Jonah sat before the panel of blinking red lights. Merry Christmas, except not merry and not Christmas. It was a hot July night, and he’d just started the second of a double shift.

“Pedantics,” he said, taking the next call.

Jonah could remember when teachers still used red pens. There were moans and groans and no-fairs every time a paper was returned. “God,” his friend Emmett complained after class. “She’s a million years old and half-blind; how can she even see such a tiny mistake and who the fuck even cares?”

Although I’m alone in thinking this, it all started in a small pub at half past closing time. Several drinks in and an unspecified number of brain cells down, we approached the topics of the day with all the swagger of emperors and kings.

It was Madeleine who broached the question first. She wrote it on the back of a beer mat, refusing to buy the next round until we’d considered her words with what she considered to be a suitable measure of gravitas.

The beer mat read:

A vast meteorite heads towards the earth. Then scientists announce it is actually a gigantic poo.

Pity poor Ebenezer Scrooge. Throwing open his window that nippy December morning, he’s so culturally insensitive as to wish everyone a merry Christmas (Pardon my language!). Had he only known how to celebrate the seasonal festivities in a more thoughtful, less offensive way, he could have shouted “Happy Holidays” at all he met. Scrooge, alas, forgot that lots of people out there are not Christians, don’t know what a Christian is, don’t take being a Christian seriously, regard themselves only as nominal Christians, hate Christians, or have vague ideas at best that something Christian is somehow or other connected with December 25th. That’s a big audience ready to be offended. Be very careful.

Day 1

Started my new job today here at the university, thought I’d keep a journal. Staffing a help desk in the library copy center. Real boring. Read a piece of paper from the recycle bin that caught my eye called “Why Fascism is the Wave of the Future.” Listened to a guy talk to his phone for an hour in a different language while scanning things. He left without saying anything to me. Did not need help with the copiers, I guess.

Must figure out things to do. I wish there was a window.

Today’s televised political debates are a difficult medium for the candidates, since each must craft a memorable sound bite of his or her position in thirty seconds for an audience that would rather be watching Dancing with the Stars or Chopped. But were things better on town squares and fairgrounds in Illinois in 1858 when the candidates spoke uninterrupted for two hours on a rickety wooden platform in each of seven open-air encounters? Here’s the truth about those highly touted Lincoln-Douglas debates.