This past summer, all of us involved in The Rail agreed that in order to gain a toehold, and eventually a foothold, in the publishing world, we would need to make each of our issues flawless in terms of production. Then came September 11th, of course, and the terrorists messed up all our lives, causing the small details to get lost in the big picture—a lame, entirely disproportionate excuse for the all the mistakes in our last issue, I realize but concentrating on anything was difficult from 9/12 through 9/26, right? Still, and yet, the blame rests on my shoulders, and I apologize.
Here are the few most essential corrections: Julie Callahan never wrote about schools for us, but Julie Thompson did, in collaboration with our own Meghan McDermott, whose last name just isn’t spelled with three T’s; meanwhile, only Tisha Pryor’s last name has a Y; while we’re at it, neither is there a U in Spalding Gray, although here I can assure you that we were not the first to bestow one; and thought it might make for good theater in its own right, the phone number for Soho Rep is definitely not the same as a sex line. Shocking, these mistakes, eh?
Now it comes time to explain, briefly, The Rail’s rather erratic publishing schedule. We call ourselves “bi-monthly,” but somehow we missed September and now we are skipping December. There’s no obvious litany here: none of us are getting paid, we don’t really have an office, our designer lives in Mexico, etc. But who wants to hear much less read, that? Instead, I’ll leave with you a promise, as time-sensitive as it is definite: in 2002, The Rail will be as on-time as Amtrak.
Glitches and all, The Rail was nominated for a 2001 Utne Reader Alternative Press Award for Local Coverage, and for this we are very, very, honored. We’re ready for the new year, and we know you are too. Peach on Earth.