Anyone who is in the public eye for more than 15 minutes eventually comes face to face with the decision to gracefully step off the stage and be remembered fondly or cling to the spotlight desperately and let the world watch them fall apart like a time-lapse film of a dead rat. Molly Ringwald, with a few exceptions, left the spotlight in her prime and will always be remembered as the John Hughes dream queen teen and not like Heather Locklear, who was once on many a dorm room poster but will now float from prime-time soaps to Hollywood Squares until VH1's Behind The Aging Starlet tells the story of the three starving african kids killed when the staple at the back of Heather's head snapped and she exploded all over the set of a "just pennies a day" adopt-a-third-worlder commercial.

I'm not just talking beauty. I'm talking about peaking. Knowing when to hold 'em, and knowing when to fold 'em, as a stranger once told me on a train bound from Georgia. Danny Elfman? He ditched Oingo Boingo, who could maybe get a gig with five other 80's bands sponsored by a radio station, and went on to make a career out of variations on the same marimba theme for the Simpsons and every Tim Burton movie. Bob Dylan? He ditched the Wilburys to keep pushing the Dylan thing until he became, well, a Saturday Night Live sketch. When Bill Bradley lost his game, did he become a sportscaster like every other celebrity with a gimp knee? No, he became a politician, following in the hallowed footsteps of Ronald Reagan, Sonny Bono, and Jesse "The Body" Ventura. Elvis? He went from being the King of Rock'n'Roll, sex symbol to millions, to being a hunka-hunka-bloated love. I mean, have you seen the "Elvis In Concert" video, filmed two months before he died on the shitter? The guy is so buzzed, baked, blitzed, doped-up, and strung-out that he can't remember the words to "Can't Help Falling In Love".

Perhaps only slightly more dignified than mall-opener, half-time-show-performer, or infomercial host is the role of game show host. John MacEnroe, Paul Reubens, and about a million former sitcom dads are all hosting game shows now, and you can see the shame in their eyes as they pretend to care while interviewing the contestants. But the absolute worst is Louie Anderson. Louie wasn't really that big of a deal in the first place, nor was anyone whose routine hinges on being fat and annoying. I thought he was funny. I used to watch Family Feud on my break at lunch and even played along from home for shits and giggles. Louie's total lack of respect for the contestants, his bitterness and boredom, his get-it-over-with style are all very unique in the world of peppy game show hosts. Once I saw the question was "what would you say in place of a cuss word" (Answers: Dang, Darn, Shoot, Doggone, Fudge) and a contestant guessed "crap" and I got to see Louie say, "Show me.... crap!" Maybe if Ray Combs'd had that sort of contempt for his job he wouldn't have hung himself in a closet like the sweater grammaw gave you, distressed over "professional problems". Then again, he was from Hamilton Ohio, so he had a lot to feel bad about.

Remember Orville Redenbacher's old commercials where he would say "Hi, I'm Orville Redenbacher" and then his "grandson" would take over? Or the declining years of Dave Thomas, "Founner of Wennies", where they would dress him up as a hockey player or jetskiier and relieve him of his dignity? I'm convinced that these people are either a) puppets made to look like them, b) puppets made from their corpses , or c) zombies. The fact that Jim Henson died ("of a cold") the week Reagan left office had me leaning towards a) or b). But recently the picture at left has been showing up, four-foot wide, on city buses. In it, you can see a lot more detail.

Louie Anderson looks like a fuckin' zombie. And this picture of Orville Redenbacher doesn't make me any less scared.