Michael Jackson TalkRadio Content

few days ago my wife, Alana, and I lost a friend. A unique and once, a long while ago, wealthy fellow who, by the time he reached around 40, had lost it all; everything. What caused the loss is private; his business. He was about my age, born into a tremendous inheritance. When we’d talk to him about the adventurous days of his youth and all the toys that any grown up could possibly desire, (He had boats, ‘planes, sports cars and the rest), he’d show no yearning for what he’d lost. He’d simply say “it is what it is”. I met Bob on the very same evening that I met Alana, 42 years ago. He was engaged – to her. He had been for a long time. I liked him, on sight. I was knocked out by her - the young and beautiful blue-eyed blonde. He suggested that we should get to know each other better. No details about how it all came about and how shortly thereafter, she was mine; or perhaps more aptly, I was hers. “It is what it is.” It had nothing to do with money; or in my case, lack of it. Perhaps some would expect animosity between us. There was none. He was a powerfully handsome and talented man who loved the woman who became my wife; they just weren't meant to be a couple. I met him in the days when he was always impeccably attired; an international traveler, a wit, a fellow with whom I would enjoy conversation to argue against his conservative thinking. But one who never had to earn a living. It was the wealth which, in all probability, lead to his decline into poverty and ill health. He died just this week gone by of cancer, emphysema and heart problems, all probably brought on by his smoking. The man with a long bedraggled beard and obvious pain, just the day before his death, told Alana that he was feeling much better. I think…I really think, that he’d made his peace with the world and was ready to die. A few days ago a group of his friends gathered at a little coffee shop on Pico, in Santa Monica. There were probably a hundred of us. They were mostly his guitar-playing friends who adored him. One after another they stood up, took the stage to tell stories about Bob Westbrook, son of a WW2 flying ace in the Pacific and play him a tribute. The music was wonderful and heartfelt. I’ve been to “The Unurban Café” before, but never heard the music as good. At the end, the stage was empty, save for a stool, and then they played one of the recordings Bob had recently made. The song was “Somewhere over the rainbow”. It was powerful. His voice was deep, raspy and soulful. He did many people many favors over many years, but I received the finest of gifts, the woman he always loved. “It is what it is”. That’s life.