The Stick Whisperer

Editor’s Note:  What follows is an interview with a Chicago toddler named Bub, friend of the forest and author of the new book The Stick Whisperer: How I Learned to Truly Get Wood.

Q: You’ve been called a lot of things in the media: a genius, a fraud, a niche-market savant, a dumb-ass. How would you label yourself?

A: The Stick Whisperer. I thought the title made that fairly clear.

Q: Right. About the title: Some have said it is misleading and prurient. Was that intentional on your part?

A: I don’t see what’s misleading. You either get wood or you don’t. Why are you smirking?

Q: Sorry. Moving on, you claim to have tamed dozens of feral sticks in your short career. You ever met a stick you didn’t like? Like a real sharp, rowdy sonofabtich?

A: There was a certain American beech that I’d rather not revisit. Ha ha, JK, love you, Raymond! But no, they are all my children.

Q: You ever get in any scuffles with other stickherders?

A: Several months ago, a kid on the playground punched me in the pee-pee, took my new friend Norman, away from me, and then beat me with him. I’m still in therapy.

Q: In your experience, what would you say is the worst thing about being a stick?

A: Stickball.

Q: If you could say one thing to forest fire starters, what would it be?

A: Hmmm, that’s a tough one. But I guess I would say ‘Stop’ or maybe ‘Don’t do it.’

Q: Do you feel any sort of strange kinship toward stick figures?

A: Do you?

Q: Touche, little buddy. Last question—what’s next? Are you next going to tame cement? How about rocks?

A: No thank you, sir. I think we all know what happens when you mix sticks and stones.