Know what we're doing right now? Being crabby. All of us have strep throat, and half of us are here anyway, putting out some pointless Year End issue for a pretty pointless year. It wasn't a bad year—it was no 2001, nor whatever year Katrina happened. And the Democrats took back the House and Senate, and the White House never even had a chance to break Osama out of the freezer, and the votes out of the Diebold machines (except, as always, in Florida).
So it wasn't a bad year, except for Iraq really, and when Hezbollah and Israel started World War III, and the way my throat feels right now. But it wasn't a good year either. It was no junior year of high school, you know? It was no 1993, as Calendar Editor Tom Child points out; that's for sure. And what happened in 1993? Not Iraq, that's what. Or Katrina. Or Hezbollah.
So here's to a pretty good—upgraded to damn fine—pointless issue to requiemize a not-bad but still kinda pointless year (the Democrats are coming when?). We've got a story on musicals—pointless!—and an article on the Juxtapozition of the county's art galleries. We've got a Diary of a Mad County that stretches on for many, many thousands of words—because that's how you were. We've got really mean letters—again, from you. (Stop calling us, Conrad. We're unplugging the phone.) We've got a music package put together by all the music editors in our shiny, new, formerly New Times chain. (Eh.) And we have a film package that's surprisingly interesting considering it features interviews with directors—and not interviews with, say, Daniel Craig. And that's mostly it, this being the year of Daniel Craig-ness, and also because everybody but me is home with the strep, though Ellen's supposed to be turning something in any old time now, and just instant messaged me this: "It's been so long since I wrote in the First Person. We can use 'fuck,' yes?" Yes, dear. In fact, it's encouraged. Fuck away!