I’m gonna say this only once: I had a crush on David Carradine when I was a kid. A pubescent kid, to be exact. The year was 1974, and, like many kids—albeit, not adolescent girls—in America, I watched Kung Fu every week. My father was impressed—and a little perplexed—that I was so fascinated by what was, for an 11-year-old with pictures of Fonzie on her wall, a relatively serious and complex show. But my Mother was on to me.
She knew my type. She knew it had nothing to do with Kwai Chang Caine’s martial arts prowess or the wise life lessons imparted on young Grasshopper by Master Po. She knew it had more to do with his proclivity for walking barefoot through dusty Old Western trails with tousled hair and a five-o-clock shadow, and for the quiet strength and apparent gentleness of his demeanor that belied the ass-kickin’ rogue underneath.
David Carradine was not your typical hunk. He was not conventionally—or even unconventionally—handsome. In fact, most of my friends at that age, who were eagerly awaiting the transformation of Donny Osmond’s peach fuzz to real facial hair, would have screamed “Eeeewwww!!!” if they’d had any inkling that I thought he was something that was a whole new concept to me: sexy.
So I kept it to myself. And pretended to be interested in the Old West. And my Father continued to be impressed with my interest in Americana—however fictionalized—while my Mother half-smiled knowingly, once in a while giving me a quick wink, every time Kwai Chang Caine kicked somebody’s ass and then, sweaty and spent, drank cool water from a metal cup or winced as he rubbed a sore muscle or a bare shoulder.
David Carradine was not a teen idol. There were no pictures of him in Tiger Beat. So I resorted to Photoplay, which was on its last legs at the time and not read by anyone under 40. The only magazine story I remember had a picture of David (smiling, if I recall correctly) with his girlfriend, Barbara Hershey—whose name at the time was Barbara Seagull—and their toddler, a boy named Free. Wow, I thought, Kwai Chang Caine’s a hippie.
Kung Fu ended, but my “thing” for David Carradine did not. Though my crush dissipated quickly, my admiration for Carradine grew. At about the same time that I was discovering Dylan, listening to his music and reading about his love for Woody Guthrie, I saw Carradine as Guthrie in Bound for Glory. That was it. David Carradine had earned a permanent place in the Cool Hall of Fame.
Over the years, whenever I happened to see Carradine in a film or on TV, I watched it and, almost always, I was impressed. He even made Yellowbook cool as its lotus position-sitting spokes-guru in 2006. I generally cringe at respected actors and musicians doing commercials, but somehow, David Carradine, looking a little more like Neil Young than Kwai Chang Caine, made the commercial at once kitschy and cool.
Last week, when I found out that David Carradine had died, I got a pang of sorrow. I have to say that my heart raced when I read the words “found dead.” As speculation spread regarding how he died, my main thought was that it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was gone. David Carradine marched to his own drummer. Who is anybody to judge him?
My hope is that his family finds peace. And that his soul finds eternal comfort, and that, in his next incarnation, he is just as cool as he was in the last one. And that he is remembered for his incredible body of work, for his free spirit, for his talent as an actor and as an artist—his paintings and drawings are impressive—and for the 72 years the world had the pleasure and honor of his company.
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