Prelude to a Lick
by Scott Hefflon
illustration by Shira Ingram
“Welcome to The Revolution™. May I take your order, please?”
Revolution ceased to be the topic of coffee table discussion long ago in Alternatown. There’s no money in being a soothsayer for the obvious. But in an alcoholically extended wave of nostalgia and broken bottles, my hired friends and I played soccer with the horse’s carcass one more time. Just for kicks, you might say. The following is yet another tedious display of vocabular jocularity, mismatched metaphors, and cheap speech. Much of this issue, pictures excluded (?), seems to be the result of the main brains of this magazine (insert snigger here) each having their own highly personal, extremely inexplicable, mental blocks. WARNING: Do not ask “How’s it going?” We may answer. That said (the part about the mental blocks, I mean), I/we have decided to make some changes ’round these parts. I have already begun to sharpen my own pencils rather than putting it on my computerized list of things for other people to do after I find people to do them. Other important changes may follow.
What, like we’re supposed to stick to a given, logical path of progression? It doesn’t work that way. We grew in some directions and not in others and, I dunno, I just feel like making a change. There are certain changes going on in the marketplace, in our culture/sub-culture/counter-culture, and also in yours truly, me, the not-especially-humble editor/workaholic-’cause-I-can’t-deal-with-the-mediocrity-of-the-“real-world” Editor/Publisher (note: title caps to denote much needed sense of self-importance) of Lollipop, Scott Hefflon. I’m going to end every sentence I write with my name, if only for the gratification of being oft-quoted (even by myself). Oops. That didn’t end with my name. I guess that lofty concept became obsolete before it was even realized. Will wonders never cease? I ask that hypothetically, because I “know” hypothetically sucks at returning calls. Wonders will never cease. I have faith in them collectively.
What, specifically, caused this change of (and I use the word liberally) heart is really none of your business. It’s my business, both literally and figuratively. What should be of interest to you (or youse, the you plural) is that there is a massive change coming. It’s already here. It already was here, just my response time is a bit sluggish, and my efforts at redirection have usually been subtle. Subtlety is not my forte, but neither is French. One revolution/evolution at a time, please.
Without change, a species plods steadily toward extinction. The same holds true for individual organisms, groups of organisms (ranging from as small to large as, say, the staff of Lollipop to American Youth Culture), and organisms en masse, such as a “society” or a “civilization.” (Either my French is getting better, or I’m misusing it more frequently.) In some cases, the change that is necessary, even for a temporary prolonging of business-as-usual, is an almost random change-for-change-sake modification. It’s healthy and keeps people on their toes. Occasionally, it is necessary (and at times mandatory) for there to be a big change. I’m talking about a whopper, baby. Sometimes, in order to keep “it” alive, there is a need to shake the foundations, kill the weak, and change your phone service to an unlisted number.
Chaos is embraced in theory, understood by few, and lived by still fewer. Rebellion is passé and petty; in the end, both inconsequential and as habit-forming as stimulus-response. Keep drooling, good boy. When the revolution comes, you’ll be a subscribing footsoldier or one of the first to meet the firing squads. Perhaps you can romanticize martyrdom, but the exiles merely chuckle from their caves, and the inner circle simply wants to confirm your address for billing purposes.
And so the tremors increase. The sensible stock their pantries or relocate to the highlands. The adventurers take a toke, make a joke, and keep their proverbial surfboards within arms reach. The sheep? They continue to graze, closer and closer to the cliff, and never think to look up and see the storm a-brewing. Meteorologists they are not. Social climate cannot be judged from a barstool or a living room couch, even if the TV is on. The artists are inspired, vibrating with newfound inspiration, misinterpreting the pre-percussions of the mindless stampede. And finally, the aging journalist scribbles passionately (for a change) the pure poetry (a new-found calling) no one will ever read of the majesty of the mushroom cloud, moments before his/her obliteration.
Bleat.
