All right, you wimps; the party's over. And the fact that I'm talking primarily to myself when I make this statement should in no way detract from its sense of Bronsonesque tough-guy élan.
See, as usual, it's my fault. I knew that I was about to engage in a possibly extended tango with the medical establishment when I restarted LT in October; however, I thought, troubled naïf that I am, that this would actually be a good thing. I believed that this project would give me something to think about as I lay in my little adjustable bed, where I imagined myself perkily calling for more legal pads while all around me echoed the screams of the dead and dying.
That's not exactly how it turned out. For starters, as literary as the preceding might sound, the dead do not, strictly speaking, scream. More importantly, when I blithely predicted we'd be back in a week, I was, in retrospect, tripping. I didn't know (though I should have) how long I would be in the sick house, nor how crappy I'd feel for quite a while even after I got out. Now here it is coming up on three weeks. Whoops. As they say out France way, comment dirais-je?
I should stop for a moment and mention that at this point I am not considered any more likely to die than anyone else my age, so please don't mistake me for someone who is brave. I am fine and likely to live a much longer and healthier life than I deserve. (By which I mean: I've been good; I deserve to die tomorrow.)
Anyway, as luck would have it, being too sick to put out the magazine coincided with being too sick to badger people into submitting their copy on time, or in most cases, at all. So almost nobody who we wanted to publish in October got shafted except for this week's other writer, who'll still get play into next week, so he'll live, I hope.
Of course, as usual, you, the reader, get fucked—you only got half an ish in October, which, while preferable to the wind-soup-and-air-pudding diet we had you on for the last year, is still pretty unacceptable. Oh, well, welcome to Lime Tea, the online magazine where you get what you pay for, as long as you're not paying anything.
We'll try to come out four times in November like we should, which probably means three. The theme for that month (and there's still plenty of space, thanks to our literary acquisitions agency, Wheedle, Threaten & Cajole, being on vacation co-extensive with the editor's indisposition) is "No Sleep Till Brooklyn," which means all your favorite or least-favorite anecdotes, fantasies, opinions, and lies about the Big Apple. Even if you've never been there, we're confident you have something to say about the place. So go nuts and get those submissions in quick, while I mop up all this phlegm.
December's theme will be a slight departure. The theme title is "Start Me Up," which doesn't sound that different until we tell you that this means we'll be accepting your suggestions for titles and having that month's contributors write pieces to match. This should shut up everyone who claims they'd love to contribute, only they can't think of anything to write about.
Send your titles by clicking here (or if that doesn't work, send manually to submissions-at-lime-tea-dot-net, nudge nudge, wink wink). Once we have a few, we'll post them at www.limetea.net/startmeup.php and all you contributors can drop by and dibs the good ones. More fun than a retirement-home limbo contest, and easier to clean up after, too.
Marty Smith is the editor of Lime Tea. With his luck, he'll live forever.
