When this entry was initially brought up in the Triskaidekaphobian board room, it was agreed to table all other projects and get this post out, post-haste. That did not happen. So, as this post originally said, “so many things to say, but to remain timely we’ll have to move some things back. It’s the price to pay for not being timely. Those who know Triskaidekaphobia knows how it goes.” Indeed.
But the post still must be heard. It states: we’re trying, like everyone else, to keep up with things, but there are always those bits and pieces that fall to the wayside. Those bits and pieces are sometimes people. They fall to the wayside, a name on a to do list next to a number that never gets dialed, or an email that sits in the inbox, staring you down, day to day, as you try and think of the way you want to make the nothing that you’ve been doing sound like something. It happens.
This entry isn’t about people we know, just people we know of. One is a little (in)famous, and the other isn’t, wasn’t, famous. They’re both people who were left to one side, by us or people we know, and when checking back in with them, have found out that things had changed. One is dying, and one has died. The non-famous one was a girl named Kirsten, who’s dead, the (in)famous one, a Karl Mueller, who may or may not be dying.
Who is Karl Mueller? Karl Mueller is better known as “the guy who plays bass for Soul Asylum” - which is where the infamous part comes in. Say what you will, but there is a place for everyone, even the much-reviled Soul Asylum.
Soul Asylum is, unfairly, best known for its late 90s hits “Runaway Train” and “Misery”. Referred to in one article we read recently as “90s Grungers”, they were definitely more than that. More about this, later, whether you want to hear it or not.
But Karl has throat cancer. And news articles never tell you what you need to know. Like the fact that Karl is probably going to die. They waver between him living like Lance Armstrong, or dying within two years.
News articles also don’t tell you things like the fact that Kirsten was hit last year by a car, which makes every biker more cautious — all the more so in Boston, a city where bike riding is often a deadly sport. They don’t say that people riding bikes in Boston have almost all been hit by cars and that once hit, they don’t make mistakes again. Nor does the news tell you she was hit by a reckless driver, peeling out of a parking lot, just a lot of “wow, wasn’t she zany?” sentiment that is not only 1: a hack writing job, but 2: discredits her memory by making her seem like a frivolous young’n, what with her different hair colors and “vintage clothes” — making the accident seem more her fault. Which, you know, it wasn’t.
The gaps are in these stories, and gaps exist in our day to day lives. It’s too fucking bad that death-sentiment has become so trite. But all these gaps—in the things we mean to do, meant to do, wanted to say, or regretted not saying—are often thrown into sharp relief by events such as these.
We hope all of Kirsten’s friends are feeling a little better now. We also hope Karl gets better, too.