Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter. We were crammed into the corner, with a front-row view of the chef de cuisine.

The cook loaded the grill with all manner of pork products. Everything was hissing. Pots bubbling. Slabs of meat sizzling. Waffle irons spewing.

It was Christmas night, and we didn’t know where else to go.

It was surprising to see so many people inside on Christmas night. They must have all been weary highway travelers just like us. On their way back from family gatherings which had drained them of their lifeforce, left them with saggy eyes, and little will to live.

Family holiday gatherings can be difficult. Namely, because everyone in your family is completely bat-excrement crazy except you.

A guy wandered into the Waffle House. He was wearing rags. Fingerless gloves. Watch cap. The staff apparently knew

him. They called him by nickname.

“Hi, King Charles!” the staff all said.

And the employees all bowed and curtsied.

The king smiled his tooth at them, but said nothing.

The waitress found a place for him at the bar, in a seat beside us. The king grinned at me. I grinned back. I do not believe he had bathed in three, maybe four presidential administrations.

And even though the place was overrun with customers, the waitress took His Majesty’s order before taking anyone else’s.

“Your Highness,” said the waitress. “What’ll it be?”

The old man had a hard time talking. His mouth was moving, but nothing came out.

“Same as usual?” said the waitress.

He nodded.

The knit cap came off to reveal a mass of greasy white hair. He looked at me again, just to make sure I…

I am in Facebook Jail. I don’t actually know what Facebook Prison is, but I’m in it.

I feel a little like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke,” stuck in his little cell, except I don’t look like Paul Newman. I look like the love child between Danny Partridge and Eleanor Roosevelt.

It’s hard being in jail. Namely, because I don’t truly know WHY I’m in Facebook’s correctional facility. Rehabilitation? Penalization?

It all started when I began receiving emails from people saying, “We can’t find you on Facebook anymore!” “Your posts are blocked!” “Are you dead, Sean?!”

So I had to ask my wife.

“Honey?” I said. “Am I dead?”

My wife touched my hand warmly. “Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to a lot of guys.”

So I’m in jail. I have pissed off the Facebook authorities for the last time.

I was put in Facebook Prison after writing openly about imposters on Facebook. These scammers claim to be me. The scammers have gone unmonitored for a long time and stolen money from innocent people.

The bot-imposters leave comments

on each of my posts. The titles of their accounts look official, such as, “Sean Dietrich Direct Chat Page,” or “Sean of the South Official Fan Page” or “Sean Dietrich Only with a Much Tighter Body Page.”

The impostors reach out to anyone who comments on Facebook posts. Some innocent users fall for the bait. Users think they’re talking to Authentic Me—except this new version of me lives in Nigeria and speaks broken English.

Still, these imposters are sneaky. They offer to sell tickets to my performances at the Grand Ole Opry, at an exorbitant fee. They offer unlimited backstage access, a free limousine ride, complimentary back rubs, etc. The imposters then take the victim’s money.

Oftentimes, bots will strike up online relationships with Facebook users. Last week, I was contacted by four victims who ALL HAD LONG TERM EMAIL RELATIONSHIPS…

I receive a lot of questions. They come in the form of emails, private messages, subpoenas, etc. I cannot answer them all, but I am able to answer a few.

Q: Sean, I am moderately offended. You mentioned the ongoing debate over saying “merry Christmas” and “happy holidays.” Saying “merry Christmas” can be offensive in the wrong context. We say “happy holidays” because we respect others. What if I’m someone who chooses not to celebrate Christmas? What if I’m someone who celebrates Kwanzaa, or Hanukkah, or Bodhi Day?

A: What if I’m someone who doesn’t celebrate happiness?

Q: I was a fan of your writing until you chose a side and advocated saying “merry Christmas” instead of “happy holidays.” Saying happy holidays is inclusive for all religions and lifestyles. Whereas Christmas was invented by dogma. I am an atheist, Sean, I don’t want a corporation forcing religious holidays on me. Don’t I deserve a holiday, too?

A: How about April 1st?

Q: I am 74 years old and have been in a three-month long

relationship with an impostor claiming to be Sean of the South. This man told me that his wife left him and that he wanted to have an intimate relationship with me.

We talked every day for many months. When he finally asked for money I realized I had been scammed and he was not Sean of the South. Now I’m so hurt because, even though I’ve been scammed, I feel like I’ve lost a friend. His writing was just like Sean’s, except he seemed to know how to say all the things a lady truly wants to hear, and how to make me feel like a woman.

A: My wife requests this man’s email address.

Q: Sean, your longform content is becoming outdated and boring. This isn’t 2011, buddy. Nobody wants written articles anymore. We want VIDEO! TikTok features video content that’s more snackable, instead of…

I went to buy Advent candles today. It was a big box store. The young employee had no idea what I was talking about.

“What are Advent candles?” she said, looking at me as though lobsters were crawling out my ears.

“Advent candles,” I clarified, using hand gestures. “They’re purple.”

This confused her. “You mean, like, candles for little girls' rooms?”

I have been celebrating Advent since I was a child. Long ago, you could buy Advent candles at Kmart, or Walmart, or anywhere for that matter. Back in the day, my grandmother bought our Advent candles at the drug store along with her Bengay and her unfiltered Camels. But times have changed.

One recent article explained how some stores are choosing not to celebrate “Christmas.” The article referenced the ongoing debate on whether stores should say “Happy holidays” versus “Merry Christmas,” or if the term “Christmas” should be discouraged altogether.

“Saying happy holidays is more inclusive,” remarked one store executive. “We don’t want to unnecessarily exclude shoppers by blatantly referencing religion.”

I wonder what employees say after someone sneezes.

So anyway,

usually I buy Advent candles online each year. I was supposed to do that this year, but I got distracted online and accidentally ended up ordering another guitar.

Still, Advent is an important celebration among my people. It’s part of my upbringing. I can remember lighting my first Advent candle in church pre-school. Miss Jeannie handed me a really long matchstick and sermonized in a reverent voice about baby Jesus, shepherds, and angels singing “Gloria is eating Chelsea’s mayo!” And that’s when she discovered her sleeve was on fire. I was held back for two years.

“Advent candles,” I explained to the employee again. “They’re purple candles, with one pink candle.”

“You mean like Jewish candles?”

“No. These are for Christmas.”

“American Christmas or Jewish Christmas?"

“Jewish people don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“They don’t?”

Oy vey.

So, the young…

She was a foster kid. Grew up in a group home. A place where you basically lived in a bunk. If you were lucky, you got to shower before the other kids drained the hot water tank.

Christmastime was especially difficult. Everyone else was with families. Meantime, you got various Dollar Tree toys and food on paper plates.

Our story takes place when she was 14. She was tall and gangly. Brunette hair, bad teeth. Her mom and dad were incarcerated. Neither family wanted her.

As it happens 14-year-old foster kids are not easily adopted. Potential parents would visit the home, meet the kids, and they never even asked her name.

Men wanted sons. Women wanted babies to cuddle, someone to call them Mommy. A 14-year-old was like a geriatric dog at the shelter. Too old to adopt.

It was one December when she was taking an after-school class that life changed. She was in Spanish club. She was pretty good at the

languages, but really, Spanish Club was just a way to prevent herself from going back to the group home for a few hours each week.

She was exiting the school, on her way to the carline, when she saw something by the dumpster. It was small and fuzzy. A little animal. Not a newborn, but a puppy nonetheless.

The animal was eating from a discarded fast-food container. One of those paper boxes a Big Mac comes in. I’m lovin’ it.

She approached the feral dog, which—let the record show—is a good idea. You never approach a strange canine who is involved in eating unless you want to be dessert.

But the animal was so little, so cute, she wasn’t scared, and the dog didn’t seem to know how to be aggressive yet. The puppy walked right to her.

It was a girl puppy. Brown all over with white…

I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.

I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

My father, the welder, took me to the audition after work. Before it was my turn to sing, he gave me a pep talk.

“Knock it outta the park,” he said.

I sang for the lady in the wire-rimmed glasses who held the clipboard. She was less than impressed with me.

“Stop singing!” she shouted, interrupting my song. “We’re looking for something else, I’m sorry. Next please?”

My father stormed forward from the back of the church. He looked like he was on his way to pick a fight with an umpire.

“Now wait a minute, Lady,” he said. “I demand you let my boy finish his song. He’s been working on it for weeks. What kind of heartless woman doesn’t let a kid finish his song?”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. She looked at my father like he’d lost

his mind.

She sat down and asked me to sing it again. I cleared my throat. I sang. I did much better than before. It wasn’t a home run, per se, but more like an infield single.

I got the part.

I was fifteen feet tall. Until that day I’d never done anything special with my life—unless you counted the noises I could make with my underarms. I was a chubby kid with awkward features, I was neither handsome, nor athletic.

But now I was a soloist.

It took months of preparation to get it right. Each day after school, I would rehearse for my mother in the kitchen while she made supper.

On the night of the performance, my father arrived home an hour late. He wheeled into our driveway, kicking gravel behind his tires.

My mother flew off…

The Cracker Barrel is slammed. And loud. Inside, there isn’t much in the way of elbow room. There are heaps of people. And I am trying to master the wooden Triangle Peg game.

The object of this game, of course, is simple. Leave the fewest pegs remaining on the triangle as possible. Finish a game with only one peg is left; you are a NASA-level genius. Two pegs; you are moderately clever. Four pegs; your parents are first cousins.

I love Cracker Barrel. But then, I have a long history with this institution. I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Beaverton, Oregon, to Prattville, Alabama. I’ve eaten here on Thanksgiving, the day I graduated college, the morning after my wedding, and the day after my father died. The food suits me.

The overhead music always has steel guitar in it. The people in the giftshop always ask how you’re doing. And if you’re bored, you can always embarrass your wife by buying a Davy Crockett hat and wearing it into the dining room.

Today, an elderly couple

is sitting next to me as I fiddle with the peg game. The old man is skinny. She is frail. They are shoulder to shoulder.

The man is wearing a hospital bracelet. His entire lower leg is in a medical brace. His face is bruised purple. There is dried blood on his forearms. He is resting his head onto the old woman’s shoulder because it looks like he’s been through hell itself.

She is helping him drink his Coke with a straw.

“Thank you, Judy,” he says between sips.

She just pats his head.

On the other side of the dining room is a table of paramedics. They are young, wearing buzz cuts, cargo pants, radios mounted on their shoulders. Their eyes are drooping, the coffee evidently isn’t helping. It looks like they’ve had a long night.

I eavesdrop on their conversation:

“What’re…

You’re going to make it.

I know you don’t feel great right now. I know you’re having a crappy day. A crappy month. A crappy decade. I know this isn’t your best life.

I know your whole world is falling apart. I know your father is dying of pancreatic cancer. I know your daughter just passed away from a drug overdose. I get it.

Your grandchild has life threatening bone cancer. Your car was repossessed last night. Your dog died. You’re ill.

Your husband cheated on you with a younger woman. Your dad has a neurological disease. Your mother passed away. Your mom died by suicide. Your son is going blind.

You have breast cancer. You’ve lost everything. You’re a young man who was convicted by a jury of your peers, and now you’re probably going to prison. You are an alcoholic, and you don’t know what to do about it.

You’re scared. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. The doctor is suggesting chemo.

At night, sometimes, you lie there wondering what the point is. Why keep living? Why live a life that’s nothing but pain? You’re starting

to lose steam. You’re starting to get tired.

I don’t blame you. But—and I want you to listen to me closely here—you are going to make it.

I actually believe this. Wholeheartedly. In fact, I would bet a million dollars on it.

Sadly, I don’t have a million bucks because I am an English major. So—let just me empty my wallet here—I will happily bet $11 cash that you are going to be okay.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

“This schmuck doesn’t even know me. How the heck can he know whether I’ll be okay? He’s just writing a bunch of hyper-emotional B.S. He doesn’t know my life.”

And you know what? To be frank, you’re absolutely right. For starters, I DON’T know anything, so how can I know whether you’ll…

I joined social media in my thirties. Back then, social media was still a new, exciting frontier. Sort of like outer space except no zero-gravity toilets.

In the early days, I used Facebook to communicate with friends. I reconnected with schoolmates and marveled at how everyone had gotten old except me.

Your deepest interaction with social media was sitting at a keyboard and tapping out something clever, or important, then hitting “Publish.” Posting important stuff was the whole point of social media.

Sometimes, I would spend hours just thinking up devastatingly important sentences, such as: “Due to inflation, the FDA says you may now eat food which has been on the floor for 8.9 seconds.”

These sentences were posted as “status updates.” Back then, your statuses were a kind of headline to the people within your inner circle.

“Today, I had math finals…” “This morning, I’m gonna ask her to marry me…” “I have a nasal polyp.”

But then, inevitably, your family

members started joining social media. People such as your aunt Eulah, who has a life-threatening humor disability. The same aunt who cannot visit a restaurant without developing a strong need to speak to the manager. Suddenly, this aunt could comment on everything you posted.

YOUR STATUS: Ugggh! Going to a job interview is the worst thing EVER!

AUNT EULAH: What about cancer?

Social media became a normal part of our lives. We were using social media all the time. Even in public.

Then, along came the era when people started taking pictures of their meals. This was followed by the era of mandatory family photos wherein everyone wore matching outfits for each major holiday, including Easter, Christmas, and the onset of daylight saving time.

This was briefly followed by the era of memes, when nobody actually posted anything, we just shared memes of Gene Wilder.

Then came the…

On Highway 67, atop Priceville Mountain, stands the Cross of North Alabama. The 121-foot cross stands proudly in a flawless blue sky, overlooking a rural Morgan County.

The base of the enormous cross is peppered in Post-It notes. All sizes, all colors. Flapping in the autumn breeze. These notes are prayers from those who visit the cross.

The prayers are written with differing standards of penmanship. Some prayers, you can just tell, are written in a teenage hand.

“God, why do I feel like I am not enough for myself or for anyone? Help me.”

“Help me not feel so ugly.”

“Help me make good decisions, not hang out with a bad crowd, help me love me for me.”

“Bring my family back together, God.”

Many prayers are written in Spanish. Others are written in memory of the deceased. A lot of prayers—a whole lot—are written in childish handwriting.

“My brother killed his self.”

“Dear God, I prying 4 u cause who prys for u?”

“For my kitten to get better.”

I met a young woman at the

base of the cross when I was visiting. It was a clear November afternoon. We were the only visitors in the giant pasture beneath the towering monument.

She was writing a prayer on a Post-It notepad. She said she was on her way to the Dollar General, but she had too much on her mind to go to the DG. So she came here.

“I come here a lot,” she says. “I only started coming a few weeks ago.”

She is a meek woman. Soft spoken and kind. She finishes writing on the Post-It and sticks it to the base of the cross.

“We’re going through a rough time right now,” she says. “When I come here, I write my prayers down, and I just leave them. That’s the whole point. To leave it all here.”

She tells me her son has…