A Man Called Lew

Welcome, Lew.

He was a short man with a glint in his eye and a joke in his heart.  I can't recall a phone call that didn't involve silliness and laughter and the following sentiment:  "We'll try to make some sense of this cockamamie world."  Before we got together for breakfast or lunch, we always discussed what we were going to wear.  "I'll be the short Jew in blue."  "I"ll be the short Jew in chartreuse."  He never met a pun he didn't adore.  Even when circumstances turned dire, as they did last November, he went for the chuckle.  "Don't worry, I'm in good hands with Dr. Sid Seizure." He put everyone at ease.  He supported every client.  He never gave up on his writers.  "I promise you this is going to happen," he said, in our last conversation.  And it did happen, the TV movie he'd been trying to get me for a year.  He kept his promise.  He always did.  On Sunday, he passed away.  He's somewhere else now, forming a barbershop quartet in the sky.  No doubt, he's cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Still.  Lew Weitzman gone?  It can't be. There's no way to make any sense of that in this cockamamie world or any other.  No way at all.