Prelude to a Lick

by Scott Hefflon
Editor/Publisher/Leather-clad Scrooge
“17 shots of Jäg at the Rat” photo by Mink

And thus ends another year. In theory, it’d be really keen to do one of those nostalgia stumbles and dredge up all the definitive moments of the last year. But seeing as how I have to write a full page (or more, depending on whether or not I get that ad for the Cardboard box set on page five), and my therapy bill is already staggering (booze is getting so expensive), I won’t. Instead, I’ll meander in small, concentric rhomboids whose points are randomly chosen. Funny how points are sharp, distinct moments (at least in real-time) that upon being reached, the direction of the line is drastically altered. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always preferred not-too-sharp curves (especially when the roads are slippery) and nearly absurd ellipsoidials. What’s this got to do with Lollipop‘s December issue? Nothing. There is no point, and that’s the way I like it. Technically, the point is implied despite the attempt at non-point. Being concentric, at all times self-referencing, the pattern of numerous, seemingly whimsical, enclosed spaces creates yet another, nearly indiscernible shape that can only be glimpsed when morbidly shitfaced and there’s nothing good on TV. Unfortunately, this happens frequently.

Obviously, I have too much time on my hands.

In the last year, we got ourselves a spiffy glossy cover (the magazine I mean, not me), achieved national distribution (perhaps international; I just hear we have readership outside the office), began writing much longer (and supposedly more in-depth) articles and interviews, re-vamped and interactified our web page (uh, we’re still killing the bugs), started Lollipop FreeZine, a free version of the magazine available, so to speak, on the streets of Boston, began booking/sponsoring live shows (a great way to get outlandish bar tabs, buttloads of giveaways, free press, strut around like a self-important pea-cock, and [oh yeah] support up-and-coming-as-far-as-they-know local bands that don’t suck), created the Lollipop Listening Line (which not only alleviates momentarily my all-consuming craving for crass alliteration and tawdry word foreplay, it gives readers the chance to hear for themselves the music we’re calling either the cat’s meow, or the cat’s yowl), and probably a mind-numbing number of other pep-talk accomplishments I’ve incorporated into my mantra that I’m momentarily mentally blocking because I realize I’ve far exceeded even my excessively long-winded, parenthetically-interspersed, right to write a ranting run-on. 200 words. One period. Perhaps periods remind me of those much-dreaded points, who knows? Who cares. Whatever. Nevermind.

And still I have too much time on my hands.

So we’re going to make Lollipop even bigger, even broader in scope and other breath-tingling, alcohol-(ab)using, gratuitously-hyphenating mouthwashes, and maybe then I can squelch the “Oh-God-what’s-the-point” screams in the middle of the night that are irritating both my landlord and my liver. Yeah, I wish.

Last month’s Prelude, a prime example of the last-minute yank-something-out-of-the-archives-and-make-it-fit-on-the-page desperation, actually went over quite well. Numerous ideas as to what to do with a three pound block of head cheese have been schlepping in – while unprintable, they represent ingenuity, a flair for twisted imagery, and the know-how to use a stamp.

Yeah, so I’m reading The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test again. For about the dozenth time. I really wish some journalist do-gooder would come along and glorify this generation before it’s eventual epilogue. So many wild responses to the conflicting stimuli occur, but are never recorded. On The Road Again just isn’t the same as a Willie Nelson song. They’re releasing tribute albums to people who aren’t even dead yet. The world moves so fast, everything is retrogressive by the time it’s first released. A moment ago is reflected upon with nostalgia.

We’re moving so damn fast it’s hard to see if we’re actually getting anywhere. We need some good, post-gonzo journalists to chronicle the trip. The pioneers keep taking it further, in so many offshoots, into so many uncharted areas, it’d be a shame to lose the directions. Contradictions abound, misled adventurers stumble upon the magnificent or starve in the wilderness. We need map-makers with 24-hour beepers, multi-lingual interpreters to transcribe interviews with the mad, and ravenous hipsters to digest it all and misquote the profound at dinner parties.

In closing, contrary to popular opinion (ours usually is), Lollipop is always on the lookout for hotshots with a wacky way with words, a tendency to draw things that make people look at you funny, or an eye (two, if possible) for taking photos that make the mundane look exciting. Near-obsessive mental archives of every record ever released is a pre-requisite for all reviewers (unless you know how to type really fast), and remembering to actually go to the assigned live show has proven extremely helpful in writing it up. Fiction, essays, and long-winded rants on the state of the world have no easily-identifiable criteria, but sending them in is a good first step. We promise to read every submission within a year, unless, of course, we’re too busy.

I should probably end with some festive hoo-ha about enjoying the over-commercialized holiday season, and smiling on your brother (and sister) as you stand in astoundingly long lines to buy over-priced garbage for people you don’t know very well (and wish you knew even less), who are just going to drip polite platitudes when they get your useless gift anyway, but I won’t.

WE DON’T HAVE A JANUARY ISSUE, and we’ll be in meetings (as far as you know) for the rest of the year, trying to figure out what do differently next year, so just send cards with checks.