Since publishing my first issue of The Syncopated Times six years ago this month, the time has just flown. It doesn’t feel like a minute longer than a century. Seriously, I haven’t actually been marking Xs on a calendar in the manner of one condemned to a term of penal servitude. There would be no point. I’ve received no definite release date—and there has been no order of clemency. Our recently departed governor was too much concerned with his own possible imprisonment and our current executive is too preoccupied with straightening the mess left by the previous administration, which obscured its foibles under a facade of charisma.
Nonetheless, the self-inflicted travails of an editor condemned to hard labor by his own non-negotiable sense of obligation is of no concern to those dedicated to matters of state—though they might find it fun to watch. Sisyphus himself knew they were onto something when they built bleachers at the base of his mountain. He regretted not getting a cut of the action, even if he wouldn’t have found time to spend the proceeds. It’s the same impulse that motivated audiences in the 1930s to watch dance marathons. The only true victor is the operator of the concession stand.
With The Syncopated Times, everybody has a ringside seat—though you must supply your own snacks and beverages. Here even the concessionaire is baffled. Every month an issue p
