Comedy Killers | Letters | Chicago Reader

Comedy Killers 

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Okay, I get it. There's whimsical irony in aging rock stars being felled by nonglamorous ailments [Hitsville, October 14]. Hardly anyone is going out on a grabber like the 60s Hendrix and Joplin, or latter-day Stevie Ray Vaughn and Kurt Cobain. They entertain us in life; they wow us in death. Just so you didn't think I have no sense of humor.

However, sometimes it's worth removing the tongue from cheek. Granted, the conditions described as "mundane" aren't knee-slappers like choking on puke or crashing a plane. But including David Crosby's life-threatening situation after the yucks you got from Glenn Frey's problem is pushing your thesis into Howard Stern's arena. Certainly in the past, Crosby spent a lifetime asking for it through wretched excess, but from all indications has worked very hard to clean up and make amends for past sins. Unfortunately, he's found he's not "out of the woods," and quite possibly may die. So maybe I'm just having a bad day, but if there's a joke in that situation somewhere, I don't get it.

I assume Mr. Wyman is the picture of health, but I also trust that should he someday find himself facing a health crisis, he will understand what a hoot those pesky waits for an organ donor can be. Yowza!

Gary B. Shaw

Glen Ellyn


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