Essay

Sometimes our past lives come back to haunt us in strange ways. I’m not referring to anything paranormal. Reincarnation is a jolly concept but it

I found it on the AM dial. A Hollywood cowboy mimicking the distinctive Alpine sound of the Moser Brothers, a wildly popular touring group of

The other day a rather sad jest occurred to me: What’s the difference between a deadline and the Loch Ness Monster? Nobody believes in deadlines.

I have received many kind compliments since launching The Syncopated Times in February. One deeply gratifying recurring note of praise is that readers have declared

I no longer write poetry Because I was caught satirizing under the influence And my poetic license was revoked. This was a year ago, and

I doubt that it was ever actually true that every five-year-old boy used to want to grow up to be a fireman and that every

One evening, when I was working away on the present issue, the phone rang. When I am struggling against time and gravity, I’m inclined to

From the age of at least five or six I’ve been tormented by what may pass in a dim light for perfectionism. I would toil

In addition to being publisher, editor, circulation manager, graphic designer, and advertising director for the paper you are now reading, I am also cook the

When nostalgia sufferers start on the topic of How Much Better Things Used To Be, I am most likely to smile and nod blandly while

What goes around comes around—usually on Thursday. Every advance in technology is just a new way for people to talk dirty to each other. Some

The paper you hold in your hands is a paper you hold in your hands for a reason. I’ve stated a determination to produce an

The soul selects her own society,/Then shuts the door;/On her divine majority/Obtrude no more. –Emily Dickinson Today, of course, anyone reflective enough to read the

Putting together the paper you hold in your hand was no doubt the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life. Added to that, it

As I rocket headlong through my fifties—fifty being an age when one supposedly begins to get all misty-eyed over the lyrics of “September Song”—I find

I have never been particularly fond of getting out of bed in the morning—or in the afternoon, for that matter. My daily dilemma is: do