Table of Contents
ALSO BY LEWIS BLACK
Me of Little Faith
Nothings Sacred
Riverhead Books
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
New York 2010
To my mentors:
George Carlin , Kurt Vonnegut, Professor William Geer,
and my uncle, Julius Kaplan
INTRODUCTION
The Uplifting and Heartfelt Story of How This Book Came to Be
No, your eyes are not deceiving you. This is a book about Christmas (or the holiday season, if youre deranged enough that you have to call it that), written by your old friend, the essence of the Christmas Spirit, Mr. Mirth himself, me.
How did this come to pass? How did this glorious miracle occur? What star in the East was seen by yours truly that inspired him to write this book?
Well, now, theres a story.
Every memorable Christmas story has its beginnings in the yearnings of the heart. Not mine, of course. But somebody elses. I have naps to take, after all. In truth, Dear Reader, it wasnt my idea to subject you to my deepest, most personal feelings about this time of year. I know better than that.
A while ago I was having lunch with my editor, who over the bread basket turned to me, his youthful eyes filled with hope, and asked, Any thoughts on a new book?
Right. Like I had been devoting all of my spare time to coming up with a concept for a book that would keep me chained to my desk for the next year, pining for a real life that was just outside my window.
Not a one, I replied happily. Besides, I thought Id brought book publishing to its knees with my last one. Ever since that book came out, your industry has been in a tailspin.
Really? he asked. I thought that was the recession and the shifting technological landscape. (Yes, he really does talk like that.) Did you cause those, too? By the way, can I have your breadstick?
No. I want it. Besides, nobody reads anymore. People have no time for that kind of stuff. Whats important now is a constant flow of vital information that one can access instantaneously. You know, like who has a new blogChrist, I hate that wordor a new sex tape for sale.
Are you sure you want that breadstick?
For crying out loud, no one wants a whole book of thoughts or some fictional flight of fantasy, I continue as I crunch on a breadstick I dont want. People want things in real time. They want to know where to eat, to shop, to drink. They want it to be close. They want to know how to fucking get there. And if the phone would tell them who to fuck, theyd go and fuck them, and I mean that on all levels of the word. And they want to know right now, not by chapter 7. It could be too late by then. For Gods sake, there are Twitter books. How can that even be? But it is. We are getting to the point where authors wont even have to write, THEYLL INSTALL A CHIP IN THEIR HEADS AND THEN YOU CAN GO TO WHOEVER GETS THE TECHNOLOGY FIRST AND THEN YOU CAN JUST LISTEN TO THE BOOK AS THE AUTHOR THINKS IT! TALK TO ME AGAIN ABOUT A BOOK WHEN YOU HAVE A CHIP INSTALLED IN THIS !
I punctuated my point by pounding my head, which actually quieted the voices in my head for a minute or two.
Are you finished? my editor asked quietly.
Youre the one whos finished.
Did you hurt yourself ? he pressed on. Do I need to call somebody?
What are you, a Boy Scout? No, I dont need anybody called.
You insist on pounding your head like that, youre going to do damage. More damage than youve already done, I mean, he added.
Never mind. Its like a pinball machine up there. Im just whacking it to get it out of the tilt mode.
I have an idea, he said.
An idea? Are you kidding me? Seriously. Ideas are the next thing to go. We are moving rapidly into a world of ideacons. Theyre like those stupid emoticons, only they pretend to express an idea. Just like you dont have to feel the emotion, pretty soon you wont have to be bothered by thinking, either.
Thats good. Save it for the page.
The page? Are you talking about paper? Youre killing me here. Its all going to be on a screen.
Its still a book.
What book?
The one you should write about Christmas.
Are you out of your fucking mind? A Christmas book based on all the memories I dont have of it, because, lest you forget, I am a Jew.
Lewis, Dickens was a Jew.
No, he wasnt.
He wanted to be.
Not at Christmastime, he didnt.
Thats your book.
Thats not a book. Its barely a sentence. The voices in my head were starting to clear their throats again.
Glenn Beck wrote a Christmas book.
Youve got to be kidding me. Called what? Santas a Tubby Socialist, where Glenn analyzes why a fat mandressed in red, no lessdistributes gifts to every single child to teach them the heinous act of sharing? Ive got news for you: Santa doesnt bring anything for the Jewish kids, because they already worship a Socialist God of their own. Im sure Glenns even got a chapter about how President Obama believes in Santa more than the country he may or may not have been born in.
Not even close, Lewis. But if Glenn Beck can write a book for Christmas, so can you.
And as every mom used to say, If Glenn jumped off a roof, would you?
Well, if I could get his publishing rights, I would. But I know you can write a better book about Christmas, Lewis.
You son of a bitch, taunting me with Glenn Beck. If I cant write a better book than he does, I should jump off the roof. What makes you think I should write a book about Christmas?
Youve been Santa twice. They asked you to play Scrooge in a huge production of A Christmas Carol.
Yes, you read that correctly: me as Scrooge. My career, Dear Reader, has been a strange one, with twists and turns as weird as anything cooked up by Stephen King or the writers of The Hills. But playing Scrooge, that was truly an odd one. As far as I know, no one I have known in my forty years in the professional theater ever even considered the possibility of my playing Dickenss most famous Christmas-hater. (Or if somebody had thought of the idea, hed mentioned it to someone else and the other person had died laughing.)
If the casting wasnt strange enough, the plays producers were offering me a small fortune to play the role, in huge theaters around the country. (The reason I mention that they were willing to pay me a bunch of money that felt to me like the kind of money you get in pro sports is that at the time the economy was tankingbadly. A Christmas Carol starring Lewis Black as Scroogeit sounds like the producers were Bialystock and Bloom from The Producers. Theoretically it makes a bit of sense. I mean, who better to play Scrooge than a bitter, angry Jew?)
As ludicrous as the whole idea was, it didnt stop me from picking up the script and looking at it. (And who knew what might follow if it worked? Lewis Black as King Lear? Lewis Black as Macbeth? Lewis Black as Mama Rose in Gypsy?) As I read, I was shocked to find out how big Scrooges part is. Somehow I remembered it as just a bunch of Humbugs with an occasional Bah thrown in to spice things up. Nope, Ebenezer yacks a lot. More than is really necessary, to be honest. He goes on and on and
