This month’s paper, late though you may receive it, is something of a miracle. One week before this writing I was in a state of misery and distraction and had, in fact, written to my printer asking for a delay of the print date. That rescheduling—and the further delay in the US mail—proved not to be necessary by the time I received a reply.
But here we are. I won’t bore you by taking inventory of my own deterioration—especially since I realize, considering the age demographic of my readership, that such a litany is certain to lead to an impromptu game of Can You Top This? Some of you readers (and writers) have more than 35 years on me. (Some of you even remember Can You Top This?) I’d be a fool to cast the first X-ray. I’ll merely offer a hymn of praise to antibiotics and non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs and move on.
Let’s just say that I am discernibly over the hill. And that I would ask to postpone a printer’s deadline because of any debility is an embarrassment to me. That I did so readily and without compunction is even more embarrassing.
I often brag about putting together the print edition of The Syncopated Times single-handedly, but there is a flip side to that boast. It’s a feat of strength and determination—one that, with this issue, I’ve accomplished 58 times—but what if I get knocked down by something more formidable than a cracked, infecte
