I’m not even sure how to approach this one.
I’m reading this article in last Saturday’s paper with great interest, until halfway through it, I realize I’m not reading what I think I’m reading. The subject?
Mickey Spillane’s wife is dead!
What? Wow, she must’ve been pretty damned old. After all, I think of Mickey Spillane as the ultimate hard-boiled detective writer of the ’40s and ’50s, creator of many noir outings in both book and movie form. I figured he was long dead, so she must’ve been pushing 100.
But the article says… no, no… ah! She was 78. Ok. 78?
So I do the math, and figure the tough guy must’ve enjoyed his newfound wealth and fame and married a hot, young 21-year old as he approached the cusp of 40. Yeah, that kind of adds up. Tough guy and gun moll. Probably a new convertible thrown in for good luck…
Of course in the wedding picture, Mickey looks kinda boyish at 39… but the bride looks the right age, and “in the role that introduced her to the public eye more than half a century ago, she was a wife.” Okay, so she was famous because she married a famous guy. On the other hand, here’s something about Mickey being involved with “the neighborhood rackets.” Ohhh, so that’s where he got his authenticity from, he was a bad guy himself at one time. Great story!
Their granddaughter eulogized about the happiness of the famous couple until her grandfather passed away, so Mickey did predecease her by a number of years. That makes sense. They maintained wedded bliss until “he was shot and killed.” What? The famous author Mickey Spillane died a violent death? So his wicked past must have finally caught up with him. Another great story! Who knew?
And now we see a photo of her son–Mickey, Jr.’s–restaurant “Mickey Spillane’s” on 9th Ave. in Hell’s Kitchen, sporting an appropriately hard-boiled logo of a morose gumshoe. Reminds me of the now-defunct “Mickey Mantle’s” on Central Park South and for some reason the now-defunct “Grampa’s” on Bleecker (owned by Al Lewis of “The Munsters”). I guess there’s nothing wrong with capitalizing on Grandpa Spillane’s name. And there, she ate lunch every day with pride.
Never mind that almost all passers-by probably assume it was named for the famous pulp novelist of the same name.
Huh? What was that?
Lemme read that line again…
Never mind that almost all passers-by probably assume it was named for the famous pulp novelist of the same name.
… are you kidding? I re-read from the top. Apparently, there was some minor gangster who also happened to be named Mickey Spillane. He had nothing to do with the famous writer Mickey Spillane. He was some dude named Michael who, by chance, was called “Mickey.” Are you following me?
This woman in the article has NOTHING whatsoever to do with famous writer Mickey Spillane. None of these people do!
What is wrong with this newspaper? What is wrong with the writer of this assinine piece? His name is Michael Wilson, just to let everyone know: BUYER BEWARE. I felt like calling Mike on the spot to ask what the hell the point of this article was. If the dead woman was named Marge Zdzinski, guess what, no article. Then again, maybe I’m the dumbass here and missed something crucial in the article.
I look up the real Mickey Spillane. He died in 2006. Not even close. He married a woman named Mary Ann. Then someone named Sherri, then Jane.
Never mind that almost all passers-by probably assume it was named for the famous pulp novelist of the same name.
What a scam. What a rip. Seriously, Michael Wilson, get a real job. Shame on you, New York Times. I want my 15 minutes back. Idiots.