by Patrick Malone
"In hoc est hoax,
cum quis et jokesses,
Et smokem, toastem, roastem, folkses.
Fee, fau, fum."
So began Washington Irving's "Salmagundi Papers" and if we were looking for a model for this little venture of ours, we certainly could do worse. But whereas Irving and friends concocted a literary tour of New York and vicinity, we cast our nets wider, though possibly not as deep. Beginning with this issue, this slim volume, we propose to showcase the collective wit, whimsy, thoughts, dreams and true-life adventures of the Teeming Millions.
And this first issue is indeed fairly slim. But consider - when the first issue of the New Yorker came out in, oh, let's make up a date, 1842, it only contained three articles : a notice for some prehistoric movie by Woody Allen, a contest by Mary Ann Madden, and an opening night review of "Cats." The reviewer hated it. He is now dead. We, however, are still very much alive, and intend to stay that way for at least the immediate future.
So, as they say in square-dancing circles, rosin up the bow and here we go. (They also say "Grab your partner, allemande right," but we'll pass on that for right now, thank you very much.) In this issue: Byzantine writes on cleaning memories from your thought patterns. Chef Troy reports on an unusual ability of children. Eutychus55 tells what it's like having handicapped children. Mr. Know It All gives the obligatory account of his summer vacation. Rastahomie shows new alternatives to chicken. Ruffian gives a blow by blow account of teaching grade school. Cal Meacham weighs in with a little bit of cartoon history. Silent Rob put the fear of Tinky-Winky into us. Carnivourousplant entertains us with a detective story from the other side of town. Arnold Winkleried (in what will probably become a regular feature) gives us this month's "Prisoner of Conscience." Plus poetry by Gadarene, Democritus, and Pricciar.
All alive, all talking, all your dreams.