12 Year Wedding Anniversary

It would have been 12 years today. Your bottle of Johnnie Walker is starting to get low. Here's to what was and what might have been.

"Another quick and loving tribute to my wife..." from Steve

You'd think by this point in time I'd have posted anything of noteworthiness written by Steve from his blogging days. Truthfully, this may be the last unless I find something hidden away. I had hoped to dole these out, mostly on the dates he originally posted them, over five years. Turns out, I can't wait that long; I didn't do the math correctly; I was afraid I'd forget to post and a little part of him would be forgotten. All are true but the last one might strike closest to my heart. So many things about Steve, about us, I've forgotten in the past four and a half years. And because Steve wrote about this conversation, I can remember it. A little part of Steve, recaptured.

Another quick and loving tribute to my wife... - December 21, 2005

I meant to write about this last week, but forgot. This is how far my wife has come along as a football fan: While watching another Packer abomination I started bitching about special teams. "I CANT BELIEVE HOW #$@))$% AWFUL THE SPECIAL TEAMS ARE!!!! I DON'T !*#&^%@ GET IT! THEY SHOULD FIRE THAT BALD !*(!@#(*@^&*$@ (Packer Special Teams coach John Bonemego) MOTHER&#(*$(#,#@!$^* @#^*@#($&*#. GODDAMMIT. My wife calmly replied "You know all those injuries to the startes?" "Yeah," I said, "what about them?" "Well, who do you think replaced the starters? Special teams guys. These special teams guys are guys they got off the street to replace the special teams players who replaced the injured starters. That's why they suck. It's not the coaches fault."

I was speechless. And I hadn't even thought about that.

Right again sweetie.

"Happy Anniversary from Green Bay" from Steve

Steve wrote the following post on our 3rd wedding anniversary trip to Green Bay. I still wear the leather coat he gave me. I have the multiple-player signed football he wrote about, too. The Pack won that game. Davenport (long since traded off and then out of football) snapped his ankle on his first play. Favre is long gone, but Aaron Rogers seems to be an alright fella. I don't know about Karma, but the Pack plays on.

And so do I.

Happy Anniversary from Green Bay - October 9, 2005

Here we are in Green Bay, Sunday morning 7:45 local time and I can’t sleep any more. Game time is 12:00 noon. The tailgate party at Brett Favre’s Steak House begins at 9:00. Do I need to say more?

Of course I do....

Karen and I arrived in Green Bay Friday morning, checked into the hotel and immediately headed over to Lambeau Field. A quick aside to set the perspective: Tuesday October 12th is our third wedding anniversary and this is our anniversary trip. Since tradition dictates couples purchase leather for the third anniversary I bought Karen a warm leather jacket for Green Bay. Karen bought me an official NFL game ball. So off we went to Lambeau field, Karen dressed in her new leather jacket and my game ball tucked in her backpack, in search of Packers to sign the ball.

Green Bay is notorious for cold weather, but our southern acclimated bodies were not prepared for 40 degree temperatures and wind chills in the 30’s so we headed into Lambeau for some Packer history.

The first stop: The Packers Hall of Fame. Picture a room shaped like a football with display cases on either side and a divider down the middle. Each display case marks a decade starting from 1919 when the Indian Packing Company sponsored Curly Lambeaus fledgling football team and ending with today’s Packers. We made it as far as the 1950’s before we had to catch our tour of the stadium.

I’ve done a lot of cool shit in my life, but the stadium tour pretty much topped them all. It’s not just because I learned some cool stuff, or got to sit in the luxury boxes, or got to see the inner workings of the stadium, no. My wife and I got to walk through the tunnel and out to the field. Yes, that tunnel, and we’ve got the pictures to prove it. I swear to Christ it gave me goose bumps. Oh, and we also saw punter B.J. Sander giving an interview to a local news bimbo. Sander was hitting on her pretty hard and my guess would be that they would hook up.

After the tour we had lunch at Curly’s Pub which overlooks the parking lot. Karen noticed some people standing by a fenced off gate and quickly surmised that this was where the Packers would be driving out. In other words, this was the spot for autographs.

We headed over to the fence and within five minutes I was way too cold to stay. However Karen, all 105 lbs of her insisted that she wanted to stay and try to get autographs for my ball. And we stayed, and she did. Her first was V.P. John Jones, followed by fullback Vontay Leach and linebacker Robert Thomas. Karen was thrilled. Later she scored Defensive Tackles coach Robert Nunn and Director of Player Personnel Reggie McKenzie (I was really happy about that one. Reggie is old school)

Karen found out that she could get more autographs on Saturday so we called it a day and went back to our hotel. We had a nice dinner at the Titletown Brewing Company, a brewpub located in an old rail station, and were asleep in bed by 9:00.
Saturday we woke and headed to the field at 10. Karen positioned herself at the fence (temperatures in the mid 40s and overcast) and I got on line for the book signing.

Oh yeah, I forgot. Karen found out that the Favre family would be signing copies of the book “Favre” written by Brett and Bonita (Brett’s mom) Favre. The signing was to begin at noon so there were only about 5 people ahead of me. The celebrity signers would include Bonita Favre, Scott Favre (Brett’s brother) and Deanna Favre who is Brett’s wife and the plan was you’d get one signature and it was pot luck. I sincerely hoped I didn’t get Scott but what the hell, $5.00 for each book sold went to their charity so who cares? It was all for a good cause. Meanwhile Karen come running in with the football. She had just scored Offensive Line coach Larry Beightol and had several players tell her they’d sign the ball when they were done with their walk through. She bought me a cup of coffee and while I waited inside the warm atrium my little trooper headed back to the front line to face the elements.

I’m running out of time here so let me get right to the good part. Karen filled the ball with signature upon signature, scoring too many Packers to name. Her coup-de-gras was Aaron Rogers who signed our ball and left everyone else standing there empty handed. It pays to have a little adorable wife who I might add would do anything for me. I'm really that lucky. Meanwhile, I got to meet Bonita, Deanna, and Scott. All three signed my book. It was so worth the wait…

Well, it’s now 8:30 local time. Karen’s up and it’s time to get ready to go to the game. She doesn’t know yet, but her man Davenport is starting. So is Roy Manning, the Michigan Wolverine the Packers picked up as an undrafted free agent. And Brett Favre is going to start as well. I’d say the karma is looking good for the Packers.

"September 11, 2009" from Steve

Steve posted this on Facebook on September 11, 2009. I've written about what 9/11 was like for me. The following account is told from a good friend of his that, sweetly enough, still e-mails me football quips. Since I no longer have to my Stevie to keep me informed, it's an important thread that has kept me tethered. I believe those who've seen some of the worse that life has to offer understand the importance of all these little threads that lift us up. Thank you, St. Ides, for staying.

September 11, 2009

I've saved this email, from a good friend of mine, who witnessed the events of 9-11 first hand. He sent this out that evening. I've taken his name out, because I have not asked his permission to post this. Someday I'll write about how I felt that day... talking to Karen in Virgina, and talking to my Mom who watched it on TV and could smell the smoke for days in our house in Queens. But for now I leave you with words I could not have written any better or more poignantly.

This is a graphic account of what my friend saw, and is not for the timid...

>>

It was fuct up.... here's an attempt to recount it, just because it was so fuct up and maybe it will make me feel a little better if I get this shit out... warning, this shit is not for the squeamish, but it's exactly how things happened for me.

I came out of the subway at about 9:05, with a rush of people coming towards the subway, which was totally unusual.. however, I just thought "oh, some other subway line is probably fuct up"... until someone said the Trade Center was on fire.. then someone said a plane hit it... I looked up,and there was insane amounts of smoke, but it was blowing towards the east(away from me... more towards the Seaport actually)... I walked around City Hall Park, get a better view, and saw a fucking hole in the side of one of the towers with flames spewing out. All I could think was "wow, that's pretty fucked up, but no big deal, they'll put it out..." Then I heard that a second plane had hit the other tower, and that it was most likely a terrorist attack... you've got to keep in mind this is only talk among people in the midst of it, at this point even the radios had no clue.

I stood outside City Hall Park for about half an hour while I tried to decide if I should go in to my actual office building. It was at this time that I saw my first "victim" who was a middle-aged overweight woman, whose face was covered in blood. She walked alone, seemed totally fucking dazed, and didn't even look at anybody, just walked straight ahead. After being there for about 45 minutes, I noticed that NOBODY was going in that direction except for emergency vehicles, cops, and dudes with black windbreakers with the yellow letters "FBI" in the back,

I headed north on Broadway, following the herd. About 8 blocks later, there is this other rumbling sound, and people start talking about a 3rd plane hitting... Then someone with a radio says one of the towers collapses... No fucking way I figure, not collapse totally,maybe just the burnt floors tipped over... And I keep walking.. Eventually, I pass Canal Street, and Spring Street, the two next stops on my train, and the people there say ALL train activity is suspended. So I'm pretty much stuck..I turn around, find a good place to watch, and look up... It was so fucking unbelievably odd to look up and see only ONE of the twin towers. And you knew it wasn't because of the angle, because the grey-smoke-covered blue sky filled the space where the second tower belonged. I watched. And wondered why there wasn't any sort of water trying to put it out. Helicopter hoses,plane drops, super-duper-powered hoses from the ground. Fuck, you would think some technology today would be able to reach a fire at that height.But they couldn't.... Debris fell from the building... Paper bits flickered out like snow.Pieces of what I could only imagine as chunks of floor and ceiling fell away from the building as it burned.. heavy, but fluttering once it fell.. and then there was the debris that didn't flutter... the debris that as it was falling, you saw it had arms and legs... the kind of debris that when it fell, the whole crowd that was looking upward screamed and gasped and said"Oh my God!"... I saw at least 3 people jump/fall from the burning building...

Minutes later, the antenna at the top of the tower started to shake a bit, and the top part crumbled. And the bottom part fell beneath it.I'm sure you saw this on the TV many times over, but seeing it really happen, hearing the loud boom, and watching people break down and cry is just beyond words... At that point, it was a question of "How do we get home?" and "Will there be more attacks?" and the rumors in the streets were ridiculous. Some people said a third plane was on its way, some said the Pentagon was hit too(that one turned out to be true), some said the White House was hit, some said the Sears Tower in Chicago was hit... Some said that some Palestinian group took blame for the hit... I took everything with a grain of salt, but there was no doubt two planes going into both Towers was a terrorist act. And who knew what else could potentially be next...

Subways were still shut down. I walked several miles to 34th street,where I could potentially get an express bus back home. After waiting for an hour,it was obvious those shits weren't coming. I made my way over to the Abbey Tavern, had a bacon burger, watched the latest news, and waited for subway service to be restored. Oh yeah, I had a few pints of Guinness too. Took the 4 train from 42nd (that's another several blocks of walking) to125th, where I got the 6 and made it home by about 6:45pm. At this point, I have no fucking clue what kind of shape my office building is in, if and when I have work again. I imagine there won't be work tomorrow. And from some of the shit I have seen on TV, it looks like my building might be out of business for some time. (Hard to tell exactly where they are in some camera shots, but I think I saw my building and its windows blown out.) So I don't think I'll be making it to lunch the rest of this week...

How are people at AmFar? I'm sure they saw a lot of this too.... Anyways, thanks for the concern, and pass along the "I'm okay" message to any peeps at DL that care. Feel free to pass along the whole message, but it might not appeal to some people.

laters yo

"Holocaust Museum" from Steve

Steve had wanted to visit the National Holocaust Museum for as long as I could remember. I'd been only once before, with my mother and younger brother. Both are people who understand that I have a tendency to take things in straight to my heart with hurt so deep and hard that I frequently can't function for long periods of time afterwards. True to my own history, I couldn't speak for three days after we left.

I was terrified to walk back into that building with my husband. He was the only person who could convince me to even think of facing that horror again. The man who I felt safest with in the world, grabbed my hand and promised not to let go. And he never did. 

Eventually, he wrote the following. He did it to show he hurt, too. To show there exists things that change the way we view our world forever. It's one of the traits I loved most about him.

When we left the Holocaust Museum, we headed straight through the gardens to the art museum. Where we quietly sat on benches staring at some of my favorite artist, holding hands, saying nothing. We both hurt. Together. And we healed together, as well.

September 1, 2009

The saddest place I’ve ever been was the Murrah building in Oklahoma City. Even after visiting ground zero of September 11, nothing has ever affected me more profoundly than the Murrah building, and this is for two reasons. First, the fence around the building was covered with children’s toys, the toys that belonged to Tim McVeigh’s victims. It was a stunning visual reminder of the horrific reality of McVeigh’s crime. Second, the people of Oklahoma City were not prepared for this violence. When I was growing up in New York, we were shown maps of Manhattan with concentric circles expanding from the Empire State Building. The circles represented the blast zone of a thermonuclear weapon and the Empire State Building was always labeled “Ground Zero” because this was where the Soviets would drop the bomb. I lived in the third circle, named “three to five miles”. New Yorkers have always prepared for ground zero; the good people of Oklahoma City had not. They thought they were safe, and that their kids were safe. That still breaks my heart.

I expected my visit to the National Holocaust Museum to challenge my experience in OKC , but it didn’t. The museum is profoundly sad, yet still manages to celebrate the lives and the spirits of those who perished during the Holocaust. Today we throw the numbers around like snowballs: 6 million Jews, 5 million non Jews. The numbers are so large that they defy any tangible meaning. But go to the museum and look at the photographs. See the faces. Read the stories. You’ll see that somehow those numbers begin to take on meaning, a horrible horrible meaning.

To those who think it is appropriate to carry posters of President Obama with a Hitler mustache to a Health Care Town Hall meeting, I challenge you to visit this museum to see who the Nazis really were. To those who think it appropriate to refer to the conservative right and their bloviated pitchmen as Nazis, I challenge you to visit the museum. “Feminazi”, “Soup Nazi”. We trivialize the memory of those who gave their lives as victims of, or as soldiers ensuring the defeat of Adolf Hitler and his tyranny when we use the term Nazi so loosely. One take away from my visit was this: The closest thing to Nazism in our culture is those who shout “Look, that one is a Nazi”. It is a disgrace I am guilty of, and I will never make that mistake again.

When I was 17 I believed in George Orwell’s philosophy that all war was wrong. My dad was a soldier in World War II, and although I loved my father I did not respect his decision to be a soldier. I believed he was fighting for a governmental ideology, sold to an ignorant mass as patriotism. I thought he was a pawn. About that time, PBS first showed the films of the liberation of the concentration camps. If you’ve never seen them then nothing I could write will ever prepare you for them. We watched it together, me and my dad, and when they were done through my tears I said to him “I am sooooo proud of you”. That’s what my dad did when he was 22 years old.

I kept thinking of that moment at the Holocaust museum. I’m still so very proud.

"Arnold and the Cherubs" from Steve

I've been going through Steve's writings recently. I always loved hearing stories about growing up in New York, about his childhood, his coming of age. Those stories that are different than my own but somehow ring true to a part of me and my stories. Because, in the end, we are all just a collection of stories of our own making.

It's rare we get a chance to go back to those youthful moments that help form who we become and the people that shared those times with us. Steve was given one of those rare and precious chances. And while I had heard these stories from him before, I love reading this version of those stories. Because they had changed, just as he had.

I'm glad he got that rare chance to revisit his past. I'm glad he knew I was his biggest fan. I'm glad he got to play with the band again. I'm glad to have shared the journey with him.

"Life will fuck with your head but life will give you chances at redemption right until the glorious end."- Stephen DeRose

August 3, 2009

In 1981, when I was 18 years old, the United States had a population of 229 million people, and there was a 5.8% chance that you would be a victim of a violent crime. The median household income in 1981 was a little over $19,000.00 per year while unemployment sat at 7.9%. As the year started, a first class postage stamp cost 15 cents but by year’s end that number would jump to 17 cents. In 1981 the Oakland Raiders defeated the Philadelphia Eagles 21 – 10 in the Super Bowl, and the Los Angeles Dodgers defeated the New York Yankees 4 – 2 in the World Series. The Boston Celtics ruled the NBA while the New York Islanders were in the midst of their dynasty. In 1981 the record of the year was “Sailing” by Christopher Cross, while the best picture was awarded to “Ordinary People”. A new form of television entertainment debuted in 1981 called “Music Television” or “MTV” which played videos: recorded visual performances that sometimes went along with the lyrics of the song. In 1981 Sandra Day O’Connor became the first woman to be nominated to, and subsequently serve on the Supreme Court of the United States. IBM introduced its PC in 1981 which ran an operating system called DOS, written by a small Seattle based Software Company called Microsoft. In 1981, AIDS, which would become the scourge of a generation, was first identified. In 1981 Ronald Wilson Reagan was sworn in as the 40th president of the US and if you were 18 years old in 1981 that prospect scared the shit out of you.

In 1981, with their world and the music of their generation making less and less sense, a group of NYU pre-med students got together with some of their friends and formed a band dedicated to the music of the 1960s. For one seemingly endless summer, Arnold and the Cherubs from Commack New York met, practiced, drank, and reasonably replicated the music of The Doors, Steppenwolf, and The Animals amongst others. The band featured the amazing Lenny Stote on bass, guitar, keyboards, pretty much anything that made a musical sound, and lead vocals. Mark Garobedian, from Commack by way of the Chemistry lab at NYU was the drummer extraordinaire. Tim Salenger, a lanky rich kid who seemed to be able to channel Ray Manzarak, played a genuine Farfisa Organ attached to a rotating Leslie speaker set. On rhythm guitar, piano and vocals was Rich Perez, a brilliant musician, vocalist and songwriter who loved (in order) The Beatles, chicks, beer, and tacos. Rounding out the group on lead guitar and vocals was a stocky foul mouth from Long Island City, NY named Steve DeRose, who sang and played a Montoya Les Paul copy through an Electro-Harmonix Muff Fuzz and a Sun amp. I was poor and from the streets. My band mates were not.

The spring and summer of 1981 was my time. I so desperately wanted out of Long Island City and I so much wanted to be a musician. I saw the band from Commack as a gateway into the world I wanted to be a part of. Every week I would travel out to “the island” (as we city folk called Nassau and Suffolk counties) and lived my dream: we were a really good rock band. We had girls hanging with us. We’d go to the clubs in Huntington as a band, and drink and socialize as a band. We’d watch other bands play: I remember a night at club called The Salty Dog watching a favorite band called Kivetski, who billed themselves as “New York’s Number One Sixties Band”. Mark Garobedian and I were up front when the lead singer reached down and shook our hands. Mark repaid this kind gesture with a two handed stroking maneuver extending from his crotch. I extended my hands, palms up and pointing in the general direction of Mark’s gesture as if to say “Look at the size of THIS”. Kivetski was the band we modeled ourselves on: we were “New York’s Number Two Sixties Band”.

We were all 18 and 19 years old and life hadn’t fucked with our heads quite yet. I still believed that I could be a rock star; I was still so innocent and naive. The Cherubs gave me the first glimpse of the lifestyle, and I’m not talking about sex or drugs or even money. I’m talking about being part of something. We grew together, and the band became the fulcrum of our shared experience. When we showed up at a bar or club, it was us, we, Arnold and the Cherubs, and the bars of Huntington New York were ours. And when one of us had an idea… One night, after several hours of drinking at Huntington’s “Artful Dodger”, Lenny Stote stood up all wild eyed and suggested “Hey, you want to go see Billy Joel’s house?” This seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea, so we all piled into Lenny’s car, and all I can tell you about that car was it was really small. We were five young drunk adults crammed into a car that could uncomfortably seat four, and we were headed down the back roads of the northern shore of Long Island at some ungodly speed. Lenny was barely making the curves, and Mark was on my lap in the back seat and we were screaming. Wait, let me explain that. Mark was on my lap because there were two others crammed into the back seat with us, and we were screaming because we honestly thought we were about to die. The funny thing is I wasn’t really afraid, but I wanted to make sure my soul was at peace so I decided to tell Mark that I loved him. Or rather, screamed it at the top of my lungs. Mark screamed back “I love you too!”

Souls in order? Check.

When we got to Billy Joel’s house we stood in awe staring at... an 8 to 10 foot wall. Somewhere on the other side was a house and we conjectured who Billy might have in there with him (the names Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon were tossed around. Hey, it was 1981). It was then I noticed that Rich Perez was a few feet to my right peeing on Billy Joel’s wall. I glanced away from Rich, where about 30 feet down wind stood Lenny Stote, peeing on the far left end of the wall. Surprisingly I quickly over came my personal pee shyness, took a position to the left of Rich and began making a giant “S” on my section. Tim and Mark quickly figured out what was happening and filled the gap between where I stood and where Lenny was finishing up. And this became the night that Arnold and the Cherubs, my band, pissed on Billy Joel’s wall.

The summer of 1981 was the first time I truly fell in love. I met Linda Michos in the spring at NYU, and at age 22 from East Meadow New York she was everything I wanted in a girlfriend: funny, beautiful, suburban, and blessed with the singing voice of an angel. Oh, I should mention that she was completely uninterested in dating me, and by dating I mean... well, you figure it out. She once had a relationship with Mark’s brother Michael, and was involved with a guy who really didn’t seem all that interested in her. But none of that should have mattered because I was involved with someone who I had been dating for over a year. Lin and I hung out together at school, a lot, and became close friends. When my girlfriend left to spend the summer in France and Lin’s boyfriend left her to move out west, we grew closer still. Although we saw each other every weekend, we never grew closer than a stolen kiss once after the sunset at Jones Beach (queue the song “One Summer Night” here).

The band practiced throughout the summer and by the end of August we were ready to gig. We set up an audition at Genie’s Pub, a bar that was located in a strip mall on Jericho Turnpike, and took the stage to play 5 songs. I remember several things about that day. First, the pub had a real sound system and we never sounded better. We also had never played through a real sound system. Go figure. Second, I had caught a cold and was not in good voice. When we played “Hang on Sloopy”, and I got to the second line “…and everybody yeah tries to put my Sloopy down”, my voice totally cracked on “everybody”. Third, Linda wasn’t there much to my dismay. My one shot to use my status as a rock star to impress her was gone, but I was sure there would be others. Fourth, from the stage I was flirting with some of the girls in the audience when it occurred to me that (a) they probably have boyfriends, (b) their boyfriends might be the jealous type like I was, and (c) this bar is pretty nasty: I’ll probably lose. After that I stuck to my playlist. The audition was a success and the pub wanted to hire us, but it was nearly September and although I wasn’t aware of it, the season was changing before my eyes.

In September of 1981, Lenny Stote’s father passed away unexpectedly. Lenny, the most talent musician I have ever played with, could no longer devote his time to the band. He was heading to the State University of New York in Fredonia, just outside of Buffalo. A few weeks after Lenny’s dad died, Rich Perez’s father passed away. Rich was devastated. Mark Garobedian was transferring to Colgate University and would no longer be across from me in Chemistry lab at NYU. I said goodbye to my drummer, who I knew someday would be a terrific doctor. Tim Salenger was Mark’s friend and I don’t remember what happened with him. I imagine Tim went back to Northern Jersey, to his life and school, and continued on his path to surely become something great. And sometime around the first week of September, just a few days before my 19th birthday Linda Michos told me she was heading west to reconnect with her boyfriend. For the first time in my life I understood what heartbreak was. We decided to have one official date before she left, so I put on these ridiculous white shoes that belonged to my brother Vinnie and took her to see Kansas play at the Palladium Theater in New York City. It was her first concert ever. Afterwards we went to the Burger King on Queens Blvd, next to the Golden-Q Billiard Emporium, and had dinner in my dad’s blue Chevy Malibu. Lin took her sneakers off and put her feet up on the dashboard, and we laughed as her feet fogged up a little section of the windshield. I drove her home to East Meadow, and for the second time in our relationship we stole one last kiss, this time in a schoolyard playground around the corner from her house. And then Linda was gone. Several days later on my birthday I waited for a phone call that never came. My mom, who was always more perceptive than I ever gave her credit for, came up to me at one point and whispered “You didn’t get what you wanted for your birthday, did you?” 19 would be the last birthday party my parents ever threw for me.

I stayed friends with Rich Perez for a while, and we gigged together as a duet, but I was terribly jealous of him. Rich was such a good songwriter, and such a good singer, and he was so handsome: Rich had girls lining up to be with him. I let my jealousy ruin our friendship. I wish I could find him and tell him how sorry I am about that, and how brilliant I thought he was. I’ve looked for Rich online, but there are so many Richard Perez’s out there. I have yet to find him.

Tim Salenger disappeared from my life too. I remember hanging out at Tim’s place in New Jersey, swimming in his in-ground swimming pool, and listening to this new band he and his friends were into called U-2. I remember thinking “this is the first new band I’ve heard that I like”. You know that night at the “Salty Dog” that I wrote about earlier? Later that evening I overheard Tim say to Mark “Watching these guys play makes me realize how good Steve is”. I never told anyone that story, but I’ll tell you now that it made my night and then some. Tim was a good guy and although we were never close, I wish I could tell him how much I appreciated him letting me into his world for that brief summer.

Lenny Stote in about every way was the most amazing musician I have known. He was brilliant and over the top funny. Once at a restaurant called “Chicago’s”, the band sat drinking much beer and eating much deep dish pizza when Lenny noticed that someone’s (I think Tim’s) beer mug was a little low. In a booming medieval voice, he boldly announced “NO EMPTY GLASSES AT LENNY’S TABLE”, and proceeded to pound his fist on said table. This percussive downward blow sent two full pitchers of beer skyward, soaking the four other band members and several tables around us, and Lenny sat there smiling, admiring what he had done. A few weeks ago I found a Lenny Stote on FaceBook and sent him a private message, but I never received a reply. I always wanted to be close friends with Lenny, but I’m not sure he knew that. I miss Lenny, and wish I could thank him as well and tell him what the summer of 1981 with the band meant to me. Really, I think I’d just like to have one more beer at Lenny’s table.

Linda Michos returned to New York after things didn’t go so well out west with her boyfriend. She called one afternoon to tell me she was home and I was so happy. We got together that weekend, and for the next year and a half dated as friends. But Lin never fell in love with me, and I never fell out of love with her. There were no more stolen kisses to be had. One evening as we sat outside her home in my father’s blue Malibu, I told her I couldn’t see her any more. It just hurt too damn much. We both cried, and then Lin was gone for good. For me, it was the first time I had walked away from someone I didn’t want to walk away from, and that was when I learned no matter how much you love someone it doesn’t matter one bit. You can’t make somebody feel something that they don’t. That changed me, and not in a good way: life had finally fucked with my head. Twenty seven years have passed since that night, and the feelings I had for Linda are a part of a distant memory and no longer of any relevance. But if I ever met Lin again, I’d say to her “You know, I got two good songs out of you!” It was a private joke we had between us and I’ll bet you she’d still remember that.

I guess by now you’re probably wondering why I’ve written this. About a year ago I was searching online for my old band mates when I found Dr. Mark Garobedian who had a Pediatric practice in South Hampton, NY. If you knew Mark you’d know that he was built to be a Pediatrician. I was so happy that he had made it. But two weeks ago I decided to search again, and this time I found something new about Mark: his practice was now located in Mechanicsville, VA which is about 20 minutes from where I live. I was flabbergasted. There was a number listed, and the next day I called my old drummer. Within 20 minutes he returned my call and we laughed and talked and we couldn’t believe that 28 years later we were living about 10 miles from each other: Mark had moved his family to Virginia earlier this year and he seemed genuinely ecstatic to hear from me. About the third thing he said to me was “That band had potential!” I couldn’t agree more. But the best part? About five minutes into the conversation Mark asked “Do you still play?” and I said “just for my family and myself”. So Mark goes “Well, I know this guitarist up near DC and we should get together and play” and since we spoke, every time I hear a song on the radio all I am thinking is “We could play that”.

It’s interesting to look back at those days from the perspective of time. Time can be a great teacher if you choose to be its student. I’ve always remembered the days after the summer of 1981 as the time when I dropped out of college, began drinking, and lived a lie that I never really spoke of until after the passing of my Mother. Now, I see those days as great formative years, almost cliché in most respects: the story of a teenager, his rock and roll band, and a summer love that ended as most do: with a goodbye. Today, I am married to the most perfect woman imaginable. She is bright and beautiful, and has fulfilled me in every way. And my wife, who knew Dave Matthews and once upon a time shoved him into the water fountain on the downtown mall in Charlottesville, says I am the best guitarist she’s ever heard. My dreams of being a rock star are fulfilled as well: I get to be a rock star for my audience of one, usually when she comes out of the shower and she’s putting her makeup on.

It’s easy to get caught up in one’s past. I hear that this happens all the time to guys my age. Usually they go out, get a hot young girl and a convertible and that takes care of it. So what am I supposed to do? I already have a hot young wife and a convertible. The trick is not to get caught up in your past, the trick is to see where you’ve been, look at where you are, and imagine where you want to be. And that never changes, no matter what age you are. I love where I am and how I got here, and I can’t wait to carry on this wondrous adventure, now no longer alone, with the woman of my dreams.

One night very soon Mark and I are planning to get together to (as he put it) “…eat some pasta, drink some Chianti and laugh our asses off”. I can’t tell you how excited I am to see him. I miss my old friends, all of them, who shepherded me through the 18th and 19th years of my life. And although it seemed so chaotic and traumatic back when, now through the looking glass of time and perspective those days seem so wonderfully ordinary. And one day soon don’t be surprised if my drummer and I are playing somewhere at a bar or street corner near you. We were supposed to revolutionize rock and roll, you know? Life will fuck with your head but life will give you chances at redemption right until the glorious end.

Or am I being naive?

"Moon Landing" from Steve

Steve, like most IT guys, loved science. Loved science-fiction, too. Don't get me started on his obsession with asking pilots if they ever saw UFO's while flying planes. Got to a point I was scared to have us sit in an airport too long for fear he'd go pestering all the incoming pilots. But he'd send me all sorts of articles to read or burst out in normal conversation with some weird pieces of arcane information. He could hold a piece of information in his head in ways that perplex me to this day. He was a walking encyclopedia. He was constantly teaching me things.

But what I enjoyed most was when the information coincided with stories from his past. His childhood. Steve didn't need the nightly newsman to tell him it was the 40th anniversary of walking on the moon. He had written this earlier in the week and waited to post it. Just one of those pieces of arcane information in his head waiting to burst out at the appropriate time.

July 20, 2009

I was 6 years old when we landed on the moon 40 years ago today.

My parents let me stay up late that night to watch Neil Armstrong take his historic steps, and to me that was as big a deal as the steps themselves. I want to say it was about 10:15 at night when it happened and even at 6 I knew it was a big deal, but at that age could I fully grasp what exactly was going on?

There were clues. My dad fought in World War II, and had seen it all or so it seemed, but he too paused on a work night to watch the TV in the living room with the rest of his sons. I noticed that. Mom kept telling me that I would always remember that day, and that I would tell my children about it. She was half right: I have no children, so I'm telling all of you. My grandmother, Bombina, was terrified. She was convinced that the moon would fall from the sky if they landed on it. "Vinny, why do they HAVE to go???" she would plead with my father.

The picture wasn't very good but that didn't bother me. The only thing that ever play well on that TV were cartoons so who cared. It was 1969. I was used to bad pictures on TV. Disturbing images of helicopters and soldiers broadcast like a blurry surrealistic nightmare. Maybe I didn't comprehend it all, but somehow I knew enough. I know this because it didn't escape me that the ship was called the Eagle, or that it landed in a place called the Sea of Tranquility. I knew the future when I saw it, and I saw hope in my family's eyes that night.

1969 was the year I became aware. I was aware of the Mets, and found a hero in George Thomas Seaver. I knew who Joe Namath was, and I knew who Willis Reed was. I knew what Viet Nam was and I knew my oldest brother was a soldier. I knew grandma Bombi had nothing to worry about, the moon was going to stay right where it was. And I knew that Neil and Buzz stood in the confines of the Sea of Tranquility 250,000 miles away and it all made perfect sense.

"Father's Day" - from Steve

Doc was one of Steve's closest friends not in the family. Being Italian, a friend not in the family quickly becomes family. Doc was what I would call  "a brother from another mother". In light of this father's day posting maybe it should be "a brother from another father".

When Steve died, I mistakenly phoned Doc after midnight. I had no idea of the time, being entirely out of my mind with shock and grief. All I felt was a desperation to get a hold of those who loved Steve and was loved by Steve. I can't imagine waking from a deep sleep to take that call. But Mike took that call, stayed calm and made some additional calls on my behalf. He stood tall exactly where Steve would have for him had the tables been reversed.

About a year later, Mike came to Richmond for work. He took me out to one of Steve's favorite restaurants. A place Steve and I always took out of town visitors or to celebrate special occasions. And while we spoke of Steve now and again, mostly we spoke of mundane every day topics. We were both trying to stand tall in Steve's place for each other, making an awkward mess of it in the process.

I haven't seen or heard from Doc since that dinner. I sent him the lucite encased Super Bowl ticket which Steve saved these many years. While I had heard the stories written below many times, I knew Steve would have wanted Mike to have the heft of those shared memories. Something to hold in hand of the times they shared with pride.

I wish I could do that for each and every person Steve held dear in his life.

June 19, 2010

June 20th is my best friend not named Karen’s birthday. When I was in High School and for many years thereafter Mike Lozano and I shared many an adventure as we grew from 14 year old boys into the first incarnations of the men we are today.

Mike and I met in sophomore year at Archbishop Molloy, in the fall of 1977. I don’t know how we avoided each other for freshman year, we were on the same academic track, but needless to say when we finally met we became good friends. Mike was always a little smarter than me. He worked a little harder and got better grades. I was more of the “disassociated artist’ type. I never studied, never worked, and got passing grades much to my parent’s consternation (they had this “valedictorian or bust” attitude that I still don’t quite get. Once, my dad beat the snot out me for bringing home an 86 average)

Our friendship however really took off in college when we both discovered bars. This was more of a bad thing for me than Mike, who as I mentioned was always a little smarter than me. Doc as we now called him knew when to party and knew when to study. I on the other hand (who Doc now called “Wildman”) knew absolutely nothing about when to study. All the time was a good time to party, and being at NYU in the heart of Greenwich Village during the post-punk new wave era was probably not the most conducive environment for focusing on my academics. By 1983 I dropped out.

Doc finished Syracuse University in 2.5 years (OK, he was A LOT smarter than me), took a half a semester off, and started Mt. Sinai medical school while I had gotten some steady work in various mailrooms around the city. We still partied and drank, and for several years I was proud to subsidize our good times. Doc became an ER Doctor and married a beautiful woman named Tania, who I might add is smarter than the two of us (Tania went to Yale and is an Endocrinologist). For a while they lived in New York but eventually they moved to Tampa where they live today.

I wish I could tell you all of the stories and adventures we shared, but I can’t. One of the conditions of sobriety is to walk away from the people, places, and things that you knew when you drank and most of my stories about Doc start off “So one night Doc and I were out drinking…”. I can’t tell those stories any more, but there is one story I can tell...

Doc is one of the most decisive, intelligent people you will ever meet, but when it came to picking his favorite football team he couldn’t. I always thought he was a Jets fan, but when he moved to Tampa he became a Bucs fan, and when I questioned this his reply was something along the lines of “I really don’t have a favorite football team”.

Hmmm.

So I told him about the Green Bay Packers. Here’s a football team that was made for the Doc. They have a rich history. They are successful. They are owned by the people of Green Bay. Green Bay is about as different from New York City as different can be. Within days Doc was coming back to me with facts that I didn’t know (did I mention he’s somewhere between a little and a lot smarter than me?) “Did you know that if the team gets sold, all of the proceeds have to go to the local American Legion Post??” he gleefully exclaimed in one phone call. It didn’t hurt that we had Brett Favre on the team, and this was 1995 Brett Favre, so Doc became a Packers fan.

And the next year they went to the Super Bowl and so did we.

When the Packers made it to Super Bowl XXXI Doc immediately called and said “We’re going”.

“But I can’t afford it” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it” said Doc.
“But I’ll never be able to pay you back”.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it” said Doc
“I have to pay you back”.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. It’s my way of saying thanks” said Doc, at this point getting annoyed. “Look, I’ve always wanted to be able to do this for my friends”, and that I understood. We came from the same place, me and the Doc, and he had made it out.

Doc took me to the Super Bowl in New Orleans and we watched Brett Favre win his only championship. That was a dream come true, and I have the ticket stub to prove it.

If I’ve never said thank you as I should have for that adventure then please allow me to do it now.

Thank you Mike.

A lot has changed since that day in 1996. I started changing my drinking habits, and Doc went on with his life. We grown apart over time and distance, but never so far that one can’t pick up the phone any day and call the other. Oh, and when I got married Doc and his family were there. He and Tania and their children Jackie and Vickie (who is my godchild) made the trip to Vegas. Jackie and Vickie stood as our flower girls and bowled with us in celebration that afternoon.

There’s a lot for me to think about today. I thought about writing about my Dad, but I think about him enough, and he knows how much I love him even if he did beat the snot out of me for bringing home an 86 average. Also? I’m tired of reflecting on the dead for now. This world is for the living. Here’s to the Doc, husband, father, and my friend always. Happy Fathers Day!

PS…
I can’t post this without wishing a happy Fathers Day to Miguel Lozano, Sr., who is Doc’s dad and was always a second dad to me. Mr. Lozano is a typical Puerto Rican man: he is strong and proud and of few words. When I met Mr. Lozano in 1977 our conversations would go like this:

Steve: Hi Mr. Lozano.
Mr. Lozano: >

It was the strangest noise I’d ever heard. In the first three years I knew him, the only actual words he ever said to me were this one time when he said: “Move your car”. I had no idea why he wanted me to move my car, nor did I think there was anything wrong with where I parked it, but I was ready to move it to the cemetery out back just so he wouldn’t have to see it ever again. I don’t think I ever moved so fast in my life. Anyway, three years of this goes on and one day we are sitting on his living room couch together watching a Mets game and all of a sudden I hear this voice go “Jorgensen.” I looked around wondering where it had came from but I really had no idea. Then I heard “Jorgensen. He’s good. Strong”

It was Mr. Lozano.

I looked around again to see who he was speaking to, but there was no one around. Then it dawned on me: he was talking to me. I remember thinking “Holy crap, he wants to have a conversation. Now what”? You know those old western movies, the way the Indians would talk? That was me. “Yes. Jorgensen. Good. Strong. Power hitter”.

It was Mr. Lozano’s way of letting me know I passed the test.

Happy Fathers day Dad. Give Mom and big hug and kiss from her wayward son.

One Fewer Steve DeRose on Facebook

(Written by Steve on Facebook three and a half years ago.)

All the Steve DeRoses on Facebook - September 8, 2009

If you search for Steve DeRose on Facebook, there are 17 of us and clearly I am the most handsome although the one in Cincinnati is cute enough to be gay. There’s a Steve DeRose leaning against a wooden fence with his significant other that seems nice, but his friends look a little creepy. I swear I saw one of them on last night’s episode of “Gangland”.

Steve DeRose from Washington DC is on Facebook, and if you Bing or Google Steve DeRose he comes up. He’s one of the inventors of xml and he’s a brilliant computer guy. Like me. I’ve often wondered if any old friends ever look for me and find him. I wonder if they think “Jeeeeesus, Steve lost a ton of weight”. He also has the derose.net domain, but I have stevederose.com. One of these days I’m going to do something with that darn domain.

There’s a Steven DeRose in Ft. Wayne, IN where my wife’s grandfather lives. If I ever meet my grandfatherinlaw I wonder if that will freak him out. I’d say “Hi Grandpa Kendall, I’m Steve DeRose” and he’d say “No you’re not!”. Then I’d show him my driver’s license and he’d go “Jeeeeesus, you’ve put on a ton of weight”. Hmm, better not go to Ft. Wayne.

Steve DeRoses are global: There’s one in London and one in France, and there’s one in Ontario and one studying at ITI Guglielmo Marconi in Italy. And then there’s one Steve DeRose whose facebook picture is his eyeball. Steve DeRoses are a creative artistic lot.

Stephen DeRose from Medford Oregon spells his name exactly like I do: StePHen. However I’m certain we have nothing in common. He looks a little like a meth dealer and I look like… what exactly the hell do I look like? Many years ago my best friend in High School said I looked like a smiling tomato so I’ll go with that. Except now I look like a smiling tomato with a goatee and a balding head. Come to think of it, I did look like a smiling tomato, as opposed to my best friend in High School who looked like the Puerto Rican version of Mark Spitz, only chubbier.

--------------------------------------------------------

I did something last month I never thought I'd do when Steve died. I had his Facebook account deleted.

I had been contemplating it for over a year. After the first year mark passed, I was the only person posting on his wall. I was the only person still tagging him in pictures. It was like I was the only person still remembering him.

I know that isn't true. I know many people still thought about him. Maybe even often. But they weren't sharing it with me. And after a year where his name wasn't mentioned during holiday phone calls (which rarely even took place on the holiday), where no one called me on the day of our wedding anniversary, his birthday, or the one year marking of his death, I was tired of walking around thinking about him alone. I wanted people to call me on those landmark days. I needed them to say his name and share some memories with me. Hopefully ones I had never heard before. I was tired of feeling like I was alone in grieving his absence. Alone in being his memory-keeper.

So, it was a year after Steve died when I first started thinking about deleting his Facebook page.

I didn't want to be hasty, though. I didn't want to make an irreversible decision as a knee-jerk emotional reaction. I started talking to friends and asking for their thoughts. I received a range of comments from "People grieve differently" to "They just don't know what to say to you" to "You're too sensitive."

I understood all of it. People DO grieve differently. I've learned that just by talking to other widows. People DON'T know what to say to me. The smart ones fessed up they don't know what to say but most people walked away thinking I have plenty of other support, not realizing that everyone else around me was thinking and doing the exact same as them. And, yes, I WAS too sensitive. I felt as though my skin had been flayed off and every passing breeze was torture. It didn't help that my father died just after the one year anniversary of Steve's death, throwing me back into the depths of depression.

But there was one thing no one had the courage to say to me. The one thing I secretly knew anyway. That mostly, people had moved on and weren't thinking of Steve very often. It was right, and normal, and the way life progresses. Doesn't mean it wasn't difficult to know that while everyone else could go about their lives, I was still struggling to get through each day without the man I married next to me.

I kept his Facebook page up for another year and a half. I checked his page every day, posted on his page occasionally, tagged him in pictures regularly. Because, though it pained me to see no one else doing those things, I still needed to do them.

Something changed for me this past year as the holidays approached. I started getting angry. Not at Steve. At the people in my life. At the people in Steve's life. At all the people who had been uncomfortable in my presence because they didn't know what to say. At the people who thought I was an interesting freak show to watch up close and personal. At the people who saw my weakness and tried to take advantage of me. At myself. Myself, for bending over backwards trying to help them feel comfortable when it should have been the other way around. Myself, for not having the strength to tell the freak show watchers and advantage takers takers to fuck off; instead just walking away from them and hoping they'd disappear. Myself, for wanting to stretch out my time with a dead man by hearing about him from the mouths of others.

That's when I stopped, took stock, and realized: I'm not alone. Steve is imbedded in my very being. I can quit hoping people will share memories of Steve with me, cause I have my own to keep me company. And I will share those memories freely cause I no longer care if people are uncomfortable. And I will tell indiscreet people to fuck off cause my strength has returned to me. I can let go of checking Steve's Facebook page every day cause I carry him with me everywhere I go.

And that's the day I decided to delete his Facebook page. But not before checking, one last time, that I had downloaded his page in it's entirety. I'm angry, not stupid.

(P.S. For those looking for information about memorializing a Facebook account, I wrote a post about it here: Memorializing a Facebook Account.)

Memorial Tattoo

A good amount of the time that I spend thinking of Steve, I spend thinking about how I failed him. How I should have saved him. The little things he loved that I should have done for him more often. The big things I vetoed so we could save for a future we now won't have, that I should have enthusiastically agreed to do. A million ways to feel like a bad wife.

Steve would hate that I do this.

My number one head-shrinker tells me it's survivors guilt. Makes sense. I'm here, he's not, and there's no one in my head to argue with my own bad counsel.

I positively light up when someone tells me about how much he used to brag on me or how much he used to gush on his love for me. Leaves me with the warm and fuzzies for days. Those stories pull me out of my own cycling thoughts of failure and remind me - we had it good. He adored me as much as I adore him.

But those stories are few and far between. It just doesn't come up in conversation very often. So I decided to go and get my own reminder:



Those are his words, his signature, in his own handwriting. I pulled it from the bottom of the card he gave me on our six year wedding anniversary.



And now I can look down and remind myself - we had it good. We adored each other. Every day we woke up and choose each other all over again.

And all those bad thoughts I carry around in my head?

They can just fuck off.

Documenting our Life Part II

The last time I posted a few pictures and stories of Steve's belongings I was pushing myself as hard as I could to make some progress, any kind of progress, towards... I dunno. Reclaiming my life? Reclaiming my house? Reclaiming my grief? Reclaiming my happy memories? All apply, actually.

It's been a week on what I now call my "widow drugs". The Zoloft hasn't kicked in yet and I've had a few interesting side effects from the Xanax. Like, if I'm late on a dosage I go to sleep for three to four hours. And my dreams? Woo hee. They are fun. Complicated and full of mazes and talking rabbits. Hey, I'm not complaining, they're better then any Tim Burton movie I've seen. Cause when I take my Xanax on time, those four hours? They are some of the most functional hours I've had in months. Actually. The first time I took it I did more in four hours than I had done in a month. I showered AND shaved my legs! Life is improving.

I took a couple of photos a few months back while trying to sort through the bedroom yet again. I tackled Steve's beside table once, then never touched another thing. Just couldn't face it. I did eventually move a few of my clothes into his closet but his shoes are still on the floor in there. My shoes are kept in a pile under the coffee table. It's gotten to a point I won't let people past my front porch if they come to visit me.

This last effort got me a bit further but I still have a ways to go. So, once again, I thought I'd share a few special items and their stories. Please forgive the dark and odd reddish cast to everything. Our room is painted maroon.  Very womb-like for those times you need to feel all nestled in and rather infantile while moodily crying.

                -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

This is Steve's little dresser catch-all. It's where he'd place his jewelry, his wallet, his pocket change, his work ID and his cell phone. I took his cross of the chain, where I wear his wedding ring around my neck. His pinky ring, which he never took off, is resting there as well. The change was in his pocket when he died. In his wallet is exactly twenty-six dollars, including the two dollar bill his father gave him as a child. His mother's prayer card is in there, too. Periodically I take everything off the tray, dust it down and then place everything back in it's place. I did eventually throw out his drug store reading glasses.
The tray is red and gold embossed leather. On the back it says "made in Italy." Steve's mother gave it to him when she moved. Every day in Florence last year, I passed a shop that sold hundreds of these trays in various shapes and sizes. My last day I finally built up enough courage to walk in and look around. I wanted to buy a new one, to maybe place in another room. Something to remind me of Mama DeRose and Steve. I couldn't do it, though. I so badly wanted Steve next to me to help decide what shape, what size, what color, what room. But it was nice to see reminders of them both so very far from home.

The perfume bottles are all mine except for the one slightly behind and to the right of the maroon bottle. That's Steve's cologne. Took us years to find the scent that fit his chemistry. It was Coach, of all freaking things. I've been wearing t since he died. It smells completely different on me but every now and again I'll catch an odd whiff and think "Steve?" and then look around for him. Maybe that sounds sad but it always makes me a bit happy.
All my perfumes Steve helped me pick out. I've always been of the mindset that I dress and, well, smell good, for my husband. It made sense that I'd only wear something that he found beguiling. I always knew he liked a new perfume when it'd suddenly show up all gift-wrapped for no reason at all. The bottle in the back on the far left I bought myself while in Florence. I've only worn it once but I like knowing it's there for when I'm ready to head out on my own. I imagine he'd have picked it out had he been standing next to me in Italy.

This is the ugliest puke green chair. It belonged to my grandmother. When my father died I immediately laid claim to it. It  reminds me of a chair Steve's mother had that I wanted to bring home with us when she moved. I didn't speak up fast enough and it was taken to the dump. Hers was, of course, much prettier. The pillow, which can't really been seen very well, has both a bird and a monkey on it. It's a relatively recent acquisition but it reminds me of how monkeys made Steve think of me and birds made me think of him. Now, of course, I'm all confused as what to collect so my house is starting to look like some weird rainforest.
The cowboy hat was Steve's. He bought it on a work trip to Texas. It was better than the steer he has been looking at - Lord only knows where we'd have put THAT. He never really wore the hat cause he couldn't figure out where it'd be appropriate to wear in public. And I don't know anyone with a head as big as his who I could pass it on to. So it sits on the chair in our bedroom where I can look at it and laugh about his "big pumpkin head." (His words.)

"The luckiest guys in the world" from Steve

Last week was a new first for me. I went to a sports bar by myself to watch the Packer game. Since Steve died I've had a football buddy and cohort in our friend, Dan. Dan is off doing an eight week internship stint in West Virginia, leaving me to fend for myself through the remainder of the season. Which is fine, and right, and something I am finally ready for.

Last season Dan watched every game with me. And the Packers had a nice run. Ran it all the way to the Super Bowl. I didn't actually start waking up from my widow haze to see what was in front of my face until the playoffs. And then I was all jittery. It was seemed too good to be true - The Pack winning a Super Bowl for my Stevie in heaven. It was the ending I craved. It was the ending I got.

This year has been a bit different. My sight is clearer and I am able to see the plays, see the calls, see the game. I find myself looking around for Steve, wanting an explanation about a rule or trying to understand a line-up. But I play on, truly finding my own stride in being a Packer fan.

And I'm still a Packer fan. Sixteen months tomorrow and I'm still a Packer fan. Moving the ball forward. Moving it down the field. I was the lucky one, Babe.

(The following was written by Steve on his blog six years ago.)

The luckiest guys in the world - October 28, 2005

I have a very special relationship with my cousin. Before I met my wife he was my absolute best friend. We’d take trips together, have great meals together, go to cultural events together, and on those occasions where as St. Ides once put it “the drink may have flowed too freely”, we reveled in our everlasting adolescence together. He’s the one person in my family who I actually get along with. On the friend depth chart (if adults still keep such things) it goes my wife, my cousin, and all the rest. Well, that’s not true St. Ides cracked the top 5 this year and continues to move up the charts. We’ll re-visit that when my December final standings come out.

We grew up avid Mets fans. I was the product of a Brooklyn Dodger fanatic whose heart was broken in 1959 and somehow blamed this on the Yankees. My cousin is the product of an amazing union between a die hard Yankee fan and a die hard Red Sox fan who finally got her prayers answered last fall. Since we’re 4 years apart, I can’t imagine that he remembers the ’69 Mets (he was 3), but we spent the decade of the 70s being Mets fans together. These were the Frank Tavaras years, the time when the team was run by the miserly M. Donald Grant who in June of 1976 broke my heart by trading Tom Seaver to the Reds. It was a time of futility, a time of mediocrity, and a time when the other New York team had Reggie and Guidry and Thurman Munson to name a few.

By the 1980’s we were old enough to go to games together, and I was old enough to by the beer. $20.00 could get you four big beers at Shea, and in 1980 that was all the money in the world (and before you do the Math my cousin was 14). We spent a lot of days at Shea together throughout that decade. We were there in 1988 when the Mets clinched the division. We saw numerous games with what we called the “Tud Tickets”. These were the corporate box seats for the Alfred Mainzer Greeting Card Co., and were located on the Field level, first base, about the 4th row. Uncle Tud swept the floors for Mainzer and occasionally they’d throw him a bone and give him the tickets.

But as much of a Mets fan as I am, my cousin is the penultimate Mets fan. Not only does he bleed blue and orange, he shits it too. In little baseball shaped shits. Once he shit a shit that looked exactly like “Le Grande Orange” himself, Rusty Staub, as God as my witness. Time and distance and several nasty baseball strikes have waned my passion for the game. Living in Richmond hasn’t helped much either, as maybe 6 or 7 Mets games per year make it on the national broadcast. So last week when I found my commemorative 1986 World Champion Mets cap, given away on some forgotten evening in 1987 at Shea, I had to send it to him. See, not only is my cousin a huge Mets fan, so is his wife. Our conversation went something like this:

Ring Ring Ring….
“Samichlaus residence, hello?”
“Hey Dude”
“Hey Dude, what’s going on?”
“Dude, I just wanted to say thanks so much for the hat! That is so cool!”
“Yeah dude, when I saw it, I immediately thought of you and Lisa. You guys are like Mr. and Mrs. Met”
“Thanks dude”
“Man, dude, you are so lucky. It’s so cool that you found someone who loves the Mets as much as you do”
“Dude, there like 162 games in a season and I’d say that we watch at least 150 of ‘em”
“Duuuuuude!”

Men are truly blessed when they find wives that share their passions.

When I met Mrs. Samichlaus, she knew nothing and cared little about football. But she quickly saw my passion for the game and decided to learn. She knew that one of the keys to a good marriage was sharing common interests, so she agreed to learn about the Green Bay Packers. We would always watch the Packer games, no questions asked. I in turn agreed to (a) teach her what I knew and (b) giver her veto over any other game I wanted to watch.

And she learned about the Packers, and started to enjoy the games. The Packers, it seemed, played better when we watched together. They played better when we wore certain clothes. They played better when the autographed Brett Favre helmet was placed between us and the TV. They played better when she pounced on me and, well I better leave that one alone. So Sunday, with the Packers up 17 – 0 and the Vikings falling apart. She decided to go and take a nap.

“If things start to go bad”, she said, “wake me up”.

And I didn’t.

After the game when she woke, I sadly told her that the Packers had lost. Incredulous, she replied “You were supposed to wake me up!”

“Oh honey”, I said, “you needed to sleep and you know it really doesn’t make a difference”

“But you were supposed to wake me up!!!!”

She wasn’t happy with me, not one bit.

Things stayed quiet in the Samichlaus house for a while until a little after 7:00. I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard something that sounded like a football game coming from my living room. Thinking I was mistaken, I continued with my chore, but no… this was definitely a football game. I calmly walked into the living room and found my wife glued to the Giants – Broncos game.

“They can win if they score a touchdown, and they have the ball” she said, her eyes never shifting from the screen.

“Who?” I inquired

“THE GIANTS!!! GOD!!!” And then she observed: “Manning looks so puny out there…”

I was surprised with her familiarity with Eli Manning. She actually knew about him.

We watched the end of the game, the Giants drove, and when Manning threw the TD with almost no time on the clock, we both screamed in joy.

“Son of a bitch”, said Mrs. Samichlaus, “I can’t believe I’m watching football games on my own and enjoying them!”

She wasn’t upset by this, not one bit.

My cousin and I are the two luckiest fuckers I know.

Mess of Puppies

Steve on the brain as his birthday approaches. This is really just a taste of Steve. As always, I'll take it.

"Far away feelings" from Steve

E-mail sent to me by Steve ten years ago today. My 9/11 story changed since Steve died. I view all of our history differently now.

Far away feelings - September 11, 2001 at 10:32 PM

Today strengthened my resolve to be with you my love. I miss you so... 

A Tweet from Steve

"I miss the earth so much, I miss my wife. It's lonely out in space..." from Rocket Man

Tweeted by Steve on March 23, 2010

Documenting our Life

I make decisions in multiple stages now instead of one fell swoop. I think it's a functionality of my fogged in brain. I can't always see how to get from point A to point B. But I can take one step away from point A while keeping point B in my sight lines. Eventually I manage to get to point B, even if it means side trips through points L, M, N, O and P. For instance:

A few people suggested that I should take pictures of Steve's belongings that I no longer wanted to keep but found difficult to release. I had to hear that suggestion many times before I could absorb the idea. Then, one day, while cleaning out the fridge I decided I needed to throw out Steve's hot sauces. I don't do spicy and every time I looked at them they hurt my heart more than they could ever hurt my tongue or stomach. So I photographed them and then placed them in the trash.

That was several months ago and I don't think I've managed to sort through anything of Steve's since.

Here's my confession. Right after Steve died I gave his clothes to my younger brother. My brother who likes to dress well but hasn't the resources to do it. He was so excited to have these clothes. To dress nice. And I was so happy to see that Steve's belongings were going to someone who could appreciate and use them. It felt good and right. But now, nearly a year later, I wish I had them back. I saved several pieces but there are many more I wish I had kept. Which is silly and stupid. I have no idea what I'd do with them. All I know is my heart calls out for them. But they reside in Hawaii. And it doesn't feel right to ask for them back when I know my brother is putting them to good use. Besides, postage from Hawaii is a real bitch.

So I'm trying something new. Actually, it isn't all that new. At Christmas I took pictures of Christmas ornaments that held meaning for Steve and I. I did it not because I'm getting rid of those things but because it brought me joy to tell the stories behind them. I'm thinking that if I take pictures of items that I want to separate from, along with pictures of items that I'm keeping that hold memories, maybe I can start the sorting process again. Maybe I can pick back up and start moving forward again. Cause I'm stuck. And getting stuck is one thing but staying stuck is something altogether different.

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These are three of Steve's hot sauces. I had already thrown a couple out before I took this picture and it hurt so much to do it that I sometimes think it would've been easier for me to simply drink them gone. Somehow taking pictures of these remaining three made throwing those two out earlier a little more bearable.

The Dave's Insanity sauce (far right) was a result from a challenge from Steve that a hot sauce hadn't been made that he considered "too hot". I bought Dave's Insanity planning on slowly stepping things up over the months with others I knew to be hotter. He tried one little drop from the bottle and it was the only time I ever saw my husband drink straight from the milk carton. It makes the game a little boring when you hit a home-run first time up to bat. It was defiantly worth it, though.

The Submission sauce (far left) was something we picked up on our one year wedding anniversary in New Orleans. We stumbled onto a store that had hot sauces floor to ceiling and the length of the store. Steve was in seventh heaven. We bought three but only the Submission sauce was hot enough to last this long. We had both agreed that when it was finally empty we'd go back to New Orleans, to that strange little shop with thousand of bottles, and pick up three more. Sometimes I think there are places in this world I may never return to because the memories of what else we wanted to do in that place are as thick as cobwebs. New Orleans is one of those places. Then again, what better place is there to go see ghosts?

This is Steve's convertible. All his life he wanted one. We saved hard for three years so we could walk onto the lot, write a check, and drive off. Somewhere I have pictures of the night we went to pick it up. I made the dealership put a big bow on it. They had it out front and center with the staff standing in a semi-circle waiting for us. Made him feel like a rock star. He loved this car. And I loved him in it.

I have been driving it ever since he died. Matter of fact, I've figured out that I need to sell one of the cars so I'm selling mine. (Eventually. I make decisions in multiple stages. Recall it?) Steve's car I plan to keep until I can put those black antique license plates on it. Then I plan to drive it some more.

This planter is just one of those silly married couple things. Steve loved birds. The six bird feeders out back prove that. He loved watching all the different types of birds come to visit the feeders. He loved watching the baby birds chirp and fluff themselves trying to get mama to feed them. He loved yelling "Birdie beat down!" whenever a bird fight broke out. So whenever I saw a bird item that wasn't too cheesy or too abstract - I'd buy it. Just like every time he saw a monkey he'd buy it. (Monkeys being the thing I collected.) I keep this planter on the front porch by the steps so that when I come or go I can look at it and think of Steve. And his love of all things feathered.

"A HUGE Victory for the Yankees" from Steve

Back in 2005 my father and Steve took a weekend trip to see the battlefield at Gettysburg. They invited to me tag along but I thought they would rather have some time together. As my father never had a son, and Steve's father died when Steve was twenty, this was a special time for the two men in my life. I could certainly give them that time to be together.

When they came back my father delighted in telling how Steve got his new shoes all muddy because he had to go down and touch the water in the creek. Steve's shoes were so muddy that he later had to walk into a convenience store in just his socks. This from a man who never walked barefoot except the one step from his slippers to the shower and back. My father was certain I would throw a conniption fit. But I knew my Steve and he knew me. He stood in the doorway in his stocking feet, shrugged his shoulders, and said "I had to touch the water. I had to make it real." I knew exactly what he meant. And besides, sneakers were made to go into the washing machine. I'm glad I could give him that, too.

Some baseball fan out there might know what the Yankees did in 2005 that would warrant the title of this post. They're always winning World Series so why all the excitement in 2005? I think it was just an excuse for him to write about something he loved, American History.

A HUGE Victory for the Yankees - May 24, 2005

Lest there be any doubt, here at Sportsblog Steves this journalist will give credit where credit is due. I was humbled this weekend, and I intend to write about it here. It was in no uncertain terms a stupendous victory for the Yankees, and I am honored to tell you the tale.

The battle of Gettysburg

The Confederate Army of Northern Virginia was commanded by the great Robert E. Lee. Lee had commanded this army for a little over a year, and was 4-0-1. He had won decisive victories at the battle of Seven days, Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg and Manassas, and fought to a draw at Antietam. He had never been defeated. The Yankees were skippered by General George Gordon Meade. Meade, who along with his favorite steed “Old Baldy” had been in command for three days.

On the first day of the battle of Gettysburg the South entered the town from the north, while the Yankees entered the town from the south. The Confederates had come to the sleepy Pennsylvania village in search of shoes, and were surprised to find John Buford’s Yankee cavalry waiting for them. After several skirmishes northwest of town, the Confederates drove the Yankees back through Gettysburg and into a defensive position on the high ground south and west of the town.

The second and pivotal day of the battle began with Yankee reinforcements arriving to fortify positions along Cemetery ridge. Lee, whose cavalry had not yet arrived, was uncertain of the Yankees strength or position. To the west of Cemetery ridge were two fairly large hills known as “Little Round Top” and “Big Round Top”. Lee deduced that from this position he could have a clear view of the Yankees, so he ordered his subordinate, General James Longstreet to take the hills. However Longstreet took over 5 hours to move his troops into position. By this time the Yankees had deduced the Confederate plan, and positioned several corps into a defensive position atop Little Round Top. Less than 15 minutes after the last Yankee was in place, Longstreet’s troops attacked and a fierce battle ensued. When the smoke cleared, the Yankees had prevailed due in no small part to the bravery and courage of the 20th Maine, which had been places at the far left end of the line and had been ordered to “hold the flank at all costs”.

Lee, who had never truly experienced defeat called the second day a Confederate victory.

On the morning of the third day, Lee decided he would defeat the Yankees once and for all. He ordered Longstreet to prepare a frontal assault on the Yankee center. He would send 12,000 men across a field from the Confederate position at Seminary ridge to smash the Yankees at Cemetery ridge. Longstreet strongly objected, but Lee would have none of it. Lee believed his army could do anything. At 1:00 PM, the attack began. For two hours the Confederates bombarded the Yankees with artillery, in an attempt to “soften the line”, but most of the artillery missed its target. When the Yankee guns, which had been returning the fire grew silent, the ground assault began. It took his troops 19 minutes to cross the field. Within and hour, 6,000 men lay dead or wounded. This infamous attack, forever known as “Picketts Charge”, was the single greatest military blunder in the brilliant career of R.E. Lee. As his troops returned in retreat, Lee was there to meet them. “This is all my fault” he said.

The battle of Gettysburg was the greatest battle ever fought on North American soil. Over 55,000 men were either killed or wounded. Today, the battlefield remains a living memorial to the bravery and valor of those who fought there, both Yankee and Confederate. Statues mark the placement of troops. On Seminary ridge, a statue of Robert E. Lee looks out across the field where Pickett’s charge occurred. From this vantage point you can see the statue of George Gordon Meade in the distance.

I realize that this material is not the typical material you are accustomed to reading at “Sportsblog Steves”. However, I did have the pleasure of visiting Gettysburg this weekend with my father in law and I had a really nice time, and if anyone thinks I’m going to write anything nice about the New York Yankees, you’ve got to be kidding me.

To read more about “Pickett’s Charge” click here: Picketts Charge

To read more about my favorite Gettysburg Heroes, click here: Confederate Commanders - Union Commanders

To read about the most bizarrely named restaurant I’ve ever seen, click here: General Picketts Buffet

"All the Cappuccino in China" from Steve

Steve wrote this for his sports blog in April of 2005. It sums up the best trip of our lives, and we had many. We should have taken more. Going to Venice on his forty-eight birthday last year would have been comparable, but I had to go without him. This trip to China I'll remember the best. Cause he's right, it was like a second honeymoon. Except better.

All the Cappuccino in China - April 20, 2005

Hold on to your breasts and pinch your nipples because the great Samichlaus has returned. Yes, it’s been over a month. Yes, I’m sure all of our loyal fan thought that Samichlaus had retired his keyboard and moved to greener digital pastures, but no. In fact Mrs. Chlaus and I have returned from a month long business trip to China.

Now Samichlaus ain’t no dummy. We will not be blogging about business secrets or coworker’s nuisances hence running the risk of being Dooced (note the use of the blogger savvy terminology. If you want to read a really funny chick blog check her out: www.dooce.com. Whether you have a penis or a vagina Dooce will entertain). Besides, you’re reading Sports Blog Steves, the Internet’s best site for sports insights. So without further ado….

Chinese Sports.

The number one sport for the Asians is called “Take the Westerner’s Money” and there are several variations. The object of the game is to accost the Westerner and attempt to sell them something. Points are awarded as follows: Asians are awarded 2 points for every Westerner who enters their “store”, 5 points for a sale, and an extra point if they sell more than one item. Westerners score points based on how many times they have to say no before the Asian gives up. One no, 5 points two no’s 4 points, 3 no’s three points. Deduct 1 point for a hand gesture and one point for the use of the Mandarin word for no, pronounced “boo-yah”

Without a doubt, Karen excelled at this game. Her specialty was the ubiquitous variation known as “Hey Lady want a bag?” and a typical round went like this:

Asian: Hey lady bag? Hey lady bag? Hey lady bag?
Karen: No
Asian: Hey lady bag? Just come in and look (tugging at Karen)
Karen; (crossing her wrists in the Asian gesture for no) NO!
Asian: Hey mister, watch? Rolex?

Game over. Karen scores 3 points to the Asian’s nothing. The Asian has opted to start a new game with Samichlaus who looks strikingly like f*ing Buddha with a goatee.

Asian: Hello? Hello? Hey mister, watch?
Samichlaus: NO! NO! NO! (Waving wildly) Boo Ya! Boo Ya! (nearly running over his petite wife while trying to avoid the evil watch saleswoman)

No points awarded.

When the final tally was calculated, yours truly scored a respectable 63 points for while allowing 48 points against. Karen however set a new International record by scoring 793 points for, 480 points against and 5 bags purchased.

There were several other sports that were popular in China. One of my favorites, called “Take the long way home” was played during rush hour and involved taxi drivers. Another called “Eat this you gluttonous fat American” was enjoyed by the Asians and involved eating “exotic” foods like bird spit and chicken feet. The feet, by the way, were delicious.

And then there was the cappuccino.

Yes I drank a lot of tea, and bottled water was the only water you can drink, but what amazed me was the amount of cappuccino I consumed. Asians don’t know how to make coffee, but they do know how to make cappuccino. In fact all they have is cappuccino makers, so if you order coffee you get cappuccino without the milk. Out thought was “What the hell”. So we ordered cappuccino every day and damn if it wasn’t the best goddamn cappuccino I ever freakin tasted. Delicious, frothy, smooth cappuccino, as if Marco Polo himself gave them the secret in the 1100’s AD as a way of saying thank you for rigatoni.

I have much more to write. The NFL draft is this weekend. Baseball started while we were gone. The NCAA finals were dribble-riffic. And when we got home, the flowers we planted were in bloom and the trees were sprouting leaves. We left in winter and came home to spring, and that just made sense. For on this trip, a second honeymoon as it was, I fell in love with my wife all over again, and all is right in the world.

"Somebody to Love" from Steve

As the weather has been especially nice, I've found myself getting outside more. Steve and I loved sitting on the back deck, watching the birds fly to their feeders, and catching up on every little thing. It always felt like we had better conversations on the back deck than on the couch where the television could distract us. And, as I've mentioned, it was one of Steve's favorite places to play his guitar.

The nicer the weather, the more time I spend out back. The more time I spend out back, the more I reminisce about the time Steve and I spent out there. And I keep hearing the neighbor's comment about throwing open her windows every time Steve would play sitting outside.

And so, I thought I'd share another tune, "Somebody to Love". It's instrumental, which I also love because as far as I know, it's the only instrumental The Scrubbs recorded.



DISCLAIMER: (again) I ask you to be nice. Please don't upload this music somewhere else, use it for your own purposes, or even be so bold as to say it's you playing. Because this band worked hard, put their hearts into this, and a widow who wants to share shouldn't get shafted.

"I Know You Rider" from Steve

Steve used to sit right outside the bathroom, door ajar, and play his guitar for me while I showered. He'd strum, stomp his foot, and sing. I felt like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra, being sung to while bathing. And when I emerged, Steve always received a standing ovation. Which, he would explain, always kept him coming back to the same venue.

Steve would also take his acoustic guitar to play out on the back deck. I loved listening to the music drift in through the open windows as I washed dishes or finished the ironing. Stupid menial household chores made better on a lazy Sunday afternoon with his music. Just the other week my neighbor flagged me down and said how much she has wanted to come by to give her condolences. She felt awkward trying to approach me since she hadn't known until several months after he died. She decided she had to say something to me after the warm weather appeared. Evidently, she had come to recognize the arrival of spring each year when she heard him playing outside and would run to open her windows to hear the music more clearly.

It brought tears to my eyes when she told me this. To find out that others enjoyed those alfresco musical moments as much as I did. It would have given Steve great pleasure to know that someone rushed to open windows every time he stepped outside to play. An audience we never knew about.  

The song below was recorded by Steve's band, The Scrubbs. It's the only acoustic file I can find. I like this recording best out of all that I've found because, at home, he mostly played acoustically. It sounds more familiar to my ears. It sounds more like Steve to me. I'd like to share a bit of that here, with you. 



DISCLAIMER: I've been desperately trying to find a way to share the .wma (music) files that Steve recorded with his band. The best format I can find, without having to create yet another account somewhere, is to use my SkyDrive. (Thank you Microsoft!) It does mean, however, that when you click on the song it will download to your computer. So I ask you to be nice. Please don't upload it somewhere else, use it for your own purposes, or even be so bold as to say it's you playing. Because it's my husband, my Steve, playing that guitar. He's also one of several, singing.