Like others, I got a cold for Christmas. I guess that's what I get for not being more specific about what I wanted. Fortunately, I don't have to work for another week; unfortunately, this will put a limit on what I can accomplish with all of that free time. So there won't be the deluge of posting that I had planned here or on Dogma. Sorry.

Christmas wasn't entirely terrible. I showed my eleven- and fourteen-year-old cousins "Badger, Badger, Badger" just to amuse them. In less than a minute, my father's entire family was gathered around the computer, dancing and laughing. I wasn't sure whether to be horrified or delighted. I settled on puzzled. Later, after a meal that included lasagna, congris, tamales, and (for some at least) heavy drinking, most of the family gathered in the living room and danced to Celia Cruz in the House, which had been a gift for Abuela. We finished the evening with a round of Trivial Pursuit. This wasn't Norman Rockwell's or Charles Dickens's Christmas, but it was certainly American: by turns empty and sad, boisterous and touching. Time passes and, in Harold Bloom's term, we become more belated--we are less naive, less excited, and older. And each year it feels as if there are fewer of us.