Dick Clark has died, really truly, finally died. Dead and gone. This, for some reason, is very hard for me to comprehend. I'm not sure why. Not because he was a large part of my childhood, or anything -- I hadn't even heard of him until I was a teen-ager, and even then it was several more years before I saw him. The first time I heard of him, in fact, he was being described as a remarkably long-lived celebrity who was suspected of having a picture in the attic, a la Dorian Gray. And when I did first see him, although I could tell he was a middle-aged man, he certainly did not look old enough to be Dick Clark.
But, however, all things come to an end, whether good or bad, and his life has at last ended. He was only 82, also, I was sort of expecting him to be 104. But 82, that means he was born in 1930. Twenty-two when American Bandstand began. Thirty-five the year I was born! Really not so terribly old, just a very young-looking old man. Ah, well. Rest in peace, Dick.
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