Reservoir Dogs along with Don’t Look Now, A Face In The Crowd and Hud favorite movies.
Sadly, he never got to see Pulp Fiction, another Quentin Tarentino film he would have LOVED.
He cried after seeing Gary Sinise and John Malcovich in Steinbeck’s Mice and Men when Lennie accidentally kills the puppy, poking fun at himself the whole time.
John Woo, the Hong Kong film director, was someone he revered and couldn’t get enough of imitating his martial arts choreography as he walked down the street.
He loved San Francisco, London, Austin and New York.
He was a good friend.
Art dazzled him, like when he walked into the American Wing at The Metropolitan Museum for the first time, thanking me for taking him there.
He spoke lovingly of his mother and liked telling you she bought him his new black raincoat he wore unbelted because it was just a tad too tight across the chest.
He’d affectionately make fun of his dad who, whenever Bill went home, would try to get him to watch Dances With Wolves one more time.
Writing was something he did every day, even if it was only on a scrap of yellow notebook paper he’d shove into his Websters Dictionary once telling me he used as a pillow.
I believed him.
Charlie Chaplin, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Elvis were icons. It’s where his bit, Scarves and Water sired from.
He had a white muslin pullover he called his Jakarta shirt and a pair of moccasins rivaling his trusty cowboy boots belying his bad-boy image.
The first time I saw him without his usual button-down and leather jacket he said, “So how da’ like the casual Bill?”
I like him very much, I told him.
He took up yoga when he gave up drinking, an avid AA member when he died, proud of the coins his sobriety earned.
Hotdogs, potato salad, Dunkin Donuts and any kind of fish, sushi in particular, were his fare of preference.
Bill loved getting gifts and giving them as well. He bought me jars of the vanilla body cream I wore and I him, bars of sandalwood soap our smells clashing with distinction.
He played a moody guitar he’d take with him on the road composing songs he’d send to his pal Kevin Booth in Austin he’d eventually record (check out Arizona Bay).
He always had a book making fun of friends in LA, he coined HELL-A, for not reading.
Despite his proffered gravitas, he laughed at everything, especially himself.
He was polite, mean on a rare occasion and terribly romantic.
There was never a time I’d travel to see him when there wasn’t a rose by my side of the bed…all the vases packed in tissue in a box under my sink.
When they told him he only had a few months left he doubled that by sheer will.
Bill Hicks died at his parent’s home in Little Rock, Arkansas 21 years ago today.
He was 32…buried in the family plot in Leaksville Mississippi.
Miss ya Willie.