I guess when other people talk about losses and gains, they’re either deliberating stock portfolios or sports bets.
And they’d have plenty to bemoan and brag about lately, what with New Yorkers jubilant with the Knicks’ out-of-pocket championship (sorry, sad Spurs fans) and the big bounce of the markets due to the imminent unclogging of the Strait of Hormuz.
But us tender-hearted weirdos don’t measure life in dollars and points.
The scales feel tipped to the terrible here in Savannah after a weekend beset with losses, the very least of which was the transmission in my beloved old lady Mercedes.
The city is rolling with grief from the sudden death of Oisin Daly, the quiet shapeshifter of our local music scene for the last decade and a half. This gentle giant appeared wherever euphonious energy was served, swirling jams on stage with psychedelic swamp boogie outfit Xuluprophet, spinning hypnotic beats as DJ Oceanman, and manning everyone else’s soundboard eight nights a week.
Oisin (pronounced Oh-sheen, but he’d never correct you) also tended bar at some of the toniest spots in town and could pop up anywhere after dark, always so charming and chill whether he was delivering a searing guitar solo at the Wormhole or a devastating martini at Circa or perfect levels from the Victory North soundbooth.
With his Irish brogue and wicked wit, he was the often-invisible center of Savannah’s creative community, a connector of outliers and outlaws, a humble Celtic warlock gone too soon.
Our hearts ache for his wife, the artist and writer Vanessa Lantos Daly, as well as his brethren bandmates Xulu Jones and Rhett Coleman. A GoFundMe is up for Vanessa, a longtime presence in Savannah’s service industry, so she can skip a few shifts and process what’s next.
Our family’s memories of Oisin are too numerous to count, though his outlandish pedal work at Mark’s 50th birthday at Huc-a-Poo’s stands out, and that time the band performed in wild animal onesies at Fogfest. May his memory forever be a blessing and his reverberations live on throughout the galaxy.
Honor Oceanman by supporting live music and tipping your bartenders. (Opportunity clocks next week on Tybee with Macon Dead beats Direwoof at Bubba Gumbo’s Thursday 6/25; the island vibe ratchets up with Best Local Band in the World SOAP at Huc-a-Poo’s Sat. 6/27. Let’s shake our bones together, friends.)
The philanthropic community also mourns the passing of Rosemary Christensen, one of the dear directresses of the Savannah Widows Society. Founded in 1822 to help support elders in need, the organization now turns to rally around her daughter, Carmella. Rosemary was a lively presence at our monthly meetings; this marvelous woman will surely find a way to do good in the hereafter.
That is not to say there haven’t been triumphs as of late. (As my 80 year-old mother likes to say, I opened my eyes this morning, I already won!)
Thousands of us had our eyes glued to the feeds last week for news about Walker, the Burmese mountain dog-retriever mix spooked by the recent house fire on Tybee Island. Confused and traumatized by the sirens, Walker fled his smoke-filled home, jumped in the water at the Alley 3 boat landing, and swam across the channel to Little Tybee.
Despite its name, Little Tybee is more than twice the size of its five-square-mile neighbor and completely uninhabited except for venomous snakes, wild boars, and swarms of stinging insects. This did not deter the animal welfare volunteers of T.R.A.P.S from orchestrating a military-grade rescue mission with city officials, recruiting drone pilots and boat captains from all over the county to bring the runaway canine home.
Mark was standing on the beach when Coastal Thermal Drone Imaging first locked in on Walker, confirming Private Pupper’s exact location to cheers from the crowd. But even with such precision, the first attempt to catch him in the marsh—which is neither water nor land—failed as he ducked the leash loop and squirmed away. (I can’t be the only one who yelled This goddamn dog! What did you do?! at the Facebook page; shoutout to local realtor Jenny Rutherford for all the updates!)
Days passed as the elusive pupper survived in the wilderness, supplemented by drops of food and fresh water. Finally, after five more days, intrepid paddler Jon Dedic of Team Moonbird braved the spiky saw palmettos to slip a rope over the furry fella’s head, the dramatic bodycam footage showing ribs and very large bottom teeth.
I was a little confused that the headlines kept repeating that Walker was “captured” instead of the more pet-appropriate “rescued,” but I guess it’s fitting since this dauntless hound showed himself to be as untamed as any marsh hog.
However, once this wild animal returned to the boat landing to his parents fawning all over him, he seemed to collapse with relief. The last missive of this saga was a photo of him asleep on the couch with his sister and favorite stuffed toy.
Maybe to the bettors, a lost-then-found dog seems ridiculous compared to the billion dollars raked in on Kalshi from Sunday’s corrupt spectacle on the White House lawn. But it was a win, and we’ll take it.
Not that sports doesn’t count as joy: We are World Cup people, and the U.S. soccer team’s trounce over Paraguay last week means we’ve got a fighting chance. Friday’s match against Australia gives all of us something to cheer for, no matter how heavy our hearts.
Which reminds me, anyone with a line on a geriatric luxury sedan with low mileage, hook me up.
The goaaaaal is inner peace ~ JLL
P.S. Please join me this Saturday evening 6/20 at E. Shaver Starland for a lively conversation with independent journalist and new papa Justin Glawe, who is launching his raw and riveting new book If I Am Coming to Your Town, Something Terrible Has Happened. Tickets are free, just RSVP!
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