This is my Eighth Anniversary Issue of The Syncopated Times, and I suppose I should be eating cake or something. I find myself preoccupied with a number of different matters (some of which are not fit for print) and I doubt I could actually taste cake at this point. Still, it is an accomplishment to have got here.
I have no desire to recount once again the story of how I got here. It frankly all seems a blur, though that may just be my floaters. To some on the West Coast, I am still “those people” who took over The American Rag. I know some are nostalgic for that publication and its style, but I consider any changes I’ve made to be for the better.
Staying in print continues to be a challenge. Our non-profit status is near completion; a few formalities remain. In the mean time, USPS rates increased again in January; each morning dawns a glorious, brand-new day where everything costs slightly more.
This issue was itself a challenge for me to put together, and I admit that I’m tired. For much of the past month I’ve been dealing with a heckler who has worn me down by throwing my tendency for drive-by compassion back in my face. I was unable to offer more than a heartfelt sympathy while self-immolation was expected. By not sacrificing myself and my publication to Truth (from the heckler’s perspective) I was showing myself to be venal. “Wouldn’t want to let morals get in
