Woodman, Spare That Dream!

I find myself at the end of a long and harrowing layout process (which may be characterized as the maraschino cherry perched atop my annual September stress sundae) with the inexplicable urge to celebrate. To be specific, rather than taking inventory of my own miseries and publishing a catalogue of them for your amusement, I feel compelled to rejoice in the good fortune of another. There are enough bringdowns in this world, most of which make my own (to me, severe) bellyaches very paltry indeed. Since grim tidings blare out at us constantly via television, radio, and the internet, my objective has been to make The Syncopated Times a source of good news. It’s my vocation to cue the banjos rather than the violins. I won’t bewail human nature and partisan squabbles that masquerade as discourse among those of different factions. It’s so easy to get roped into strife; I find I am not altogether able to steer clear of controversy. I waded into it last month, and I was scolded for it. (People do like to scold. It may be a boon that I offered them a fair chance to chastise one so obviously in need of a lecture, and so work it out of their systems.) All points taken, then. I’m well aware of my foibles (thank you very much!) so there’s no need for a recap. No, what I wish to consider here is the nature of our fondest wishes—what we want to be when we grow up even when we ar