R.I.P. Leonard Nimoy

He lived long. He prospered.

Rest well, Mr. Spock.

R.I.P. Mr. Cub

The line wound down and around the aisles of the Kmart on Addison Street just off the Kennedy Expressway and about three miles west of Wrigley Field, where the Cubs did (and do) play a sport that, on occasion, resembles baseball.

The man seated at a table at the end of the long and winding line--a tall, thin African-American with a receding hairline and a sharp blue suit jacket--spent 19 years--his entire career, as it turned out--playing baseball in that stadium. A few years later, he was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in his first eligible year, a relative rarity then. (By comparison, this year's Hall of Fame class of inductees will include four first-time nominees.)

Not long after his induction into the Hall of Fame, here he sat at the grand opening of a Kmart, signing whatever was put in front of him and smiling the whole time.

Ernie Banks. Mr. Cub.

Mom came along with me, and, at the time, this annoyed me. I'd gone all over the city on my own and certainly didn't need to be escorted anywhere, much less to a Kmart. It didn't occur to me until years later that Mom, a lifelong Cubs fan, was likely just as jazzed as I was to see Ernie Banks up close and personal.

She also had the advantage--and pleasure--of seeing him play all those 19 years. Two MVP awards. 14 All-Star Games. 512 career home runs--at the time, good enough to get him in the top 10 of all time. Unfortunately, despite all of that, he never played in the post-season. No Playoffs. No World Series.

I don't believe I ever saw Ernie Banks play. He retired in 1971, when I was just seven years old and hadn't been paying attention to baseball for too long. But on this day six years later, he signed two autographs for me: One on a special photo commemorating his induction into the Hall of Fame, the other on a cheap photocopy that was being given to everyone in line.

The commemorative photo crumbled to confetti long ago, though I did manage to save the part with Ernie's signature. (Where that signature now resides, I haven't the foggiest notion.)

That cheap photocopy, though...I had preserved it in the most crude but, ultimately, secure manner: I put it between pages of one of my high school yearbooks, where I found it last year, put it in a frame and placed it on the wall in the hallway of La Casa del Terror.

Ernie Banks, who spent many years after his playing days were over as an outgoing, warmhearted ambassador for the game he loved so, suffered a heart attack and died Friday night, just over a week shy of what would have been his 84th birthday.

RIP, James Garner

RIP: The Original Svengoolie

Back in the days before the home video revolution, cable, satellite dishes and the Internet, if you wanted to see a movie, there were only two things to do: get off your ass and go to a theater, or sit on your ass and watch whatever was playing that night on TV. And, if you were lucky enough to live in a big city like, say, Chicago (which I was), you had a few choices, since most local stations (even the network affiliates) had air time to fill.

And if it was, say, a Friday night in the early '70s? My choice was to tune in to Screaming Yellow Theater on WFLD.

Sure, the initial attraction was the movies, a mixed bag of '40s and '50s B-grade (or lower) horror and sci-fi flicks, but that's not why I tuned in week after week. I tuned in for the man who appeared just before and after the commercial breaks. The man in the long green wig, sunglasses (worn at night) and striped bellbottoms. The man who did little skis, told jokes and, inevitably, got hit by a rain of rubber chickens.

I tuned in for Svengoolie.

Upon the news of his passing this past Sunday of a heart attack at the age of 77, one of the websites for a local network affiliate said his real name was Jerry G. Bishop, but that wasn't true--his real name was Jerry Ghan, who worked in radio and TV for decades as Jerry G. Bishop (or, when he was a DJ in the '60s, just Jerry G.). He was originally from Chicago, but also worked in Cleveland pre-Svengoolie and San Diego post-Svengoolie.

But what we in the Windy City remember him best for is, of course, the shtick he did around awful movies like The Bride and the Beast and Death Curse of Tartu. His humor never seemed mean or overly adult, but something kids could take one meaning from and adults another. And, given how bad most of the movies were, he made them watchable.

He did something else as well. He inspired an interest in watching movies on a regular basis and, along with Creature Feature over on WGN, began my cinematic education at a very early age.

He also inspired a young college student, who went on to work for Mr. Bishop as a writer and, a few years later, as his replacement--Rich Koz, the current Svengoolie, who has written his own touching tribute to his friend and mentor.

His run as the original Sven lasted a relatively short time--only three years--but his impact is still felt today, in Chicago and, thanks to ME-TV, well beyond.

Rest in peace, Jerry G., and flights of rubber chickens wing thee to thy rest.

The Man in the Balcony

Growing up, the most exciting day of the week was Friday. Not just because it was the end of the week (though also that, yes), but because that was the day that Roger Ebert's reviews appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times. (Well, that was the regularly scheduled day. His reviews sometimes popped up on other days, and his essays and interviews could show up any day.)

It wasn't just that I wanted to read about the movies that were coming out that weekend, though I certainly did, even if I didn't have the money or theater access to see most of them. And it wasn't because I valued Ebert's opinion over that of any other film critic--say, Gene Siskel over at the Tribune or Dave Kehr at the Chicago Reader.

It was because I thought Ebert (whom I've referred to for many years as "Uncle Rog") wrote about movies better than anyone else. He was the best essayist of the bunch, the best at relating what he saw on the screen to his life experiences, the best with words. His reviews often came with stars to indicate whether or not he liked a particular film (a system he expressed contempt for more than once), but you didn't need to know how many stars he'd given a film to know what he thought about it--the reviews, as well they should, spoke for themselves.

The book shelves of La Casa del Terror are dotted with collections of Ebert's reviews, essays and interviews. The interviews always showed a side of the individual movie star that the public rarely saw, from riding in a car with Robert Mitchum to beating John Wayne at chess, from discussing how scary "fans" could be with Jerry Lewis to watching Lee Marvin's dog bring his master a pair of panties that most definitely didn't belong to Marvin's live-in girlfriend. The essays always illuminated aspects of classic films I'd never considered, noticing gestures, trends and contexts that made the movies more accessible and understandable. Not that he ever simplified things for the reader/viewer, but more that he made it possible for us to look at the movies in more than one way.

And the reviews themselves? Ebert was a prolific writer--the annual collection of reviews, when published, often resembled a phone book--and his negative reviews were often as educational and illuminating as his positive ones. There were also specialized collections--essays on films regarded as classics (The Great Movies), and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, groups of reviews of films that were often painful to sit through. (Ebert famously said that "No good movie is too long. No bad movie is short enough.")



I didn't always agree with Ebert. He hated some movies I enjoyed thoroughly. He adored some movies I despised. But he wrote about some movies, old and new, that I'd never even have known about, much less sought out, if he hadn't brought them to my attention in the first place.

Ebert not only made me want to see more movie. He made me want to write about what I saw. I'd never written a single review if I hadn't read Ebert.

Of course, there was the TV show with fellow critic Siskel (shown under various names over the years, including the awkward "Coming to a theater Near You," "Sneak Previews," "At the Movies," and the even more awkward "Siskel & Ebert & the Movies"), which brought film criticism to people who never had read a movie review before. I watched the show, sure, but the infamously bitchy love/hate relationship the two shared made it less important to catch the show on a weekly basis than to catch those reviews in the paper (and later on the Internet) every Friday.

In recent years, Ebert's health tried to fail him over and over again--thyroid cancer, salivary gland cancer (I didn't even know that was a thing), multiple surgeries, the loss of part of his lower jaw and, with that, the ability to eat (he was fed through a tube thereafter) or even to speak.

But even though Ebert could no longer talk, he never lost his voice. He continued to type out hundreds of reviews while also maintaining a beautifully written blog, a lively Twitter feed and books not only about movies, but about his own personal history (Life Itself) and even a recipe book for cuisine prepared in a rice cooker.

Earlier this week, Ebert announced that he would have to cut back his workload significantly because his cancer had returned. He announced this on April 2--the 46th anniversary of his becoming the film critic for the Sun-Times. He viewed this change with unguarded optimism, stating that now he could do something he'd always wanted to do: Review only the movies he wanted to review, with a team of talented writers (including Richard Roeper, who had taken up residence in the balcony with Ebert after Siskel's untimely death at the age of 54 in 1999) covering the other movies released in any given week.

It was not to be. Ebert died yesterday, aged 70.

The Friday Sun-Times--and film criticism in general--just won't be the same without you, Uncle Rog.

RIP Gene Colan

When I started reading comic books back in the early '70s, I quickly became aware of the names of the artists who penciled and inked the adventures of the popular super heroes of the day and quickly was drawn (pun very intended) to certain favorites, for different reasons.

I liked the smooth, almost shiny lines of John Romita Sr. on The Amazing Spider-Man, the muscular dynamism of John Buscema on the Fantastic Four, the rough realism of Neal Adams and Dick Giordano on Green Lantern/Green Arrow, the epic scope of Jack Kirby's Fourth World titles, the visual energy of Gil Kane on pretty much everything he did.

Some of the artists were pushing the boundaries of graphic storytelling, while others were, in their own ways, maintaining the house styles of the Big Two cmic book companies, Marvel and DC.

One artist who never really fit anyone's house style, though, was Gene Colan.

"Mood" isn't a word generally associated with super-hero comics, but Colan's art was drenched in mood, which extreme angles and heavy shadows (which must have driven his inkers crazy). His Daredevil was a melancholy fellow--sure, he was a super hero with athletic prowess and amazing fighting skills, but he was also a blind man, denied the simplest visual pleasures the sighted take for granted. His Batman carried the emotional burden of his parents' deaths and all the criminal insanity he'd witnessed over the years more heavily than most artists' interpretations. His Iron Man didn't merely wear a suit of armor, but a seemingly living extension of the man inside the armor, bringing a humanity to the character that most artists couldn't reach.

Colan is probably best known today for his lengthy run on Marvel's mid-'70s horror comic, Tomb of Dracula--he was the only penciler for all 71 issues--and his style was perfectly suited to the material, with heavy shadows barely concealing the most terrible of things that did a lot more than go "bump" in the night.

One hero you wouldn't think suited Colan's style particularly well was Captain America, but he had a lengthy association with the good Captain (coming soon to a multiplex near you)--his first cover was for an issue of Captain America back in the 1940s,he had a lengthy run with the character in the '70s, and his last comic book work was on an issue of Captain America a couple of years ago. Even Colan's Howard the Duck--a character so ridiculous and cartoony that he was difficult to take seriously, even within the context of comic books--carried more weight and depth than most interpretations, strangely heightening the comedy in his run on the title.

Gene Colan passed away last night after lengthy bouts with a multitude of illnesses. He was 84 years old.

The Cowboy

I first saw the cowboy toy pictured above a couple of years ago at Hollywood Mirror, a resale shop in Boystown that specializes in vintage clothing, funky decor and oddball toys and gifts. The cowboy and his horse were off in a dark corner of the store, standing on a table beneath a plastic lamp. The cowboy himself was in decent enough shape, though he lacked a gun (he had a holster for such and his right arm was cocked as if drawing on some desperado) and a hat (because all cowboys wear hats, right?), as was the horse he was sitting on (it had chips of plastic missing from its mane, but all four legs were there with no cracks or splinters).

Upon closer examination, I recognized the cowboy's face: It was clearly James Arness in his most famous role as Marshal Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke, a show that still holds the record for the most years on the air for a prime-time drama, from 1955 to1975). (Arness returned to the role years later for a series of five made-for-TV movies from 1987 to 1994.) I later found out the the toy was made by a company called Hartland, which also produced figures of other TV cowboy stars of the 1950s (like Clayton Moore as the Lone Ranger and Richard Boone as Paladin from Have Gun, Will Travel), and that the price Hollywood Mirror was asking was more than fair.

I didn't buy the cowboy on that occasion--I was broke and was just window shopping to stave off overwhelming boredom. The next time I wandered through, though, I did take the cowboy home, partly because he fit in well with the other vintage toys in La Casa del Terror, but also because I felt bad for him and the horse he rode in on--they'd both been knocked off the table and onto the floor beneath, where no one but me could see them, and that was only because I knew to look.

I mention the cowboy because James Arness died today. He'd been retired for some time (after the last of the aforementioned series of Gunsmoke movies aired in 1994), but had enjoyed quite a career beyond Marshal Dillon, including playing the title role in The Thing from Another World, fighting giant irradiated ants in Them!, and costarring with John Wayne a few times in movies like Hondo and Island in the Sky. Arness was 88 years old.

R.I.P. Diane Izzo

It's deeply aggravating to know that you've written something--or, in this case, a couple of somethings--and not be able to find it.

I know I've mentioned Diane Izzo, the Oak Park-born singer/songwriter who passed away after a long battle with brain cancer on Friday at the age of 43.

I could have sworn that I wrote a post some time ago in which I mentioned that her only officially released CD, One, was one of my all-time favorite albums. Or maybe I was thinking about what I wrote on Amazon.com over 10 years ago:

Diane Izzo's "One" hardly sounds like a debut album. Her lyrics are generally dark, disturbing & complex--that could describe a LOT of albums from a LOT of artists out there these days. What sets Izzo apart from the crowd is her strong, odd vocal style: she can break a one-syllable word into three or four parts and can shift from a conspiratorial whisper to a filling-rattling wail with grace and ease. (I'm told that this album doesn't even do her voice justice--that it's even more amazing in person.) In particular, "Wicked Spell" shakes with lingering childhood rage and confusion, while "Venice" comes off giddy and joyful despite contemplations of wild youth, lost love and impending mortality. Couple the lyrics with the vocals, and you get a musical experience that remains embedded in the ears for days afterwards. Any fan of PJ Harvey or Tom Waits would be well advised to give Diane Izzo's "One" a listen (or two or three or...)--you won't regret it.

I also "know" that I wrote a poem about seeing her at Taste of Chicago with Doctor G on a July afternoon that felt like some enormous toddler was holding a magnifying glass to fry masses of ants in Grant Park. (In this scenario, we were the ants.) Diane was playing her usual enthusiastic set when, in the middle of a song, her amp went out. She and her bandmates noodled with it for a few minutes until, obviously frustrated, Diane just kicked the damn thing and, remarkably enough, got it working again. She picked up right where she'd left off, in the middle of that same song.

After the set, I bought my CD up to her and asked for an autograph. She seemed modestly confused or, perhaps, surprised by this. Maybe she didn't get asked for autographs very often, or maybe, given the heat, she just wanted to get off stage and get a drink of water. Whatever the case, she nonetheless graciously signed the CD and said that she was playing at the Double Door in a coupe of weeks.

"I know," I replied. "I already have my tickets."

And so I did.

The Double Door show was much more fun--no equipment problems, no blazing sun--and even though she wasn't the featured act or even the opening one (it was, as I remember, a showcase for several performers/bands. I've always liked the Double Door--it's an intimate venue that's featured many indie groups as well as well-established "big" acts like Cheap Trick and the Rolling Stones--and it was lovely to see and hear without the substantial risk of heat stroke.

Unfortunately, One didn't do all that well, and Diane pretty much disappeared--or so it seemed from my vantage point. In 2008, I found her again on MySpace and sent her a friend request. She not only approved it almost immediately, but also sent a message asking "How are things in Chicago these days?" (She now lived in New Mexico.) I replied that things were, you know, about what she remembered (it was spring, and it was snowing), and I mentioned the fact that One was one of my all-time favorite albums and that she'd signed it for me at Taste of Chicago.

Her reply to my reply: "Hey thanks mentioning One...it's been a long while, but was what it was...at the time. Yeah, I remember that hot day all too well..no water served by the Taste, only tequila = a harsh day in the summer heat!

"Hope that your doing well in CH., miss the solid big shoulders once in a while. NM is slowly warming up to springtime, but prefer the trade off of a expanding urban skyline for wide open big sky & stars."

Chicago Tribune music critic Greg Kot wrote a very nice piece for today's edition, and Jim DeRogatis, Kot's partner on WBEZ's "Sound Opinions," also wrote some kind words as well as reposting his profile of Diane from The Chicago Sun-Times back in 1998. I still have that article, neatly folded and tucked into the CD case of One. It was that article that made me listen to Diane Izzo in the first place. So credit where it's due--thanks, Jim.

And thanks, Diane, for the amazing music. I know you recorded many other songs, and I understand that a lot of those songs will be released in the near future, as well as a movie you were working on.

I just wish you were here to hear that music with us.

RIP Peter Graves

Some will remember him as Mr. Phelps on both TV versions of Mission: Impossible. Others will remember him as the Nazi spy in Billy Wilder's Stalag 17. Still others will think of him as the airplane pilot who asked young Billy if he liked movies about gladiators or had ever seen a grown man naked. There might even be a few who recall him as the grandpa to the Camden brood on 7th Heaven or as James Arness's kid brother.

Me? I'll always remember him as the guy who saved my hometown, Chicago, from being eaten to the ground in the '50s sci-fi "classic" Beginning of the End.

Thank you, Mr. Graves.

The Angel and the King

"I know I'm getting old not because I feel old," one of my coworkers said yesterday, "but because the icons of my youth are dying."

He was speaking specifically about actress Farrah Fawcett, who passed away yesterday morning at the age of 62. Her death was hardly unexpected--she'd battled colorectal cancer for the past three years, and the tone of her friends and family in recent days suggested that they were steeling themselves to say goodbye.

I knew what he was saying. Just this week, Ed McMahon, sidekick to Johnny Carson when he hosted the Tonight Show (as he did throughout my entire childhood and well into my adulthood) passed away, as did local TV journalism legend John Callaway.

Farrah was a much larger cultural touchstone, though--not only because of her sudden superstardom as an original cast member of Charlie's Angels, but because of The Poster.

The electric smile. The endlessly curling blonde hair. The nipples hard enough to cut glass. If you were alive in the '70s--and most especially if you were a straight male alive during that decade--you either owned a copy of The Poster or openly envied anyone who did.

As I said, Farrah's premature passing was sad, but expected. The news that started snaking out around the end of the workday, however, was much more of a shock.

It started popping up on news sites under "breaking news" banners: Michael Jackson had been taken to the hospital. His condition was unknown. Maybe he'd had a heart attack. Maybe he wasn't breathing. Only TMZ was reporting he was dead.

On my way home, I stopped by a neighborhood liquor store to pick up a couple of 2-liter bottles of RC Cola for a workplace birthday celebration the following morning. They had a radio station on their PA system, and the radio station was playing "Thriller." That's when I knew that he was gone.

All the news channels provided continuous coverage throughout the night of the swelling crowds outside the hospital where Jackson had been taken, outside the house he'd been renting in Bel Air as he prepared for a 50-concert comeback, outside the Apollo Theater in Harlem. People who knew him and reporters who'd covered him over the years speculated about causes of death and contemplated his legacy, which is torn between the extremes of musical genius--Off the Wall and Thriller are undeniable all-time classic albums--and personal madness--allegations of child molestation (even though he was acquitted of charges in court, the stories never went away), rumors of bizarre behavior (sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber, buying the Elephant Man's bones, etc.) and a clear, disturbing addiction to plastic surgery (publicly, he only admitted to one such surgery, even though his whole facial structure and skin tone changed and his nose deteriorated to the point that it looked like it had been designed by Lon Chaney).

At least one commentator noted that the balance was already shifting, that his music would be cherished long after the weird behavior faded into memory. That commentator had a point--when Elvis died in 1977 (locally, WGN broke into the Cubs telecast to report the news), media and social critics immediately began focusing more on his musical legacy than his love life, his drug use or his eating habits. They forgot the corpulent weirdo in the white jumpsuit, stumbling around stage in Vegas. They embraced the handsome young man with the angelic voice and swiveling hips.

So it will be with Michael Jackson, and even with Farrah--her rambling talk-show appearances and bizarre reality show will be set aside, and we'll all remember the smiling young woman in the red one-piece. And pop culture will soldier on.

RIP: John Callaway

This past Halloween, one of our local Public Television stations, WTTW, was to run an interview with Rich Koz, better known to local TV viewers as Svengoolie. (Yes, we have more than one PBS station. We're Chicago. That's how we roll.) In the course of the interview, Koz was asked detailod questions about his lengthy career; at one point, the interviewer even tossed one of Svengoolie's signature rubber chickens at Koz.

The interviewer was John Callaway.

Callaway was a local broadcast journalism legend who, for 15 years, hosted WTTW's weeknight public affairs program, Chicago Tonight, which features interviews, stories and commentary on local and national news, sports, entertainment and history.

When Callaway retired from the program in 1999, he didn't fully "retire"--he continued to host Chicago Stories, a documentary series covering major events and places in the city's history such as the Eastland disaster, in which an excursion ship capsized in the Chicago river, killing hundreds, or Riverview, the North Side amusement park that entertained children of all ages until its closing at the end of the 1967 season (it was demolished the following year).

Callaway also continued conducting interviews for Chicago Tonight, including many for The Friday Night Show, a half-hour segment within the weekly Chicago Tonight: The Week in Review in which Callaway spoke with newsmakers of all kinds: Politicians, actors, athletes, writers and fellow journalists.

The interview with Rich Koz didn't air as scheduled on Halloween--it would up being broadcast weeks later--because Studs Terkel, the legendary Chicago author, had died that day, and WTTW reran Callaway's last interview with Terkel instead.

Now Callaway, unquestionably the most thorough, insightful and intelligent interviewer I've ever seen, has himself died of an apparent heart attack while shopping in Racine, WI. He was 72.

RIP: Bea Arthur

I was never a fan of "Maude," and I don't think I ever sat through an entire episode of "The Golden Girls," but I'll always remember Bea Arthur, the Emmy/Tony-award-winning actress who passed away Saturday of cancer at the age of 86, as the bartender who sang a horrid cabaret-style song and danced awkwardly with Ponda Baba and Greedo in The Star Wars Holiday Special.

Rest well, Chanteuse of Tatooine.

RIP: Marilyn Chambers

Back in the days before every-fucking-body had cable, there were broadcast pay channels that ran recent video releases--and, late at night, after the kids were presumably asleep, edited porn.

Chicago had two such services competing for our consumer dollars: On-TV and Spectrum. Both shared space with normal UHF stations, switching over to the pay service around 7 p.m. My family never bought into either service. Hell, we didn't even get cable until later that decade, more due to Chicago's large volume of red tape (i.e., politicians with their hands out, screaming "Where's mine?") than my family's notorious lagtime in keeping apace with advances in technology.

If you adjusted your TV's "rabbit ears" just right, though, depending upon atmospheric conditions and individual skill and patience, you could get the pay programming for free--usually with intermittent sound and a distorted/fuzzy picture. Thus, for many kids my age living in Chicago in the early '80s, our first exposure to porn--and, consequently, to Marilyn Chambers.

Of course, I'd heard of her before then. Who hadn't? Like Linda Lovelace before her and Jenna Jameson after, Marilyn made her mark not just of the adult industry and its related subcultures, but on pop culture in general, mostly because she went from a straight modeling career (she appeared as the adoring mom on the Ivory Snow soap box) to hardcore (in the Mitchell Brothers' now-infamous Behind the Green Door). She tried to branch out from time to time, appearing in David Cronenberg's Rabid and a few straight-to-cable/video efforts and even tried to establish a singing career, but found her most frequent work in porn from the early '70s until the late '80s, returning to the industry sporadically after that.

Marilyn wasn't the most beautiful porn star ever, but she threw herself into each scene with abundant enthusiasm and looked like she was having fun, natural fun, which made her fun to watch, even through the blurry screen of illicitly acquired On-TV.

Sunday night, Marilyn Chambers was found dead of as-yet undetermined causes at her home in California. She was 56 years old.

"I am not a number! I am a free man!"

Patrick McGoohan has passed away in Los Angeles.

He won a couple of Emmys for his work opposite Peter Falk on Columbo and starred in dozens of movies like Ice Station Zebra, Escape from Alcatraz, Silver Streak and Braveheart, but was best known for his highly influential TV series, The Prisoner. It ran only 17 episodes, but it was a politically astute, socially aware mindfuck flickering before our bewildered eyes years before David Cronenberg, David Lynch or Guy Maddin ever filmed a single frame.

It's a shame, of course, but more so because the so-long-in-the-"development"-stage-that-no-one-ever-thought-the-damn-thing-would-get-made remake/update of The Prisoner, with James Caviezel as Number Six and Ian McKellan as Number Two, due to air later this year.

Patrick McGoohan was 80.

ETA: Ricardo Mantalban died today, too. Dammit. (Or, more appropriately: "KHAAAAAAAAAN!")

Bettie Page

On the south wall of the hallway of La Casa del Terror, there are four framed black & white photographs, all of the same woman in various outfits and states of undress, but all with the same sexy, welcoming, playful, unintimidating smile. In the dining room are two statues in her image, and in the living room is an action figure with that same warm smile.

She was a pinup model in the 1950s who had become a cult figure by the time comic book artist Dave Stevens used her face for the main character's girlfriend in The Rocketeer. Subsequently, she became a pop culture icon, with that face emblazoned on everything from lunch boxes to coasters, from statues to posters.

Stevens died earlier this year. And now, we've lost the lady herself--Bettie Page.

Unlike many cult figures who didn't survive to see and enjoy the appreciation of their ever-expanding fanbase, Bettie lived more than long enough to enjoy the attention, even if, by her own admission, she never fully understood it. She did, however, recognize her influence on society, on attitudes toward nudity and sexuality, and even on fashion--In Bettie Page: The Life of a Pin-up Legend (a lavish coffee-table book, whose very existence testifies to her popularity and cultural importance), she commented on the similarity between the bondage gear she wore in the '50s and the concert outfits worn by Madonna.

A few years ago, that book figured into one of my best, sneakiest gift-giving schemes ever. For her 24th birthday, I gave my friend and fellow pop-culture junkie Red Secretary a Britney Spears tour bus, rescued from the discount bin at KB Toys. (She already had the Brit-Brit doll to go with it.) She thanked me for the present, and I suggested that she take the tour bus out of the massive box to make sure nothing was broken or missing. Inside the box, wrapped in appropriate leopard-print paper, was a hardcover copy of Bettie Page: The Life of a Pin-up Legend. (I'd picked up a copy off of eBay days before, but the seller was, it turns out, a heavy smoker, so the book reeked of nicotine; I kept that one and gave RS my own copy instead.) RS, herself a huge Bettie fan, was thrilled: "I almost peed my pants!" she later exclaimed while we walked to the Penny Lane Lounge, where her friends toasted her for many hours. That? Was a good day.

Bettie Page had recently been hospitalized for pneumonia and was about to be released when she suffered a heart attack that put her in a coma. She never woke up and, last night, passed away. She was 85.

That's not how Bettie wanted to be remembered, though--The Life of a Pin-up Legend book contains no contemporary images of her as an elderly lady, and she allowed no more than her hands signing autographs to be photographed. She wanted her many fans to remember her as she was, eyes and smile sparkling eternally, soft curves proudly arched in the sun, the very vision of sexy, flirty fun.

And so we will.

Forrest J Ackerman

Forrest J Ackerman, longtime editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine, literary agent credited with discovering Ray Bradbury and the attributed creator of the term "Sci-Fi," died Thursday, December 4, in Los Angeles after heart failure at the age of 92; he had been in ill health for some time.

Mr. Ackerman may not have lit my interest in horror and science-fiction films--local TV shows like "Creature Features" and "Screaming Yellow Theater" had more to do with that--but he and his magazine certainly helped stoke the flame.

Svengoolie has written a nice tribute to Forry over on his blog. You can check it out here.

"A Perfect Comic"

That's what Tim Conway said in a brief audio clip on the CBS World News Roundup to describe Harvey Korman, who died yesterday from complications from an abdominal aortic aneurysm at the age of 81.

Korman will be remembered for many things, including his long run on "The Carol Burnett Show" (during which he won four Emmys and a Golden Globe) and his role as Hedy Lamarr ("That's Hedley!") in Blazing Saddles, and many, many other parts over his decades-long career.

But what was first came to my mind when I heard that he had passed away? His not one, not two but three roles in The Star Wars Holiday Special.

Yes, I am a sick man.

Rest in peace, Mr. Korman.

Dave Stevens

Yesterday, horror comic writer Steve Niles sent out a very sad bulletin on MySpace, reporting that writer/artist Dave Stevens had died on Monday.

Stevens is probably best known as the creator of The Rocketeer, the irregularly published 1980s comic book (set in the 1930s and very much an homage to that era's serials and pulp novels) that nonetheless garnered enough of a following to merit a big-budget motion picture adaptation, which tanked at the box office even though it was actually pretty good. Stevens also produced a lot of "good girl" art; many of his scantily clad ladies graced pinups and covers of books, magazines and comics over the years.

I'll always remember Stevens for his contribution to the revival of interest in '50s pinup queen Bettie Page. Stevens used Bettie face for the hero's girlfriend in The Rocketeer (though her figure was provided by Stevens' ex-wife, B-movie actress Brinke Stevens), thus fueling widespread interest in photos of the real Bettie--including interest from me.

There are now four pictures of Bettie hanging in La Casa del Terror's hallway, along with a small, as-yet-unpainted statue of Bettie sitting on a shelf in the living room. The artist of that sculpture? Dave Stevens.

Dave Stevens died of congestive heart failure after a long fight with leukemia. He was only 52 years old.