Here’s the story in The New York Times that accompanies it.

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In a gesture as perfect as it was unintentional, the news of Pekar’s death was posted on the Los Angeles Times site, right under a handy pull-down menu labeled “Foreclosures.”  Harvey would have approved.

Harvey Pekar ("pee-kar") would not be surprised that people are posting his stuff without his permission.

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Sadly, I probably prefer the latter. More comic material. It doesn’t register as high as “Best of Craigslist” on the procrastination meter, but it’s good.

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According to The New York Times, Doris Eaton Travis died at age 106, the last of the famed and comely (36-26-38) performers hired in the early 1900s for the famous Broadway troupe.

She was part of a famous stage family, the Seven Little Eatons, and began dancing in public at age 5. The obit in the NYT by Douglas Martin is a minor masterpiece of factual yet gentlemanly reporting:

“Doris began as a chorus girl and understudy to the show’s star. In 1919, she wore a red costume and played the paprika part in the salad dance. ”

“While appearing in the show she fell in love with the songwriter Nacio Herb Brown…Mrs. Travis’s relationship with Mr. Brown lasted intermittently for eight years but never led to marriage. Mr. Brown himself married five other women all told, divorcing all of them.”

“..Arthur Murray hired her to teach ballroom dancing in Manhattan. She taught 70 hours a week until moving to Michigan to start the new franchise.One student was …Paul Travis, who made a fortune by inventing a door jamb for cars. She and Mr. Travis married and later moved to Norman, Okla., where they bred quarter horses.”

And, my favorite, the ending to the story of the last Ziegfeld Girl:

“A little more than two weeks ago Mrs. Travis returned to Broadway to appear again at the annual Easter Bonnet Competition held by Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, this time at the Minskoff Theater. She did a few kicks, apologizing that she no longer performed cartwheels.”

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Rest in Peace, Ms. Horne.

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(See the obituary by Douglas Martin of The New York Times here.)

Moore’s famous photos of lawman Theophilus Eugene “Bull” Connor are iconic proof of a shameful side of American history. The swaggering Connor unleashed dogs and fire hoses on demonstrators in Birmingham, Alabama, who were seeking to end segregation. The action boomeranged, bringing the movement into nearly every home via television, newspaper and Life magazine coverage. The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. penned his famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail” on Connor’s turf.

The New York Times obit for Moore quotes Hank Klibanoff, one of the authors of an outstanding book, The Race Beat: The Press, the Civil Rights Struggle, and the Awakening of a Nation saying that the photographer was known for getting right in the middle of the action, regardless of the personal danger.

Moore, says Klibanoff, often used a short lens.

Who could have imagined how long his view would be?

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I’d never heard of Travers until I read her obituary in The New York Times.  (Given that a month went by between Travers’ death and the Times obit, I’m apparently not the only one ignorant of her existence.) She died at age 82, nearly 60 years since she quietly left the concert stage without explanation, returned home to live with her parents in New Jersey, and rarely mentioned her musical past, even to friends.

Travers began playing the violin before age 4 and was performing with world-class orchestras by age 10. She appeared in at least one Hollywood film, and I found this wonderful YouTube clip of her as a young girl, performing in that long-forgotten comedy about a music camp for kids. (It can take a second to start rolling, be patient.)

Experts who study the lives of musical prodigies have theorized that Travers cut her career short when reviews became less than stellar. Apparently there is a very predictable curve in the life of such a young musical genius, which takes a downturn as the performer grows into young adulthood. Very few continue on as performers.

The obituaries written about Travers are cloaked in sadness, as if she had just died a second time; the first being the day she retreated from the concert stage.

For some reason, I doubt that was so. There is no way to know, of course, but I wonder if that young woman might have had two gifts: her musical genius and her innate sense of self-preservation.

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(And listen to the whole thing.)

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