What Exactly Is Going On Here?

I've had a cold this week, a summer cold, which is the best kind of cold. In the gray damp of winter, a cold is just misery compounded on misery. But in the summer! You get to sit in a sunny window and feel sorry for yourself, which you might do anyway, but now you have a reason, and, importantly, the reason is both demonstrable and temporary. You get to sit in bed and read, and ignore your conscience telling you the weather's too nice to be inside. I'd say this was a just-right sort of cold, in that, if it were worse, I would have been truly uncomfortable, and if it were milder I would have been denied the moral satisfaction of perseverance through adversity.

Just as I'm finishing up with that, I've been offered an opportunity I can't refuse. I can't tell you much about it, but it relates to a problem I discussed in one of my first issues as Publisher. Basically I've been invited to hang out with some co-workers—ones I don't mention these days, out of courtesy for their side gigs. And by "hang out" I mean "go on patrol" and there's spandex involved and belaying equipment and I've said too much already.

Point being, I don't have much to print this week, aside from the answers to last week's puzzle, which are up on the website. Instead, I thought, since we've picked up some new readers here and there, it might be a good opportunity to answer the questions I've been fielding most frequently, in regard to the Casual-Observer.

Q. Tom, do you really own a newspaper?
A. I'm really the Owner, Publisher, and Editor-In-Chief of the Sunday Casual-Observer, thereby establishing myself as a newspaper tycoon.

Q. But that's not, like, a real newspaper, right? It's a thing you made up. Right?
A. If the Casual-Observer weren't a real newspaper, would I spend hours and hours writing articles, handling HR complaints, and telling you all what a pain in the ass it is to be the Editor?

Q. Yes?
A. Ridiculous.

Q. Are the writers real people? And I don't mean in some bullshit philosophical way. Are they real people, or are you sitting by yourself in your underwear, pretending to have staff meetings with nonexistent hacks?
A. If you've read about the Rosenhan Experiment, you know how hard it is to prove you aren't crazy. Well, it's just as hard to prove you aren't imaginary. While it's true, I can't prove that Arnie Tackleman is a real person, or Vera Maraschino, or Bernice, or Barbara Bandstand, or Joey Mittens-Jones, I think we should give them the same allowance we give anyone. Presume they're real, and extend them our compassion, if it turns out they aren't.

Q. Is there a point to these emails? Like maybe you're doing a social experiment, or dragging out a shaggy dog joke? Is it cry for help? What? Why are you doing this?
A. The point is simple: I wished I was a newspaper tycoon, and now I am one. That's enough for me, and I'd like to think it's enough for you, too.