Matt Potter 6 p.m., Nov. 21
Articles by John D'Agostino
Reader writers and other friends remember Steve Esmedina.
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.
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 ...