Every so often the duties of writing for an online farce must take the backseat to something of actual importance.  Such a moment is this.  Paul Newman has died of cancer. He was 83.  I won’t dig through the length and breadth of his life here; I leave the trivia and obligation of obituary to those best suited to the task.  I just wanted to say a few things that I will remember him for.  He was a great actor, he wasn’t dangerous like Brando, or steely-eyed cool like McQueen, he was just understated and expressive, and when he raised his voice it was because he had to.  As he aged he never learned a schtick, never chewed scenery, and was never lazy in his craft, he just got better.  There is no such thing as a “Newman Face” or a catch line, and even when he was in cheese (Slapshot, The Color of Money) he always managed to elevate the material, to find something important in it.  Put simply, he was never less than professional, and never put his name to something that wasn’t good, not even salad dressing.