Prelude to a Lick

by Scott Hefflon
illustration by Katherine Weller

So are we all having a salacious summer? I hope so. I’m sitting before a rapidly-overheating computer in the middle of the night, realizing that summer is almost over. Believe it or not, I say it’s about time. I can’t wait ’til September when all the students pour back into the city, eyes bulging from their heads like deer caught in oncoming headlights. I’m also waiting for all the fall releases to come out. We had kinda slim pickings this month, but a few rock hard releases saved the day and gave us something to froth about. In the fall, we’re expanding the magazine (again) and finally getting our web page online. That should be swell. For now, we’re just sitting around our brand spankin’ new office, writing letters home about how cool we are in our new office, and dreaming up new and depraved acts we can perform (first) to christen our new office. Did I mention Lollipop got a new office?

Yeah, so we blasted through a case of cheap champagne in two hours, we misfiled a bunch of stuff, I lost the recorded interview I did with Letters to Cleo’s Kay Hanley, and I’m almost afraid to count how many Jägermeister and Captain Morgans references are in this issue. Yup, it’s summertime.

In this, our latest issue, we made a few changes. We introduced a few new writers to you, our avid reader, ahem, we reviewed an art opening that included local luminaries Kevin Banks, Cynthia von Buhler, James Kraus and other Boston/NY illustrators, and we covered more New England bands than usual. And I realized something – most of the bands don’t have sharp, easy to scan logos and almost nobody has photos I would fall over myself to print. Getting the guys (or gals, or guys/gals) together and standing in front of a barn and looking away all distracted and intense is not a promo shot. Keep that one for the scrapbook. If y’all need good photos, why not contact one of our illustrious photographers? We don’t pay them very much, so why should you?

There is a topic that I think has no place in an Editor’s letter, but some think is a neat concept. It began with an oh-so-manly anonymous call on our answering machine. It said, “You guys are a bunch of fucking idiots.” That was it. I would make a wild guess that it was in response to the “Peace in the Pit in Bullshit” piece I wrote last month. I signed mine. He was anonymous. Mostly, I resent the chosen words. If there is something we are not, it is a bunch of fucking idiots. Assholes, yes. Idiots, no.

Most of the people on staff are so, shall we say, “passionately involved in their area of expertise” that they are barely functional in normal society. That’s why they work here. We coddle more high-minded, neurotic artists-that-can’t-balance-a-checkbook, than I’d care to admit in print. Idiots we are not. Assholes? Well now… I’ve been called an asshole on a regular basis long before I ever became an Editor. Being an asshole is a prerequisite to being an Editor. It’s an Editor’s job to organize a bunch of excuse-filled freelancers and try to get a job completed close to deadline. No matter what the sacrifice. If an Editor makes you stay up all night to finish something you said you’d do, sure he/she is being an asshole. The asshole/Editor is trying to make sure you live up to your commitment and not be such an irresponsible pussy. That’s right, I said pussy. We’re both being orifices, and we’re really not that far from each other, but I’ve got a dirtier job to do. When your well of creative juices runs dry, I get fucked. And I don’t appreciate it. Various other metaphorical similarities and differences I’ll leave to your imagination. So I’m an asshole. I can live with that. Can you live with being a pussy? I seem to have a high tolerance for self-inflicted martyrdom and a low tolerance for sob stories. If you can live with yourself saying “I can’t” all the time, go mope with other doing-nothing pussies and whine about the unfair treatment you’ve received from assholes like me. Wallow in your “poor me” patheticness and blame assholes like me for your lack of strength. I wronged you by giving you the chance to prove to yourself you were worth something. I’m trying to do something here. I asked only that you toughen the fuck up and take your responsibilities seriously. Your intensity is for shit.

Please – work hard, be good at what you do, enjoy yourself, and don’t ask for my sympathy. It’s hot, it’s late, and after three rewrites, I still hate this piece.

Lick me.