Tall Steve
Tall Steve is my neighbor across the hall.
I don't know much about accents--I have a hard time pinning them down. But I can tell that wherever he comes from is a hearty place. Somewhere with either roaming cattle or roaming taxi cabs. For example, when he says "See ya l-eaaa-ta," I either imagine a dense cab driver from a dense part of town somewhere in New York or New Jersey, or an Uncle Billybob in a shanty whose foundations are firmly rooted in rural Georgia's firm red clay, south of the fall line. All he's missing is the gap in his front teeth, the southern drawl, and the fringed straw hat. You might be wondering where I came up with that image.
The fact that he plays fiddle and mandolin might have something to do with it.
Actually, Tall Steve's true function, his reason for existence here on this campus, is as a percussion performance major. Unless you saw him putting away his snare drum, though, you'd never know it by what he does for fun. For fun, he opens a fold-out chair, throws off his shirt and shoes, props his feet up and wiggles his toes through his white socks as he sings along to his favorite bluegrass spirituals. Here's a guy who knows how to chill.
"WHOOHOO, broke a hair!" he'll shout. Then he'll hold up a broken violin string. "Oh well, time to break out the mandolin."
"Are you sure you're not from Macon, GA?" I'll shout back.
Tall Steve was Happy Joel and my first ally here. He ended up finding out when Joel was doting on Dr. Nelson, 155 pounds of premium band conductor grade-A beef.
"I want to have Dr. Nelson's babies," Joel sighed, shaking his leg like a dog in heat.
"You know, science is making advances all the time," I joked.
Tall Steve stood there confused.
"We're, uh, both gay," I explained.
"Ohh, ok." Tall Steve let out a sigh of relief. "Come to think of it, I really wasn't expecting our conductor to look like..well, that."
Joel was still foggy-eyed. "I don't even look at the notes. I'm lost in his eyes."
Tall Steve nodded. "Yeah, if I were gay, I'd totally do him."
I don't know much about accents--I have a hard time pinning them down. But I can tell that wherever he comes from is a hearty place. Somewhere with either roaming cattle or roaming taxi cabs. For example, when he says "See ya l-eaaa-ta," I either imagine a dense cab driver from a dense part of town somewhere in New York or New Jersey, or an Uncle Billybob in a shanty whose foundations are firmly rooted in rural Georgia's firm red clay, south of the fall line. All he's missing is the gap in his front teeth, the southern drawl, and the fringed straw hat. You might be wondering where I came up with that image.
The fact that he plays fiddle and mandolin might have something to do with it.
Actually, Tall Steve's true function, his reason for existence here on this campus, is as a percussion performance major. Unless you saw him putting away his snare drum, though, you'd never know it by what he does for fun. For fun, he opens a fold-out chair, throws off his shirt and shoes, props his feet up and wiggles his toes through his white socks as he sings along to his favorite bluegrass spirituals. Here's a guy who knows how to chill.
"WHOOHOO, broke a hair!" he'll shout. Then he'll hold up a broken violin string. "Oh well, time to break out the mandolin."
"Are you sure you're not from Macon, GA?" I'll shout back.
Tall Steve was Happy Joel and my first ally here. He ended up finding out when Joel was doting on Dr. Nelson, 155 pounds of premium band conductor grade-A beef.
"I want to have Dr. Nelson's babies," Joel sighed, shaking his leg like a dog in heat.
"You know, science is making advances all the time," I joked.
Tall Steve stood there confused.
"We're, uh, both gay," I explained.
"Ohh, ok." Tall Steve let out a sigh of relief. "Come to think of it, I really wasn't expecting our conductor to look like..well, that."
Joel was still foggy-eyed. "I don't even look at the notes. I'm lost in his eyes."
Tall Steve nodded. "Yeah, if I were gay, I'd totally do him."