Dear Reader, it’s been fun, but now I must be going. Certain inexorable and undeniable impulses — such as that which compelled Melville’s Ishmael to petulantly knock hats from the heads of passersby — are driving me far south of the border, to the land of heat stroke, mescal worms and Hepatitis A. Mexico calls, as it seems to do at fairly regular intervals. I have no choice, no option but to obey. Vamos. It’s in my genes to go, a skull-spark that flares like a pier’s green light and divines some idiosyncratic and extremely personal fate.

(Oak Harbor resident Bev Stasser, who last August suggested rather egregiously in a letter to the editor that I move to Israel (“Love it or leave it, buddy!”) finally gets his wish, sort of. I believe Mr. Stasser, getting a load of my big schnozz and pseudo-semitic last name, assumes I’m a Jew. I’m not — not that it matters. Toma lo todo con calmate, Bev. Shalom.)

So, instead of carving Thanksgiving turkey next November, I likely will be lighting greasy candles to long-dead ancestors in an ancient rite of Catholic observance. El Dia del Muerto, asi es la vida, or something like that. The idea excites me, in a way things here long ago ceased to do. This gringo is ready for something different, even if it happens to be tentative residence in a busted-out country with a long, tragic history of vanquishment, poverty and annexation. Sounds great to me. Kids hold hands in Mexico. Men tuck in their shirts. Cigarettes are sold in packs of 10, and there’s no such thing as black coffee. The churches are beautiful. Siestas.

Cultures work only to the extent that they provide a canny chain of signifyers and symbolic meanings that are, paradoxically, both seamless and permeable — something at once definably human and slightly greater than humanity itself, which folks can latch onto in order to make active sense of the workaday chaos surrounding them. Stories to tell ourselves. Signposts on the road of life. Culture — part history, part fiction, all man-made — offers flexible myths of sanity instilling fellow-faith and belief in the good of the long haul. It might be the anthropology student in me speaking, but I think a viable culture is as important as food and shelter to the well-being of its inhabitants.

Unfortunately for sadsacks like me, Wal-Mart, Will & Grace and the War on Terror no longer provide even the barest semblance of sane culture in this once-great society. Looks more like a neon snakeoil hodgepodge of monopolistic greed and militaristic hubris, presided over by tinhorn politicians and makeshift messiahs preaching sound and fury. The whole clunky, clanging shebang drives good folk to seek solace in a tangled web of narcissistic self-help and bulk discounts. Is it any wonder we have the highest murder rate — not to mention the most prisoners — of any industrialized society? No culture.

Lo siento, I digress. I’ve been known to do that once in a while, much to the chagrin of my ever-tolerant editor, Jim Larsen, whom I’d like hereby to thank for offering me this column in the first place and for putting up with me in general. And thanks to everyone who has ever read and/or responded to this column. I love you all.

Now then, without further ado, I’d like to bestow a little timely recognition on a local institution that I believe to be the finest perpetrator and upholder of capital-C culture in these here parts. It’s that time of year. Everyone’s popping out with 2002 best-of lists, and if mine is somewhat short, I nonetheless would like to enter the amateur fray. Consider this the first-and-last annual Standing Room Only Memorial Lifetime Achievement Award for Invaluable Contributions to the Arts in North Whidbey. And the winner is … ta-dum! Whidbey Playhouse in Oak Harbor.

Consistency has been the key to Whidbey Playhouse’s success — consistency of talented local casts, quality productions, crackerjack direction and, especially, dramatic spirit. It is energy, drive and ambition, ultimately, that sinks or swims community theaters, which generally must overcome tight budgets and bureaucratic burn-out in order to survive the Sisyphean rigors of endlessly putting on plays for the same people, year in and year out. The staff at Whidbey Playhouse has proven itself time and again — through such wonderful productions this year as “Death Trap,” Oklahoma” and “Catch Me If You Can” — to be devoted to the principles of quality and innovation in organic live theater. They are champions of the good fight: to make a small, ragtag community theater a symbol of town pride and artistic esprit.

At Whidbey Playhouse, perfection comes second to the sheer joy of creation. You don’t expect — nor particularly want — a community theater to be perfect; you want it to be engaging, fun, interesting, even thrilling. Whidbey Playhouse is all that. A foolish consistency may be the hobgoblin of small minds, but well-honed consistency is the benchmark of good community theater, and it’s the sort of assurance you want when you hold season tickets.

Now I’m done. As Porky Pig once said: “Th-th-that’s all, folks.”