‘Cheers’ actor George Wendt is dead, but Norm lives forever

Actor George Wendt, who played Norm on “Cheers,” died Tuesday. He was 76.

George Wendt died Tuesday. He was 76.

Most people knew him best as the beer-loving, wide-avoiding barfly Norm from “Cheers,” one of the tentpoles of the bygone era of NBC’s “Must See TV.”

The show ended in 1993. I remember the final episode, but I only felt a twinge of melancholy as it faded to black.

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I was a senior in high school.

Change came fast and easy in those days. We were young and sprinting toward independence and adulthood.

Only years later, with creaky joints and the weight of responsibility do we pause to think we should have enjoyed those days a little more.

“Cheers,” like Wendt’s character, Norm, is forever. Reruns still stream on Hulu and Paramount+ and broadcast on the Hallmark Channel.

Norm was a wisecracking friend to all. His signature bit was to barrel through the front door and say, “Afternoon, everybody.”

The bar erupted in unison: “Norm!”

Now it was a party. The main man was in the house.

Somebody asked how Norm was doing, which teed him up for one his trademark zippy combacks..

Here’s my favorite:

Woody (Woody Harrellson): “How’s it going, Mr. Peterson?”

Norm (Wendt): “It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”

Both funny and true. Who hasn’t felt like the whole world was trying to take a bite right out of their rear end?

I know Wendt wasn’t Norm. Norm was the character that the actor and comedian played on TV. I know those one-liners were written by a team of talented writers who found ways to make a guy who could be a cliche into the guy you always wanted to see.

But Norm had a charm, a weary earnnestness that came from inside Wendt. He grew up in Chicago, a city with a lot of weary earnestness in its soul.

Wendt played one of the Super Fans of the Chicago Bears in the famed “Saturday Night Live” sketches that lampooned the sausage swallowing, obese, thick-mustached fans who rooted for the Monsters of the Midway.

Norm wasn’t just a guy you wanted to have around. He was, at least for me, the guy you wanted to be.

Like the “Cheers” theme song said, he walked into a bar where everybody knew his name and they were always glad he came.

I used to have a place like that, the original Jethro’s BBQ on Forest Avenue near Drake. I hung out there for years. I stayed late and gossiped with the staff. I laughed a lot and met new and interesting people all the time.

I got to know the owner of the restaurant chain, and while we didn’t see eye-to-eye on much, he was always good for some verbal sparring.

Nobody shouted my name when I walked in, but most of the staff was glad I came. I got a lot of free drinks in that joint over the years. I always tipped 25%. I still have a few of those folks in my contacts list.

That Jethro’s closed a few years back. There were rumors of a new restaurant. It never arrived and the building burned down. It’s an empty lot these days.

Life changed for me. I lost my job early in the pandemic. I tore up my knee and arthritis and morbid obesity set in. I became sullen and withdrawn. I felt less connected to my fellow humans.

I’ve lost a lot of friends in recent years. I take my share of the blame. I’m a prickly person on my best day and I don’t always do my best job managing the symptoms of my sundry mental health issues.

I’m not quite a shut-in. I have a job. I talk to people all day, sometimes until I’m mentally and physicaly exhausted. I struggle to socialize. I’m always afraid I’m going to say that one stupid thing that leads to conflict.

It turns out I say those things all the time and I’m not aware of it — and have never been aware of it.

Last year, they celebrated the 50th anniversary of Drake women’s basketball. The only thing on this planet I love more than Drake women’s hoops is Dad 2.0. Covering those women as a young journalist meant so much to me. I feel the warmth inside my gut right now thinking about them.

Yet, even when a friend bought me a ticket, I got twisted up inside and couldn’t get out of my head. I couldn’t bring myself to go, even though that place might be one of the only places I’d ever be greeted like Norm.

I regret it, of course, as I do so many things. I should have gone. There were so many wonderful people to see.

But if I ever had any Norm in me, that spirit is all gone. I’m frightened and sad. I feel age seeping into my bones and blood. I feel detached and unmoured.

This sounds maudlin. I don’t mean it to be. I think at least some of these feelings are natural with age. The world keeps moving at top speed. No human can keep pace with it forever.

The thing that I loved about Norm — and the show “Cheers” — was how timeless it seemed. People of all walks of life hung out at the bar, tipped a few beers, and chewed the fat.

Nobody got too sloppy. Nobody got their shorts in a twist about who the guy next to him voted for. It was just a good hang.

If they made Cheers today, it would be a 3-minute TikTok of people sitting around drinking frou-frou craft beers made from unicorn tears and free-range barley as they doom scrolled their phones.

There doesn’t seem to be any good hangs anymore. Every restaurant or bar you go into has TVs plastered on every wall. It’s as if we’re terrified to look one another in the eye and just shoot the bull.

Norm has been gone a long time. Now George Wendt, the man who made him, is gone, too. I know I’ll never be a Norm, but I sure wanted to be.

As for George, I’ll tip a cold one and smile, knowing St. Peter’s at the gate, just waiting to welcome George into the real place where everybody knows your name.

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Daniel P. Finney is a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, but don’t hold that against them. Please visit their page to view a full roster of writers and consider subscribing to their columns. Writing is hard work; people ought to get paid for it. If you enjoy it, throw them a couple of bucks. They earned it.