RIP: Tom Magliozzi

[cartman]

One half of the Click and Clack duo, Tom Magliozzi passed away at the age of 77 due to complications of Alzheimer's disease.

Tom Magliozzi, Popular Co-Host Of NPR's 'Car Talk,' Dies At 77 : NPR

[digamma]

Bummer. I knew they had quit running the show live, but I didn't realize it was because of Tom's illness. RIP.

[Peregrine]

Damn this sucks - spent a lot of time listening to that show.

[sterlingice]

I still listen to the podcasts. It doesn't matter that the stories are about cars from the late 80s or whatnot, that's not why I'm listening. Sad to see, though

SI

[path12]

Dewey, Cheatham & Howe send RIP wishes. As do I.

[Bisbo]

What a great, great show they had.

[corbes]

It's still what I listen to on the way to and from the dump every Saturday morning. Generosity of spirit never goes out of style.

[chesapeake]

I've been a big fan of the show for many years and was sorry to see this. I had seen pictures of the two but never knew which was which. I had them backwards. So for all these years, when I was picturing them talking, I had Tom's voice coming out of Ray's mouth. I'm still having trouble reconciling it in my head.

I assume Pikov Andropov will be driving the hearse. Who does the make up? Is it Bud Tugly?

[cartman]

His daughter's eulogy was awesome:

Blog Post | Lydia's Eulogy | Car Talk

At Tom's memorial service last Thursday, we heard from his eldest daughter, Lydia Magliozzi Icke, who wrote a poem commemorating her life with her dad. Before she began she offered us this explanation:

I should tell you before I begin that my father and I shared a long history of limerick writing together, going back to sixth grade when we penned one about a witch making a stew out of a kangaroo that hopped to Kalamazoo… you get the idea. So I thought it was only fitting that my words today be a limerick of sorts. And while I may not have achieved the iambic pentameter Dad would have admired, I’d like to share this with you.

An Ode to My Father

My dad / was a man / who defied
Any labels / no matter / who tried.
An MIT engineer
With a varied career
A non-linear life / bona fide.

In my childhood years / I would dread
That next crazy / idea / in his head
Getting picked up at prep school
Feeling thoroughly uncool
In a ‘56 Chevy / bright red.


Harvard Square / was a place / he adored
In my formative / years / we explored:
We bought pens at Bob Slate
At Blue Parrot we ate
The wandering / was / our reward.

On Sundays / by Grammy’s / kitchen sink
Dad shored up / my math skills / which stink.
Then he’d retire downstairs
Into Pappy’s old chair
To do New York Times' / crosswords / in ink.

After Dave / became / my fiance
Just for him / Dad authored / a survey.
A psychographic profile
Dad thought very worthwhile
To vet / the in-laws’ / DNA.

And when / Grandpa Tom / he became
I watched / each of our children / lay claim
To his hair / laugh / and gait
Traits not taught, just innate
Strong / Magliozzi genes / are to blame.

The end / of Dad’s journey / was fraught
All too painful / and leaving us / wrought.
But through every phase
Even on his last days
His true essence / we never / forgot.

So, Daddio:

I know just / how you’d want me / to close
My ode / to your final / repose:
With a loving embrace
And a pie in the face
And a bunch / of whipped cream / up your nose.