Every year at this time, my constant battle against deadlines turns into a rout. One minute I’m out celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and my wife’s birthday and New Year’s and Guy Fawkes Day and whatever else seems to mandate the ingestion of mass quantities of comestibles, and the next I’m explaining to a gaggle of editors and one acting presiding justice why I’m late filing my writing assignments. It’s embarrassing.
So this year, in an abundance of indolence, I’ve decided to just abdicate my column-writing responsibilities and hand them over to Fernando Strunk, King of the Orange County Gypsies.
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