For longer than I can remember I’ve been wondering what happened to the guy who I was warned was “not a very sophisticated writer” (imagine typing with the clutch on) and thus would always need serious editing. Reams of fluid copy have been printed under that famous byline, none of it even remotely like the ploddingly awkward stuff I had to wrestle into something approximating lively and smooth. Now, for some reason, he’s back. And he’s brought salamis on the ceiling with him. (At Zabar’s? WTF?) The only explanation must be that he’s a superhero, and not just in his own mind. He simply got his identities momentarily confused . . .