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Job Satisfaction.  The course evaluation said:  “Professor Connelly shouldn’t wear his summer khaki suit anymore. Olive is not for everybody and it’s certainly doing him no favors.”

The Problem.  Ebullience is a little less technologically advanced than white bread because after you squeeze a person’s spirit away for a while, it doesn’t just bounce right back to its regular size, it just stays squeezed away.

Everyday Heroes.  Maxine had nursed and mothered the morons in the English Department for more than twenty-five years, comforting those denied tenure and practicing shuttle diplomacy between warring factions on the faculty. She was even rumored to have disguised herself and defended a thesis years and years ago for a graduate student who was then on the first few weeks of what would turn out to be a decades-long psychotic break. And her defense of the thesis—“Reading Between the Lines:  The Overlooked Undercurrents of Loneliness, Solitude and the Inexorable March Towards Death in Anne of Green Gables”—was actually successful.

The New Trump Complex Slowly Takes Over the Neighborhood.  Nobody seemed to care that Ken lived on West Seventieth Street right next to the single most misguided piece of construction since the Leaning Tower of Pisa architects said—“Oh, plans schmans.”

Modern Dilemmas.  It was one of those complicated banquet arrangements that would give even someone like Emily Post a headache (See Suppers, Last, Seating Arrangements, Apostles Who Are Not Speaking.)