Hang It Up For Good: June 11, 2009

In which everyone needs to calm down about David Carradine, because it could have been worse. So much worse.

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Miscellaneous

Last Wednesday, a beloved and talented American actor died. I met this news with a profound, "… who?", because the name David Carradine means nothing to me. Forget Kung Fu; I've only ever seen the first Kill Bill movie, so I wouldn't know the guy if I opened my closet and found him hanging there. That would have been a bad joke even before Carradine died, because it wouldn't have made any sense; now it makes sense, but it's insensitive and callous and sick. Let's blame Twitter for killing my compassion, shall we?

But David Carradine's suicide — or murder, if you are related to him and find the idea of an actor being killed by a secret kung-fu assassin cult slightly less ludicrous than the suggestion that he slapped on a pair of fishnet tights and wanked right off his mortal coil — is but the latest in a long line of famous people who met the Grim Reaper halfway, thanks to their own stupid decisions. Don't believe me? Here is a very abbreviated list, featuring some of my favorite featherbrains…

Franz Kotzwara

The original bad boy of autoerotic asphyxiation, Kotzwara's hobby not only took him down, it nearly took a "friend" down with him. See, Kotzwara — who, incidentally, was a musical virtuoso, but thanks to his other hobbies nobody will ever think of his skills on the double bass when they hear his name connected with the word "string" — was in London in February of 1791, when he decided to pay a visit to a prostitute. After a nice dinner and some pleasant chit-chat, he turned on the charm by asking her to cut off his balls. She turned that request down like a bedspread, but apparently did agree to let him tie himself to the doorknob with a length of rope while they went at it. Sometime during the festivities, Franz's stringy skills failed him, and off he went to the Great Yonder — leaving the hooker stuck with a murder rap, which she fortunately managed to beat in court (without the help of tabloid photographs, even!). For a bass player, the guy was truly… debased. *rimshot*

Tycho Brahe

Tycho Brahe You know that cliché, "a little politeness never killed anyone"? The next time someone says that, politely disagree, and back yourself up with this story. Tycho Brache was a famous astronomer back in the Renaissance — famous enough to get invited to royal banquets, anyway. According to legend, Tycho refrained from using the gent's at one of these banquets because he felt it would be impolite to leave the table while the King was still there. (I would have just peed in my fingerbowl, but then again, habits like that are the reason I never get invited to eat with monarchs.) Unfortunately, court banquets in those days could go on for hours, like this one did — and by the end of it, Tycho couldn't pee even if he wanted to. The strain on his bladder supposedly led to an infection that killed him eleven days after the meal.

This account of Brahe's death has been disputed in recent years, under the killjoy hypothesis that a story so awesome must be a lie. A current theory has it that Brahe died of mercury poisoning, which is a depressingly common (back then, anyway) way for a famous astronomer to go. I myself stand with the theory proposed by Professor Bladderstrain of the University of Memorable Exits.

Franz Reichelt

Franz Reichelt I have a soft spot for idiotic inventors, and Franz is my all-time favorite. An Austrian tailor, he invented an "overcoat-parachute" that, just as its name implies, would theoretically allow the wearer to drift gently down from on high. Reichelt obtained permission from the French authorities to test his invention on a dummy thrown from the Eiffel Tower, but on the day of the test he sneakily ditched the dummy and substituted himself instead. And the rest — well, let's just go to the replay.

Ouch.

Jack Daniel and Allan Pinkerton

Two men, one thing in common: gangrene in unusual places. Jack Daniel, famous for his whiskey, came in early to work one morning and wanted to open his office safe, but couldn't remember the combination. Frustrated, he gave the steel box a good hard kick — and broke his toe. This led to an infection, which led to gangrene, which led to blood poisoning, which led to his death, which led to me snickering every time I pass Jack Daniel's mustard in the grocery store.

It doesn't tax the imagination to picture a whiskey king dying from a stupid accident, but you just don't expect the same kind of clumsiness from the guy who invented the American private detective. Allan Pinkerton, founder of the Pinkerton Agency, deftly dodged vengeful criminals and political revolutionaries for most of his adult life, but was done in by a sidewalk: he tripped and bit his tongue, which pulled a Jack Daniel and gangrened him to death. Imagine having your tongue rot away in your mouth — that's like something out of a Gypsy curse.