The RIP Thread

[Frothy Afterbirth]

David Johansen, singer from the seminal punk band the New York Dolls, dies at 75

By MARK KENNEDY
Updated 4:25 PM PST, March 1, 2025


AP

NEW YORK (AP) — David Johansen, the wiry, gravelly-voiced singer and last surviving member of the glam and protopunk band the New York Dolls who later performed as his campy, pompadoured alter ego, Buster Poindexter, has died. He was 75.

Johansen died Friday at his home in New York City, Jeff Kilgour, a family spokesperson told The Associated Press. It was revealed in early 2025 that he had stage 4 cancer and a brain tumor.

The New York Dolls were forerunners of punk and the band’s style — teased hair, women’s clothes and lots of makeup — inspired the glam movement that took up residence in heavy metal a decade later in bands like Faster Pussycat and Mötley Crüe.

“When you’re an artist, the main thing you want to do is inspire people, so if you succeed in doing that, it’s pretty gratifying,” Johansen told The Knoxville News-Sentinel in 2011.

Guitarist Steve Stevens, a kid from Queens who went on to work with Billy Idol and Robert Palmer, said the Dolls were never about technique: “It was always about the sound of the subway, the stinking, overflowing garbage cans, the misfits of Times Square. The Dolls did it to perfection. Safe travels David Johansen,” he wrote on X.

‘Mutant children of the hydrogen age’

Rolling Stone once called the Dolls “the mutant children of the hydrogen age” and Vogue called them the “darlings of downtown style, tarted-up toughs in boas and heels.”

“The New York Dolls were more than musicians; they were a phenomenon. They drew on old rock ‘n’ roll, big-city blues, show tunes, the Rolling Stones and girl groups, and that was just for starters,” Bill Bentley wrote in “Smithsonian Rock and Roll: Live and Unseen.”

The band never found commercial success and was torn by internal strife and drug addictions, breaking up after two albums by the middle of the decade. In 2004, former Smiths frontman and Dolls admirer Morrissey convinced Johansen and other surviving members to regroup for the Meltdown Festival in England, leading to three more studio albums.

In the ’80s, Johansen assumed the persona of Buster Poindexter, a pompadour-styled lounge lizard who had a hit with the kitschy party single “Hot, Hot, Hot” in 1987. He also appeared in such movies as “Candy Mountain,” “Let It Ride,” “Married to the Mob” and had a memorable turn as the Ghost of Christmas Past in Bill Murray-led hit “Scrooged.”


AP Photo/Richard Drew

Johansen was in 2023 the subject of Martin Scorsese and David Tedeschi’s documentary “Personality Crisis: One Night Only,” which mixed footage of his two-night stand at the Café Carlyle in January 2020 with flashbacks through his wildly varied career and intimate interviews.

“I used to think about my voice like: ‘What’s it gonna sound like? What’s it going to be when I do this song?’ And I’d get myself into a knot about it,” Johansen told The Associated Press in 2023. “At some point in my life, I decided: ‘Just sing the (expletive) song. With whatever you got.’ To me, I go on stage and whatever mood I’m in, I just claw my way out of it, essentially.”
Named after a toy hospital

David Roger Johansen was born to a large, working class Catholic family on Staten Island, his father an insurance salesman. He filled notebooks with poems and lyrics as a young man and liked a lot of different music — R&B, Cuban, Janis Joplin and Otis Redding.

The Dolls — the final original lineup included guitarists Sylvain Sylvain and Johnny Thunders, bassist Arthur Kane and drummer Jerry Nolan — rubbed shoulders with Lou Reed and Andy Warhol in the Lower East Side of Manhattan the early 1970s.

They took their name from a toy hospital in Manhattan and were expected to take over the throne vacated by the Velvet Underground in the early 1970s. But neither of their first two albums — 1973’s “New York Dolls,” produced by Todd Rundgren, nor “Too Much Too Soon” a year later produced by Shadow Morton — charted.

“They’re definitely a band to keep both eyes and ears on,” read the review of their debut album in Rolling Stone, complementary of their “strange combination of high pop-star drag and ruthless street arrogance.”


AP Photo/Jim Cooper

Their songs included “Personality Crisis” (“You got it while it was hot/But now frustration and heartache is what you got”), “Looking for a Kiss” (I need a fix and a kiss”) and a “Frankenstein” (Is it a crime/For you to fall in love with Frankenstein?”)

Their glammed look was meant to embrace fans with a nonjudgmental, noncategorical space. “I just wanted to be very welcoming,” Johansen said in the documentary, “’cause the way this society is, it was set up very strict — straight, gay, vegetarian, whatever... I just kind of wanted to kind of like bring those walls down, have a party kind of thing.”

Rolling Stone, reviewing their second album, called them “the best hard-rock band in America right now” and called Johansen a “talented showman, with an amazing ability to bring characters to life as a lyricist.”

Decades later, the Dolls’ influence would be cherished. Rolling Stone would list their self-titled debut album at No. 301 of the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, writing “it’s hard to imagine the Ramones or the Replacements or a thousand other trash-junky bands without them.”

Blondie’s Chris Stein in the Nolan biography “Stranded in the Jungle” wrote that the Dolls were “opening a door for the rest of us to walk through.” Tommy Lee of Motley Crue called them early inspirations.

“Johansen is one of those singers, to be a little paradoxical, who is technically better and more versatile than he sounds,” said the Los Angeles Times in 2023. “His voice has always been a bit of a foghorn — higher or lower according to age, habits and the song at hand — but it has a rare emotional urgency.

‘Dirty angels with painted faces’

The Dolls, representing rock at it’s most debauched, were divisive. In 1973, they won the Creem magazine poll categories as the year’s best and worst new group. They were nominated several times for The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame but never got in.

“Dirty angels with painted faces, the Dolls opened the box usually reserved for Pandora and unleashed the infant furies that would grow to become Punk,” wrote Nina Antonia in the book “Too Much, Too Soon.” “As if this legacy wasn’t enough for one band, they also trashed sexual boundaries, savaged glitter and set new standards for rock ‘n’ roll excess.”

By the end of their first run, the Dolls were being managed by legendary promoter Malcolm McLaren, who would later introduce the Sex Pistols to the Dolls’ music. Culture critic Greil Marcus in “Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century” writes the Dolls played him some of their music and he couldn’t believe how bad they were.


Christopher Smith/Invision/AP

“The fact that they were so bad suddenly hit me with such force that I began to realize, ’’I’m laughing, I’m talking to these guys, I’m looking at them, and I’m laughing with them; and I was suddenly impressed by the fact that I was no longer concerned with whether you could play well,” McLaren said. “The Dolls really impressed upon me that there was something else. There was something wonderful. I thought how brilliant they were to be this bad.”

After the first demise of the Dolls, Johansen started his own group, the David Johansen band, before reinventing himself yet again in the 1980s as Buster Poindexter.

Inspired by his passion for the blues and arcane American folk music Johansen also formed the group The Harry Smiths, and toured the world performing the songs of Howlin’ Wolf with Hubert Sumlin and Levon Helm. He also hosted the weekly radio show “The Mansion of Fun” on Sirius XM and painted.

He is survived by his wife, Mara Hennessey, and a stepdaughter, Leah Hennessey.

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

George Foreman, the fearsome heavyweight who became a beloved champion, dies at 76
By GREG BEACHAM
Updated 6:09 AM PDT, March 22, 2025


AP Photo/Lennox McLendon


George Foreman became the heavyweight champion of the world in his 20s, only to lose his belt to Muhammad Ali in perhaps the most memorable fight in boxing history.

A full 20 years later in 1994, the 45-year-old Foreman became the oldest man to win the heavyweight championship, throwing one perfect combination to steal Michael Moorer’s title in an epic upset.

Few fighters ever had more big moments than Big George Foreman — and even after he finally left the ring, he was only getting started.



AP


AP Photo/Lennox McLendon


The fearsome heavyweight, who lost the “Rumble in the Jungle” to Ali before his inspiring second act as a surprising champion and a successful businessman, died Friday night. Foreman was 76.

Foreman’s family announced his death on social media, not saying how or where he died.

“A devout preacher, a devoted husband, a loving father and a proud grand- and great-grandfather, he lived a life marked by unwavering faith, humility and purpose,” his family wrote. “A humanitarian, an Olympian and two-time heavyweight champion of the world, he was deeply respected. A force for good, a man of discipline, conviction, and a protector of his legacy, fighting tirelessly to preserve his good name— for his family.”

A native Texan, Foreman began his boxing career as an Olympic gold medalist who inspired fear and awe as he climbed to the peak of the heavyweight division by stopping Joe Frazier in 1973. His formidable aura evaporated only a year later when Ali pulled off one of the most audacious victories in boxing history in Zaire, baiting and taunting Foreman into losing his belt.

Foreman left the sport a few years later, but returned after a 10-year absence and a self-described religious awakening.

The middle-aged fighter then pulled off one of the most spectacular knockouts in boxing history, flooring Moorer — 19 years his junior — with a surgical right hand and claiming Moorer’s two heavyweight belts. Foreman’s 20 years is easily the longest gap between heavyweight title reigns.

“His contribution to boxing and beyond will never be forgotten,” former heavyweight champion of the world, Mike Tyson, said on X, formerly Twitter, as he expressed his condolences.

Foreman’s transformation into an inspirational figure was complete, and he fought only four more times — finishing 76-5 with 68 knockouts — before moving onto his next career as a genial businessman, pitchman and occasional actor.

Outside the ring, he was best known as the face of the George Foreman Grill, which launched in the same year as his victory over Moorer. The simple cooking machine sold more than 100 million units and made him much wealthier than his sport ever did.



AP Photo/E.J. Flynn


“George was a great friend to not only myself, but to my entire family,” Top Rank president Bob Arum said. “We’ve lost a family member and are absolutely devastated.”

In the first chapter of his boxing career, Foreman was nothing like the smiling grandfather who hawked his grills on television to great success.

Foreman dabbled in petty crime while growing up in Houston’s Fifth Ward, but changed his life through boxing. He made the U.S. Olympic team in 1968 and won gold in Mexico City as a teenager, stopping a 29-year-old opponent in a star-making performance.

Foreman rose to the pinnacle of the pro game over the next five years, but was also perceived as an aloof, unfriendly athlete, both through his demeanor and through the skewed racial lenses of the time.

Jim Lampley, the veteran boxing broadcaster who worked alongside Foreman for many years at HBO, told The Associated Press on Friday night that Foreman’s initial demeanor was an attempt by his camp to emulate Sonny Liston, the glowering heavyweight champ of the 1960s.

“At some point somewhere along the way, he realized that wasn’t him,” Lampley said.

Foreman stopped Frazier in an upset in Jamaica in January 1973 to win the belt, with his knockout inspiring Howard Cosell’s iconic call: “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!”

Foreman defended his belt against Ken Norton before accepting the fight with Ali in the now-immortal bout staged in Africa by promoter Don King. Ali put on a tactical masterclass against Foreman, showing off the “rope-a-dope” strategy that frustrated and infuriated the champion. Foreman was eventually knocked down for the first time in his career, and the fight was stopped in the eighth round.



AP Photo/Ed Kolenovsky


Foreman told the BBC in 2014 that he took the fight almost out of charity to Ali, who he suspected to be broke.

“I said I was going to go out there and kill him, and people said, ‘Please, don’t say you’re going to kill Muhammad,’” Foreman said. “So I said, ‘OK, I’ll just beat him down to the ground.’ That’s how easy I thought the fight would be.”

Exhausted and disillusioned, Foreman stopped fighting in 1977 and largely spent the next decade preaching and working with kids in Houston after his religious awakening. He returned to boxing in 1987 in his late 30s with a plan to defy time through frequent ring appearances, and he racked up a lengthy series of victories before losing to Evander Holyfield in a surprisingly competitive title fight in 1991.

Three years later, Foreman got in the ring with Moorer in Las Vegas, more for his celebrity than for his perceived ability to beat Moorer. The champion appeared to win the first nine rounds rather comfortably, with Foreman unable to land his slower punches. But Foreman came alive in the 10th, hurting Moorer before slipping in the short right hand that sent Moorer to the canvas in earth-shaking fashion.

Lampley, who was calling the fight, named his upcoming autobiography — which includes a prologue about Foreman — after his famous call of that moment: “It Happened!”

Foreman quit the ring for good in 1997, although he occasionally discussed a comeback. He settled into a life as a boxing analyst for HBO and as a pitchman for the grills that grew his fame and fortune. Much of the world soon knew Foreman as both a lovable friend and a ferocious fighter.

“He started performing as this pitchman, this product pitchman with the big, ever-present giant grin on his face,” Lampley recalled. “When I was working with him, people would say, ‘George is a big clown.’ And I would say, ‘Well, you can call him a clown, but he’s actually a genius. He may be the greatest genius I’ve ever met.’ And people would say, ‘Well, genius, what do you mean?’ I’d say, ‘Well, check the bank account. If that isn’t proof enough, I don’t know what is.’ So, he was a genius. He was a human genius.”



AP Photo/Timothy D. Easley


Foreman briefly starred in a sitcom called “George” in the 1990s, and he even appeared on the reality singing competition “The Masked Singer” in 2022. A biographical movie based on his life was released in 2023.

Foreman had 12 children, including five sons who are all famously named George Edward Foreman.

“Legendary boxing champion, life-changing preacher, husband, father, grand- and great-grandfather and the best friend you could have,” WBC President Mauricio Sulaiman wrote on social media. “His memory is now eternal, may Big George rest in peace.”


AP Photo/Horst Faas

AP Sports Writer Brian Mahoney contributed to this report.

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

Val Kilmer, ‘Top Gun’ and Batman star with an intense approach, dies at 65



By MARK KENNEDY and ANDREW DALTON
Updated 8:37 AM PDT, April 2, 2025

LOS ANGELES (AP) — Val Kilmer, the brooding, versatile actor who played fan favorite Iceman in “Top Gun,” donned a voluminous cape as Batman in “Batman Forever” and portrayed Jim Morrison in “The Doors,” has died. He was 65.

Kilmer died Tuesday night in Los Angeles, surrounded by family and friends, his daughter, Mercedes Kilmer, said in an email to The Associated Press. Kilmer died from pneumonia. He had recovered after a 2014 throat cancer diagnosis that required two tracheotomies. The New York Times was the first to report his death.

Kilmer, who at 17 was the youngest actor ever accepted to the prestigious Juilliard School at the time he attended, experienced the ups and downs of fame more dramatically than most.

“I have behaved poorly. I have behaved bravely. I have behaved bizarrely to some. I deny none of this and have no regrets because I have lost and found parts of myself that I never knew existed,” he says toward the end of “Val,” the 2021 documentary on his career. “And I am blessed.”

His break came in 1984’s spy spoof “Top Secret!” followed by the comedy “Real Genius” in 1985. Kilmer would later show his comedy chops again in films including “MacGruber” and “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.”

His movie career hit its zenith in the early 1990s as he made a name for himself as a dashing leading man, starring alongside Kurt Russell and Bill Paxton in 1993’s “Tombstone,” as Elvis’ ghost in “True Romance” and as a bank-robbing demolition expert in Michael Mann’s 1995 film “Heat” with Al Pacino and Robert De Niro.

“While working with Val on ‘Heat’ I always marvelled at the range, the brilliant variability within the powerful current of Val’s possessing and expressing character,” director Michael Mann said in a statement Tuesday night.

Actor Josh Brolin, a friend of Kilmer, was among others paying tribute.

“You were a smart, challenging, brave, uber-creative firecracker,” Brolin wrote on Instagram. “There’s not a lot left of those.”

Kilmer — who took part in the Method branch of Suzuki arts training — threw himself into parts. When he played Doc Holliday in “Tombstone,” he filled his bed with ice for the final scene to mimic the feeling of dying from tuberculosis. To play Morrison, he wore leather pants all the time, asked castmates and crew to only refer to him as Morrison and blasted The Doors for a year.

That intensity also gave Kilmer a reputation that he was difficult to work with — something he grudgingly agreed with later in life, while always defending himself by emphasizing art over commerce.

“In an unflinching attempt to empower directors, actors and other collaborators to honor the truth and essence of each project, an attempt to breathe Suzukian life into a myriad Hollywood moments, I had been deemed difficult and alienated the head of every major studio,” he wrote in his 2020 memoir, “I’m Your Huckleberry.”

One of his more iconic roles — hotshot pilot Tom “Iceman” Kazansky opposite Tom Cruise in 1986’s “Top Gun” — almost didn’t happen. Kilmer was courted by director Tony Scott but initially balked. “I didn’t want the part. I didn’t care about the film. The story didn’t interest me,” he wrote in his memoir. He agreed after being promised that his role would improve from the initial script. He would reprise the role in the film’s 2022 sequel, “Top Gun: Maverick.”

One career nadir was playing Batman in Joel Schumacher’s goofy, garish “Batman Forever” (1995) with Nicole Kidman and Chris O’Donnell — before George Clooney took up the mantle for 1997’s “Batman & Robin” and after Michael Keaton played the Dark Knight in 1989’s “Batman” and 1992’s “Batman Returns.”

The New York Times’ Janet Maslin said Kilmer was “hamstrung by the straight-man aspects of the role,” while Roger Ebert deadpanned that he was a “completely acceptable” substitute for Keaton. Kilmer, who was one and done as Batman, blamed much of his performance on the suit.

“When you’re in it, you can barely move and people have to help you stand up and sit down,” Kilmer said in “Val,” in lines spoken by his son Jack, who voiced the part of his father after Kilmer’s ability to speak was impaired by cancer treatment. “You also can’t hear anything and after a while people stop talking to you, it’s very isolating. It was a struggle for me to get a performance past the suit, and it was frustrating until I realized that my role in the film was just to show up and stand where I was told to.”

His next projects were the film version of the 1960s TV series “The Saint” — fussily putting on wigs, accents and glasses — and “The Island of Dr. Moreau” with Marlon Brando, which became one of the 1990s’ most infamously cursed productions.

David Gregory’s 2014 documentary “Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley’s Island of Dr. Moreau,” described a cursed set subject to a hurricane, Kilmer bullying director Richard Stanley, the firing via fax of Stanley (who sneaked back on set as an extra with a mask on) and extensive rewrites by Kilmer and Brando. The older actor told the younger at one point: ”‘It’s a job now, Val. A lark. We’ll get through it.’ I was as sad as I’ve ever been on a set,” Kilmer wrote in his memoir.

In 1996, Entertainment Weekly ran a cover story about Kilmer titled “The Man Hollywood Loves to Hate.” The directors Schumacher and John Frankenheimer, who finished “The Island of Dr. Moreau,” said he was difficult. Frankenheimer said there were two things he would never do: “Climb Mount Everest and work with Val Kilmer again.”

Other artists came to his defense, like D. J. Caruso, who directed Kilmer in “The Salton Sea” and said the actor simply liked to talk out scenes and enjoyed having a director’s attention.

“Val needs to immerse himself in a character. I think what happened with directors like Frankenheimer and Schumacher is that Val would ask a lot of questions, and a guy like Schumacher would say, ‘You’re Batman! Just go do it,’” Caruso told the Times in 2002.

After “The Island of Dr. Moreau,” the movies were smaller, like David Mamet’s human-trafficking thriller “Spartan”; “Joe the King,” in which he played a paunchy, abusive alcoholic; and 2003’s “Wonderland,” in which he played the doomed ’70s porn star John Holmes. He also threw himself into his one-man stage show “Citizen Twain,” in which he played Mark Twain.

“I enjoy the depth and soul the piece has that Twain had for his fellow man and America,” he told Variety in 2018. “And the comedy that’s always so close to the surface, and how valuable his genius is for us today.”

Kilmer spent his formative years in the Chatsworth neighborhood of Los Angeles. He attended Chatsworth High School alongside future Oscar winner Kevin Spacey and future Emmy winner Mare Winningham. Shortly after he left for Juilliard, his younger brother Wesley suffered an epileptic seizure in the family’s Jacuzzi and died on the way to the hospital. Wesley, just 15, was an aspiring filmmaker.

“I miss him and miss his things. I have his art up. I like to think about what he would have created. I’m still inspired by him,” Kilmer told the Times in 2002.

While still at Juilliard, Kilmer co-wrote and appeared in the play “How It All Began” and later turned down a role in Francis Ford Coppola’s “The Outsiders” for the Broadway play “Slab Boys,” alongside Kevin Bacon and Sean Penn.

Kilmer published two books of poetry (including “My Edens After Burns”) and was nominated for a spoken word album Grammy in 2012 for “The Mark of Zorro.” He was also a visual artist and a lifelong Christian Scientist.

He dated Cher, and married and divorced actor Joanne Whalley. He is survived by their two children, Mercedes and Jack.

“I have no regrets,” Kilmer told the AP in 2021. “I’ve witnessed and experienced miracles.”

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

Jill Sobule, the singer-songwriter known for ‘I Kissed a Girl,’ has died in a fire
By HALLIE GOLDEN
Updated 7:35 PM PDT, May 1, 2025


Ph- Andy Kropa/Vision/AP

Jill Sobule, the award-winning singer-songwriter whose witty and poignant writing first attracted widespread attention with the gay-themed song “I Kissed a Girl,” died in a house fire Thursday. She was 66.

Her death was confirmed by her publicist, David Elkin, in an email Thursday afternoon. It was not immediately clear how the fire in Woodbury, Minnesota, started.

“Jill Sobule was a force of nature and human rights advocate whose music is woven into our culture,” John Porter, her manager, said in a statement. “I was having so much fun working with her. I lost a client & a friend today. I hope her music, memory, & legacy continue to live on and inspire others.”

During her more than three decades of recording, Sobule released 12 albums that addressed such complex topics as the death penalty, anorexia nervosa, reproduction and LGBTQ+ issues.


Her first album, “Things Here Are Different,” was released in 1990. Five years later, she received widespread attention for her hit singles, “Supermodel,” from the movie “Clueless,” and “I Kissed A Girl,” which, despite being banned on several southern radio stations, made it into the Billboard Top 20.

he also starred in an autobiographical off-Broadway musical that initially premiered at the Wild Project in New York in 2022 and includes songs and stories about her life.

Sobule was known for taking control of her career by fundraising so she could make her next album. In 2008, after two major record companies dumped her and two indie labels went bankrupt beneath her, she raised tens of thousands of dollars from fans so she could make a new album.

“The old kind of paradigm, where you’ve always waited for other people to do things, you’d have your manager and your agent,” she said at the time. “You’d wait for the big record company to give you money to do things and they tell you what to do. This is so great. I want to do everything like this.”

Sobule was scheduled to perform in Denver on Friday night. Instead, there will be an informal gathering hosted by her friend Ron Bostwick from 105.5 The Colorado Sound at the performance space where attendees can “share a story or song,” according to her publicist.

A formal memorial to celebrate her life and legacy will be held later this summer.

“No one made me laugh more. Her spirit and energy shall be greatly missed within the music community and beyond,” Craig Grossman, her booking agent, said in a statement.

Born in Denver, Colorado, on Jan. 16, 1959, she has described herself as a shy child who preferred observing over participating.

Sobule was known for playing dozens of shows a year and has described her live performances as vulnerable experiences. She said she often doesn’t have a set list and wings it.

She’s performed with such icons as Neil Young, Billy Bragg and Cyndi Lauper, and also inducted Neil Diamond into the Songwriter’s Hall of Fame, according to her website. She also sang a song as herself on an episode of “The Simpsons” in 2019.

“In a good way, I feel like I’m still a rookie,” she told The Associated Press in 2023 in an interview about her musical. “There’s so much more to do and I haven’t done my best yet.”

She is survived by her brother and sister-in-law, James and Mary Ellen Sobule, along with her nephews and cousins.

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

George Wendt, comedian and actor beloved as Norm on "Cheers," dies at 76
By Mike Barnes, Duane Byrge May 20, 2025 12:40pm



Evan Agostini/Getty Images

George Wendt, who bellied up to the bar to portray the beer-quaffing everyman Norm Peterson for all 11 seasons of the fabled NBC sitcom Cheers, has died. He was 76.

Wendt died peacefully in his sleep at home, his family confirmed early Tuesday morning.

“George was a doting family man, a well-loved friend and confidant to all of those lucky enough to have known him,” a rep for Wendt said in a statement. “He will be missed forever. The family has requested privacy during this time.”

Born in Chicago and raised on the South Side, Wendt got his start in the 1970s with Second City, the famed improvisational comedy troupe that was based in his hometown.

Later, he popped up on Saturday Night Live as Bob Swerski, one of the “superfans” who gathered at Coach Mike Ditka’s restaurant in the Windy City to watch “Da Bears.”

Wendt appeared in movies including Dreamscape (1984), House (1985), Fletch (1985), Gung Ho (1986), Plains Clothes (1987), Never Say Die (1988), Guilty by Suspicion (1991), Forever Young (1992) and Spice World (1997).

He also played the grumpy father of a son (Macaulay Culkin) who likes his music loud in Michael Jackson’s 1991 “Black or White” music video, directed by Jon Landis.

Survivors include his nephew Jason Sudeikis, the only son of one of his six sisters.

Wendt’s guy-next-door persona and easy delivery won him appreciation from fans and castmates as he played the lovable lug Norm, an accountant by trade, on every installment of Cheers during its 1982-93 run. (Ted Danson and Rhea Perlman were the only other actors not to miss an episode.)

He received Emmy nominations for outstanding supporting actor in a comedy series for six consecutive years (1984-89, from the second season to the seventh, but lost out to Pat Harrington Jr. of One Day at a Time in 1984, to John Larroquette of Night Court from 1985-88 and to castmate Woody Harrelson in 1989.

The portly, curly-haired Wendt was self-deprecating about his well-honed delivery, contending that the toughest part of his job was drinking the “beer,” a warm, flat, non-alcoholic concoction that was layered with a pinch of salt in every mug to create a TV head.

“There I was slamming those down for a whole day. It not only tastes disgusting, I was afraid of keeling over from high blood pressure,” he told The Washington Post in 1985. “Then I got the knack. I didn’t have to put all those brews away. It only mattered when the camera was pointing my way. It took a couple of years, but now I watch the camera. That’s how I make my money. That’s acting.”

One of nine kids, George Robert Wendt Jr. was born on Oct. 17, 1948. His father owned a real estate agency that his dad had founded, and his mother, Loretta, was a housewife and longtime volunteer and fund-raiser for Little Company of Mary Hospital.

Wendt’s maternal grandfather was photographer Tom Howard, who disguised himself as a priest to clandestinely snap one of the most infamous tabloid shots of all time — a picture of murderer Ruth Snyder in the electric chair at Sing Sing Prison in 1928 just as the switch was thrown. The photo appeared on the front page of the New York Daily News.

Wendt attended Campion High School, a Jesuit boarding school for boys in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, and then Notre Dame — until he was expelled with a 0.0 GPA as a junior.

“I basically quit and didn’t inform the university,” he told The Kansas City Star in 2016. “I’d moved off campus my junior year, and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t have a car. It was cold. I never went to class.”

Wendt worked for his dad, excelling in “getting coffee for the secretaries,” before earning a B.A. in economics in 1971 from another Jesuit school, Rockhurst College in Kansas City, Missouri. But then he hung out in Europe for the better part of three years.

Back home, Wendt thought he’d try to become a comedic actor. He attended several workshops and made it to Second City’s touring company and then, in 1975, the resident company. He was demoted after a year but eventually was called back up.

“I did mostly slice-of-life things,” he told the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner in 1983. “You make it sound real. If people stop believing you, you’re just telling jokes. That’s the way I do Norm. I don’t try to punch it up or joke it up.”

After six years of Second City, Wendt worked in the 1980 films My Bodyguard and Somewhere in Time and played an exterminator on a 1981 episode of Taxi that was written by Glen and Les Charles and directed by James Burrows — the three soon-to-be creators of Cheers.

At his Cheers audition, Wendt said he “needed to look like a guy who wanted to have another beer,” he told Chicago magazine in 2021, then spoke just one word in the pilot — “beer,” of course. (His character then was named George; John Ratzenberger, who would play fellow barfly Cliff Clavin on the sitcom, read for the part before Wendt got it.)

Later on the show, Norm became a house painter, an interior decorator and — dreams do come true! — a beer taster at a brewery.

When Cheers ended its run, NBC considered a spinoff featuring Wendt and Ratzenberger as bar buddies, but the show never materialized. Instead, he starred for CBS in 1995 in The George Wendt Show, playing the co-owner of a Wisconsin garage and co-host of a call-in radio show about car repair, but the comedy lasted just six episodes.

Wendt showed up as Norm over the years on St. Elsewhere, Wings, The Simpsons, Family Guy, Frasier and The Tortellis and as himself on Seinfeld and The Larry Sanders Show.

He also had recurring roles on The Naked Truth and Sabrina the Teenage Witch and guest-starred on other series like Alice, Soap, Hart to Hart, Danson’s Becker, Hot in Cleveland, Columbo, Harry’s Law, Fresh Off the Boat and The Goldbergs.

Wendt made his Broadway debut in Art in 1998, and in 2007-08, he sang and danced as Edna Turnblad in Hairspray in the role originated by Harvey Fierstein.

Survivors include his wife, actress Bernadette Birkett, whom he married in July 1978 — they met at Second City, and she was the unseen, offscreen voice of Norm’s wife, Vera, on Cheers — his children, Hilary, Joe and Daniel; and his stepchildren, Joshua and Andrew.

In what is hardly a surprise, Wendt starred in beer commercials for Miller Lite and Meister Brau — he said fans of Cheers yelled “Norm!” at him, just like on the show, and frequently bought him a round — and co-wrote a 2009 book, Drinking With George: A Barstool Professional’s Guide to Beer.

“I’m a simple man, I don’t ask for much. Give me a nice comfortable chair, a cool breeze, a ballgame on the radio and an ice-cold beer, and I couldn’t be happier,” he wrote to open the book.

“Truth be told, if it came down to it, I could live without the chair. A cool breeze is nice, but it isn’t exactly mandatory for a good time. And there are plenty of times when I don’t have access to a ballgame.

“But a world without beer? I don’t know if that’s the kind of world I want to live in.”

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

'King of the Hill' voice actor Jonathan Joss fatally shot outside his Texas home
Story by JUAN A. LOZANO • 21h


Derek Storm / Everett Collection

HOUSTON (AP) — Jonathan Joss, a voice actor best known for his work on the animated television series “King of the Hill,” was fatally shot near his Texas home, authorities said Monday.

Police were dispatched to a home in south San Antonio about 7 p.m. Sunday on a shooting in progress call. When officers arrived at the scene, they found the wounded 59-year-old near the street.

“The officers attempted life saving measures until EMS arrived. EMS pronounced the victim deceased,” San Antonio police said in a statement.

Joss' husband, Tristan Kern de Gonzales, confirmed the actor's death to The Associated Press in a text. The two were married earlier this year on Valentine’s Day.

In an email, San Antonio police did not immediately provide any information on what prompted the shooting.

In a statement, de Gonzales said he and Joss had previously faced harassment, much of it “openly homophobic.” Joss' husband said the person who killed the actor yelled “violent homophobic slurs” before opening fire.

“He was murdered by someone who could not stand the sight of two men loving each other,” de Gonzales said.

Before the shooting, de Gonzales and Joss were checking mail at Joss’ home, which had been heavily damaged during a January fire that claimed the lives of their three dogs. A man approached the two and threatened them with a gun, de Gonzales said.

“Jonathan and I had no weapons. We were not threatening anyone. We were grieving. We were standing side by side. When the man fired Jonathan pushed me out of the way. He saved my life,” de Gonzales said in a statement.

After the shooting, authorities arrested 56-year-old Sigfredo Alvarez Ceja and charged him with murder in Joss’ death.

Court records did not list an attorney who could speak on behalf of Ceja, who was being held in the Bexar County Adult Detention Center.

In a statement, San Antonio police said its investigation “has found no evidence whatsoever to indicate that Mr. Joss’s murder was related to his sexual orientation."

“We take such allegations very seriously and have thoroughly reviewed all available information. Should any new evidence come to light, we will charge the suspect accordingly," police said.

Joss, who grew up in San Antonio, was best known as the voice of John Redcorn, a Native American character on the popular “King of the Hill” animated series that ran for 13 seasons from 1997 to 2008. A reboot of the show is set to start in August.

Joss also had a recurring role on the television show “Parks and Recreation,” playing Chief Ken Hotate. He appeared in two episodes of the series “Tulsa King” in 2022.

A GoFundMe page had been set up in January for Joss after the house fire. According to the page, Joss had lost all of his belongings in the fire, including his vehicle.

Before he was fatally shot, Joss had been in Austin, located about 80 miles (130 kilometers) northeast of San Antonio, for events related to a sneak peak of the “King of the Hill” revival.

On Saturday, Joss had posted a video on Instagram in which he said he was signing autographs at a comic book store in Austin.

“The fans get to revisit ‘King of the Hill’ again, which I think is an amazing thing because it’s a great show,” Joss said in the video, adding he had already done voice work on four episodes of the revival.

Joss' husband said Joss was grateful for his fans.

“To everyone who supported him, his fans, his friends, know that he valued you deeply. He saw you as family,” de Gonzales said.

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

Brian Wilson, the musical genius behind the Beach Boys, dies at 82



Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times

By Steve Marble
June 11, 2025 Updated 3:13 PM PT


Brian Wilson, the musical savant who scripted a defining Southern California soundtrack with the Beach Boys before being pulled down by despair and depression in full public view, has died. He was 82.

Wilson’s family announced his death Wednesday morning on Facebook. “We are at a loss for words right now,” the post said.

“Please respect our privacy at this time as our family is grieving. We realize we are sharing our grief with the world,” said the statement, which was also shared on Instagram and the musician’s website.

The statement didn’t reveal a cause of death. Wilson died more than a year after it was revealed he was diagnosed with dementia and placed under a conservatorship in May 2024. For decades, Wilson battled mental health issues and drug addiction.

“The world mourns a genius today, and we grieve for the loss of our cousin, our friend, and our partner in a great musical adventure,” the Beach Boys said in a statement on Wednesday. “Brian Wilson wasn’t just the heart of The Beach Boys — he was the soul of our sound. The melodies he dreamed up and the emotions he poured into every note changed the course of music forever. “

The group added: “Together, we gave the world the American dream of optimism, joy, and a sense of freedom — music that made people feel good, made them believe in summer and endless possibilities. We are heartbroken by his passing.”

Elton John, the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood, Mick Fleetwood and Nancy Sinatra were among the artists who remembered Wilson on social media. Universal Music Group chairman and CEO Lucian Grainge and California Gov. Gavin Newsom also paid tribute to Wilson and his contributions to music.

“Wilson fundamentally changed modern music, helping make the Beach Boys not only the defining American band of their era, but also the California band to this day,” Newsom said in a statement. “He captured the mystique and magic of California, carrying it around the world and across generations.”

Roundly regarded as a genius in the music studio, Wilson wrote more than three dozen Top 40 hits, bright summertime singalongs that were radio candy in the early 1960s, anthems to the surf, sun and souped-up cars.

In an era when rock groups were typically force-fed material written by established musicians and seasoned songwriters, Wilson broke the mold by writing, arranging and producing a stream of hits that seemed to flow effortlessly from the studio.

Riding the crest of peppy, radio-friendly songs like “Surfer Girl,” “California Girls” and “Don’t Worry Baby,” Capital Records gave Wilson almost unchecked control over the group’s output. The label came to hold Wilson in such high regard that it even allowed him to record where he wished rather than use the cavernous Capitol studios in Hollywood that the Beach Boy leader felt were suitable only for orchestras.

“There are points where he did 37 takes of the same song,” said William McKeen, who taught a rock ‘n’ roll history course at the University of Florida. “One track will be someone singing ‘doo, doo, doo’ and the next will be ‘da, da, da.’ Then you hear them all together and, my God, it’s a complex piece of music.

“And he heard it all along.”

In many ways, the studio became Wilson’s primary instrument, just as it had been Phil Spector’s. As his confidence grew, Wilson’s compositions became more majestic and complex as he pieced together a far-reaching catalog of music while his bandmates toured the world without him — just as he preferred.

When the group returned from a tour in Asia in 1966, they discovered that Wilson had created an entire album during their absence. He had written the songs — many with guest lyricist Tony Asher, used the highly regarded Wrecking Crew session musicians to record with him and regarded the product as essentially a solo album. All his bandmates needed to do, he explained, was add their voices.


Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images

The songs on “Pets Sounds” were achingly beautiful and introspective. Some were melancholy, wistful, and brimming with nostalgia. Gone were the waves, the sunshine and the blond-haired girls that populated his earlier work. They were replaced with interlocking songs that seemed to form a single piece of music.

His bandmates were dumbstruck. Mike Love, his cousin and lead singer of the group, told him the album would have been better had he had a bigger hand in its creation. “Stop f— with the formula,” he reportedly snapped. Other band members agreed that the songs seemed foreign compared with surefire crowd pleasers like “Surfin’ U.S.A” and “Dance, Dance, Dance.” But they relented, and the album was released.

Love, in a lengthy 2012 L.A. Times op-ed about his brittle relationship with Wilson, told the story far differently, however. He said he was an early champion of the album, wrote some of the songs, came up with the title and helped convince Capitol to get behind the record when the label dragged its feet.

Though “Pet Sounds” was the first Beach Boys recording not to go gold — at least not immediately — it was a virtual narcotic to critics and admirers. Paul McCartney said it was “the classic of the century” and, as the story goes, rallied the rest of the Beatles to record “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in response. Classical composer Leonard Bernstein declared Wilson a genius and one of America’s “most important musicians.”

As the years passed, the album became a treasured gem, saluted as one of the finest of the rock era and preserved in the National Recording Registry by the Library of Congress. Fifty years after it was released, it was still ranked as the second-best album of all time by both Rolling Stone and Pitchfork, topped only by “Sgt. Pepper’s.”

“Part of Brian Wilson’s genius was his ability to express great complexity within the frame of great simplicity,” wrote Anthony DeCurtis, an author and former Rolling Stone editor.

Then things fell apart.

For months, Wilson tinkered in the studio on an album with the working title “Smile” as anticipation built for what it might be and in what direction it might take rock, already shifting quickly in the dawn of the psychedelic era — music, drugs, lifestyle and all. Wilson said the album would be a “teenage symphony to God,” a piece of music so audacious it would unlock the straitjacket he felt was keeping pop music bland and predictable.

The first window into the album was “Good Vibrations,” a 3-minute, 35-second song that featured dramatic shifts in tone and mood with Wilson’s distinctive falsetto soaring above it all. It was an immediate commercial and critical success.

But it was also a disturbing sign of the madcap world Wilson now inhabited. Recordings for “Good Vibrations” stretched over seven months, the sonic blips and beeps he was trying to stitch together consumed 90 hours of tape and costs soared to nearly $75,000 — roughly $740,000 in 2025 valuation. All the while, musicians — some bandmates, others hired guns — filed in and out of four different studios as he searched for perfection.

Not everyone thought it was worth the effort for a single song.


“You had to play it about 90 bloody times to even hear what they were singing about,” complained Pete Townshend, the guitarist and songwriter for the Who. Spector — Wilson’s idol — said it felt “overproduced.” McCartney said it lacked the magic of “Pet Sounds.”

Wilson felt otherwise. When he finished the final mix on “Good Vibrations,” he said it left him with a feeling he’d never experienced.

“It was a feeling of exaltation. Artistic beauty. It was everything.”

The band toured again as Wilson continued work on “Smile,” an increasingly troubled project. He ordered members of a studio orchestra to wear fire gear and reportedly built a fire in the studio during a recording of “Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow,” which was to be the album’s opening number. He turned to veteran recording artist Van Dyke Parks for help with the lyrics rather than wait for his bandmates to return.

When Love listened to the still-under-construction album, he dismissed it as “a whole album of Brian’s madness,” according to the Guardian. Parks, an admired lyricist with his own career to worry about, eventually walked away from the project, spooked by Wilson’s erratic behavior and what he saw as Love’s uncomfortable tendency to bully his cousin


Alberto E. Rodriguez / Getty Images

Whether it was the hostile reaction from his bandmates or the hopelessness of navigating the maze of half-finished songs and sonic fragments he’d created, Wilson put the whole thing aside. It would be decades before he revisited it.

“When we didn’t finish the album, a part of me was unfinished also, you know?” Wilson wrote in his 2016 memoir “I am Brian Wilson.” “Can you imagine leaving your masterpiece locked up in a drawer for almost 40 years?”

Love, who sued Wilson repeatedly through the years to get songwriting credit for dozens of songs he claimed he helped write, bristled at the suggestion that he had upended his cousin’s masterwork.

“What did I do? Why am I the villain?” Love wondered aloud in a lengthy 2016 profile in Rolling Stone. “How did it get to this?

Wilson’s psyche had been fragile for years. He was reclusive at times, spending days alone in a bedroom at his Malibu mansion, where he had a baby grand piano installed in a sandbox and a teepee erected in the living room. He admitted that he suffered from auditory hallucinations, which caused him to hear voices.

And he took drugs by the bucketful.

He was public about his demons. He was mentally ill, he said, consumed with such depression that he couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time. He smoked pot, experimented with LSD and got through the day with a steady lineup of amphetamines, cocaine and sometimes heroin. A tall man, Wilson’s weight ballooned to more than 300 pounds, and when he did surface in public, he seemed withdrawn and distracted.

“I lost interest in writing songs,” he told The Times in a 1988 interview. “I lost the inspiration. I was too concerned with getting drugs to write songs.”

It all started in Hawthorne, where Wilson was born on June 20, 1942. The eldest of three boys, he grew up in suburban comfort not far from the beaches that would inspire so many of his early songs.

His father, Murry, was a musician and a machinist; his mother, Audree, a homemaker. Wilson went to Hawthorne High, where he played football and baseball. He earned an F for a composition he submitted in his music class, though decades later the school changed his grade to an A when administrators discovered the composition had become the Beach Boys’ first hit song, “Surfing.” School officials invited him to campus to accept their apology.

At home, he played the piano obsessively. He recalled hearing George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” when he was 4, lying on the floor of his grandmother’s house, mesmerized that the composer had captured both a city and an entire era in a single piece of music. He took accordion lessons but set the instrument aside after six weeks. His father, though, noticed his son had the ability to quickly repeat melodies on the piano.

“He was very clever and quick. I just fell in love with him,” Murry Wilson says in Peter Carlin’s “Catch a Wave: The Rise, Fall and Redemption of the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson.”

In 1961, with his parents on vacation, Wilson, his brothers, Love and their friend Al Jardine rented guitars, a bass, drums and an amplifier with the food money their parents had left behind and staged a concert for their friends. When Murry Wilson returned home, he was more pleased than angered and encouraged the fledgling musicians to continue. Armed with a handful of songs, the Pendletones — named for the then-popular flannel shirts — began to play at school dances and parties. When they went into the studio to record, a producer changed the group’s name to the Beach Boys and never bothered to tell them.

If it all sounded sunny and carefree, Wilson didn’t remember it that way. He said his father was abusive and seemed to delight in humiliating him, typically in public. It was possible, he said, that his hearing problems stemmed from one of the times his father smacked him in the head.

“I was constantly afraid,” he told The Times in 2002. “That’s what I remember most: being nervous and afraid.”

When the Beach Boys became successful, Murry took over as their manager and increasingly took charge of their business affairs. When money was needed, he overrode his sons’ objections and sold off the band’s publishing company, believing the group had peaked. When the group went on the road, he went with them and fined his sons if they broke his rules — no booze, no profanity, no fraternizing with women. Finally, in 1964, Wilson and his brothers essentially fired their father. Never fully reconciled with his sons, Murry died of a heart attack in 1973.

To some observers, the riddle of Brian Wilson could not be fully explained by the drugs he took, the voices he heard or the depression that smothered him like a blanket. It was more than that.

“My own theory is that he was never able, never quite allowed, to become an adult — and that this, more than anything else, has been the story of his life, and of his band,” wrote Andrew Romano in a lengthy 2012 Newsweek article.

An abusive father, a cousin he regarded as a bully and ultimately a psychiatrist who sought to control his every move, his every thought — all appeared to have a hand in making Wilson who he was.

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[Frothy Afterbirth]

Continued from
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And then there was Eugene Landy, a colorful character by any measurement. He wore orange sunglasses, drove a Maserati with a license plate reading “HEADDOC,” sported a Rod Stewart-style haircut and practiced a brand of pop psychology that was regarded by some as revolutionary. Others, though, saw Landy as a Svengali-like figure, a man who could make Wilson appear to be on the road to recovery while bleeding him of every resource he had.

Hired by Wilson’s first wife, Marilyn, in 1976, Landy had his first meeting with his new client in Wilson’s bedroom closet, the only place where the musician said he felt safe. Landy gradually won Wilson’s trust and, believing in 24-hour therapy, moved in with the musician.

The results were immediate. Wilson shed weight, quit taking street drugs and rejoined the Beach Boys on stage for the group’s 15th anniversary. For a man who was so paranoid that he reportedly refused to brush his teeth or shower for fear that blood would gush from the faucet, it was a night-and-day change.

But it was short-lived, and Landy was fired when the Beach Boys’ management balked at his fees, which hovered around $35,000 a month — around $345,000 in 2025 valuation.

Without Landy, Wilson quickly regressed — back on drugs, overeating, retreating to his bedroom. He separated from his wife and grew apart from his daughters, Carnie and Wendy. Then with a flourish, Landy returned and — armed with a full team of nutritionists, assistants and caregivers — doubled down on his around-the-clock therapy.

Landy concluded Wilson suffered from a schizoid personality with manic depressive features — introverted, painfully shy, unable to show emotion. Left untreated, Landy said, Wilson would inevitably swing freely between delusional highs and nearly suicidal lows. He loaded Wilson up on medications — lithium, Xanax, Halcion, among others.

So involved was Landy in Wilson’s every move that in 1988 when the musician released “Brian Wilson” — his first solo album and his best effort in years — Landy was listed as the executive producer and given co-writing credit on five of the 11 songs. Landy’s girlfriend was given co-writing credit on three other songs. Landy became Wilson’s manager, formed a business interest with the musician to share in any profits from recordings, films and books and tried to become executor of Wilson’s estate.

Landy was ousted for good when the state attorney general’s office opened an investigation into his relationship with Wilson, probing accusations that he had prescribed drugs without a medical license and had financially exploited his famous client.

Gary Usher, a songwriter who worked with Landy, told state investigators that Wilson was a virtual captive, manipulated by a man who frightened and intimidated him.

In 1989, Landy pleaded guilty to a single charge of unlawfully prescribing drugs, surrendered his license and moved to Hawaii, where he died of lung cancer in 2006.

Wilson, who rarely said anything negative about anyone, could find little kind to say about Landy in a 2015 interview with Rolling Stone. “I thought he was my friend, but he was a very f— up man.”

Despite the tumult, Wilson kept recording and performing, sometimes showing glimpses of his former self, yet always doomed to comparisons with his earlier work.

In 2017, Times rock critic Randy Lewis observed that Wilson seemed chipper and content during a leg of the “Pet Sounds Live” tour at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. His voice, once shriveled by years of smoking and other abuses, was “assertive and confident,” Lewis wrote.

Two years later, though, Wilson postponed a leg of his “Greatest Hits” tour to focus on his mental health.

“It is no secret that I have been living with mental illness for many decades,” he wrote in a tender apology to ticketholders. “I’ve been struggling with stuff in my head and saying things I don’t mean, and I don’t know why.”

Through it all, the unfinished concept album he had put aside hung like a cloud.

A few snippets of the album had been used on “Smiley Smile,” a hurry-up recording in 1967 that the Beach Boys recorded to meet contractual demands, and “Surf’s Up,” a 1971 album built around a song of the same name that Wilson wrote for “Smile.”

Nearly 30 years later, an L.A. musician named Darian Sahanaja asked Wilson whether he’d be interested in revisiting “Smile.” The two had come to know each other on the road when Wilson sat in with Sahanaja’s group, the Wondermints.

The master tapes were unlocked, and Sahanaja said he downloaded the tracks and unconnected song fragments, aware that he was handling the very material that had nearly driven its author mad.

As the two worked on a laptop, the harmonies and unwritten connective tissue seemed to return to Wilson, Sahanaja said. They smoothed out transitions, changed tempos to help connect songs and phoned Parks when they were unable to make out lyrics. If he couldn’t remember a passage, Parks came up with substitute language.

In February 2004, Wilson’s version of “Smile” finally premiered at London’s Royal Festival Hall. With Wilson on stage, seated at a piano, and Parks in the audience, the crowd roared thunderously as a song cycle that had become nearly mythical in its absence was finally unveiled.

“I’m at peace with it,” Wilson said later, smiling.

Wilson is survived by six children, including daughters Carnie and Wendy, who made up two-thirds of the Grammy-nominated pop vocal group Wilson Philips. He is preceded in death by his wife, Melinda, who died in January 2024. His brother Dennis drowned in 1983 while diving in Marina Del Rey, and Carl, his other brother, died of lung cancer in 1998.

Times staff writer Alexandra Del Rosario contributed to this report.

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