Thirty years ago, when I was a kid just starting out in New York—think a Whit Stillman movie with twice the social awkwardness, and none of the cocaine or hookups—I remember being amazed at the concept of “summer hours.” Apparently there were businesses so eccentric, so decadent, so anti-commercial that they’d just shut down on Fridays. Defiantly, with no explanation, right there in front of God and the U.S. Dollar.
I watched with envy as friends in law or advertising boarded the Hampton Jitney on Thursday night and came back…oh, would Tuesday work? Thanks. Meanwhile, I was stuck in an unairconditioned walkup, beavering away at a million humor pieces now lost to history because they are in MacWrite.
As writing goes, I do not feel much was lost. However, I do wish that I could go back in time and say a few things to the young me:
- Why on EARTH would anyone live a Whit Stillman movie without the drugs or sex?
- Working hard is overrated. Someday, Donald Trump will be President.
Yesterday was my 51st birthday and I found myself stuck in front of my computer for two hours, answering emails. On a Sunday. And did I mention? It was my 51st birthday.
So, in an effort to show that I have learned something since the first Bush Administration, I’m officially declaring Summer Hours for The American Bystander and Quarantine Cavalcade. This means instead of stuff once or twice a day, you’ll get QC…irregularly. Once or twice a week, probably. More, if the world explodes (further) or I get something really great; less, if all the contributors join me in a snooze.
I expect to lounge from June 15 to approximately August 15, maybe September if I really get the bit between my teeth. Of course, my version of “lounging” is a mite idiosyncratic: I’ll be finishing issue #15 (on press the first week in July; if you want it, subscribe here), launching a new Bystander website, getting our annual Halloween Number ready and, if the wind is right, working on a novel set in ancient Rome which I’ve threatened since I was in high school. But no promises on that last one; even more than the rest, it looks suspiciously like work.
As ever, if you want/need to get in touch, write publisher@americanbystander.org. Or, yell in the general direction of the beach. Thank you for reading! ◊
MICHAEL GERBER may be Editor & Publisher of The American Bystander, but his 1040 says “Aspiring Beachbum.”
