Hey Mork, We Had a Deal!

OK Mork, this one isn’t funny. As a matter of fact I’m not happy at all. If the truth be known I am damn angry. We had a contract. You broke it. That’s pretty selfish, so let’s start from the beginning.

You came on the scene during one of my favorite TV shows Happy Days. Who is this crazy guy I keep laughing at, I wondered? Obviously enough others were as interested as I, since you got your own show.

You were a comedian, an actor, and a really weird person. You intrigued me. I saw you on Carson and marveled at how, as bad as my day had gone, you always got me laughing, shaking my head and feeling a whole lot better about myself and tomorrow. However, I still wasn’t sold on you.

When you became a DJ in Good Morning Vietnam you asked me to believe your character. More important you asked me to buy a ticket to watch your performance. I did.

Probably the moment I became the most interested was when you cross-dressed to become an elderly prudish nanny in Mrs. Doubtfire. Once again you held out the contract. Buy a ticket you said and I will give you value.

You had me hook, line and sinker in The Birdcage when your limp wrist went into the air and you said “Fossi, Fossi, Fossi”.

More money from my pocket came your way. The deal was sealed. I had no doubt that our contract was secure.

I would pay money and you would give me Good Will Hunting, Dead Poet Society, Aladdin, Hook, Patch Adams, Night at the Museum.

I followed your exploits in standup, Broadway and late night television. We had a deal that you initiated. You asked me to accept you over so many others and I did.

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People with talent in any field from arts to literature who want to perform on the world’s stage and achieve the height that my contractual partner had achieved have a responsibility. God gives that kind of talent to very few. Most think it is theirs and theirs alone. They will demand that their personal life is their own business.

Your personal life, your politics and your religion were your own business-agreed. Unless, of course, you paraded them publically. Your talent, however, did not belong to you. It belonged to me and the rest of the world. That was our contract.

There was much more in you. Your talent only began to take a different direction. I’m 67 years old, you were 63. We both had many years to go to keep each other happy. I wish you could have understood that.

I’m angry but also very sad because it was a great contract. Too bad you didn’t see it that way.

You will be missed.