The world lost Greg Pollowitz last night; he worked here at National Review until making the jump to Twitchy in 2014.
Greg was jovial, snarky, sharp-eyed with details, a voracious news-watcher with a seemingly endless appetite and good nose for sniffing out BS spin. When some official explanation didn’t add up, he was often DM-ing me, pointing out the inconsistencies. Every now and then, he could let slip that sense of being the last sane man in an insane world. Back in 2012, he messaged me, “I’ve got total burnout. I was reprimanded yesterday when my son asked me, while doing his homework, who makes the laws again in DC, and I blurted out, ‘a******s.’”
When he left National Review, we only stayed in touch through Facebook. Earlier this year, Greg was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, and for most of this year, his Facebook feed offered regular updates of exceptional good spirits. He posted on his indoor walks and mocked the infomercials on hospital television, shared pictures of his hospital food and cracked jokes about the menu, and shared the news that in a matter of days he had broken a TV remote, part of his oxygen system, and a noisy clock. Throughout the year he endured eight rounds of chemo. From Greg’s attitude and spirit, you would have thought he could have beaten anything, laughing all the way.
And then, a few days ago, the unthinkable update: “Unfortunately, it is bad news. All of the cancer treatments are ineffective and I decided to move to hospice. Thank you for your continued love, prayers and support.”
Greg was not the kind of person who can be easily replaced, in any form, or by any measure. Rest in peace, my friend, you will be missed.