Now more than ever, Americans are troubled by questions. As sweaty modernity thrusts itself upon us, the veil of ignorance that cloaked our nation hangs in tatters, tattered tatters. Our “funny bones” are neither fun nor bony. Glum is the new giddy, and the old giddy wasn’t too giddy to begin with.

What can be done to stop this relentless march of drabbery? Not much. Nothing we can think of. It’s pretty much too late. The light of August turns to the overcast skies of autumn, and the taunting sting of winter cannot be far ahead on the highway of the road on the horizon. Who can sing a song without words? Maybe Bobby McFerrin, but is there anyone else? Where do we go when the party is over? Perhaps the afterparty. But what comes after the afterparty?

Questions, there are so many questions, and then some queries, arriving via fax. To these we respond in the only way possible: Talk to the hand, because the face ain’t listening. Nevertheless, we present the pages within as an offering of peace, as a message of hope, and as a perfumed hankie of love—a hankie drizzled with the intoxicating aroma that has only one name: ha-ha-oopsie.