Over shadowed by vaccinations, deflated footballs, and out-of-step dancing sharks this week was the passing of one of America’s great and greatly maligned artists: Rod McKuen. McKeun died this past Thursday at the age of 81.

I was first introduced to the work of Rod McKuen through the album A Man Alone, Frank Sinatra’s only record devoted entirely to the work of one composer. Sinatra released the album in 1969, the same year that McKuen lent his pen to several songs featured in A Boy Named Charlie Brown, the Peanuts gang’s first (and best) full-length movie.

Getting to work with Frank Sinatra and Charlie Brown in the same year is pretty impressive. It makes sense because McKuen was sort of a Charlie Brown, and one of the many personae of Frank Sinatra. The brooding one. The lovestruck character John Cusack plays in most of his movies. McKuen was John Cusack in real life.

Rod McKuen was panned throughout his career because, well, for lack of a better description, he was a commercial success. His lyrics and poetry books were filled with maudlin clichés and sappy truisms. Newsweek called him the King of Kitsch. Nora Ephron said his poems were superficial and platitudinous.

But I liked his work. And so did 60 million people who bought his books and 100 million who bought his records. As a singer, songwriter, poet, and author, I approved of his message.

And that—to borrow a cliché—is a life well lived.