Yes, I admit it. It’s a shorter issue this month. I could just be flippant and say “It’s a short month.” Or I could suggest that my temper is short and that the paper should be shortened to match. What I will assert is that these 32 pages contain as much editorial content as I had on hand and is actually a pretty robust periodical for all that. To make everything fit I held back a profile-length, non-timely piece but 32 is a magic number, being divisible by four and also being the largest paper my printer can produce in one section. Hence no “A-12” or “B-7” but straightforward numeration as nature intended. And no wandering “B” sections! Yay!
I’m writing this in January, which I wish was a short month like February. There’s absolutely no reason to endure 31 days of this. Nor can I say that the year began auspiciously. The promise of a completely happy new year was shattered when a depraved maniac plowed into a crowd on Bourbon Street in the wee hours of January first. I know I should be more inured to people being terrible, but I haven’t quite numbed myself to that point. Somehow even substantial and regular doses of German Pilsener taken orally cannot quell my empathy. To witness a city I’ve always associated with joy and music reduced to shock and mourning right off the bat in 2025 kills me. There is not enough beer to cry into.
Speaking of which, the departing Surgeon General has directed that my analgesic of choice shall receive a label saying it will kill me. People keep promising me things that they won’t deliver. If I wait a few weeks the incoming Surgeon General will rescind that order and declare lager a basic food group. In any event, I’m not about to seek solace in tap water—which science will now tell you is loaded with plastic. I’d rather be loaded with something else.
Then there are the fires in Los Angeles, which Randi Cee has written about in our cover story. Usually, I like to put a profile of a worthy musician on the front page of The Syncopated Times, since I realize that most of my readers are tired of relentless bad news. I like to cover and promote those who bring us happiness through their music and to spread the inspiration inherent in their stories. I have departed from that policy because so many readers of this paper are in Southern California and can smell the smoke, at the very least. These fires overwhelm my friends who are musicians and fans. My heart goes out to you who have to suffer through this. If you are in immediate need of assistance, please turn to page 10 of this paper for help.
Ultimately, and unavoidably, there are other matters over which people may have had some control until they didn’t. Imagine the Elephant in the Room and the 800-pound Gorilla had a baby. I can’t talk about it, because so many reasonable people think that baby is just the cutest thing ever. Perhaps some now and maybe others later will feel buyer’s remorse, wishing they could retrieve and return their baby shower gifts for a refund. Sorry—all sales are final. Just remember that even if my chosen profession brands me an Enemy of the People, I am the best enemy you ever had. I understand what it means to be beguiled. I have already come to my senses and abandoned them again, since they weren’t telling me what I wanted to hear.
Enough of this wallow. January began with blood on the streets of NOLA, and now there is snow. It doesn’t make sense because it’s not supposed to. I surprised myself this month by commissioning a drawing from renowned comic artist and creator of Sita Sings the Blues, Nina Paley. (You may commission a drawing, also—her website is given below.) I can’t tell you how much Nina’s artwork made me smile when I really needed to smile. I hope Syncopated Media (in honor of our nonprofit) makes you smile, also.
Andy Senior is the Publisher of The Syncopated Times and on occasion he still gets out a Radiola! podcast for our listening pleasure.
