Making popcorn again, huh, Snoopy? Keep it up. Sounds like pure nostalgia, especially with the way this year’s been going.

I bet Linus would’ve called those popping kernels “little pangs of painful joy,” or something equally poetic, but of course, he’s not coming this year. Not after his meaning-of-Christmas bit took a turn to the right last winter. I guess the community access TV video went viral, and he’s booked solid through the spring with CPAC.

Good grief. This year feels heavier, doesn’t it? Heavy in the air, in the bare grocery aisles, in the empty pit of our stomachs. Heavy in the way people say, “It’s okay, we’ll make do,” but their eyes say they’re ready to boil their best friend alive for sustenance.

Sorry. We’re not there yet. Although I do wonder why we haven’t seen Frieda’s cat, Faron, in a while. And sometimes I look at Woodstock and think, just academically, “Rotisserie ready.” Lucy charged me ten cents to work through that one.

. . .