I met Stephen Southall for the first time in 1986 in Peterborough, Ontario. He was eating french fries from Tom's Square Pizza and was about to go on the radio to play the blues.
The second time I met him was a year later, this infamous day.
We've been friends ever since.
We were roommates twice. Both times ended horribly, the first time when I started dating our other roommate, the second time when Stephen threw tomato juice at my car. Before they ended horribly, however, we had a lot of fun.
Stephen taught me how to drive a standard transmission. His father once, apparently illegally, gave me communion. Our dogs, the late Penny and late Lucy, used to play together. Stephen can make up new card games at the drop of a hat.
Since we left Peterborough in 1993, Stephen has dropped in and out of my everyday life as time and distance and circumstance allow. We spent a week together in New Hampshire three years ago. We're making a podcast about movies together these days. But every time I talk to Stephen we pick up where we last left off.
I know that if I call Stephen at any time of the day, from any place on earth, in any quandary, he will, without a second thought, drop everything and come to my aid. I would do the same for him.
Stephen's currently living in Lakefield, Ontario. He is blogless.