Here's how brilliant I am:
The report two weeks ago that Captain Kangaroo had died left me with a bag of mixed emotions. Of course, the fact that he had passed was sad and unfortunate; he exited a world that was better for knowing his talent and spirit. But it was also sad - sad for me, that is - for the fact that I thought he had already died.
Yes, Captain Kangaroo had died. Again.
Clearly, he did not.
But this isn't, however, the first time I've had this brilliant revelation. In recent years, I've questioned the deaths of Katherine Hepburn, Bob Hope, Buddy Ebsen, Gregory Peck and Mr. Unsolved Mysteries himself, Robert Stack. All because I was too ignorant to realize that they were still living. How foolish am I?
My mind tells me that I read so many entertainment news reports that I become caught up in the web of incessant "news" - who is kissing whom, who is flashing whose breast, who is going to Mars - and forget when an actually newsworthy event takes place, like a death.
My instinct tells me that I'm yet another MTV-watching kid who doesn't appreciate the elder generations, that I somehow don't know enough about whom these people are, and therefore don't care that they even exist. At least that's what I fear people think about me.
But whether I'm inundated with relentless Hollywood gossip, or simply too busy to memorialize the "Who's Who" of Hollywood, I can't help but to feel that people of our generation really don't know much about those who came before us, at least in the entertainment field. We have our idols of today's Hollywood, but rarely do we acknowledge the living - and non-living - legends that made current figures possible.
Consider this:
If it weren't for the sheer brilliance of actors Jack Lemmon, Jackie Gleason, Cary Grant, as well as the aforementioned Peck, Hepburn and Hope, then we certainly wouldn't have Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, Glenn Close or Meryl Streep to whom to give Oscars.
And while we're dropping names, let's also mention that this month's 40-year commemoration of the Beatles' American invasion - including their ??ber-famous spot on the Ed Sullivan Show - should remind us all that neither Simon and Garfunkel, the Rolling Stones nor any of the trillions of boy-bands would be belting out notes. And you can forget about "American Idol." (Please, someone forget about "American Idol.")
One explanation might be that today's culture inundates our senses with so many flavors of artistry, that we are unsure whom to hold in reverence. Can I really consider Ruben Studdard an American Idol? Surely, he's really just a winner of a contest that made him - and the Fox Network - a lot of money. That's not what I consider an idol.
Stevie Wonder is an idol. Al Green, Marvin Gaye, Michael Jackson, Madonna - dare I even say Justin Timberlake? Give JT another 15 years of albums and award shows, and you might be wishing you'd saved your first-press copy of "Justified."
The ultimate point is that we cannot take our respected idols for granted. The more we remember their contributions, the more appreciation we might have for the real, raw talent that will lead our childrens' generation. I'm not saying that Ruben Studdard can't still become a true music idol. But he certainly won't earn that regard for beating Clay Aiken during May sweeps.
One more salacious bone to chew:
The life and times of "Bennifer" wouldn't be nearly as juicy without the "take-one-down-pass-it-around" saga of Ms. Elizabeth Taylor. She married eight men, and not only made each wedding seem like her first, but she paraded each husband around like he was her favorite.
If you ask me, she should have stayed with that P. Diddy, or Puffy, or Piddle Waddle, or whatever his name is today.
That would have been a couple for the history books.
Photo: Courtesy of SUNY
