Mark Steyn remembers Lena Horne, the Cotton Club, and Harold Arlen.

A couple of people have emailed that he died.

Sorry for his friends and family, but all I can do is shrug. I was never into his art, or fantasy in general.

[Update a few minutes later]

For those who do care, this is probably a useful site.

RIP:

I grew up listening to Ernie call games—sometimes in bed, having smuggled a portable radio between the sheets; sometimes with my grandfather, on summer nights at a house in northern Michigan that had no television. Harwell’s distinctive voice—nasally, with the hint of a southern twang—was unforgettable. The sound of my mother’s voice will stay with me always; so will Harwell’s. Like all great radio men, he had a few special phrases. Home runs were “looong gone!” A batter who took a called third strike “stood there like a house by the side of the road.”

The habit that amazed me in my early years occurred after foul balls at Tiger Stadium. A ball would fly into the stands and Harwell would announce that a lucky fan from Owosso or Wyandotte or wherever was going to take it home. For years it puzzled me: How does he know that?

Those are my summer memories, too. And I wondered the same thing. I hate to say that he was making it up, but I’d like to see another explanation. All I know is that I’d like to think that he did know it. Who did it hurt?