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Friday, December 25, 2009


Something you should know about me; I'm incapable of having "fun." Now I'm not just saying that because I prefer a hermitage to a nightclub, or because I think that a forty page footnote by Karl Barth is emotionally gripping. There's a very real sense in which gleeful exchanges of any kind, shared between one or more people, inspire deep anxiety in me. I once considered taking my cues from Hazel Motes and filling my shoes with broken shards of glass, but settled for shoes with no support instead. No, fun is not in my vocabulary. I should add also, by way of extension, that I'm painfully conventional. I am not a rebel; I once thought I'd pulled off an amazing feat of scholarly nihilism by translating The Divine Comedy into pig-Latin...

As this Christmas joins the host of others now spent, I am free to look back and assess some of the damage. Note to self: try to load up your plate before sitting down to an elaborate family meal, or else you'll pass more things than a swollen colon. Potatoes, Casseroles made of every conceivable form of vegetation, potatoes--mashed this time--, birds of all feathers, hams--I think the family dog was accidentally passed to me at one point. Anyway, I spilled meat juice in my Jell O and briefly considered becoming an atheist. But then I had a vision of Peter Singer chaining himself to a roasted turkey in order to demonstrate against this foul consumption, and I avidly switched allegiances.

My wife was having a difficult time, having first burned herself with a hair-straightener and then happening upon a ruined pair of pants. I read her the book of Job to give her some perspective. My initial plan was to tell her that you can't keep a good man down, but I forgot that there was much more to the book than "and I alone am escaped to tell thee." Soon I was burning myself with a hair straightener.

But in all seriousness, I must work on this fun thing. A week ago, my wife suggested that we all go ice-skating. She was thinking of a fun evening, doing something spontaneous and wistful. All I could think about were broken bones and torn fabric. Maybe I've read too many Good Housekeepings.

I'm thinking I should get some hobbies. So far, I like reading books discarded by lexographers, and watching movies that are assigned to the horror category because of their production value as well as their content. I also love the band Night Ranger.

Any suggestions?


  1. cameron, good stuff man. you're a more cleverer writer than me. by the way, i plan to show you a good time when i'm in GA in a couple of weeks. maybe we can terrorize old men in their front yards.

  2. This time, I'll bring my own pitchfork.