By Steve Lowery

A few thoughts on the death of Kurt Vonnegut, who died Wednesday.

Though the comparison gets thrown around a lot—waaaaay too much—Vonnegut was one of the few writers who could genuinely be mentioned in the same breath as Twain for his ability to marry serious thought and laugh out loud humor—Ring Lardner, a personal hero, is another. Vonnegut’s writing, like Lardner’s, was critical in my life since, as a kid, I’d always been made to feel slight for using humor to express my thoughts . . . what am I saying? I get that now (“You’re just riffing,” and “Anyone can do that,” and “You just write what’s on the top of your head,” are consistent favorites). Still, Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, Lardner’s Alibi Ike and You Know Me Al along with Catcher in the Rye and White Noise were key in my development as a writer. Now, whether that‘s a good thing is another matter since I did write in this week’s magazine that caring for the Queen Mary was like “taking care of a sick friend, incapable of progress and smelling of dead fish and industrial solvents. You know, like Ann Coulter.”

Next. Vonnegut not only lived his art, he died it, also. Slaughterhouse’s point that change/death was inevitable, that all of life is just a circus that barely notes the passing, let alone suffering of people was driven home in how Vonnegut’s death was reported. Yesterday evening, it was the subject of a big red banner headline on the CNN website. By early this morning, his death had been relegated to one of about a dozen “Top Stories” along with still more stuff about Don Imus and a piece about stolen wedding dresses. By 10 a.m. Vonnegut’s death had ceased to be a Top Story—though Imus and the wedding dresses remained—and had been placed in the “Entertainment” alongside an article Danny Bonaduce’s wife filing for divorce. So it goes. And what does a guy have to do to have his death mentioned on the front page of the LA Times, above the fold? Above the fold is that area that is visible when a newspaper is laying flat. It’s where the days’ most important and significant stuff runs. Vonnegut is one of the most important and significant Americans of the last 40 years—am I going to get an argument on this?—yet news of his death was played below the fold by the Times in favor of the usual horror out of Iraq—so it goes—and a presidential poll story running nearly a year before the primaries. What does a guy have to do? Be a Chandler? A Zell? God’s more successful older brother?

Finally, getting old sucks. Vonnegut died from a fall, the same thing that gets so many old folks—note to old people: don’t stand up. I’ve been old for years now and it’s been a huge mistake. I in no way recommend it. I look like hell and forget things all the time, and not poetically beautifully things like the name of my high school sweetheart. I forget stuff like “Why did I walk into the kitchen,” and “Who is this person who obviously knows me” and “Did I take my meds?” Which reminds me, did I take my meds?

Anyway, thank you Kurt. See ya.

Tags: Columns, V.C. Daily