The Boogey, Woogey Bugle Boy of Company B is Playing Taps

Patty Andrews, the last of the Andrews Sisters, who showed the Greatest Generation that all you needed to defeat evil is a snappy beat and flawless harmony and that the dearth of public bugling is the reason the war in Afghanistan has dragged on this long, has died at age of 94. With Patty signing soprano alongside Maxene and LaVerne, The Andrews Sisters sold tens of millions of records and more than their share of war bonds as hyper-patriotism ruled the day in 1940s America. Their snappy recordings of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy (of Company B)” and “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else but Me),” performed with Bing Crosby and the Glenn Miller Orchestra to boost morale on the home front and the front lines for troops. In 1940 they were signed by Universal and appeared in more than a dozen films in the next 7 years, stretching their range to play a singing trio in comedies starring the Ritz Brothers (Argentine Nights), Bud Abbott and Lou Costello (Buck Privates, In the Navy and Hold That Ghost), and Bob Hope and Bing Crosby (Road to Rio). After selling more than 75 million records, Patty decided to go solo in 1953 – which her sisters found out in the trade publications, rather than straight from her. That worked so well that by 1956 they were back together, but the world had moved on from harmonizing to rock and or roll. LaVerne died in 1967, and with no acceptable replacements, Maxene and Patty went their own ways, with Patty continuing to perform at supermarket openings and county fairs. The girls reunited for the last time for a Broadway run in Over Here!, a musical set during World War II, until a bitter money dispute ending the run, scuttling plans for a national tour, and leaving them largely estranged until Maxene’s death in 1995. 

Starr-Crossed

Sally Starr, who appeared in the Three Stooges last movie (The Outlaws Is Coming) and made an album with Bill Haley and the Comets, making her far more unique than some mayor’s wife, has died at the age of 90. The Philadelphia TV pioneer rode in wearing a white cowboy hat and a fringed and starred cowgirl outfit and boots that would have embarrassed Liberace, astride a palomino with a silver saddle and hosted Popeye Theater, one of the city’s longest-running kiddie programs, with more than 1.5 million viewers a day at her peak, besting even Chief Halftown and Captain Kangeroo. She had been on TV in Philadelphia since the 1940s, appearing on Hayloft Hoedown, the first network TV show to originate from Philadelphia, with her husband Jesse Rogers, a country-western singer she first met while trying to get an autograph and married when she was 15. Despite a range of personal setbacks, Our Gal Sal continued making personal appearances and signing autographs for her adopted Delaware Valley family into her 80s, and hosted a South Jersey country music show until April 2011 when she retired for health reasons. 

Stan the Dead Man

Or

Fallen Arches

 

Or

Deep Sixed

Stan Musial, the greatest baseball player ever in the City with a Handle, has died of Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 92. A promising minor league pitcher, Musial hurt his arm and had to make do with the National League record for hits, 16 straight .300 seasons, 3 NL MVP Awards, a record 24 All-Star Games, and 3 World Series Rings. He was kind of the National League answer to Ted Williams, except he wasn’t a miserable bastard everyone hated. Musial was arguably the most beloved west of the Bronx, when St. Louis represented the western edge of Major League Baseball. After notching his 3,000^th hit in Chicago, fans cheered the team train at whistlestops all the way back to St. Louis. An annual highlight of the Hall of Fame Induction was Musial entertaining the crowd by playing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” on his harmonica. The statue of Musial in his corkscrew stance outside Busch Stadium bears the valedictory then-commissioner Ford C. Frick gave to Musial’s career the day he retired: “Here stands baseball’s perfect warrior. Here stands baseball’s perfect knight.” 

Earl to Bed, Earl Won’t Rise, 3-Run Homers Made Him Smise

Earl Weaver, who rode pitching, defense and 3-run home runs to 4 pennants, a World Series championship, and the 9th-best winning percentage by a manager in baseball history, died of a heart attack while on an Orioles fan cruise in the worst sea-going trip not planned by Carnival Cruise this year. The irascible, chain-smoking Oriole spent most of his 17 years on the Oriole bench arguing with his players – cultivating a decades-long feud  with fragile ace Jim Palmer, and umpires, earning 94 ejections in his career, most of them protracted dirt-kicking, hat-throwing, obscenity-laced affairs. Three times he was ejected from both ends of a doubleheader, twice he was ejected before a game even started. During one argument, Weaver announced he was going to the dugout to check the rule-book. The umpire offered to show him his, to which Weaver responded, "That's no good - I can't read Braille." He was one of the first managers to study statistics to create the best match-ups for his team and argued that his most valuable possessions in a game were his 27 outs and he wasn’t about to give them away with a sacrifice bunt.

Lifeless on Lake Shore

Or

Dear Departed

(Props to Steve)

 

Or

Dear Abby - I recently died, any idea where to meet Manti Te'o's girlfriend in heaven?  Thanks, Pauline

(Kudos to Terry)

Pauline Phillips, a bored housewife who spent a lifetime telling other bored housewives and anyone else who couldn’t get their shit together and gave a rat’s ass what she thought how to make some semblance of their pitiful existences, has died of complications of Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 94. Writing as Abigail Van Buren, she and her twin and equally shrill harridan of a sister Eppie Lederer/Ann Landers updated the staid advice column into the modern era with their single entendres and judgmental bon mots. Lederer started first, at Chicago Sun-Times, and used Phillips as a sounding board. Phillips claimed Lederer’s replies were too long and lacked zing, so Phillips’ edited versions often made it into print, like it matters. After the Sun-Times put a stop to that, Phillips conned The San Francisco Chronicle into giving her a forum a few months later. Although the two became competitive and stopped speaking for 5 years, their lives were disturbingly intertwined, including a joint wedding ceremony and nearly simultaneous confessions that both had recycled old columns on those days when being trite was just so troublesome. The Dear Abby column has continued since 1987 as Philips’ daughter Jeanne took the Melissa Rivers career path, fooling millions who have not figured out that the goo these miserable offspring were covered with as they exited the vagina was not the transference of so-called “talent” from mother to child. 

His Heart Don't Beat To The Tune Of Any Drum

(Props to Don)

Or

Bain Capitated

The reunion shows for Diff’rent Strokes and Maude just got a little easier to coordinate, as Conrad Bain, the worst pater familias in the history of television, has died at the age of 89. Tests are being conducted to determine if it was a regular stroke or a…. A TV fixture of the 1970s and ‘80s, he and Conrad Janis – the two Conrads, in the parlance of Grey Panther Beat – were well known for their Metamucil benders, swinging lifestyle, and frequent brushes with the law, like the time he slapped Jenna Maroney in a men’s room. Best remembered as Philip Drummond, New York millionaire and adoptive father of Arnold and Willis Jackson, cult leader Bain watched as all his TV kids – Dana Plato, Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges spent time in jail, battled drug addictions and competed to see who would be the last man standing. Congrats, Todd. Other notable roles included leisure-suited conservative Dr. Arthur Harmon on Maude, Frank King in Child Bride of Short Creek, aka the Amish Vigilante, and Mr. Wells, the innkeeper in Dark Shadows who was killed off by a werewolf. In addition to Willis, Pearl, Sam, Maggie #2, and Mrs. Garrett are the only survivors from Diff’rent Strokes, while God still hasn’t gotten Walter for that and Adrienne Barbeau is still bouncing around from Maude. 

Dead as a Doorman

Ned Wertimer, a fixture of the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s, one episode at a time, has died of complications of a fall at the age of 89. His film career is notable for reporter Andy Henderson who interviewed Santa Claus before the jolly old elf Conquered the Martians, but he’s probably best remembered as Ralph the Money-Grubbing Doorman on The Jeffersons. His death leaves Florence, Jenny Willis and one of the Lionels as the only characters from The Jeffersons who have not populated deluxe apartments in the sky.

How Much Is That Coffin In The Window?

(Props to Greg)
Patti Page, whose silly, bland saccharine songs helped lead to the musical backlash known as rock and or roll, has died at the age of 85. Eisenhower Era families brought up on The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriett ignored the fact that Page’s songs like How Much is That Doggie in the Window? were about as challenging as a TV Guide crossword puzzle, making her the highest selling female artist of the 1950s, selling 10 million copies of The Tennessee Schmaltz… er, Waltz, alone. In all, she sold more than 100 million records, and had 15 million-selling singles and 4 No. 1 hits.