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...a sweatshop of moxie

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Poor ole Johnny Carson

Bit before my time in the US, although I certainly have seen excerpts of his talk show, which holds the same affectionate place as does Michael Parkinson in Britain.

Just a bit naughty, but with the kind of naughtiness rather square men have, they who often get dated quickly, but we still love them for it anyway.

If they're good, that is.

If they're not, they fall the way of Joey Heatherton then, or Andrew Dice Clay, now.

Speaking of which, the parade of stars that came out yesterday, as news was plastered on American airwaves of Johnny's passing, was mind-boggling.

Every has-been (Don Rickles) or never-really-was (Joe Piscopo) was trotted out to remember a much more innocent time, when all it took to be funny was to put on a magician's hat, or giggle at a badly printed cue-card, and even taking an imaginary swing of a golf club tugs the heart strings, because who would do that today? No one.

It's not so much a person who has passed, so much as a whole 'nother time in American history. As long as he was alive, even though one knew it was gone, it still felt alive. Now it's just...gone.

RIP Johnny.


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