Celebrity Thread: News, gossip, and anything else that strikes a fancy
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RIP, Brian. Thank you for the music and memories. May the Lord take you by his side.
The Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson dies at 82
The Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson dies at 82
In the early 1990s, during the filming of "Mrs. Doubtfire" (1993), Robin Williams asked the production crew to hire a small group of individuals from a nearby San Francisco homeless shelter. The request came quietly, passed along through his assistant, and never discussed publicly. The crew didn’t initially know why, but one of the assistant directors later revealed that Robin often worked such agreements into his contracts. He wanted jobs given to those struggling on the margins of society. One of the men hired for the catering crew during that shoot later said, “He treated me like I’d been part of the team all along. I served food on set, and he joked with me every day like we were old friends.”
Robin Williams’ connection to the homeless community ran deeper than these work clauses. Throughout his entire career, he asked that every movie he filmed hire at least 10 homeless individuals as part of the crew. By the end of his career, that number had reached approximately 1,520 people helped. This was never a condition he spoke about in interviews or accepted praise for. It was simply written into contracts and fulfilled quietly. Directors and producers only began mentioning it after his passing.
In the late 1980s, after a stand-up show in New York City, he was spotted slipping into a shelter not far from Broadway. A staff member there remembered how he walked in with no entourage, no camera, no announcements. He brought pizza, sat cross-legged on the floor with residents, and just listened. One resident, who had been living on the streets after a factory closure, said that night changed his outlook entirely. “He didn’t ask about our addictions or failures. He asked what made us laugh as kids. Who did that?”
During the production of "Good Will Hunting" (1997) in Boston, he again asked the studio to offer temporary positions to local unhoused individuals. A location assistant recounted that one of the grips on set had recently been living in a shelter, and by the time filming wrapped, he had earned enough to put a deposit on an apartment. “Robin made sure he got to stay on. He even bought him a suit for job interviews afterward,” the assistant said.
Many of Robin’s donations were made under different names. One shelter in Los Angeles discovered years after receiving several large anonymous checks that the funds had come from him. The executive director found out only when a thank-you letter they had mailed was returned marked “no such address,” and a staffer recognized the handwriting on the envelope as Robin’s from a previous autograph. He wanted the focus to stay on the shelters, never on himself.
Whoopi Goldberg once explained, “He didn’t want applause for helping. He wanted action.” Robin believed that kindness shouldn’t require an audience. During a break from filming "Patch Adams" (1998), he visited a shelter in West Virginia and brought with him boxes of clean socks, gloves, and warm coats. When asked by a shelter volunteer what inspired the visit, he replied, “The weather’s turning. And cold doesn’t care if you’re tired.”
Even when he toured for comedy or appeared on talk shows, Robin would often walk neighborhoods in the early mornings before public recognition began. A security guard at a New York shelter once opened the side gate to find him handing out hot coffee and egg sandwiches from a local diner. He left quietly, only nodding when the guard asked why he had come. “Because this is where people are,” he said.
During a press junket for "The Fisher King" (1991), a film in which he portrayed a man living on the streets of Manhattan, Robin spoke briefly about what he had observed while researching the role. “It’s not about feeling sorry. It’s about recognizing someone’s humanity, even when the world refuses to.” He refused to let poverty be invisible, not just onscreen but off-camera too.
Robin Williams used his presence to open doors for others without seeking recognition. He gave his time, voice, and influence where it mattered most, quietly, intentionally, and with genuine care. He knew laughter could be survival, and dignity often started with being seen.
Even in silence, he built bridges where the world had built fences.
During the shooting of "To Have and Have Not" in 1944, a tragedy struck the set that most never even heard about. One of the lighting crew members received a phone call during a break that shattered his world. His wife had been killed in a car crash back home. The man collapsed onto the floor of the Warner Bros. lot, cradled by colleagues who tried to comfort him in silence. In the midst of the chaos of filming and production schedules, very few paused to think about what would happen to his two young children now suddenly without a mother.
Humphrey Bogart, the film's lead actor, quietly stepped away from the set later that day. Without drawing any attention, he called his personal assistant and gave instructions. The funeral arrangements were to be handled discreetly and covered in full, including casket, transportation, burial, and service. He told his assistant to never mention his name to the family. A few hours later, he spoke privately to a friend in casting, asking for help arranging temporary child care for the grieving crewman’s kids until more permanent arrangements could be found.
What stood out was not that he helped, but how he did it. No producer, no fellow actor, not even the director Howard Hawks ever learned about it at the time. Bogart returned to set the next morning as though nothing had happened, performing his scenes opposite Lauren Bacall with his usual calm precision. He never asked if anyone noticed, and no one realized what he had done.
Over the next several years, long after the shoot had wrapped and the crew had scattered across different studios, something extraordinary happened behind closed doors. Every month, a check arrived at the lighting technician’s home, enough to cover food, clothing, schoolbooks, and later, college application fees. The envelopes had no return address, and the bank routing was impossible to trace back to any personal account. Only after the technician passed away in the early 1970s did his children, now adults, open a locked box in his study and find a letter with Humphrey Bogart’s name signed at the bottom. In it, he had written, “What you gave to the film helped me shine on screen. What I can give your family will never repay that, but I hope it eases your days a little.”
This was not a one-time act. According to a former Warner Bros. accountant who spoke anonymously decades later, Bogart often gave private financial support to the families of set builders, assistants, and drivers who faced hardships. He preferred working-class people who never made the front page but made the movies possible.
Lauren Bacall once hinted at this side of him in a rare quote: “People saw Bogie as tough, maybe a little cold. But he carried burdens no one saw, gave love where no one looked. He’d take care of a man’s family, pay the doctor bills for a sick mother, and never ask for thanks. He did it because he believed that was what decent people did, even if the world didn’t care.”
During the filming of "The Big Sleep" in 1946, a grip whose wife had tuberculosis received a quiet visit from a nurse who offered home care, completely paid for. She never said who sent her. The crew guessed, but no one said anything aloud. It was understood that Bogart was doing something again, and speaking it aloud felt like disrespecting the silence he chose.
Humphrey Bogart’s image was built on hard edges, dry wit, and trench coat cool. But the real man, the one who watched over the quietest workers on set, carried a heart so heavy with loyalty that it spoke most loudly when it said nothing at all.
He never wanted his name attached to those acts. But the families remember. And the lives that moved forward because of those silent kindnesses carry his signature far more meaningfully than any role ever could.
In a world built on credits and headlines, his finest roles unfolded in shadows where no applause could reach.
Humphrey Bogart, the film's lead actor, quietly stepped away from the set later that day. Without drawing any attention, he called his personal assistant and gave instructions. The funeral arrangements were to be handled discreetly and covered in full, including casket, transportation, burial, and service. He told his assistant to never mention his name to the family. A few hours later, he spoke privately to a friend in casting, asking for help arranging temporary child care for the grieving crewman’s kids until more permanent arrangements could be found.
What stood out was not that he helped, but how he did it. No producer, no fellow actor, not even the director Howard Hawks ever learned about it at the time. Bogart returned to set the next morning as though nothing had happened, performing his scenes opposite Lauren Bacall with his usual calm precision. He never asked if anyone noticed, and no one realized what he had done.
Over the next several years, long after the shoot had wrapped and the crew had scattered across different studios, something extraordinary happened behind closed doors. Every month, a check arrived at the lighting technician’s home, enough to cover food, clothing, schoolbooks, and later, college application fees. The envelopes had no return address, and the bank routing was impossible to trace back to any personal account. Only after the technician passed away in the early 1970s did his children, now adults, open a locked box in his study and find a letter with Humphrey Bogart’s name signed at the bottom. In it, he had written, “What you gave to the film helped me shine on screen. What I can give your family will never repay that, but I hope it eases your days a little.”
This was not a one-time act. According to a former Warner Bros. accountant who spoke anonymously decades later, Bogart often gave private financial support to the families of set builders, assistants, and drivers who faced hardships. He preferred working-class people who never made the front page but made the movies possible.
Lauren Bacall once hinted at this side of him in a rare quote: “People saw Bogie as tough, maybe a little cold. But he carried burdens no one saw, gave love where no one looked. He’d take care of a man’s family, pay the doctor bills for a sick mother, and never ask for thanks. He did it because he believed that was what decent people did, even if the world didn’t care.”
During the filming of "The Big Sleep" in 1946, a grip whose wife had tuberculosis received a quiet visit from a nurse who offered home care, completely paid for. She never said who sent her. The crew guessed, but no one said anything aloud. It was understood that Bogart was doing something again, and speaking it aloud felt like disrespecting the silence he chose.
Humphrey Bogart’s image was built on hard edges, dry wit, and trench coat cool. But the real man, the one who watched over the quietest workers on set, carried a heart so heavy with loyalty that it spoke most loudly when it said nothing at all.
He never wanted his name attached to those acts. But the families remember. And the lives that moved forward because of those silent kindnesses carry his signature far more meaningfully than any role ever could.
In a world built on credits and headlines, his finest roles unfolded in shadows where no applause could reach.
While filming Planes, Trains and Automobiles in 1987, Steve Martin recalled how John Candy’s quiet kindness and patience deeply impacted the atmosphere on set. The shoot, set during a brutal Midwest winter, involved icy winds, deep snow, and long days in rural Illinois—conditions that wore down even the toughest professionals. While most actors took refuge in heated trailers between takes, Candy often remained outside, chatting with crew members, offering encouragement, and handing out fresh coffee he’d arranged himself after realizing the only option was the lukewarm brew from the catering truck.
Candy’s compassion wasn’t a one-time gesture. During Uncle Buck in 1989, he noticed that many younger crew members had no choice but to eat snacks from vending machines because the budget focused on providing meals for lead talent. Without making a scene or notifying producers, Candy hired a hot food truck at his own expense, ensuring the entire team had something warm and substantial to eat. He believed no one should work hard under tough conditions and go unfed.
Chris Columbus, who directed Candy in Only the Lonely in 1991, shared how Candy learned every crew member’s name by the third day of shooting. Each morning began with personal greetings, and each night ended with a handshake and a thank you. When a crew member’s birthday was overlooked by production, Candy quietly organized a surprise cake and music between scenes to make sure the day didn’t go uncelebrated.
His approach came from humble beginnings in Toronto’s Second City during the 1970s, where Candy juggled multiple roles—from hauling equipment to cleaning stages—long before fame found him. That experience instilled a deep respect for every job on a set, no matter how seemingly small.
While filming Splash in 1984, a sudden downpour at a beach location threatened to destroy cameras and other gear. As the cast and directors rushed to shelter, Candy stayed behind to help the tech crew save their equipment. Daryl Hannah later shared how his jokes and presence helped ease tension—and how his hands-on help saved thousands of dollars in gear.
In The Great Outdoors (1988), a nighttime shoot stretched into the early morning. As Candy noticed freezing crew members shivering in light jackets, he quietly ordered portable heaters and blankets from a local supplier, covering the cost himself. To him, no one should have to suffer when a solution was within reach.
He also refused preferential treatment when others were left out. On a flight for a remote shoot, the stars were seated in first class while the crew was crammed into coach. When Candy learned this, he gave up his seat to a weary camera assistant and sat in the back of the plane without mentioning it to anyone.
Those who worked with Candy consistently spoke of how he never let celebrity go to his head. He’d give up his trailer if wardrobe needed space or help fund overtime for exhausted crews. His actions weren’t for headlines—they were quiet affirmations of his values. To Candy, true success meant uplifting the people behind the scenes.
He never sought recognition for these acts, never mentioned them in interviews or speeches. He simply did what he felt was right. For those who knew him, Candy’s legacy isn’t just built on his talent—it rests on the warmth, generosity, and humanity he showed to the people the industry often overlooks.
In a business obsessed with stars, John Candy made it his mission to honor the people who helped make the magic happen.
Candy’s compassion wasn’t a one-time gesture. During Uncle Buck in 1989, he noticed that many younger crew members had no choice but to eat snacks from vending machines because the budget focused on providing meals for lead talent. Without making a scene or notifying producers, Candy hired a hot food truck at his own expense, ensuring the entire team had something warm and substantial to eat. He believed no one should work hard under tough conditions and go unfed.
Chris Columbus, who directed Candy in Only the Lonely in 1991, shared how Candy learned every crew member’s name by the third day of shooting. Each morning began with personal greetings, and each night ended with a handshake and a thank you. When a crew member’s birthday was overlooked by production, Candy quietly organized a surprise cake and music between scenes to make sure the day didn’t go uncelebrated.
His approach came from humble beginnings in Toronto’s Second City during the 1970s, where Candy juggled multiple roles—from hauling equipment to cleaning stages—long before fame found him. That experience instilled a deep respect for every job on a set, no matter how seemingly small.
While filming Splash in 1984, a sudden downpour at a beach location threatened to destroy cameras and other gear. As the cast and directors rushed to shelter, Candy stayed behind to help the tech crew save their equipment. Daryl Hannah later shared how his jokes and presence helped ease tension—and how his hands-on help saved thousands of dollars in gear.
In The Great Outdoors (1988), a nighttime shoot stretched into the early morning. As Candy noticed freezing crew members shivering in light jackets, he quietly ordered portable heaters and blankets from a local supplier, covering the cost himself. To him, no one should have to suffer when a solution was within reach.
He also refused preferential treatment when others were left out. On a flight for a remote shoot, the stars were seated in first class while the crew was crammed into coach. When Candy learned this, he gave up his seat to a weary camera assistant and sat in the back of the plane without mentioning it to anyone.
Those who worked with Candy consistently spoke of how he never let celebrity go to his head. He’d give up his trailer if wardrobe needed space or help fund overtime for exhausted crews. His actions weren’t for headlines—they were quiet affirmations of his values. To Candy, true success meant uplifting the people behind the scenes.
He never sought recognition for these acts, never mentioned them in interviews or speeches. He simply did what he felt was right. For those who knew him, Candy’s legacy isn’t just built on his talent—it rests on the warmth, generosity, and humanity he showed to the people the industry often overlooks.
In a business obsessed with stars, John Candy made it his mission to honor the people who helped make the magic happen.
Bobby Sherman, whose winsome smile and fashionable shaggy mop top helped make him into a teen idol in the 1960s and ’70s with bubblegum pop hits like “Little Woman” and “Julie, Do Ya Love Me,” has died. He was 81.
His wife, Brigitte Poublon, announced the death Tuesday and family friend John Stamos posted her message on Instagram: “Bobby left this world holding my hand — just as he held up our life with love, courage, and unwavering grace.” Sherman revealed he had Stage 4 cancer earlier this year.
Sherman was a squeaky-clean regular on the covers of Tiger Beat and Sixteen magazines, often with hair over his eyes and a choker on his neck. His face was printed on lunch boxes, cereal boxes and posters that hung on the bedroom walls of his adoring fans. He landed at No. 8 in TV Guide’s list of “TV’s 25 Greatest Teen Idols.”
He was part of a lineage of teen heartthrobs who emerged as mass-market, youth-oriented magazines and TV took off, connecting fresh-scrubbed Ricky Nelson in the 1950s to David Cassidy in the ’60s, all the way to Justin Bieber in the 2000s.
Sherman had four Top 10 hits on the Billboard Hot 100 chart — “Little Woman,” “Julie, Do Ya Love Me,” “Easy Come, Easy Go,” and “La La La (If I Had You).” He had six albums on the Billboard 200 chart, including “Here Comes Bobby,” which spent 48 weeks on the album chart, peaking at No. 10. His career got its jump start when he was cast in the ABC rock ’n’ roll show “Shindig!” in the mid-’60s. Later, he starred in two television series — “Here Come the Brides” (1968-70) and “Getting Together” (1971).
Bettmann
Pop star and TV actor Bobby Sherman
After the limelight moved on, Sherman became a certified medical emergency technician and instructor for the Los Angeles Police Department, teaching police recruits first aid and CPR. He donated his salary.
“A lot of times, people say, ‘Well, if you could go back and change things, what would you do?’” he told The Tulsa World in 1997. “And I don’t think I’d change a thing — except to maybe be a little bit more aware of it, because I probably could’ve relished the fun of it a little more. It was a lot of work. It was a lot of blood, sweat and tears. But it was the best of times.”
Sherman, with sky blue eyes and dimples, grew up in the San Fernando Valley, singing Ricky Nelson songs and performing with a high school rock band.
“I was brought up in a fairly strict family,” he told the Sunday News newspaper in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in 1998. “Law and order were important. Respect your fellow neighbor, remember other people’s feelings. I was the kind of boy who didn’t do things just to be mischievous.”
He was studying child psychology at a community college in 1964 when his girlfriend took him to a Hollywood party, which would change his life. He stepped onstage and sang with the band. Afterward, guests Jane Fonda, Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo asked him who his agent was. They took his number and, a few days later, an agent called him and set him up with “Shindig!”
Sherman hit true teen idol status in 1968, when he appeared in “Here Come the Brides,” a comedy-adventure set in boom town Seattle in the 1870s. He sang the show’s theme song, “Seattle,” and starred as young logger Jeremy Bolt, often at loggerheads with a brother, played by David Soul. It lasted two seasons.
Following the series, Sherman starred in “Getting Together,” a spinoff of “The Partridge Family,” about a songwriter struggling to make it in the music business. He became the first performer to star in three TV series before the age of 30. That television exposure soon translated into a fruitful recording career: His first single, “Little Woman,” earned a gold record in 1969.
“While the rest of the world seemed jumbled up and threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the bedroom walls of hundreds of thousands of teen-age girls, a reassuring totem against the riots, drugs, war protests and free love that raged outside,” The Tulsa World said in 1997.
His movies included “Wild In Streets,” “He is My Brother” and “Get Crazy.”
Sherman’s pivot to becoming an emergency medical technician in 1988 was born out of a longtime fascination with medicine. Sherman said that affinity blossomed when he raised his sons with his first wife, Patti Carnel. They would get scrapes and bloody noses and he became the family’s first-aid provider. So he started learning basic first aid and cardiopulmonary resuscitation from the Red Cross.
“If I see an accident, I feel compelled to stop and give aid even if I’m in my own car,” he told the St. Petersburg Times. “I carry equipment with me. And there’s not a better feeling than the one you get from helping somebody out. I would recommend it to everybody.”
In addition to his work with the Los Angeles Police Department, he was a reserve deputy with the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department, working security at the courthouse. Sherman estimated that, as a paramedic, he helped five women deliver babies in the backseats of cars or other impromptu locations.
In one case, he helped deliver a baby on the sidewalk and, after the birth, the new mother asked Sherman’s partner what his name was. “When he told her Bobby, she named the baby Roberta. I was glad he didn’t tell her my name was Sherman,” he told the St. Petersburg Times in 1997.
He was named LAPD’s Reserve Officer of the Year for 1999 and received the FBI’s Exceptional Service Award and the “Twice a Citizen” Award by the Los Angeles County Reserve Foundation.
In a speech on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives in 2004, then-Rep. Howard McKeon wrote: “Bobby is a stellar example of the statement ‘to protect and serve.’ We can only say a simple and heartfelt thank you to Bobby Sherman and to all the men and women who courageously protect and serve the citizens of America.”
Later, Sherman would join the 1990s-era “Teen Idols Tour” with former 1960s heartthrobs Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones of the Monkees and Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits.
The Chicago Sun-Times in 1998 described one of Sherman’s performances: “Dressed to kill in black leather pants and white shirt, he was showered with roses and teddy bears as he started things off with ‘Easy Come, Easy Go.’ As he signed scores of autographs at the foot of the stage, it was quickly draped by female fans of every conceivable age group.”
Sherman also co-founded the Brigitte and Bobby Sherman Children’s Foundation in Ghana, which provides education, health, and welfare programs to children in need.
He is survived by two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and his wife.
“Even in his final days, he stayed strong for me. That’s who Bobby was — brave, gentle, and full of light,” Poublon wrote.
His wife, Brigitte Poublon, announced the death Tuesday and family friend John Stamos posted her message on Instagram: “Bobby left this world holding my hand — just as he held up our life with love, courage, and unwavering grace.” Sherman revealed he had Stage 4 cancer earlier this year.
Sherman was a squeaky-clean regular on the covers of Tiger Beat and Sixteen magazines, often with hair over his eyes and a choker on his neck. His face was printed on lunch boxes, cereal boxes and posters that hung on the bedroom walls of his adoring fans. He landed at No. 8 in TV Guide’s list of “TV’s 25 Greatest Teen Idols.”
He was part of a lineage of teen heartthrobs who emerged as mass-market, youth-oriented magazines and TV took off, connecting fresh-scrubbed Ricky Nelson in the 1950s to David Cassidy in the ’60s, all the way to Justin Bieber in the 2000s.
Sherman had four Top 10 hits on the Billboard Hot 100 chart — “Little Woman,” “Julie, Do Ya Love Me,” “Easy Come, Easy Go,” and “La La La (If I Had You).” He had six albums on the Billboard 200 chart, including “Here Comes Bobby,” which spent 48 weeks on the album chart, peaking at No. 10. His career got its jump start when he was cast in the ABC rock ’n’ roll show “Shindig!” in the mid-’60s. Later, he starred in two television series — “Here Come the Brides” (1968-70) and “Getting Together” (1971).
Bettmann
Pop star and TV actor Bobby Sherman
After the limelight moved on, Sherman became a certified medical emergency technician and instructor for the Los Angeles Police Department, teaching police recruits first aid and CPR. He donated his salary.
“A lot of times, people say, ‘Well, if you could go back and change things, what would you do?’” he told The Tulsa World in 1997. “And I don’t think I’d change a thing — except to maybe be a little bit more aware of it, because I probably could’ve relished the fun of it a little more. It was a lot of work. It was a lot of blood, sweat and tears. But it was the best of times.”
Sherman, with sky blue eyes and dimples, grew up in the San Fernando Valley, singing Ricky Nelson songs and performing with a high school rock band.
“I was brought up in a fairly strict family,” he told the Sunday News newspaper in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in 1998. “Law and order were important. Respect your fellow neighbor, remember other people’s feelings. I was the kind of boy who didn’t do things just to be mischievous.”
He was studying child psychology at a community college in 1964 when his girlfriend took him to a Hollywood party, which would change his life. He stepped onstage and sang with the band. Afterward, guests Jane Fonda, Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo asked him who his agent was. They took his number and, a few days later, an agent called him and set him up with “Shindig!”
Sherman hit true teen idol status in 1968, when he appeared in “Here Come the Brides,” a comedy-adventure set in boom town Seattle in the 1870s. He sang the show’s theme song, “Seattle,” and starred as young logger Jeremy Bolt, often at loggerheads with a brother, played by David Soul. It lasted two seasons.
Following the series, Sherman starred in “Getting Together,” a spinoff of “The Partridge Family,” about a songwriter struggling to make it in the music business. He became the first performer to star in three TV series before the age of 30. That television exposure soon translated into a fruitful recording career: His first single, “Little Woman,” earned a gold record in 1969.
“While the rest of the world seemed jumbled up and threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the bedroom walls of hundreds of thousands of teen-age girls, a reassuring totem against the riots, drugs, war protests and free love that raged outside,” The Tulsa World said in 1997.
His movies included “Wild In Streets,” “He is My Brother” and “Get Crazy.”
Sherman’s pivot to becoming an emergency medical technician in 1988 was born out of a longtime fascination with medicine. Sherman said that affinity blossomed when he raised his sons with his first wife, Patti Carnel. They would get scrapes and bloody noses and he became the family’s first-aid provider. So he started learning basic first aid and cardiopulmonary resuscitation from the Red Cross.
“If I see an accident, I feel compelled to stop and give aid even if I’m in my own car,” he told the St. Petersburg Times. “I carry equipment with me. And there’s not a better feeling than the one you get from helping somebody out. I would recommend it to everybody.”
In addition to his work with the Los Angeles Police Department, he was a reserve deputy with the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department, working security at the courthouse. Sherman estimated that, as a paramedic, he helped five women deliver babies in the backseats of cars or other impromptu locations.
In one case, he helped deliver a baby on the sidewalk and, after the birth, the new mother asked Sherman’s partner what his name was. “When he told her Bobby, she named the baby Roberta. I was glad he didn’t tell her my name was Sherman,” he told the St. Petersburg Times in 1997.
He was named LAPD’s Reserve Officer of the Year for 1999 and received the FBI’s Exceptional Service Award and the “Twice a Citizen” Award by the Los Angeles County Reserve Foundation.
In a speech on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives in 2004, then-Rep. Howard McKeon wrote: “Bobby is a stellar example of the statement ‘to protect and serve.’ We can only say a simple and heartfelt thank you to Bobby Sherman and to all the men and women who courageously protect and serve the citizens of America.”
Later, Sherman would join the 1990s-era “Teen Idols Tour” with former 1960s heartthrobs Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones of the Monkees and Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits.
The Chicago Sun-Times in 1998 described one of Sherman’s performances: “Dressed to kill in black leather pants and white shirt, he was showered with roses and teddy bears as he started things off with ‘Easy Come, Easy Go.’ As he signed scores of autographs at the foot of the stage, it was quickly draped by female fans of every conceivable age group.”
Sherman also co-founded the Brigitte and Bobby Sherman Children’s Foundation in Ghana, which provides education, health, and welfare programs to children in need.
He is survived by two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and his wife.
“Even in his final days, he stayed strong for me. That’s who Bobby was — brave, gentle, and full of light,” Poublon wrote.
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