I've got this disease I can't shake and I'm just rattling through life

The news that Scott Hutchinson of Frightened Rabbit succumbed to his demons and took his own life has struck me rather hard.

It’s not the same grief as when an icon you never met died, either suddenly or by natural causes. Frightened Rabbit were far from a household name, but they have a niche of very devoted supporters.

I’ve been following the band for over ten years, almost as long as they have been in existence. They had a good social media presence, you knew what they were working on, and where. Hutchinson wrote so eloquently and honestly about the human condition, flaws and all. He really put himself out there, to the point of a twitter meltdown a couple of years ago in which he asked us to not buy his records. The disease was speaking.

I saw them live in 2013 here, and the band delivered the goods as promised. It was a catharsis for both band and audience as we all got to yell scream and shout for a couple of hours.

The band came through town again in 2016, and tweeted that they were looking for a bar where they could watch the Leicester City soccer match. Several of us recommended a place.

The morning of the match I was there, along with other soccer fans, waiting for the game to statr. The band came in. I have to say there were very approachable, even when people wanted to give them their privacy, to let them watch the match in peace - they were very cool about it.

I got to talk to Scott briefly, to thank him for the good work he was doing. Handed over a couple of bottles of Irn-Bru, which they gratefully accepted. Grant cracked open a bottle right on the spot. They signed my CD, took some names for Monday’s guest list and that was it.

Did not get to go to the show, figured I’d catch them next time. You know how that goes.

See ‘em while you can, there may not be a next time.

Scott spoke openly about his condition, his depression and dark side and put them in his music.

Whatever he was listening to when he put out those two last, cryptic, tweets was lying to him so hard. The beast lies. Depression lies. As the band said today, he’s no longer in pain, may he have finally found some peace.

He had a passport

We were in Paris, hanging out by the Eiffel Tower when my son disappeared. Emma and I went after him, for some reason my stepfather came with us but he stayed put.

I was running, not as fast as I used to and noticed that. Age caught up to me. Lost track of my son. Now there was a missing non-verbal teenager in a country where there is already a language barrier.

That moment where you think you spotted him from behind but when you got there saw it was a French kid wearing a similar shirt happened.

Fences and barriers were jumped and rolled over, stairs were climbed. There was a small place to eat at the top of one flight and my son was not there. When I turned around I saw my Wife and we each had the same look of exhaustion and horror on our faces.

I should pin this post here

Another day, another police shooting of an African American male. I wrote about it a couple of years ago. Hate that it's still relevant, and will most likely continue to be.

To write it all down, or none of it.

My Brother died on Tuesday of complications following a bone marrow transplant. He kept his illness private, but if there were any questions he would always answer them.

Last month, he left me a message to call him. I suspected something was up, as this was a very rare thing for him to do. In my family, random phone calls mean the news is rarely good. We were not very close, due to physical and emotional distance. Despite his being a yankee fan, a lot of mutual respect between us developed over time. He was always wondering how my son was and did his best to keep on his life.

He told me he was going into the hospital, again. The way he said it was a bit of a surprise. He had been in and out of the hospital more than once in the last couple of years, but this was the first time he let me know. There was something in the tone of his voice that led me to think this was more serious than usual tests and defense against infections.

During her visit, my sister confirmed this. His body weakened over the last few weeks and his organs told him the fight was over. He had a strong spirit, was a good man, and his loss will be felt by so many in and outside of his family.



Rest in Peace, Scott.

Reasons to be sad and unhappy

The one and only time I was on a horse, it stopped and rolled over on to its back. I had to jump clear so I would not have been crushed.

I did not get back on that horse.

While I was away I received an email from my son's mother saying that he was accepted into a equine therapy program about a half hour north of us. I've heard that horse riding may be beneficial for autistic children and I was as pleased as she was that he was accepted. It's been funded through some generous donations so it's free to us and the other dozen or so participants in the program.

Why not, right?

The orientation session was this afternoon. There were a number of screaming, quirky kids in the corral. My son was not happy more or less from the get go. There was a ceiling fan in the waiting area that bothered him. The noise other people were making bothered him. The smell of the barn probably bothered him.

He went to his mother's car and got in the back seat saying "Bye bye" and "Time to go" over and over.

We waited for him to calm down and then brought him back into the barn to wait for his turn to get on the horse. He did not like getting sized for the helmet. And when the time came, he did not want to stay in the area where the horses were. It's not that he was afraid of the horses, but this was not what he wanted to do today. None of this was in any of the routines he knows and he reacted in the only way he knows how.

The horses seem to be quite chill and I'm very impressed with the ability of the volunteers who work with the kids. One of them while on a horse for the first time, was asked to put his hands over his head, "It's too dangerous" was his logical reply.

Sometimes, ok, most of the time I have no idea what to do to help my son. We're blindly throwing therapies, treatments and coping solutions at the wall - trying to find some hope in whatever sticks. I wonder who we're really doing this for. Him, or us. He can't sit there in his iPad all day, watching videos (do as I say not as I do) it's my job as a parent to try and socialize him. So I try not to once again feel like a failure as I read about all these super fantastic and authentic parents leading and teaching their kids to all kids of accolades.

Meanwhile, we cheer when my kid plays with a garden hose.

In two weeks, the sessions will have fewer kids and we'll try again. Maybe this time he'll be ready to take the next step.

As if that was not enough, on Saturday I found out that one of my co-workers died on Friday. She worked next to me and was one of the most giving people I've ever met. I know her health was not great, but this is a real blow, and not how I wanted to end a vacation. She'd been with the library for about fifty years. Not sure what kind of maelstrom I'm going to be going into Monday morning.

He liked the scripts better when they had coffee stains on them.

One of my college professors at Fredonia died yesterday. John P. Malcolm was a gregarious and knowledgeable man. Whether in the classroom or walking about town he always had a kind word to say, and if years had passed since you had seen each other, he did not forget who you were.

When he found out we were moving to Columbus, Ohio State was his Alma Mater, he would always ask if we were going to live in Buckeye Village, which he called "Fertility Acres." Many conversations or lectures you had with him started, “Back in my old days at Ohio State!” He was a good man who is directly responsible for my having a degree.

Here’s the story: when I ‘graduated’ in 1985, my GPA in my minor was not high enough so I did not officially earn a degree. No, I was not the best of students. A couple of years later, my ex-wife asked him, he was Chair of the Communication Department, if he would waive that requirement (all without my knowledge) and allow me to have the degree, which was well within the rules at the time. He did it without hesitation.

My schedule has it that I will most likely be unable to attend any services for him, and that distance makes me sad. Dr. Malcolm leaves behind a loving family, scores of colleagues and the many students who had great respect for him. Rest in Peace Dr. Malcolm, and thank you.

Beyond Language

Last Sunday, the Columbus arts community lost one of its most talented members. Gina Blaurock was an artist, poet, and my friend. Her unexpected passing has left many of those who knew her gutted and in shock. She created her own jewelry and sold it in many places including Gallery Hop and Comfest. She wrote and performed poems that were insightful, wickedly funny and magnificent. Her work for the Columbus Arts Festival Word is Art Stage committee was valued and diligent. She won the poetry contest at the arts festival, twice. Last year Louise Robertson needed a last minute poet to do a lengthy set and Gina came through with a performance that was mesmerising, and did it all from memory. That was Gina, she was clutch.

Her brain contained a jukebox of songs, mostly from the eighties, she never needed a lyric sheet. During poetry slams, we went to her for the poets’ scores before using a calculator. When she and I sat together during open mics, we were bad influences on each other and giggled the whole night with snarky commentary. Steve Brightman took the only picture of us that I could find. We were rarely this serious when we sat together.



Word began to spread online about her death on Wednesday afternoon. The grief was deep. Writers’ Block had its open mic that night which quickly and rightfully turned into a poetic wake for Gina. Many of us gave sweet eulogies and reminisces about how much she touched our lives. It was a necessary thing for us to do, but it just touched the surface of our sorrow. Poets who have not been to the show in ages came out to pay tribute. When I was talking to Scott Woods and Louise after the show, we thought that she is the first of the regular and long time Writers’ Block poets to die, and why did it have to be her? We were all supposed to get old together.

Today was the service. I met her brother and mother, who were both understandably still in shock. Neither of them really knew how much Gina affected the communities she lived in. She really knew how to compartmentalize her life. Vernell Bristow has been a great help to her family and she delivered a well thought out and appropriate eulogy. I bought a red balloon and asked her brother if I could put it by the altar. One of Gina’s most endearing poems quoted 99 Luftballoons. There were a lot of poets in the room, and a couple who traveled from Chicago and Washington DC to be with us. A lot of love was in there.

I was not aware of how strongly Buddhist Gina was, neither was her brother. But he told a very touching story about how he contacted a local Buddhist temple for help and it was amazing that over a dozen of their flock came to celebrate the life of a complete stranger to them. The head explained to us what was happening then they chanted, then she sang a couple of lovely hymns in a powerful voice none of us expected to hear. It was a beautiful celebration.

I hope that somehow her writing is found, kept and preserved. She only put out one chapbook about ten years ago and there’s only one poem of hers on youtube at this point.

Here is the link to it.

It would be a profound disservice for her work to be lost and undocumented. I wonder if there is a way an executor or steward of her literary estate can be appointed to keep her poems alive? A quality book published with the proceeds going to her Niece could be a great way to honor her. I do not want her voice to disappear and I suspect there are others who feel the same. I did mention this to her brother and think after all the love her saw for his sister from people he did not know that he understands.



We’re going to miss her so much, I cannot believe she is gone.

Thank you Mr. Wilson

The death of Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson was hardly a surprise. He was 95 years old. He did a lot for the city of Buffalo, and the city did a lot for him during his sole ownership of the franchise. He made a lot of mistakes, and was responsible for many of the successes. He was highly respected though, always. My favorite memory of Mr. Wilson was before a playoff game against Miami twenty years ago. Wilson and running back Thurman Thomas exchanged high fives and shouted, "Are you ready?" to each other in the end zone before the game, which the Bills won.



Wilson's death was a blow on a massive bruise that the franchise is taking this week. Hall of Fame quarterback Jim Kelly is fighting for his life in a New York City hospital and will undergo surgery for a recurrence of cancer. What Kelly did for the franchise, the city of Buffalo, is quite a profound story. What happened to Kelly after he left the game is important as well. His son was diagnosed and ultimately died of a fatal condition. He started doing massive charity work and fund raising for research about Krabbe's Disease. He was in a horrible plane accident in Alaska. He endured the pain and surgeries of injuries from his career after he retired. Then, last year, the cancer.

Kelly's in a tough fight. Cancer sucks, it effects everyone.