By CHARLES ANDREWS
HARD TO BELIEVE
Jack was "a fixture," kind of a legend, in Santa Monica for much of his life. He was always there in Friday’s Santa Monica Daily Press with his "LAUGHING MATTERS" column (such a great name), to start our weekends with a chuckle, a smile or even a satisfying grimace, a good story or a bit of reflection. Sports, sometimes, because he loved the drama of sports. Well, a love-hate relationship. His beloved Dodgers, and be-liked Lakers, broke his heart too many times. I fear Jack sensed another World Series collapse and got out with perfect timing. I certainly hope his exit doesn't predict an election debacle. Don’t leave us, Jack!
Was there anyone anywhere who disliked Darn-old Trump more than he? I see millions vigorously waving their hands, but I think he had a longstanding claim to preeminence, and thousands of words in print to back it up. But as often as we talked politics, national and local, I never heard him "curse" the Mango Mussolini. But when the columns were switched from weekly to bi-weekly in the Daily Press a couple of years ago, I could tell Jack was sometimes bothered he couldn't rush to his computer for a timely commentary. "Don't worry," I would comfort him, "next week he'll say something just as bad." He had to restrain himself from writing about Trump every single column.
He occasionally took on the task to profile some local character, often elderly, or just passed on. I don’t think he had a passion for that, but he felt it should be done, that their noteworthy accomplishments should not be buried with them. That was typical of his sense of connection and duty to his fellow humans. It didn’t show up so much in his columns unless you were looking for it, but Jack was very moral, a stand up guy – a mensch, for sure. Situations that were unfair bothered him a lot. That came out more in our conversations than in his columns, but a lot of them were the basis for a column. Attacking with humor, of course, the most effective weapon.
I CONSIDERED JACK A CLOSE FRIEND
And I think he felt the same about me. I knew of his work, but first met him at one of our newspaper’s holiday parties, before he stopped attending them, or much of anything. "But Jack," I cajoled, to get him to the next one, "a free dinner, get seconds – you can stick it to the boss." He revealed to me almost two years back that he was becoming increasingly reclusive, that he felt a sometimes uncomfortable mental state was affecting his activities more. But he wasn’t a complainer, and only admitted that when I was gently pushing him for a return visit to our place for dinner.
That dinner was a memorable event for us both and my wife Dian, whom he adored. Jack was prone to repeat a good story or joke – always with "stop me if you’ve heard this," but you never could – so there were several times when we were talking on the phone and he would suddenly fall silent, and finally say, "You know, I will never understand how you convinced that woman to marry you. I just don't see it."
"OUR DINNER WITH JACK"
Turned out to be a one-off. The only other times I saw him in person were a handful, when I dropped by The Shores and he came down and we chatted in the lobby. I swear, every single person who came off the elevator or walked across the lobby called out, "Hello, Jack!" even though you couldn't see his face for some big floppy hat. No question, he was famous, and he was loved.
Yes, our friendship was mostly by phone, but we would talk two to four times a week, usually late at night, often for 30-40 minutes. I loved those chats, and I really miss him. Not many people do what we do, write a regular newspaper column, so that gave us an immediate and lasting bond. How many times, after we had been talking for a while, one of us would say, "So… what are you writing about this week:" "I don't know. You?" "Hell if I know."But our approaches were very different. I envied that he would finally come up with his headline and the whole thing would flow from that. I agonized over every subject choice and approach, and took 10 times as long to write it, and the headline came last. Because I never knew where mine would wind up. Still don't.
800
Jack recently figured his total was more than 800 columns. I can tell you, that’s a huge number. I’ve been writing my columns, CURIOUS CITY and NOTEWORTHY, for 13 years and 8, respectively. It’s a strange thing to do. I remember one time the editor of The Argonaut told a gathering, "Anyone can write a newspaper column. But, writing one every week, for months, or years, and having something interesting to say every time… that’s pretty rare."
Jack Neworth was rare, and important. In ways he never would have claimed, or even imagined.
Writing can be a form of immortality, especially in our digital age. Until recently, you had to be a Plato or Shakespeare or Sam Clemens to achieve that immortality. But in our digital age, it’s all out there, forever. Or until AI decides to eliminate it. I think Jack was one of those human creatures who just have to write. He had a few, or a bunch, maybe, of screenplays tucked away that he still had hopes for. Waiting for the right contact, the right moment. He wasn't obsessed with them and rarely mentioned them. But he believed at least some were very good, and deserved to be produced. He had a few celebrity friends, also rarely mentioned, like Elliott Gould. But hey, it took Steven Dang Spielberg 10 years to bring "Schindler’s List" to the screen.
A GREAT COMEDIAN
If you thought Jack Neworth was funny in print he was 10X funnier "in person" or on the phone. Perfect timing and nuance. I have to throw in one last Jack joke because it has always tickled me to remember his dry delivery. He told me he found himself sitting next to ‘60s-‘70s hottie actress Ali McGraw, who he had a crush on, on a beach in Hawai’i. They were having a lively conversation when she stood up and suggested they go to her hotel room, which had a fantastic view. "Uh… I think I’d better not, Ali. Since I am on my honeymoon." Considering how the marriage turned out, Jack deadpanned, I may have made a mistake.
We all owe a huge debt to Jack’s brother-in-law David Winter, who handled so many difficult things Jack/s last months, and finally gave him a comfortable room in his home for his final days. Diane and I visited him there about a week before he passed, and Diane sang for him and played guitar. He was weak but still cracking jokes, with gallows humor. We had a few conversations by phone with him prior to that, and I can tell you he left here with his wits about him. That’s a blessing.
Finally I have to thank the leadership of the Daily Press, publisher Ross Furukawa, partner Todd James, and Editor-in-Chief Martthew Hall, for giving Jack the platform, and persisting even on the days when he did not feel like being nice. Yeah, that was Jack too, you know it. Now. no more pain. Rest in peace, my good friend and colleague.
Charles Andrews has lived in Santa Monica for 38 years and wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world. Really. Send love and/or rebuke to him at therealmrmusic@gmail.com
