I believe it’s time Salon – and everyone else – stopped giving Lamott credit for being a skillful and interesting writer. Lamott’s introspective reportage (or whatever you choose to call it) is terribly disturbing, and for none of the right reasons. This sometimes sweet, hopelessly confused and fundamentally narcissistic writing puts on public display a life that calls desperately for intense personal, private support. It’s a form of exhibitionism that masquerades as honesty, but at best serves no good purpose and at worst is emotionally damaging to any and all parties involved. Relying on it for financial support gives it a quality of addiction. Leaving aside the question of how good this can possibly be for Sam (something I suspect Lamott does with dogged persistence,) I just wonder when Salon will figure out that she is a far more tragic than interesting writer. Maybe they need to shine some keen gaslight on their editorial process.

Like the author, I avoided exposure to the whole OJ saga from the beginning (as much as anyone possibly could.) It's a point of pride, I confess. I'm kind of disappointed in myself for reading this article, but I found the title too tempting.

And now that I've read it, that's enough OJ for me for at least another 12 years.

The "remnants" remark certainly struck a nerve, didn't it? I've heard plenty of divorced women past their twenties, including friends of mine, talk in this vein before. I'm always struck by the lack of introspection amidst all the complaining. I've never heard a single one of these women speculate as to why she didn't score a "keeper" the first time around. Perhaps some of the same factors that led into failed relationships are still at work when one only sees "remnants" in the pool of available men.

I’m white, I’m male. I am way on the outside of African-American culture, occasionally trying to look in a little but basically blind and more than a little stupid.

I’ve heard some of that venomous preaching, and I’ve seen evidence of intolerance as anyone can if they look for it. Ignorant as I am, I find it hard to believe that it will ultimately prove politically significant. Maybe I’m stereotyping, forgive me if so, but it has always seemed to me that the African-American community as a group will see most political bullshit for what it is with singular speed and consistency. Getting people worked up over these “culture war” issues while the world is coming apart around us is as “bullshit” as it gets.

My, what letters. Clearly the subject of Christmas lurks potent in the hearts and minds of many. How could it not? We are enveloped in Christmas four weeks a year. There is no escape; a nightmare for those who crave it, delicious for those who don’t.

Points taken, all around. Exclusionary, arrogant, vulgar, innocent, joyous, peaceful. Out of this disagreement always emerges the undeniable argument of magic for the kiddies. The Christmas season is just plain wonderful for a lot of children. I should know; I couldn’t get enough of it when I was little. That side of Christmas is really the engine behind Keillor’s essay. That mystical, magical, anticipatory specialness of this time of year, the eager excitement, the light in a child’s eyes, etc. It excuses an awful lot of bad behavior, that’s for sure.

And that is the very thing that tips the balance for me...against the American brand of Christmas. At some point between my adolescence and adulthood, Christmas stopped measuring up, and I’m not talking about disillusionment with religion – that happened a lot earlier. No, Christmas just stopped being so unearthly special. I realized that the high highs of childhood were over, never to be repeated. And with that, all of Christmas seemed like a giant manipulation perpetrated upon children and willing adults, and let me tell you...of all the holidays, none is more vulnerable to cynicism than Christmas.

There is no real recovery from a downfall like that. Christmas American-style sees to it; it’s so suffocating you can’t kindle a spark of enjoyment before it is snuffed out by the latest crass display or the zillionth repetition of some crappy song. The cruelest irony is that there’s only one thing capable of cutting through the pessimism and skepticism, if only for a while: the light in a child’s eyes.

Several people have made the point that this kind of behavior happens at all class levels, though of course those at the bottom are usually the most noticeable and the quickest to move on. And just as this really isn’t about class, it’s not about race either, a fact that is lost on some letter writers here whose skin appears to be not only dark, but rather thin as well.

One notable detail I took from this article is this family was utterly objectionable for their behavior at the same time that they were, with the exception of the author next door, racially different from the rest of the neighborhood. I am surprised that they did not find themselves the target of harassment. I wonder what the dynamics in that neighborhood were. Are Dickerson’s neighbors very tolerant people? Were they afraid? Did they abandon this problem to Dickerson because they were “her people?” Did they leave her out of their mutual commiseration because of the race factor? The story itself is a pretty common one. These are the details that make it interesting to me.