At this time of year, vivid images begin to dominate my daydreams: a glamorous couple-elegant woman in an evening gown, handsome guy in a tux-comes to the dais and begins to address an audience full of similarly beautiful people (among them yours truly-well coiffed and clad, and so deftly enhanced I'm practically a Mel Gibson look-alike). The pair exchange some light-hearted banter and quickly get down to business. "The envelope, please. The nominees are: magazine A, magazine B, . . . , and Technology Review."

In synch with each publication's name, cameras pan on the corresponding editors. When Technology Review is mentioned, I show up on your television screen pensive but detached; my face flashes a hopeful but not desperate, confident but not cocky grin to the millions of viewers in TV land. As the audience awaits the verdict, time seems suspended like the hands on Salvador Dali's melted watches. "And the winner is: Technology Review!" Stunned and grateful, I explode with joy. My chic wife gives me a big kiss, my sartorially splendid TR colleagues exchange delirious hugs. I proceed to the stage to deliver a stirring acceptance speech.