If a Dead Body Meet a Dead Body Coming Through the Rye...

(Props to Terry Walsh)

Or
If You Really Want to Hear About it, the First Thing You'll Probably Want to Know Is Where I Died
(Merit for Monty)

Or
More Reclusive Than Ever
(Kudos to Kirsti)

Or
No, Seriously, He Does Not Have Another Book In Him
(Additional Accolades for Kirsti)

Or
Jerome Called Home
(Further fanfare for Kirsti)

Or
Just Don't call me Holden
(Flourishes for Joe)
Not that it makes any difference, but JD Salinger, the Kajagoogoo of the publishing world, has died at the age of 91, making his obituary the first published material he has contributed to since 1965. Before writing his incredibly confusing biography of Johnny Bench, taking up with young sycophants and being reclusive, Salinger was a cruise ship entertainer, which may explain why he’s hidden from humanity in New Hampshire for more than 50 years. After a few well-received short stories, in 1951 Salinger wrote the most important novel in the history of the universe: The Catcher in the Rye, a rather slight coming of age tale of a disaffected youth – kind of a darker version of Sixteen Candles. Rather than continue as the voice of an alienated generation desperate for direction in the post-war era, he mostly hung up his typewriter, producing an acclaimed short story collection, two compilations and a New Yorker article. Still, the lunatic fringe cast their lonely eyes to him, and The Catcher in the Rye became a talisman for the deranged, making Salinger an unindicted co-conspirator in the deaths of John Lennon, Rebecca Schaefer and attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan. I know, you probably want to know where he was born, what his childhood was like, how he influenced a generation of writers, and all that Biography kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.