Crunching on a deadline even though I'm with the family at a remote fishing retreat near Yellowstone. Dad is in the cabin typing. This, one comes to realize, is the life of a writer. And speaking of the life of a writer, we lost one this week. Frank McCourt, many of you may not know, was not simply a great man and teacher and writer, he was also a harmonica player. As such, he joined the Rockbottom Remainders, the all-author rock band I play bass guitar in, on several occasions over the past few years. He even toured with us once, culminating in an appearance at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where Frank promptly forgot the lyrics to Danny Boy, of all songs!
I could try to tell you about Frank, about the time he enlisted Dave Barry and me, in London, to help bail him out of an obligation, about how the three of us got laughing so hard in front of the Londoners we had to take a second to regain composure. But when you have Mitch Albom in your band... enough said.
Go lightly, Frank. The band plays on...