And Time Marches On

Death, Weather, & Mistletoe

It's been a fall shrouded in an endless night of blackberry cabernet sorbet, tourist mag punning, rock 'n roll accordian players, and a thirty-three hour, eight day week furnished with a diet of coffee and chewable vitamins. I've been living in the international airports of Boston, Chicago, San Juan and Tortola, on the deck of a catamaran off the coast of Jost Van Dyke, in an empty historical landmark facing an 18th century Revolutionary obelisk, and on a red couch in Beacon Hill.

I've been occupied pretty effectively, as the ominous silence here should indicate. And now the new year's here, surfing in on a tide of tall green hats and champagne. High time, what with all the retrospect, to face up and call off the hiatus. Welcome back, travelers. Don't turn that dial. We'll be back with more soon.