I cried not only because it was a touching story, but because I had been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Killian’s world two weeks before his death. While writing a story about him for the Woodstock Times, I had spoken with his parents, people from his musical circle, and had even corresponded with Killian over email. Though I didn’t get to meet him in person, his unique and positive outlook left a deep impression. When he passed away, it felt like I’d lost someone close to me.

Just before his death, Killian and producer Ralph Legnini had created “Somewhere Else.”  A beautiful album sporting an impressive list of accomplished musicians, it became Amazon’s fourth bestselling album of the week, following Amsden’s article.

Most of Amsden’s piece is written in the present tense, which is fitting because Killian isn’t really gone. His exhausted body may be finished, but his message is is stronger than ever. Even when his tumor made speech difficult, he sent me an email stating that he was on this earth to “spread a message.” “When treating sick people,” said Killian, “you should not just concentrate on the physical body, but consider the mind and soul too.”

It’s this focus on holistic well being that inspired Killian to create “Somewhere Else,” an album that literally takes its listeners out of their bodies and into a better world. As Killian expressed in an email:

“I was fascinated the first time I got acupuncture with how effective it was to help me with pain and nausea. Medicines can get in the way of your social life – dance, yoga, martial arts, aromatherapy, acupuncture, massage… help you live more fully while you’re being treated. The choice factor is big with kids too. The medicines I had to take, but it was my choice to do the rest.”

During his time in various hospitals, Killian became an expert on alternative care. At most hospitals, these therapies were completely isolated from the traditional medical treatments. “He would have to pay extra or go to a different place to get treatment, or they wouldn’t give treatments to children, only adults,” says his mother, Barbara Mansfield. Even worse, sometimes the doctors and alternative practitioners would refuse to talk to each other.

Barbara was relieved to find that traditional medical care and alternative therapies were integrated at Columbia Presbyterian. Both sides knew exactly what the other was doing, and even learned from each other’s practices. True, doctors got upset when they found out a Chinese herb was used on Killian to stop his bleeding, but it was the only thing that worked, and once they found it was part of the program, the doctors switched their attitude and became interested in the herb.

Killian became the poster child for Columbia Presbyterian’s program. With the help of his loyal supporters far and wide, Killian spearheaded a foundation that promotes integrative therapies for children with life threatening diseases, just like the one at Columbia Presbyterian. All the proceeds from “Somewhere Else have gone toward this cause.

Killian didn’t like talking about his illness. He never read Barbara’s blog, which detailed his many bouts with the disease. Whenever the cancer took away another part of him, he always found a way to go “somewhere else.” When celebrity radio jockey Dom Imus invited Killian on his show, he had already lost much of his ability to speak, hear or use of his arm. For the first 30 seconds he was upset… but then something clicked, and he simply switched to calmly instructing his parents on how to best represent him.  When I asked him to describe himself in five words, he chose, “quirky, supportive, strong, funny, ambidextrous,” ignoring any words describing his health. When asked if the illness had impacted his commitment to music, he wrote, “Absolutely!” then added, “It brought us to the Catskills, which brought me to Ashokan Fiddle & Dance Camp, the high school orchestra, and all the other musician in this area that have influenced me.” Nothing about unjust deadlines, or anything.

This story is part of a series about everyday people and their not-always-everyday lives. If you would like to suggest someone for this column, please email tushayakovleva [at] gmail.com.

Just like every other student at the New School, Liza Bley was given a $300 printing credit for her year-end project. But unlike her peers, Liza used her credit to publish Not Your Mother’s Meatloaf, a sex-ed comic book that revolutionizes the dusty genre.

Now a 23-year-old nanny, musician, craftswoman and Brooklynite, Bley knew her final project was going to have something to do with education…  but she didn’t know exactly what it was going to be. Flipping through a few sex-ed sources, she immediately found her focus. Everything she came across was, intentionally or not, rife with misogyny and homophobia. “Even though we know how to say those words,” she says, “we still haven’t learned how to combat them within structures.”

To prepare, Liza interviewed several health professionals in New York and Philadelphia. Her research took her from New York’s Babeland (a well known adult toy store), to Rutgers University, interviewing people who’ve taught sex-ed, and those who have taken their classes. Somewhat surprisingly, she found that all the literature on sexual education was built on a hollow foundation: for all those pages of precautions and reels of film, there wasn’t a single actual story. “Personal sexual experience,” she says, “is not a narrative that’s shown anywhere in sex education.”

Liza posted fliers, announcing an open call for submissions. Stories came flooding in, from accounts of lost virginity, to dating  conservative Christians, worrying about weirdly shaped penises and drunken hook-ups. “They were so honest, and completely on topic,” says Liza, who was quite simply “blown away.”

Liza preserves the immediacy of her submissions by retaining their original format. Presenting information in the traditional “This Is What It Means To Be Transgender” monotone sucked the life from the vivid and direct experiences she was receiving. She uses, instead, a personal approach: “This is what that community meant to me… this was my experience in this relationship.” On the back of the book is the definitive one-liner: “Experiences, Not Answers.”

Thanks to the New School’s printing credit, Liza was able was able to create plenty of copies of the finished product. A year and a half later, Liza and Saiya Miller - an early contributor to the comic and a partner in the project - have delivered around 400 copies to health centers, LGBTQ support centers, and zine libraries throughout the country. For The Birds, a feminist collective in Brooklyn, and Microcosm, a well-known independent zine publishing company, have been featuring their comic as well. Readers are even encouraged to download the comic to print or pass it on to anyone they’d like.  “We’re pretty anti-copyright,” says Saiya.

The girls are now wrapping up the second issue on first sexual experiences. They liked the idea of firsts because they thought it was something that could encompass a wide spectrum of experiences, while remaining consistent. “It could be anything,” says Liza, even “the first time I did this for the millionth time.” The current selection ranges from first kiss stories, to first one-night stands… to the first time someone was paid for sex. Liza and Saiya also wanted to break from a linear way of thinking about sex and relationships, emphasizing growth instead. “It’s not the end after the first time you’ve had a penis inside of you,” they laughed.

Liza and Saiya say that the submissions are like a Christmas presents. Those neat little packages containing the intimate revelations of strangers are a constant surprise. Their favorite submissions are from people who think they can’t draw, or, even better, think they have no experience that would qualify for a comic. For those folks, the girls have one piece of advice: anything to do with sex has the potential for a great comic.

In the future, they hope that their book will be able to reach high school students. Perhaps in more handpicked form, it could end up in schools and health centers. True, Not Your Mother’s Meatloaf doesn’t have spelled-out lessons. But, it starts an honest conversation about sex.

This story is part of a series about everyday people and their not-always-everyday lives. If you would like to suggest someone for this column, please email tushayakovleva [at] gmail.com.

Michael Esposito is built like a bicycle. Tall, lean, and graceful. He glides, vigilant and stern, his expression softened by a maroon beret. In the morning, you can find him at any one of the town’s cafes. With a hot drink in hand and his bike parked outside, he is greeted with multiple  “Good Mornings!” at every swing of the door. He has a separate response to each, as anyone who has spent half a century in this one-street town would.

The town is the legendary Woodstock, New York. A 6,000 person community just like any other according to Michael,  only that “we’ve had more famous people per capita.” Michael first came up to record with Happy and Artie Traum. He stayed, leaving behind the whirlwind of New York City.

Forty years later, things have changed. “Now, Woodstock’s just your average tourist town, with that little twinge of being famous a few times in the last hundred years. But, the old feeling of the artists and musicians is still here,” he says. And the town has a stronger hold on him than ever, a bond that Michael decided to preserve by purchasing a plot at the Woodstock Artists’ Cemetery. After all, Woodstock has been his home through all his various incarnations, from landscape painter to Western Orthodox Priest, to local bicycle savior at Old Spokes Home.

Twenty-six years ago, Michael inherited some bike tools. “They sat around for a while and then people started coming to me.” Then, someone offered him a beige, slightly asymmetrical garage, right behind the main street. Ever since that day, Michael has been Woodstock’s most successful matchmaker, pairing up thousands of feet to pedals.

Michael’s own bicycle has a large industrial flashlight strapped to the front, in lieu of a headlight. In the back, he has attached a miniature novelty plate that spells “MICHAEL.” He hasn’t driven a car since ’77, and generally stays within a 10 mile radius of Woodstock, biking, or, when defeated by wind-chill, walking.

The inside of Old Spoke’s Home has the diluted smell of an aired out mechanics shop, a mixture of rubber and whatever magic ointments Michael concocts to bring his old rusty friends back to life. The bicycles hang limply from the ceiling, or sit in piles in corners like shelter pets, trying their best to look appealing.

When one is chosen, Michael carries it outside and goes to work. It may take an hour, or a couple of days, but by the end of the operation the bicycle breathes anew. The vehicle is then appraised and joins the row of other rescues parked proudly in front of the shop. Michael’s favorite moment is when someone brings in a bike they haven’t used in years. He fixes it up and then watches the happy customer ride it about town, every day. “Once you discover the bike again, it’s a lifetime thing. Our councilman is in his 80s and he’s still riding.” His one ulterior motive is sustainability. A biker on the road means, “that much less time that there is pollution in the air.”

What makes Michael’s service truly unique is that he is in the resurrection business. Most places will offer a new bicycle rather than dealing with the old because that is how the world works these days, he says. And, since all parts are donated, it only costs him time, for which he charges so little. Michael would likely go hungry before denying someone a set of wheels.

He almost did, too. He was far behind on his mortgage. Woodstock people, however, quickly wrangled up Michael’s friends and now he is fine. “I was screaming, ‘No, I don’t want a benefit, it’s embarrassing!’ They said, ‘Sorry, it’s already under way.’” John Sebastian, Happy Traum and many other players from all over town showed up to help.

Michael would like painting to be his next livelihood. He does about 20 painting every winter (the bike garage door literally freezes shut till April, so the bike business hibernates). He would also like a nice steady job. When it comes to that, though, Woodstock’s offers are slim. There just isn’t much work, and $7.50 an hour or less isn’t very appealing.

From the coffee shop windows, Michael looks out onto the cyclists passing by the window as a proud grandfather looks at his young flock. He is celebrating seventy this year and is rarely seen without his maroon beret.

This is the first installment of a series about everyday people and their not-always-everyday lives. If you would like to suggest someone for this column, please email tushayakovleva [at] gmail.com.