Deadlines suck. I should just end this right here (the column, not my life, though there have been times when doing that would have been better than slogging my way through what finally ended up “on paper”, the equivalence to “on tape” in the world of recording). Nothing is ever what it seems anymore, I guess. And the older I get, the more it seems so. Oh, to be a Darrell Vickers who seemingly grabs mosquitoes and turns them into eagles, except when they are just mosquitoes. Even Vickers could not have saved some of my work. And trust me, at times like this, it is work.