When I was in Las Vegas about six years ago, on a whim, I decided to thumb through the phonebook to see if one of my movie-making idols was listed. I never thought in a million years that he would be, but there it was: a listing for R. Steckler. Alas, I was too chicken-shit to call, and I'm still kicking myself for not vandalizing the phone-book and tearing out the page -- or the Yellow Page listing for Mascot Video over on Tropicana Avenue, but then regrets always are a bitch.
Lampooned by my most but rabidly loved by others, myself included, I wouldn't say Steckler was as bona fide genius, but there was something especially surreal about the look and feel of his movies that a lot of other one-lung filmmakers couldn't come close to matching. And in the end, the man left his mark and a wonderfully weird oeuvre for us to enjoy for all perpetuity. And for that, I'd like to say thanks.
Ray Dennis Steckler