Please Don't Send This to the New York Times

I have been unfaithful. A whole lot. But you already knew that.

For those of you who have followed along with the bouncing ball, I have spent the last decade and a half inundating my favorite partner with nearly every thought that squeezed out of my head. The New York Times and I have become best friends. Ok, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but I have not been arrested for stalking. So there's that.

A number of years ago this newspaper, clearly the finest in this nation, or any other nation so conceived and so dedicated, (I seem to have slipped into the Gettysburg address for a moment), invited me to their offices. The purpose, not to threaten, but rather to thank me, along with several other similarly obsessed individuals, for our continued bombardment of their beleaguered editors of the letters department. Through our perseverance, we had scored the highest on the test of those who could withstand constant rejection and somehow emerge as the most prolific and wholly unpaid contributors to this section of this venerable publication. It was a true highlight for me, knowing I was being compensated in full measure for my years of effort with 15 minutes of fame in a room stuffed with other people all experiencing similar moments of self indulgent glory.

But enough about me. Actually the rest of this is still all about me.

The dictate of the Times, and virtually all other newspapers of much esteem (as I define it) is that published letters to the editor appear no more than every 60 days.  So, in these fallow periods, I began to search out other friends and lovers. And since I have a sometimes residence in Massachusetts, the Boston Globe became my principal target.

Over the past several years, I have pursued their affection with somewhat metronomic frequency during my forced separation from the true apple of my eye.  And the Globe, like the New York Times, has often somehow found favor with my thoughts. 

Which leads me, in this extremely long and meandering fashion, to the very heart of this piece. Earlier this week, the Globe extended an invitation to me to dine with them next month, to "celebrate (my) loyalty as a long time contributor. "

How can I possibly attend when I know that I do not deserve this recognition? I am not loyal to this paper, but merely disloyal to my first love. Not with them because of my ardor for their work but simply because I have been placed, in the immortal words of Dean Wormer, on double secret probation for two months every time a few of my thoughts leak onto the pages of the New York Times.

But maybe before I reject their most kind offer I should find out what is being served for lunch.  I mean I don't want to be too hasty, or appear rude. And I haven't been to Boston in decades. And, well, another 15 minutes couldn't hurt. 

Just as long as word of my Benedict Arnold does not reach the New York Times. Our little secret.