Am I correct in assuming that everyone here understands the basic concept behind the Titanic? If not, tell me now, before I steam off on an extended metaphor that will make no sense to you.

Simulacrum was late. Simulacrum was late again. Simulacrum was so late that I had to adjust the publication schedule, drop an issue and make a pilgrimage. If you have an uncomfortable feeling that you’ve missed something, and fear that perhaps you may have forgotten to resubscribe, please stop worrying. Simulacrum issues will continue to be numbered sequentially. The last issue published was number 15. The dates may be unreliable, but you can bet your last copy of Trafalgar on the numbers.

The good news is that Simulacrum was not as late as the Titanic, and no icebergs were harmed in the process.

A shift has been happening here at Simulacrum Universe Headquarters, a shift as subtle as a glacier’s movement but without the sturm und drang of the calving. In the first few issues of Simulacrum, I felt that it was perfectly acceptable to publish whatever came along that had any amount of game-related interest. Issue 10, the Simulations Canada special issue, marked a water shed, the Centre of the Rockie Mountains for Administrative Purposes, so to speak. This was the first issue with a unifying theme. Without being conscious of it, I have been comparing each subsequent issue to issue 10, and in the final analysis, only issue 15 has felt better to me. Issue 15 had a theme, in a manner of speaking, but a theme nonetheless. And the positive comments confirm my biased estimation. You, gentle readers, are coming to expect more of Simulacrum. What disappoints you, disappoints me.

It is no longer enough to publish Simulacrum on a quarterly (please permit me a small vanity) basis, or with an absolute minimum of typographical and grammatical errors and all the words in the correct order, or with greyscale graphic images unsuited as Rorschach patterns. Now there also needs to be a continuous and consistent flow from beginning to end, from precipitation to glacier to iceberg to river. The Ballad of Easy Rider comes to mind.

Speaking of Easy Rider, I recently had my very first opportunity to give some serious consideration to my mortality. The recognition that I will probably never ride a motorcycle again was most difficult and distressing to accept. To soften the impact somewhat, I gave away all of my motorcycle gear except for my helmet, keeping it on the grounds that if I ever needed to wear a helmet again, I would likely have to provide my own because my head size, even in its bald state, is larger than anyone keeps in stock or that most manufacturers supply. I’ll wait for you all to stop snickering before I point out that I don’t make this stuff up … it’s true, you know. And truth is just truth, you can’t have opinions about it.

So anyway. There is another aspect to this subtle shift, an increasing reluctance on the part of many of Simulacrum’s regular contributors to, well, contribute. The proposed special issue on the SPI Quadrigames is sitting in limbo (go to hell, turn right at purgatory, and limbo is downhill from there) because world events have put good intentions on ice. Where’s the Zamboni when you really need it? I think that’s almost enough white whine for one issue. Maybe one last glass for the road:

The Prozac®™ got bumped up in 20mg increments every three months, but at 80mg was still not working, and in fact was the correct dosage only for anorexia and bulimia. My doctor decided to switch me to Effexor®™, but this process entailed first cutting back the Prozac®™ in 20mg decrements every six weeks so as not to start something that couldn’t be stopped. Or stop something that couldn’t be started. Or something. And only then phasing in the new stuff. Offhand, I’d say that I’m in for another round or two of pharmaceutical decompression before I’m sent back into the deep end.

This is not an excuse, it’s an explanation and the readers, deserve nothing less. The fact that future collectors might also be curious has not escaped me either. In the meantime, there’s no point wasting a good funk. If you hadn’t noticed (front cover, underneath the chop), this is the issue whose root is anti-social.

It was about time for such a theme and, more importantly, my mood matches perfectly.

I’m not sure what to make of one Harold Lasswell, who said, in 1927: “A newer and subtler instrument must weld thousands and even millions of human beings into one amalgamated mass of hate and will and hope. A new flame must burn out the canker of dissent and temper the steel of bellicose enthusiasm. The name of this new hammer and anvil of social solidarity is propaganda.”

Now I’m not sure who this Harold Lasswell is, or was, or even the context of this most fascinating quote, but it was just too good to pass up. In any event, I’d be satisfied with a couple hundred human beings welded into a new flame called propaganda Simulacrum, but I’ll pass on the social and the solidarity. Here in Canada, that’s the government’s responsibility.

Recently I received the most astounding request for a subscription. It was from my mother. Now my mother is not a war gamer by any stretch of the imagination, but she is very accomplished at card games and is a Bridge Grandmaster. Perhaps I should rephrase that. My mother is not a board wargamer, she is a card warmongergamer par excellence. So I did what any man jack of you would have done under the circumstances and I charged her double. Ha, ha! That’s just a small joke to myself which I will edit out later.

Anyway, it had occurred to me that if there is anyone in this world to whom I owe a huge and unpayable debt for my love of English, it’s my mother. A lifetime subscription is but a small interest payment on that debt. It is also a constant reminder that things in the publishing business are tough all round, but especially in niche markets where decent English is so sadly lacking yet so critically important to the future of the universe as we know it.

Now, the person to whom I owe an equally huge debt for my florid misuse of English is my father, a Polish aristocrat who would appear to have opted for the English For Engineers courses while at university. He can borrow my mom’s copy when she’s done.

Alea iacta est.