I Would Lick Hugh Maverick Haller’s Balls If That’s What It Takes

One of the most interesting writers not on Medium, an old friend from college, maybe a soul mate, I offer him to you, dear reader, in the hope we can lure him to Medium. We might have to lick his balls, but, we do what we must for the pearls he keeps hidden. He has repeatedly refused to join us. Set in his ways. Says Facebook is his chosen medium. I would never have expected this sad state of affairs because the Maverick I knew was always on the very edge. The very fucking edge.

Below, some offerings from his blog, creatively titled hugh maverick haller.

Whatever could have happened, did. That’s what brought us to this moment. If we could hop into a time machine and go back, redo even one tiny thing, it would open a tidal wave of change around us here in the present. Everything would be different.

I̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶b̶o̶r̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶p̶o̶o̶r̶ ̶b̶l̶a̶c̶k̶ ̶c̶h̶i̶l̶d̶.̶ ̶ Sorry, that was Steve Martin. We weren’t poor. Dad was a successful attorney with his own law practice at 25 Broadway in Manhattan. He was top of his class at Johns Hopkins and at Harvard Law. A very pleasant man, a walking encyclopedia, who didn’t care much for kids. He cared very much for Mom though, and kids happened. Four of us. Our house was just like the Beaver’s house. Mom wore dresses and pearls. She even looked a bit like June Cleaver. Dad read the paper and smoked Kent cigarettes. All that proper behavior gave me the hives though, so I went over to my buddy, David Callahan’s house. Chaos ruled there.

My friend, Marty Lewis, spoke of the cheers prompted by the Kennedy assassination, the attitudes he lived with at a small Methodist college in Texas, 1963… I had a similar experience in a little spec of a North Alabama town in 1969. Athens College had recruited hippies from the Northeast to enroll there two years prior in order to pay for the new dorms they had just finished building.If you had money and could fog a mirror, you were in.

Little girl still half asleep, like the day itself,

blocking the sun from entering her cabin.

Hair styled by the nesting birds of her dreams,

wrapped up safe in my T-shirt,

still trying to decide if the new day is even welcome

to come inside at all.

If you think Hugh should be on Medium, drop him a line. On Facebook or on his blog. And stick out your tongue.