I was born exactly two years after Bill Fury, an actor whom I've never heard of, died of heart failure at the age of 42. January 28, 1983—Bill Fury is watering plants, or eating a sandwich, or making freshly squeezed orange juice or lemonade. Something with citrus, surely. He takes a sip, chokes down a seed or two, and smiles.

"That must be the freshest orange juice or lemonade man has ever known."

Bill Fury's dog, which we shall refer to as Fido or Charles, barks at a mailman. A plane flies high over Fury's home. The grass in his front yard forces itself from the earth, mere fragments of a millimeter at a time.

Bill Fury, his thirst slaked, his hunger curbed, sits down on his couch to watch the latest episode of '21 Jump Street' (Fury had both a time machine AND a TiVo—Fury was, needless to say, a man of myriad wisdom).

Johnny Depp, a heartthrob if not a deity, enters stage left. Richard Grieco, slick hair, despondent, smokes a cigarette while Depp fingers through a document. Bill Fury's heart flutters, and, soon afterwards, fails.

This is the year of the silver anniversary of Master Fury's tragic end. This is the year of discontent.