Jodi_Ess wrote: Thu May 09, 2024 6:16 pm
This is a sad fuckin' post, we'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying.
Here are some tangentially related things, not in chronological order, which are all I can muster in the state I -- and a lt of you -- are in. This is a fraction of my experience.
Calling Steve on the phone, 31 or 32 years ago, asking if he had some time to talk to me for my college paper. He had the time. I met him in person a couple of months later.
Losing the worst job ever, feeling mighty low. Steve said someone else would hire me, and they'd be lucky to have me. He was right.
Dying of embarrassment every time I realized he witnessed some of my "musical" "explorations". This is why the song I wrote for the PRF challenge about him (the topic was something about celebrating him), called "Question for Steve" never got submitted. I had people call my answering machine and everything, but the execution was (I felt) sub par and I couldn't handle the idea of him listening to it. One of the lines was
"I don't know the difference between a Trident and a Neve / I wanna be an engineer / I've got a question for Steve!"
Randomly texting Steve my chip stacks at tournaments, along with photos of "interesting" people at the table, and proudly telling him things like "I am in a HORSE tournament and played four hands. AND TWO WERE OMAHA!" and getting responses like "No RAZZ? Diversify."
He organized a show that allowed me to see MX FUCKING 80, a band I was convinced I would never see, and nobody in my circle of friends knew about (certainly nobody in The Bronx did). I'll type that again:
MX
FUCKING
80
Discovering a whole swath of my poker friends also knew Steve and enjoying hearing how non-musical people loved him too. Getting them to tease him about Steely Dan.
Trying to find shirts with the most amount of wolves on them. I think the pinnacle was 13 but I can't remember.
Buying him a Steve Keene painting of Boz Scaggs' SILK DEGREES (because of that smokin' rendition he did of "Lido Shuffle") but never sending it to him -- it's still in my living room, packed in a record mailer, with a post-it on it that says MAIL TO STEVE.
Introducing the terms "Let's ____ your _____, cocksocket" and "Respect the nines" to my lexicon. I use them liberally.
Marveling at how "doing good" was just baked in, no big deal. Through actual charity work with Letters to Santa, or just by picking up the phone when people called. While this was a tenet of my personality before I met Steve, seeing him do it as a reflex made me resolve -- if I ever got into a position where i could do the same -- I would. And I do, now. I pick up the phone / answer the email.
Meeting all these incredible, creative, generous, kind, weird people who were in his orbit. Some of whom are my dearest friends to this day. Some of whom were much, much closer with the man than I was. All of them who are feeling some flavor of pain and loss right now.
I will miss our annual "I'm old / no, you're old / fuck, who thought we'd still be around" text in July, since our birthdays were within days of each other. I am sad he will not come to any of the poker tournaments my friends organize -- because he would have had a fucking blast. It wasn't for lack of trying; schedules just never worked out.
This is way too long. Please excuse my ramblings.
And it all started with a phone call three decades ago. What a gift.