More from the Westgate Cavern

Today is Scott Hutchinson's birthday. I'm doing my part, with clumsy fingers, to keep Frightened Rabbit's music alive.

Anything but the Mets

Anthony Bourdain's death was a blow on the bruise of Scott Hutchinson's. Both less than a month apart. Both had the signs, but many (myself included) thought they had gotten through the really bad stuff. I keep forgetting that depression does not just go away. It does not go away like putting Visine on red eyes. It can return at any time, they way a powerful wave at the beach can knock you into the undertow. The way you can be doing well one minute but a thought, a couple of bad thoughts can enter your head and flood it to the point where the body is incapacitated. It all sucks, so much, and plodding on while all this nonsense is happening around us becomes increasingly difficult.

Had two beers with friends last night and woke up feeling absolutely lousy today. Been trying to cut back on the alcohol because it's really not helping me tolerate the daily chaos the administration creates every day. Still paralyzed by all the grief though. Unable to focus on reading, what gets written down is garbage and confidence remains low.

A couple of weeks ago we said the heck with it and put my son in underwear. If he pees or shits in it we'd deal. So far he has not had one accident. His underwear has been dry. Been peeing in the toilet this whole time. He will with more frequency go into the bathroom unprompted. As for the poop though, it's a mystery sometimes. There have been instances he has used his hands to put the poop in the toilet. Sometimes he does not use this extra step, sometimes he does. It is a profound improvement.

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.

Rest in Peace, Le Grand Orange

You had to close down on opening day





The fight left you as the team you inspired as children
took their positions on the field
Your poster on their parents walls
Baseball card in back pockets
Never flipped for luck
Saw you almost hit .400 in the World Series
You could not carry your team on a broken shoulder
The Shea Stadium outfield fence took away your arm
as you made the catch, but not your bat
Never your bat
Later in your career you were called on in the seventh, eighth, ninth inning
to do one job
The crowd chanted your name, knew you’d come to the plate
You’d pinch hit a single, double, never a triple
(foot speed was never your top skill)
or the tip your hat to the crowd encore home run
When your career ended you cooked
You fed the hungry, the first responders
Anyone
You gave back to a city that embraced you as one of its own
Now, Rusty, we say goodbye, au revoir, thank you