As a youth, I was impetuous. I was deviant and a little cocksure. I was too smart to be caught.

Or so I thought.

We’d raise hell and shout and break things and act like we were tough. Listen to music way too loud and do things into all hours of the night.

Looking back, it was all sort of this funny haze of country nights under the stars, coolers full of Coors and a bunch of us acting like idiots. We were punk as hell - but only as punk as you could be in Western North Carolina. Kind of redneck-punk, I guess. We spent just as much time around the cows and cicadas as we did in the Spider’s Web or Chesterfield Mill or Fine Arts.

But, there was always the straight man. The one that kept us out of real trouble. The one that made sure we didn’t wake up the grown-ups. The one that made sure we always made it back alive. He knows who he is and what I’m talking about, and I really have never taken the time to say thanks.

We gave him more than his share of hell, and he took it with aplomb. He deserved to have more fun - and I feel like we let him take care of all us at his expense. He deserved better friends.

But - here’s to you, Steve. Thanks for it all. You’re the man.