So Long, Dave "Dutch" Heckman

Courtesy Angie Heckman

"Just Round the Corner"

He forgot more things than most people ever learned. 

Emmy Award-winning cameraman, passionate photographer, author and a brilliant funny guy, Dave Heckman passed away last week in Mar Vista, California, aged 71. We met in a bar across the street from KTLA back in 1979, later living in the same apartment building. When Dave bought a home in Hollywood, I moved into a guest house above the garage. 

Around 1986, he decided he wanted a nickname. For the next year or so, Heckman would correct people calling him 'Dave,' insisting he be referred to as 'Dutch.' In time, Dutch succeeded in giving himself a nickname on his own terms.

As Kurt Vonnegut might have said, "And so it went."

Below awaits a Heckman sampler. It's hard to believe there will be no more of Dave's hilarious acerbic comments. But plenty old ones remain.

Undistilled Heckman

What better eulogist than the Dutchman himself?

2007 - 2009:  Products of a Diseased Mind blog

Distilled Heckman

Write Enough! blog posts either mentioning Dave or featuring his writings.

2006: Getting Around with a Leg Cast

2007: The Value of Nothing

 Excerpt from The Value of Nothing

2008: 27 Years Ago

Time and Mrs. Murphy

2012: The Riots Recalled

The Dutchman Recalls the Riots

2019: Stalinfest

The Dutch/D G Heckman Reviews

If you miss Dave's outrageous humor, look no further than his books.

2014 Appalling Yarns

2017 Dreadful Outcomes

My wife, Joy, sent me the passage below. When it comes to the memory of Dave "Dutch" Heckman, I will be guided by this soothing wisdom:

Time and Mrs. Murphy

Back in the early '80s I lived in a Hollywood apartment, neighbors to cameraman Dutch Heckman. Once, our elderly landlady, Mrs. Murphy, told Dutch and I that she'd been present in Honolulu during the Pearl Harbor attack. (A great danger came from falling shrapnel, courtesy of exploding U.S. anti-aircraft shells.) Evacuated from Oahu to California, Mrs. Murphy bid farewell to her husband, Bill, a Marine major. Bill was gone for years, fighting in the Pacific. He once wrote Mrs. Murphy from Eniwetok that "nothing smells worse than a dead Jap." Bill survived the war, but, like the stench of enemy corpses, the horror of that island always lingered. 

Mrs. Murphy eventually became a manager at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. (She was present that day in 1968 when Robert Kennedy was assassinated.) Talking later, Dutch and I realized that Mrs. Murphy was a history sponge, soaking up the events spilling around her. In time, Eniwetok vaporized from hydrogen bomb tests, the Ambassador Hotel was torn down, Bill died, and Mrs. Murphy ended up a landlady, drinking double bourbons in the afternoon and sharing her memories with a constantly employed cameraman and an unemployed comedy writer. She always regretted never moving back to Hawaii after the war. (She prounced it 'Ha-vi-ee.") A few years later, Mrs. Murphy passed away. She is forever tied in my mind to December 7th. I wish her a good afterlife and hope it contains palm trees rustling in the warm trade winds.

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