PRINT Summer 1995


I HAVE BEEN CLOSE pals with Dave Hickey, the Walter Pater of the Southwest, for only a few years. He used to scare me. I felt sullenly competitive with him. Then my character improved, I guess, to the point where I could accept his generosity. Dave makes of his gifts a gift to others. Now he is like the friend I was supposed to have in seventh grade and didn’t. His successes please me nearly as much as my own. (They’re less work, for one thing.) I like to think we constitute an aging youth gang of incorrigible esthetes: rugged individualist sniffers of the perfumed hanky, if you will. And if you won’t.

In his time, Dave has authored fiction, run art galleries, written and performed country and rock songs, and engaged in hard living, lately much moderated, that once gave him interesting physical tics. Before I met Dave I heard the late great Scott Burton describe him to someone as “a

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