A week ago today, Dave Stroup, a player among the D.C. digerati but not a journalist, tweeted that "Black Cat Bill," a homeless man who greeted showgoers outside the rock club for years, was dead. There was talk of holding a fundraiser for a homeless-services nonprofit, and of launching a Kickstarter campaign. Maybe they could even convince J. Robbins to perform at a benefit show? Brains were storming.

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Meanwhile, the blogosphere was busy reporting this unfortunate news, including DCist, We Love DC, Borderstan, and A History of Bad Taste and Arena Rock. Bill's trademark phrase, "Black Cat, Black Cat, how bout a little change for the homeless?," was fondly remembered, and we were implored to read Erin Williams' 2009 profile of the now-deceased man. Heads bowed, and then we all moved on to other news, other sadnesses.

Until this morning, that is, when City Paper's Ryan Little reported that William "Willy" Turner — wait, you mean he doesn't go by "Black Cat Bill"? — was not dead. Sick, yes, but still alive. His leather shoes worn thin, Little even had the photograph to prove it: Turner, whom he visited at the Deanwood Rehabilitation and Wellness Center yesterday, is seen lying in a hospital bed, a smile on his face as he waves to the camera.

Bill's alive! The Twitterverse erupted with joy. And apologies. And scoldings. But I have yet to see any further mention of fundraisers or benefit shows.