I heard a story once about a fellow in Alaska who lived in a place so remote that he’d have a year’s worth of newspapers delivered at once, and then he’d read one newspaper each morning — exactly a year after it had been originally published.

I’m doing a similar thing this week. At some point in the afternoon, I stir my lazy carcass into action and pedal or drive to the one place on the island where newspapers are sold. But I don’t actually read it until the following morning, because somehow my breakfast can’t be properly digested unless there’s a morning paper in front of me. (I’ve tried substituting my laptop, but it ain’t the same.) I’m not nearly as far behind the news cycle as the fellow in Alaska — 24 hours as opposed to 365 days — but the sensation is the same.

All this is a long way of explaining that I will be an unreliable correspondent this vacation week. Maybe there will be a new post here every morning. Maybe there won’t. It will all depend on (as Dan Jenkins once wrote) whether God is willing and the scotch don’t rise. Or how long it takes me to rinse the sand out of my britches.

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