| [from the desk of Stickboy]
October 1, 1999 Re: In The Wee Small Hours of Stickboy Mes Amis: In my youth I dreamt of straight lines, but now, on the cusp of my middle age, my roads are crooked and bent, tortuous, and even when I am where I most belong - Deux Magot on Boulevard St. Germain des Pres, ensconced at a table behind my bow tie and shades, watching the Parisian version of our everyday human pageant and parade, drinking cafe au lait - I am saddened, again and again, by how the light changes, how the coffee chills, how the beautiful girl at the next table gets up and leaves, when all along I thought she would approach my table, lean toward me, and whisper: “In our hearts we are greyhounds, but I refuse to run out on my chances. All afternoon I have thought of you, my fingers crossed. Now, if we’re lucky, there’s a city in the distance.” For so long I have had the highest hopes. I continue to unfurl them, to hoist them, to hold them above and before me, my umbrella and my shield. I will not be denied. I may lie quiet and fallow, I may withdraw when I consider myself unripe, and in the quiet of my lonely room I may even weep - but I will not succumb. I will not do math. I will not eat raw vegetables unless they are washed, sliced, and placed in organized piles beside a small bowl of bleu cheese dressing - I will not eat ranch dip made from some sort of powder packaged in envelopes. I will wander in art museums and record stores, I will nap in libraries, I will eat Pop Tarts and, when crammed inside a New York Subway, and confused, I will turn to someone standing beside me wearing a black leather jacket and beautiful shoes, and I will say, “does this go uptown or downtown? I’m not from here,” and I will smile. In short, I am often pathetic and anxious, but in the right circumstances you might find me unafraid. The matter at hand? Pretty Sure #1 - The Singular Adventures of Stickboy. You are now in possession of my confessions, my sins of admission, my tales from the dark side. If you read my missives and find yourself “dying laughing,” as they say stateside, consider it a serialized killing - stick-figuratively, of course - and please, please, please share me with your friends. I need praise, I need love, I need cash - I need email addresses. I’m Y2K compliant and, although out of the running for next year, I’m working now to create a ground swell of support for 2004 - I can’t do it without you. Yes, I’ve been sent to save us all. It’s not a responsibility I intend to shirk. We’ll be releasing Pretty Sure #2: Cafe Bleu - L Histoires de Romance in time for the first winter of the new Millennium. Each issue will come with a packet of instant hot cocoa and a small box of tissues for long and lonely afternoons of snowfall and regret. By summer 2000, the first single from Pretty Sure #3 - Crawling To The USA should be blaring from portable stereos on beaches from Carlsbad to Cannes, drowning out the sound of the sea itself. Next fall, when God returns football to the world, you’ll be walking to the game in your raccoon hat and saddle shoes, grateful for the leaves crisp and crunching beneath your feet, grateful for the brisk air, grateful for the copy of Pretty Sure #4 - Stickboy’s Quarterly tucked up under your arm. Yes, wear J. Crew sweater and pea coat ensembles. But read Pretty Sure. Thus completes my urgent plea. Now, back at the cafe near my flat I am accompanied by the screech of light rails, by my battered journal and my dreams of fame. I inhale this delicious autumn air and wonder if ever again will I reside where the summer girls wait for me, their skin aglow with August, September in their hair. I am an odd and difficult prince in these accelerating days - my finery stained and frayed - and I don’t feel like who I was, but then I never did. With coffee in hand I watch the trains turn around, and I steel myself for Christmas, for another California January. The winter rains will come, wet and slashing, and the land will slide like pudding into the sea. Throw your cigarettes down, let the sidewalk smoke them, and the horses to the dogs, or something. I’ll still feel a glow just thinking of you. Je suis, |