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 6^th, to William Christopher, Father Mulcahy on MASH, who died December 31^st, 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 11^th, 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 10^th 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 Bowiepassed, 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 18^th, 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 26^th, 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 21^st, 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 17^thwith 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.

            Hollywood and the New York scene were not the only niche markets affected by the loss of its members. The sporting world, entertainment to many, suffered heavy casualties in 2016. Gordie Howe, Muhammad Ali and Arnold Palmer all met their maker but nothing stopped me deader in my own tracks than the tragedy of Jose Fernandez. His example clearly illustrates the control we often have over our own demise. On September 25^th, with cocaine and other illegal drugs in his system, Fernandez and two friends crashed into a jetty near Miami Beach, Florida. What a tragedy, what a spectacle, what a shame. So much promise, so much potential, but in a moment of stupidity he met his end.  Sometimes we create our own circumstance and, it appears, that death will take advantage no matter who we are. Whatever lessons we should take from living, there is one surefire way to make them irrelevant. Death is the ultimate consequence of our actions, the inescapable deterrent that serves little purpose.

            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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