Frank McCourt, author of the relentlessly depressing Angela's Ashes, kicked it over the weekend at the age of...let's say 93 (I'm not bothering to look it up). McCourt was just another drunken Irish immigrant until he wrote Angela's Ashes, his memoir about growing up in the worst place in the world surrounded by the worst people in the world. It's a good read if you don't mind spending the next week wandering around in a daze, wishing everyone in the world except wonderful Frank McCourt would die.
By the way, I read once that McCourt's students think he was a lousy teacher. That's only because the laws in this country don't allow you to beat your useless fuckwit pupils over the head with a brick when you feel like it. Raise a pint for old Frank...or bash a kid with a coal shovel, whichever strikes your fancy.
