Prelude to a Lick
by Scott Hefflon
Editor/Publisher/Guy who really hates October
illustration by Mediocre Concepts Unlimited
Before you even ask; no, that’s not an illustration of me. Really. In closing, it’s six minutes shy of 3 AM. They’re picking up the magazine at 3 AM. Therefore, I’m going to just slap a piece of writing I did, oh, about six month’s ago in this here space. Why we cram every nook and cranny of the magazine with as much stuff as possible, and then I leave this full page ’til the last minute (two, and counting), I still haven’t figured out.
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The alternanothing revolution fizzles. The elite consumers bicker over terms of surrender and sell-out over coffee in cheap apartments, sitting on second-hand furniture. Fanzine editors try again to balance the books, pulling occasionally off the bottle, and sign. Indie labels prepare to re-release a guaranteed seller, hoping the nostalgia will cover the cost of new bands that’ll never see the millennium. Bands form and distribute demos in hopes of getting signed like everyone else. The rich, the shrewd, and the intelligent have already gone home for the evening. They sleep well with clear conscience, and dream of who else they want to bang in the copy room.
By definition, alternative must fail. Motives change and stakes are raised and even the purist has secrets. Failure is by degree, and not an absolute. Death and rehab remain the only noble ways to quit. Royalties cannot cover the expense of a face-lift. Failure is not the fine print, it is the contract itself. Print lies more than any other source, corrupting all, including itself. Pray for quick evolution. Blindness or self-quarantine provide only temporary relief.
* * * * * * *
And still I crave serenity. A decade of alcohol, dope, women, fast food, contemplation and failed attempts at oneness lie about me like crumpled cigarette boxes. Void of meaning, used, exhausted. Still thinking things must have been more meaningful at some time, in some place. A photo album can be flipped through in moments, yet takes years to fill. Glorifying culture gone by, immortalized by tellers of tales, editing out the tedium. Glimmers of future stories on the horizon, half-dreading the long walk to experience them. Thinking, for a depressingly long moment, that getting there isn’t half the fun at all. Being there only pays the debt of getting there, but cannot compensate deterioration on the equipment.
And still I cling to hopes of evolution, both personal and cultural. The baby boomers have their titles. The doors of the mind were shown to be openable, if that be the will of the one. The ’80s taught us the shallowness of greed, of gross commercialization. The ’90s turned inside, to heritages we bought into, to soul we read into lyrics, to apathy we read we had. Jetlag from the ’80s. Fear of success, lest we repeat the shallow mistakes of our elders. Having no faith in religion or politics, the sports of the bourgeoisie, yet having nothing to follow but the mediocre poets of obscure bands facing the obsolete. There is no war. The fumings about the war on drugs, the war on violence, the pro-life/pro-choice debate, the snuffing of smoking freely – all are mere farts in the wind by the hyperactive. There is no enemy. There is little shared reality beyond convenience stores. The global village celebrates its family values behind closed doors. Without a common cause, we wallow in our own shit, feuding with our neighbors over petty disputes. There must be a renaissance or an evolutionary leap. We’ve run out of alternatives.
