Two Dead Body Diggers Die on the Same Day

Sid Bernstein.

Jay Richardson.

Familiar names.

They both died. And if they are known at all, it's for flogging dead people and the past.

Sid Bernstein, who died at 95, put out his first album two years ago at the age of 93. It was, naturally, an mp3 download only, and creepily, included his cover version of "Imagine" by John Lennon.

Give him credit for singing it mildly on key, and with just enough oxygen to keep it unassumingly wistful rather than anthemic.

Sid, for many many decades, called attention to himself as the man who...well, you can fill the rest in. Was responsible for The Beatles coming to America? Was the promoter who put together deals when nobody else on the planet could? Shoved his finger up Ed Sullivan's ass and demanded, 'Get them on your stage or I reach in further and pull out your liver...'"

Whatever. He was the Fifth Beatle. As were a dozen others.

He will be missed. But not by anyone who expected that he could get them a record or concert deal. An affable old gent, his name-dropping of The Beatles, Rascals or Stones was an act of nostalgia by 1970.

If he loomed large in later years, it was because he'd gained a lot of weight. If you want to be horrified, here's Mr. Bernstein happily standing alongside one of the most useless, irritating, shittiest "singers" ever to knock a nauseated sparrow out of its tree. Yes, "that guy in Central Park," the dweeb who ruins the quiet for everyone, Ippolito the Snot, who sets up with a microphone and gets donations from stupid people.

The Shit Head of Central Park and Grandpa Sid Not-Vicious

Oh. Let's not forget our other dead-today semi-celeb...

Richardson...

He died at 54. He toured here and there with a Buddy Holly look-alike because...he was the son of J.P. Richardson "The Big Bopper."

When the Bopper's plane went down, the boy was still a cunt. Or, part of one. He hadn't been born yet. Two months later, out he popped.

A few years ago, trying to even the score, he demanded that his father's coffin be popped open so he could check out the rumor that "The Big Bopper" had been shot.

Now who the FUCK was aboard the plane who would've shot some Texas asshole who recited stupid novelty lyrics and cackled a lot? Shot by somebody in the audience, yes. But on that plane? Huh? How did THAT rumor get started? "Hey, son, your Daddy was killed by Buddy, or the pilot, or Valens...shot right through his fuckin' skull, and that's why the plane went down. See, either Buddy, the pilot, or Valens was fucking stupid enough to shoot a gun and not think that it might ricochet or something. P'too! Hits a gas line or pings off the engine, and the plane goes down. Nothin' to do with the weather, son. It was a corn-spear-essy!"

Jeez. So Richardson has the coffin opened, is rather relieved to see that Daddy Dearest isn't looking too bad for somebody dead nearly 50 years...and has it confirmed that the body has no bullet wound.

"The Big Bopper" was re-buried in a fresh casket. The old one...oh, that's a souvenir. Maybe it can be sold to raise money for charity. Like the Society to Stop Brain-Dead Sons from Digging Up their Completeliy Dead Dads...

Finally, after decades of flogging relationships to long inactive musicians...Bernstein and Richardson join the inactive list themselves.

Bernstein's tombstone says "I mattered about 50 years ago. In another 50, I won't be matter at all. So tell my son not to dig me, I'll be real gone!"

Richardson's tombstone says "My coffin's lined with Chantilly Lace. OOOH BABY, THAT'SA WHAT I LIKE!" Oh, you wanna dig him up to see if I put a bullet through his head?

No, I have an alibi, I was at Marian McPartland's funeral.

To quote an Ian Dury song, "Fucking Ada."