Wow. I’m going to a party tonight. I have been invited to the big one, the kegger to eat all other keggers, the pajama party I was born to attend. Why is this particular dalliance with folderol such a seismic deal, you wonder? Because I will get the opportunity to show my closest friends my second most impressive skill: casual banter. We have all surely been strapped to an iceberg by this heinous virus, set adrift in a barren seascape without social lives or sexual outlets. Holy shit it’s been hard. But, tonight, I will be attending a party in my onesie, keg standing along to something by Elvis Costello, hopefully. I’m so excited I can hardly edit! 

I don’t want to give off the impression that I’m a loser or a blowhard, usually I’m a lively partier, and I have had an opportunity or two, it’s just that I’ve been so busy putting together everyone’s favorite internet jargon, this forsaken literary magazine, that I haven’t had time to let my balloon loose. Of course, while I’ve been working on it I’ve indulged in heavy drinking and erratic drug use like a pool filter indulges in chlorine, but that was all alone in my room with the speakers blasting and the shades drawn. This evening of reckless debauchery will take place in front of people, and I will make them laugh. 

Now, while I’m out having a good time, feast your wild appetites on this here issue, starring a story about birds and a hotel in Arizona’s high country, some repetition poetry, and an interview conducted by Luhrmann Moose (new contributor) with Tappamiex Montaigne (sycophant). 

Hahahahahahahah! Whatever! Enjoy, suckers!

– Ed.