Shit.
Just damn.
I know he was–to put it most gently–a strong personality. That voice, though, and the music…
We’re losing some great ones. Rest in power, Mr. Crosby.
This post is in: Absent Friends, Music, RIP
Shit.
Just damn.
I know he was–to put it most gently–a strong personality. That voice, though, and the music…
We’re losing some great ones. Rest in power, Mr. Crosby.
This post is in: Absent Friends, Sports
“An autopsy was performed by the NYC Medical Examiner’s Office. Grant died from the rupture of a slowly growing, undetected ascending aortic aneurysm with hemopericardium…There was nothing nefarious about his death.” – Grant’s wife, Céline Gounder https://t.co/o9KTIHPcor
— Anthony DeRosa (@Anthony) December 14, 2022
Per NYMag:
… Wahl was covering the World Cup in Qatar when he suddenly collapsed during a match last Friday. He was given medical assistance at the stadium and transferred to a hospital, but was later pronounced dead. Wahl’s body was transported back to the United States and an autopsy was conducted by the New York City medical examiner’s office.
The circumstances of Wahl’s death immediately prompted speculation and suspicion. Wahl, who had been treated for bronchitislike symptoms before his death, had previously reported being blocked from attending a match by Qatari officials because he wore a shirt with a rainbow design on it. He had also written highly critical posts about the organizers of the tournament, citing their record of alleged human-rights abuses. In the immediate aftermath of Wahl’s death, his brother Eric said in an Instagram video that he believed there was foul play involved, pointing to death threats Wahl had received. In recent days, Eric Wahl backed away from those claims.
I’m OK, but that was an unnecessary ordeal. Am in the media center, still wearing my shirt. Was detained for nearly half an hour. Go gays 🌈 https://t.co/S3INBoCz89
— Subscribe to GrantWahl.com (@GrantWahl) November 21, 2022
Gounder said that CPR and other forms of aid likely wouldn’t have saved her husband, and quickly shut down other theories that have been rampant online.
“His death was unrelated to COVID. His death was unrelated to vaccination status. There was nothing nefarious about his death,” she said.
Wahl was likely the most esteemed soccer journalist in America, having covered the rise of the sport in the U.S. for 20 years, in Sports Illustrated and then independently. He also wrote widely about other sports during his long tenure, including a famous 2002 profile of a teenage LeBron James.
Sports illustrated fired him for challenging their pay cuts during the pandemic.
He ran to unseat FIFA’s president.
He challenged human rights abuses in Qatar.
RIP Grant Wahl, who’s career was as much about great reporting as it was about speaking truth to abusive power.
— nikki mccann ramírez (@NikkiMcR) December 10, 2022
Grant Wahl was the first soccer writer I can remember reading on the internet, and pushed harder to make Americans love the sport like he did. It worked. I hope he knows that.
A horrendous loss.
— BUM CHILLUPS AKA SPENCER HALL (@edsbs) December 10, 2022
One more thing, I see a lot of people talking about how his kindness, his principles, and his willingness to help others are irreplaceable, which they are but
That has to be you now
You have to be that person for someone
— BUM CHILLUPS AKA SPENCER HALL (@edsbs) December 10, 2022
This post is in: Absent Friends, Open Threads
First published on Wednesday at 3:11 pm, but it was off the front page this morning, so reposting for anyone who didn’t see this yesterday.
Hey everybody,
Most of you probably know that John lost his best friend (and soulmate) Tammy last Tuesday. In case you missed it, here’s the post where John shared his sad news.
We created a GoFundMe to cover funeral-related expenses for Tammy, and John asked me if I would share it with all of you.
On 6 December 2022, one of the most wonderful people to ever grace the planet, Tammy Whitacre, was found unresponsive at home and subsequently pronounced dead.
My name is John Cole, and Tammy was my best friend in the world.
Tammy’s sudden loss, with no warning, is an absolute shock to her husband, family, and friends. Unrelated medical expenses this past year had already wreaked havoc on their finances.
Please consider a donation to help cover the unexpected funeral costs and to make things just a tiny bit easier for her surviving family.
If you are inclined to contribute, here’s a link to the GoFundMe.
I cry every time I see a photo of Tammy – even in photos, she has a light about her that shines through, and it always seems impossible when someone like that is gone.
One way we can help John is to help him help Brian. What a terrible loss.
Tammy with sweet Lily, and what I presume are Cole’s legs.
John asked me to figure out what amount would cover funeral expenses, which is a little tricky because Brian is struggling, as you can imagine, so we can’t really ask him for details. I did some research and came up with an estimate of $15,000, but when I mentioned the amount to my good friend who recently lost her mom in Kentucky, she thought that would likely only cover the bare minimum, so I have set the goal at $20,000. So if that amount seems wrong to anyone, point your fingers at me.
Covering Funeral Expenses for Tammy (John Cole’s Best Friend)Post + Comments (140)
This post is in: RIP
Tammy Whitacre (Patterson) died this morning. Her husband went to the bathroom early in the morning, and found her slumped over in a chair in the office. That is all we know.
Tammy was my best friend, my soulmate, my surrogate wife, the best dog mom to ever exist, and one of the greatest people I have ever known. We met in the late 90’s and became friends almost immediately- I even introduced her to her eventual husband. I foolishly divorced her before we ever even dated when I discovered she liked Miracle Whip- “That’s it, I want a divorce!” (and that became a running joke from the past 25 years).
She was there for me for everything, the kindest, sweetest, most loyal friend. She was the first person I called when I was having anxiety attacks when I thought I was having a heart attack and needed to go to the hospital, she was the first person I called from the hospital when I broke my shoulder, she was the first person I told anything important and the first person I called when anything bad happened. We talked and texted multiple times every day, and maybe only a handful of times over the past fifteen years did either of us go to bed without talking or texting good night.
Tammy was both whip smart and the biggest goofball you would ever meet. She had what she referred to as “blonde moments,” and I remember thousands of goofy conversations like this:
Tammy- “Don’t forget to de-thaw the meat.”
Me- “You mean freeze it?”
Tammy- “It’s already frozen, why would I want you to freeze it, de-thaw it.”
Me- “You mean thaw it.”
Tammy- “Shut up Cole.”
There are so many funny stories we shared, and I am gutted there will not be more.
A lot of people thought it was weird that we were so close even though she was married, but if you knew us, it made complete sense. It was nothing for her to come spend a week here in the summer while her husband was off for work or having a guy’s weekend or something like that, and we would do all sorts of fun things. We canned, and watched movies, and cooked, and went on day trips, and basically anything we wanted. She was just fun to be around. One look at her smiling and even the worst day became a good one.
Tammy became part of the larger Cole family. Mom and dad just adored her, and she was the third sister. We even joked that when we ranked the kids as to who the favorites were, it was Seth and then Tammy at the top, and the rest of us fighting for the bronze. When I bought gifts, I would buy three necklaces or three bracelets that all were similar, and give them all to the sisters so they could match. She just fit right in with the family.
I’m just devastated and feel like a part of me was ripped away and do not know how I will recover from this, if ever. And her poor husband, Brian, who called me this morning, just in pieces.
I was supposed to die before her. She was only 43.
Rest in piece, Tammy, my best friend. I will love you forever.
This post is in: Absent Friends, John Cole Presents "This Fucking Old House", Lily, RIP
I woke up this morning and Lily was asleep in her dog bed underneath my desk, so I went to take a shower after feeding Steve. After showering, I came into the office, and Lily had somehow gotten wedged underneath my office chair, with all four legs splayed out, lying in a puddle of urine. I said “oh Lily,” tried to pick her up so she could walk, and her legs just went out again. Tried again, same thing. And I knew.
Every dog owner knows when it is time, and I have known for a while the bill for 13 years of unconditional love was coming due. I cleaned her up the best I could, wrapped her in a towel, and headed to the clinic. My usual vet was not available, so I went to the Animal Urgent Care in Wheeling. I kept a hand on her the whole way to know I was there and because she was really out of it, and I tried to keep it together for her so she did not sense anything was wrong with me.
Got there, was taken to a back room, waited for what seemed forever, and they finally came back and gave her a shot to relax her. I was holding her when they gave it, and maybe 30 seconds after they gave her the pre-shot, she was for the most part gone. Her bladder evacuated on me, and she was in a deep, deep slumber, completely relaxed. I sat there holding her for the next fifteen minutes, just trying to somewhat keep my shit together, because my end of the bargain had not been held up, and I owed her still.
Another five years or so passed, and finally the vet came back, we found a vein, and administered the dose that would end Lily’s life. I held her in my arms, talking to her, felt her heart stop and her chest no longer rise and fall, had the vet confirm her heart was stopped, and just sat there for a while, just the two of us. I wanted to just run out of there before I completely broke down, but I had to wait for the post-mortem abdominal spasms to end. I was not going to leaver her there twitching on the table, I was going to hold her until I knew she was gone. The spasms finally stopped, and I had a very ugly, ugly cry for a while before pulling my shit together, paying the vet, and driving home. The Lily era has ended, and we are both better off.
Lily was a special dog. We met at a turbulent time in my life, and over the years we dealt with my anxiety and depression, my alcoholism, the loss of Tunch and Rosie, her cancer, and so many other things so big and small. I knew the moment I saw her that she was the one, even though I had gone to the shelter to adopt a cat. There are just so many things I want to say about her, but can’t, because I’m not in the right place right now. But I can say that I doubt I will ever have the same unconditional love for a dog that I did with Lily.
I will miss so much about her. Her delicate eyelashes, her goofy smile, the way I would go to give her a kiss and she would burp in my face, her constant presence at my feet in her dog bed. The way that she seemed to be constructed from after market parts, with a neck thicker than her head so no collar could stay on, the long legs and the curled tail, the super thin abdomen. She was very feline, too- and walked along the backs of the couch and rarely barked, and if you tried to play with her and throw a ball to her, she thought you were trying to assault her.
I’m so fucking crushed right now. I can’t keep writing I need to go cry.
I will love you forever, Lily. You were the best dog in the world.
*** Update ***
I want to thank you all for your kind words, they really mean a lot, and I know that many of you feel the same loss. She wasn’t only my dog, she was all of ours. I’ll never forget how you all gifted me with four more years of her during her bout with cancer. One thing that does bring me comfort is that we were able to squeeze every good day out of her that was possible. Even yesterday she was eating well and napping and not in pain, and she was not showing any signs of physical pain today. She had thousands of wonderful days, and one bad one, but I know I did everything I could to make it as easy as possible for her.
In other news, I went to eat my feelings at the Italian restaurant and got to the big city and realized that I was only wearing boxer shorts, so I got fast food at a drive through. It’s nice to know there is still some normalcy and stability in my life.
This post is in: Open Threads, RIP
RIP.
This post is in: Absent Friends, Don't Mourn, Organize, Post-racial America
And we love to dance, especially that new one called the Civil War Twist. The Northern part of you stands still while the Southern part tries to secede.
Dick Gregory, one of a kind, died five years ago today. I found a draft of this post while doing clean-up for the Great Blog Merge, and he’s still — sadly — all too relevant…
.. Most of his career was based on using humour to make fun of and combat racism. For this reason he upset a lot of racist people, who branded him as anti-white and a danger to society…
Gregory published an autobiography, N*gger, in 1964. Many people were offended by the title of his book, but he defended it by saying “Any time you hear that word, they selling my book.”
During the Vietnam War, Gregory was one of the people at the forefront of opposition to the war and opposition to racial injustices, particularly against African-Americans but also against Natives. He was arrested at multiple protests for both of these issues and went on several hunger strikes.
Gregory was an outspoken feminist, and in 1978 joined a group of American suffragists in their march to ensure that the Equal Rights Amendment was ratified by the United States Congress. The march got the deadline for the ERA extended, but it ultimately failed to pass…
"I never learned hate at home, or shame. I had to go to school for that." – Dick Gregory
Rest in Power!
— George M Johnson (@IamGMJohnson) August 20, 2017
I waited at the counter of a white restaurant for eleven years. When they finally integrated, they didn't have what I wanted. – Dick Gregory
— George M Johnson (@IamGMJohnson) August 20, 2017
Wil Haygood, for the Washington Post — “One day with Dick Gregory made me know he was truly one of a kind”:
… It was in the summer of 2000 when I first met Gregory, having come to Washington from Boston to write about him. Many thought he was dying. He was down to 130 pounds. He had been diagnosed with lymphoma. When I entered the house where he was staying, it suddenly seemed as if I was meeting one of those people you imagine you’d never meet, someone who belonged to newsreel footage mostly. But there he stood, quite bony, eyes sparkling. The Abe Lincoln beard looked a little unkempt. You couldn’t help but feel sad for him. He was famous, and infamous, and dying.
He had given me an address, and told me to meet him there at 4:30 — “in the morning.” I thought the comedian was joking. He was not. He also told me to bring a pair of sneakers.
The next morning I found myself inside a house not far from Rock Creek Park. Gregory came bounding down the stairs. “Hey, baby.” That’s how he talked, like a Motown soul singer. He was crashing at this house. Through the years, people had liked putting him up. After all, he was Dick Gregory, the raconteur of the civil rights movement, the interpreter of modern-day American politics and a one-time presidential candidate. So he slept on sofas, in sleeping bags, on floors. On this particular visit, he explained to me, somebody in Marion Barry’s camp was putting him up. Before we got out the door, he was talking about radiation in cellphones and the danger of it. I was rubbing sleep from my damn eyes…
We kept moving. I wondered if the running had become a recent activity for him. He explained that he had been running since high school. He had been a cross-country runner. “The great thing about running the long distance,” he said, “is you run at your integrity. Running made me forget I was poor.”
Before the sun came up in Rock Creek Park, he had me laughing out loud. There were a good many stories about his peripatetic life. Funny stories about white people, black people, southern sheriffs and the CIA, whose agents he described as “spooks.”…
His political career was, well, interesting. He ran for mayor of Chicago against the big bad wolves of the Daley machine. He didn’t stand a chance, was crushed and decided he needed to set his goals higher. When he launched his run for the White House, he got fan mail — though there were also letters suggesting he check himself into Bellevue, a mental hospital. To boost his presidential ambitions, he printed fake American currency with his picture on it. Agents from the. Treasury Department didn’t think that was funny at all, and arrested him. The politically-inspired shenanigans of the official government — wiretapping civil rights leaders, for instance — had sparked Gregory’s mind so much he became, as the years rolled by, a champion conspiracy theorist. “I woke up with power,” he told me with a straight face, referring to the election in which Richard Nixon won in a landslide…
Dick Gregory, born in my hometown of St. Louis in 1932, actually ran for president in 1968 on the Peace and Freedom Party. pic.twitter.com/IWUpcQgosv
— Keith Boykin (@keithboykin) August 20, 2017
Monée Fields-White, for The Root:
… Born Oct. 12, 1932, in St. Louis, Gregory grew up in an impoverished community in that city. He helped to support his family from an early age. In high school he excelled in track and field, earning a scholarship to Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. He set school records in the 1/2-mile and 1-mile races. His college career was interrupted when the U.S. Army drafted him in 1954.
Gregory began to venture into comedy while in the Army, performing various routines in military shows. After briefly returning to Southern Illinois after being discharged in 1956, he moved to Chicago to join the national comedy circuit, without finishing his degree. He performed mostly in small, primarily black nightclubs while working at the U.S. Postal Service during the day. It was at one of those nightclubs that he met Lillian, the woman who became his wife in 1959. She and Gregory would have 10 children (as well as one child who died in infancy)…
Throughout his life, Gregory remained outspoken on many issues, including world hunger, capital punishment, women’s rights (he marched for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment in 1978), health care and drug abuse. In 2005, at a celebration of the 40th anniversary of the Voting Rights Act, he called the U.S. “the most dishonest, ungodly, unspiritual nation that ever existed in the history of the planet. As we talk now, America is 5 percent of the world’s population and consumes 96 percent of the world’s hard drugs.” As a protester, Gregory never stopped putting himself on the front lines: In 2004, at the age of 73, he was arrested while protesting against genocide outside the Sudanese Embassy in Washington, D.C…
RIP #DickGregory. Thank you for the lacerating humor you used to cut through the same racism we're still fighting. https://t.co/z7D9gQ2ZIR
— James Martin, SJ (@JamesMartinSJ) August 20, 2017
RIP Dick Gregory. With #MLK and James Meredith during March Against Fear, Mississippi, June 1966. pic.twitter.com/LDKStwTuwd
— The '60s at 50 (@the_60s_at_50) August 20, 2017
The Hollywood Reporter:
… Gregory’s big break came in 1961 when he was booked into the Playboy Club in downtown Chicago as a one-night replacement for Prof. Irwin Corey, a white comic who didn’t want to work seven nights a week.
“When I started, a black comic couldn’t work a white nightclub. You could sing, you could dance, but you couldn’t stand flat-footed and talk — then the system would know how brilliant black folks was,” Gregory recalled in a 2016 interview.
Playboy founder Hugh Hefner had spotted Gregory performing for a black audience, and he was paid $50 for the Playboy Club show — a huge payday for him at the time. One of Gregory’s jokes: “Last time I was down South, I walked into this restaurant, and this white waitress came up to me and said, ‘We don’t serve colored people here.’ I said, ‘That’s all right, I don’t eat colored people. Being me a whole fried chicken.’”
The crowd during that first show, mostly white executives from a frozen-food company, loved him. He stayed on at the Playboy Club for three weeks (the gig turned into three years), and the attention got him a profile in Time magazine — “Dick Gregory, 28, has become the first Negro comedian to make his way into the nightclub big time.”
He was invited to perform on The Tonight Show in 1962, but Gregory said he wouldn’t go unless he was able to sit down next to host Jack Paar after his routine and be interviewed. A black performer had never done that before.
“I went in, and as I sat on the couch, talking about my children, so many people called the switchboard at NBC in New York that the circuits blew out,” he said. “And thousands of letters came in and folks were saying, ‘I didn’t know black children and white children were the same.’”…
"The most difficult thing to get people to do is to accept the obvious." — Dick Gregory #RIP pic.twitter.com/DhaiyjhiRe
— Tribeca (@Tribeca) August 20, 2017
(Insufficiently) Retro History: Rest in Power, Mr. Dick GregoryPost + Comments (18)