Content for Thursday, September 20, 2001

News & Stories

Reader writers tell funny stories about dead colleague, Steve Esmedina

Blubbo's world

Esmo’s phone manner was so hugger-mugger that I could be sitting four feet away and could not make out a single word. For all I could tell, he might have been laying fifty on a pony.

Friends Forever

Fellow student at Mesa College, writer-collaborator looks back.

Steve Esmedina had the biggest head I had ever seen on a human being. He also had the biggest heart — one that became more corroded over time, leaking pain and despair. The droll demeanor, ...

I Feel a Jam Coming On

Mesa College classmate, fellow cub music writer

Every time I invited Steve Esmedina to hang out at my place in the Clairemont–Pacific Beach area in the early ’70s when I first met him, he’d stare at me through curiously squinted eyes, smirking. ...

Get Out and Get Drunk

Fellow music writer does Esmedina.

That was Steve Esmedina almost six years ago. I suppose you could make a case for almost any random quote from almost anyone being prophetic after the fact of his or her death, but I ...

Stumble, Stumble, Thump, Crash

Interview with Jim Mullin, Esmedina friend and editor

“I remember exactly when I met Steve. It was at the annual Reader Christmas party in 1976, at the old location of the Athens Market restaurant. That was when they announced that I was the ...

Better on the Music Page

Movie critic had an assistant.

Two earlier endings.… The drawback to asking Steve Esmedina to write a movie review in my stead, ostensibly to give me a break, was that it would then fall to me to edit it. A ...

The Shadow Knows

Esmedina family and childhood friends talk.

In late January 1954, Dick Tracy found an infant abandoned in a tree. For more than a week the comic-strip detective searched for the mother. Suddenly, “as if dropped out of nowhere,” a Mrs. Catchem ...

Student Steve

He stood in the back of my class and followed me around UCSD campus.

During the early ’70s, the war in Vietnam created upheaval at universities across the country. ucsd, where I taught, was no exception. Dissenters organized rallies in Revelle Plaza, committees of students met with deans to ...

Cut to the Heart

His short term as music writer for the San Diego Union

Perhaps the best tribute I can pay to Steve Esmedina, my departed compadre and fellow music critic, is that his legacy truly lives on. Today, 25 years after first having read his work in the ...

Slow Death

We hatched a plan to write a screenplay together.

With this Melville-like utterance a 20-year friendship was formed between Stephen No Middle Name Esmedina and me; it was a friendship that would endure until his death on June 24, in this Year of Our ...

Drunk on 163

Blubbo, oh Blubbo, where do I begin? You’re dead, gone, laid out rotting in a casket somewhere in the ground; and if that’s just your body, your corpse, your shell, God, I hope so, because, ...

Trails at Sunset Cliffs Park

Visit Sunset Cliffs Park on Point Loma for tidepooling and brilliant sunsets.

Blubbo vs the Kaypro

Did I volunteer to bring him to the computer age?

I’d see Steve most often when the Reader was in its original home, a splintery firetrap at the corner of State and Market Streets. After the Reader moved out, the Marine Corps used the raggedy ...

Blubbo Adrift

He dismissed country-music artists as “Okie Bobs,” called Jackson Browne and most of his ilk “whiners.”

In the Reader’s scuffling days, Steve Esmedina was the staff’s Doc Holliday — erudite, enigmatic, and bedeviled by self-consumptive tendencies that seemed rooted in debilitating, unspoken discomfiture. For as long as I knew him, he ...

A Critic Looks at a Critic

Hunkered down at a typewriter next to me on Kettner Blvd.

It must have been hundreds of years ago, that time of simplicity and innocence. It was before the electronic revolution had shackled us all in front of our screens. In those days, the Reader’s writers ...

Blubbo's Secret Tongue

The unspoken gloom that followed the man everywhere

In front of my open garage, Monique Esmedina and I sit on the cold pavement. The fountains in her eyes seem to have shut down again, and moments of bitter silence are repeatedly punctured by ...

Let’s Be Friends

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