Opinion: Kurt and Roscoe: last words

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We approached various writers for an OpEd on the death of Kurt Vonnegut: without success, though Norman Mailer—one of the last holdouts among the cockeyed literary lions of Vonnegut’s own World War II generation—was good enough to send along some kind words:

Among the other unavailables, one is of special interest. An intermediary said Philip Jose Farmer was ill and sent his regrets. You may or may not recall Farmer as the deep-cover author of Venus On the Half Shell, a science fiction parody ostensibly written by Kilgore Trout, the hack-writer hero of various Vonnegut classics. The book led to some hard feelings between Vonnegut and Farmer, but it was just one of many weird identity-lending fooferaws in the Slaughterhouse Five author’s long career. Who dares to speak of Mary Schmich and the ‘Wear Sunscreen’ hoax back in the web’s Mesozic Era?

However embarrassing Vonnegut may have become in his crotchety old age, he deserves praise for his late period on two counts: 1. Galapagos, as I recall, was a pretty good book, and 2. he remained a smoker and, by extension, a public health refusenik until the very end.

I’m also sorry to note the passing of Roscoe Lee Browne, whom I valued not only as the stone-faced and imperturbable veteran of countless Richard Stahl-type turns in sitcoms of yore, but for one of the great sight gags about populist politicians: In Uptown Saturday Night, Browne’s ‘Congressman Lincoln’ gets word that some downhome constituents are about to visit his office, and jumps up to flip over the portrait of President Nixon over his desk—revealing this photo on the reverse side. Maybe you have to be there, but it’s pretty hilarious.