2025 marks the 100th birthday of The New Yorker, and my 48th year contributing to Harold Ross’s “comic weekly.” It’s strange to think I’ve been around for nearly half the magazine’s lifetime. When my first New Yorker check arrived, in the summer of 1977, it felt as if I had been welcomed into an improbable rickety backyard clubhouse, inhabited by slyly spirited, highly motivated contributors, a good number of them mischief makers, otherwise known as cartoonists. I knew that the experience ahead would be fun (I wasn’t wrong). As we move into this new year, here’s to my fellow mischief makers, and to all of you who visit the Spill. 2025 will, I’m certain, be quite a year.