Film and television actor Jack Noseworthy, 35, has died at home with his family from an unspecified form of cancer. Noseworthy, most famous for his starring role in the short-lived MTV series "Dead At 21," has been a Modesto resident since 2003. In addition to his television credits, Noseworthy also had roles in films such as "Idle Hands," "U-571," and "The Brady Bunch Movie." He is survived by his wife Kimberly and their two children. Funeral arrangements have not yet been released.
—The Modesto Bee, April 26 2007
I wonder if Jon Bon Jovi will come to my funeral. I met him once, briefly, when I was shooting that video of his. A nice guy. Had this big affable grin that made you think he was a bit on the slow side. Then when you think about it, why wouldn't Jon Bon Jovi smile? The guy probably hasn't frowned since 1985.
Death is ... odd. That's the only word I've come up with so far. Just odd. People like to talk in cliches about "finding peace" and eternal rest. I don't feel particularly well rested. I'm still just me. Still here. If there was a bus to the pearly gates I guess I missed it. Maybe I'm in purgatory, a lost soul or something. Maybe I'm floating through some vast nothingness awaiting my ultimate judgment. Maybe I'm one of those stars from the Jimmy Stewart movie, the ones that twinkled when they talked to each other. That's my ultimate fate, eternity in a Frank Capra movie. Hell, I don't know. Worse things I guess.
I'm not scared anymore, that part I like. I really wanted to be ready when I was still alive, one of those death bed saints that smiles wistfully and tells their family that they are not afraid to die. I wanted that, for my wife. And my kids. But I wasn't. I wasn't ready. You're never ready. After about a year of treatment it became clear that things were just not getting better. It seems stupid to me. I mean I'm 35, how did this disease just sneak into every corner without me knowing it? 35 year-old don't die of cancer. They die in a car accident, or they pass out with a lit cigarette and burn down their house or something. Not cancer. A 35 year-old with cancer loses and nut and then wins the Tour de France. It isn't supposed to happen like this.
I hadn't worked in a while. Well I did what I needed to, my kids were still spoiled at Christmas like they should be, but I wasn't acting much. They cancelled my insurance, and it became necessary for me to ignore the problems when they presented themselves. My stomach bothered me because my burger was too greasy. My body ached because our mattress was old. I looked pale because I hadn't gotten outside as much as I should. By the time I was able to get to the doctor I was well past winning the Tour de France. But I went into treatment anyway, because that is what you do. Then, like I said, after about a year ... there is probably no euphemism in the English language worse than "your affairs." Nothing sounds so permanent, so cold, so unavoidable as a doctor looking right at you and telling you to consider getting "your affairs" in order. My "affairs," ages 4 and 7, didn't need order. They needed their dad. They needed me to hug them and tell them that it would be okay, that I wasn't afraid. So I did, and I tried my damnedest to convince myself. Then one afternoon my wife came and sat down on the edge of my bed. The light was coming through the window behind her, and there was this one perfect movie moment where I could see the sun shining through a strand of her blonde hair. When she noticed me staring she got embarrassed and tucked it behind her ear. I used to hate when she did that. God I was absolutely not ready. You're never ready.
I never minded not being famous. Ten years ago maybe. Too many beers and I'd get in some bouncer's face. DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?! I WAS THE BROTHER IN BARB WIRE GOD DAMNIT! Throw a glass, act like a big shit, call my agent in the morning. You get over that. Not everybody gets to be Brad Pitt. Or hell, even Brad Renfro. The smartest thing an actor can do is acknowledge this, and move on. You just keep working. You take the jobs that won't embarrass your folks, you put the checks in the bank, and you keep working.
When my son was in Kindergarten his class had a What Does Daddy Do? day. All the kids had to stand up and give a little speech about their father's profession. I of course immediately thought of that scene in Kindergarten Cop, but I couldn't convince Kim to let the boy tell his class that she says I'm a real sex machine. So he told the truth. His daddy is an actor. He had his own tv show once. Later that day some little asshole ... I know there's some unspoken parent rule about not calling other people's kids asshole but I'm sorry some of them just are. . .some little asshole asked about me, what I'd done. Naturally, he had never heard of me. I mean, what five year old has heard of me, right? My son came home, not angry or ashamed, just concerned. He said not to worry, that I just needed to get a job on Dragon Ball Z and then the little asshole would know who I am. But then he said it didn't matter anyway, because he had heard of me. I guess there aren't really words to explain how that makes you feel, as a dad.
And my daughter ... she's real cool too. She just turned four, so she's not quite old enough for philosophical discussion. She mostly just wants to color. Or run around in circles. Or pick up a crayon and then run around in circles. You know you're a parent when there is nothing more hilarious than watching your huggies-clad kid run screaming from one end of the house to the other, pick up cornflower blue, and then take off again after nothing. I guess you're probably not supposed to let them run with a crayon, but it was funny at the time.
I was terrified to have a girl. Didn't know anything about raising girls, I just knew all of the things I'd done to them over the years. Suddenly Jessie McCormick's father sitting outside our 8th grade dance with binoculars didn't seem like such a psycho when I was standing on his side of the fence. The realization that you'll never get the 8th grade dance, that's the real killer. No pun intended. When you find out you're going to die you don't think about all of the things you have left to do, all the times you could have gone parasailing but didn't. You think about 8th grade dances, and tee ball trophies, science fair ribbons, 4-H projects, girl scout cookies.
Cornflower blue crayons.
I don't want to sound maudlin. I really can't think of anything more cheesy than a dead guy talking about the preciousness of life. I'm not going to tell to savor every moment. Even if I did, you wouldn't. You're going to keep zoning out when your kid is trying to tell you a story, because you can't remember if the gas bill got paid. And you're going to leave your parent's house too quickly, and give your mom one of those one-armed pat on the back hugs instead of a real one. You're going to eat in your car instead of at your table, and watch reality tv instead of going to the movies because you're just too tired. I know. That's just how it goes. Life doesn't leave much room for savoring. I'm not even sure what my point is, or if there is a point. If there has ever been a point.
There's a point. Of course there's a point.
I'll bet Bon Jovi doesn't come to my funeral. But you know what? To hell with that guy. I'm smiling too.
