Prelude to a Lick
by Scott Hefflon
Editor/Publisher/Single White Male
illustration by Alexandria Heather
The season of love is upon us. Or so it seems. Walk into any major-chain drug store and wham! you’re confronted with America’s favorite form of advertising: Overkill. While I’m entirely at ease seeing red all the time, and I’d imagine the chumps who wear rose colored glasses most of their lives hardly notice the difference, what of the regular Joe Schmucks? You’re finally getting images of the fat, jolly old guy out of your head (burned like after-images onto your retinas from constant exposure), only to have them replaced by fat, jolly babies carrying weapons. And everywhere you look, red. Red heart-shaped boxes of every size filled with enough cavity-causing crap to make dentists daydream about summer homes. Does the American Dental Association have a contract with whoever it is that decides these holidays? Halloween pays the rent (for the year), Christmas covers the car(s) and boat, Valentine’s Day insures a little peace of mind/piece of ass (college tuition to keep the kids away and/or buying the wife/mistress something a little special), and Easter covers the little things like food and stuff. But what’s in the boxes is not nearly so corrosive as the effect of all the boxes themselves. It’s one thing to have a holiday like Christmas hanging over your head like a grand piano on a rapidly unravelling rope, but it’s far more personal to be overwhelmed by gaudy trinketry that’s supposed to nuzzle up to your lovey-dovey fuzzy feelings. At least a lousy Christmas you can blame on the fact that your family is dead, distant, or you just plain hate their guts. If you have no lover, or at least something that passes for one when the nights are cold, your sucky Valentine’s Day means, in a nutshell, that you’re a loser. Or at least single. They’re the same thing from an evolutionary standpoint (and if you chose to listen to your parents/friends who all notice that you’re getting older and uglier alone). The point of existing, aside from all the useless meandering we do about why we exist, is to mate and spawn. That’s pretty difficult to do solo (and no, that weird growth on your bedsheets doesn’t constitute giving life). So all the cheerful red packaging screams incompetent at the single human. Thanks, I needed that.
I hear the grumblings of the angrily-single, banging like unhinged shutters and just as annoying. Look, I’m flying solo myself, I’m merely miserable about it. True, I’d be miserable even if I were attached at the hip to some really gone gal, but that ain’t the issue here. I’m not exactly sure what is, but I know it ain’t that.
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, and 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.
