As I’ve written in the past, I’m a Christmas person.  So I surprised myself a little a few days ago when my partner Jeffrey asked,

What about Christmas do you like so much?

and I couldn’t really come up with an answer.  This isn’t an unusual question when you consider that I don’t particularly believe that the series of events the holiday is meant to commemorate actually took place, or if they did, it was not in the way I was taught in a Sunday school classroom at Fox Hill Central United Methodist Church.  It was while I was trying to find an answer to this question that I had something of an epiphany, a secular epiphany but an epiphany nonetheless: my love of all things Christmas has very little to do with the New Testament and a great deal to do with A Christmas Carol.  It’s not the Gospel writers (whoever they may be) and the story they tell that fills me with joy this time of year, but Charles Dickens and the story he tells— a story of ghostly figures, overworked clerks, lame children, the unwashed masses and the possibility of redemption for cold hearted, unrepentant misers.

I seem to be clinging to this highly romanticized version of Christmases long past more than ever this year.  In all truth I have no affinity for things Victorian or any era prior to the advent of indoor plumbing and antibiotics.  However the elements that make up a traditional Yule seem all the more dear to me as I attempt to celebrate the holidays Los Angeles style.  As many of you know I relocated to L.A. this past May and this is my first Christmas season away from the Northeast. Contrary to the belief I held as a New York chauvinist, L.A. does indeed “do Christmas.”  But like much else I’ve found here, the rules of the rest of America simply do not apply.  A certain amount of the strangeness that is an L.A. Christmas has to do with the local landscape and fauna.  Palm trees wrapped in string lights and festooned with stars are lovely but loose a little something when they line the more rundown parts of Santa Monica Blvd.  And while L.A.’s official tree is a high concept light installation downtown, the bright red tree of light bulbs atop the Capitol Records Building is the closest thing L.A. has to a symbol of the season.  Of course, the stores are decorated (some beautifully) and that helps.  One of the things I’ve always loved about Christmas in big cities is its ability to transform mundane store fronts and office towers into things of wonder.

And then there’s Santa.

Unlike New York where the “real” Santa can be found on the eighth floor of a department store on the corner of 34th Street and 7th Avenue, there doesn’t seem to be any one place to locate Kris Kringle here in the Southland.  He could be any number of places and in any number of guises.  For sheer authenticity, my vote goes to the Santa at The Grove (an outdoor shopping complex near The Farmer’s Market); he certainly looks the part— big, real beard, and he’s got the jolly thing down to a t.  For sheer shamelessness, it’s The Beverly Center’s Hunky Santa and his Candy Cane Dancers who replace “Classic Santa” in the evening hours at the upscale mall.  Hunky Santa is indeed hunky.  He’s young and buff and oh yeah… shirtless.

Go on honey, tell the semi-clothed bodybuilder what you want for Christmas.

And what can one say about the Candy Cane Dancers?  Surely they will prove a welcome distraction for mall weary boyfriends and husbands who’d rather be at home watching the Lakers lose.  It must be a nice change of pace for the “dancers” as well, as relatively few holiday shoppers will shove a 20 in their underpants and ask them to “Make ‘em shake for daddy.”

But for sheer only-in-L.A. strange, nothing tops the “Scientology Santa” at L. Ron Hubbard’s Winter Wonderland on Hollywood Blvd.  This Santa lords over a beautiful re-creation of his famed Artic village and workshop worthy of any film in a usually vacant lot adjacent to one of the church’s Hollywood office buildings.  To their credit, there wasn’t an e-meter in sight, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.  Although I think one of the tourists behind me had a bad case of body thetans.  Either that or he was wearing CK One.

I have no doubt that my trials over Christmas, like Scrooge’s, will cause me to love the holiday even more.  Until then, I’ll play my Christmas music, light my tree, eat too many cookies, drink a good deal more than I should and read Mr. Dickens’ “ghostly little book” again and again.  And so to answer my beloved Jeffrey’s question,

What about Christmas do you like so much?

I turn to Boz and his Christmas Carol:

There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say… Christmas among the rest.  But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round… as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.  And therefore, … though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!

Peace

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

Weight gain over the holidays seems to be of almost universal concern.  Just check out some of this month’s magazine headlines: “SMART HOLIDAY SNACKING,” “HOLIDAY SURVIVAL GUIDE: STAY SANE AND HEALTHY,” and even “HOW TO STAY THIN THROUGH JAN.1″.  For a much more entertaining take on the same topic, read our own Bob Speck’s “…while visions of beef log danced in their heads.”

Of course, some of us lucky folks don’t have to worry about the temptation represented by mile-high towers of Christmas goodies— not because we are blessed with an extra dose of willpower, but because we have a tiny, constantly-growing creature inside us telling us what delicious yet harmful stuff not to eat.  My personal creature speaks through a list of verboten foodstuffs given to me by my midwife.  First on the list?  The demon alcohol, of course.  The spectre of possible birth defects makes it easy to refuse mulled wine, wassail, hot toddies, and even Aunt Mary’s killer eggnog.  Ditto for booze-drenched desserts like rum cake, tiramisu, Bananas Foster, even the seemingly innocuous, Dickensian, plum pudding.

Then there are the cheeses.  As a vegetarian who is unable go vegan because of a deep and abiding love for all dairy products, the idea of going without my favorite cheeses for 9 months is not one I readily embrace, but with the threat of an infection called listeria (which can cause miscarriage) looming over/around one’s uterus, forgoing the feta, gorgonzola, blue, brie, camembert, queso fresco and all the tasty dishes containing some amount of these scrumptious fat-vehicles doesn’t seem quite so tough.

Raw eggs are also on the “no-no” list (because of salmonella risk), and you might think avoiding them would be no problem.  Normally, it’s not, unless one is craving Caesar salad.  Since Christmastime at my house usually also means cookie-baking time (and thus batter-eating time), though, this one is more tricky than you would expect.

Even chocolate, that queen mother of all diet-breakers, becomes resistible when you are constantly reminded that the caffeine therein has been linked to premature birth and low birth weight.

So, forget about what they say in Self and Men’s Health; you ladies (and gentlemen, too, thanks to Thomas Beatie) only need do one small thing in order to resist the urge to overindulge this year: get pregnant!

Happy holidays, everyone. . .

Jeanine Casler lives, writes, and runs in Evanston, Illinois.

I spent this past Thanksgiving with Maribel and her family.  The twelve of us at the dinner table reminded me of the warm, loud holiday dinners of my childhood.  And just as in my childhood, I devoured dessert.  My only regret was that I left my second stomach at home and had to quit after the sixth slice of pie.  Yes, six!  I had three slices of the peanut butter cream cheese, two pumpkin and one pecan plus an extremely healthy serving of the best homemade whipped cream I have ever tasted (nice job Gaby!).

Every year we are inundated with articles and television segments about how to eat sensibly during the holiday season.  They tell us to snack on the carrots, not to drink on an empty stomach, to eat a healthy meal before going to that cocktail party and so on and so forth.

Now I may get my personal trainer card revoked for this but I say,

SCREW IT!  Eat Grandma’s coveted tapioca pudding.  Drink Uncle Bill’s Cadillac eggnog.  And how could anyone not try Tio Jose’s infamous chili-cheese nachos?

To my mind, this is the whole point of the holidays: feasting with family and friends.  It can be so emotionally rewarding to share in the communal traditions of the holidays.  And if you celebrate Christmas, how much more Christian can you get than the breaking of bread?

Of course, if you celebrate all twelve days of Christmas, feasting straight through to Three Kings’ Day, you will require a certain endurance.  Not to mention a touch more restraint than I will be exhibiting during the 36 hours of reckless abandon I will partake in this year.  My biggest splurge will be suspending my gluten-free diet and indulging in many a sorely missed Guinness with friends, oatmeal pancakes with family, and chocolate chip cookies with myself.  I rarely eat junk or drink beer but make an exception during the holidays when I gather with family and friends.  The pleasure of such commune greatly offsets the displeasure of my head and bellyache.

So as you celebrate this next week and a half, focus on what is really important: family, friends and feasting.  And if you see me this weekend looking a little swollen, just ask me how much I enjoyed getting that way.

Jamie Dreyer is the President of Further Fitness NYC.

I’m all for progress.  With the exception of cultural landmarks, I’m all in favor of clearing away the old to make way for the new.  At least I thought I was until last Monday night.  As a Christmas person (yep, one of those) I live for the annual broadcast of  those tried and true holiday specials that we grew up with: The Grinch, Frosty, The Little Drummer Boy, Nestor The Christmas Donkey.  I love them all.  There are, however, two of these juvenile epics I cannot miss:  A Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  So imagine my shock as I sat down to watch the gentle tale of  the round headed  boy, the little tree and  idiosyncratic dancing when instead I got something called I Want a Dog for Christmas, Charlie Brown.

A sequel. They made a freaking sequel?

Now as sequels go this one wasn’t bad. It sucked out loud.  Snoopy’s out-of-town brothers Andy, Marbles, Olaf and Spike?  Spike?  Linus’s little brother Rerun?  Rerun?  In the words of our hero,

ARG!

I can hear you gentle reader,

Dude, chill. It’s only a cartoon.

To which I reply,

Up yours! This is Christmas television we’re talking about.

It’s really very simple.  There is one and only one acceptable Peanuts Christmas special and it was made in 1965.  Any imposter specials are unnecessary, sick and wrong.

I’ll spare you an equally heartfelt tirade on Rudolph’s Shiny New Year.  Suffice it to say I didn’t much care for it.  The only Rudolph sequel I want to see is the one where Yukon Cornelius and Hermey the Elf declare their undying love for one another and open a bed and breakfast on The Island of Misfit Toys employing Bumble the Yeti as a pool boy and all around gofer.  I knew that something was up with that elf the minute I laid eyes on him at age six.  Maybe it was the hair.

I hear that they’re doing a remake of A Christmas Story.

Where’s my gun?

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

Dear angry reader,

I learned recently of your dismay at my column “Gobble Gobble Gobble.”

First, let me acknowledge that I broke a self-imposed rule with that particular blog.  No one really enjoys listening to a scolding writer, and I’m afraid that particular submission sounded rather grumpy.  Can I plead holiday overload?  (And for the other six of you that read the blog, yes, I realize that I’ve written at least one other blurb that sounded aggressively whiny, but I’m trying to do better).

Second, I wasn’t clear in my brief essay, a cardinal sin for almost all writers.  Here’s what I meant to say.  Advertisers encourage us to consume, whether we’re snarfing gas (on a global level) or nachos (on an individual level).  At the same time, the ad sellers persuade us to stare fixedly at televisions and computer screens, ensuring that we see more commercials for candy and soft drinks and monster cars, spending less time with each other.  To improve the situation and avoid the global and individual consumption, we should spend more time with friends and relatives.  We should focus on citizenship.  When we spend less time watching commercials, we will have fewer voices selling us on gas or nachos.  Good results will follow.

Third, I concur with virtually all of Allen’s response column.  After selling us garbage, those same advertisers are working to make us feel miserable about our bodies.  When they succeed, they sell more magazines (Have rock-hard abs!  Just by reading this article!! And buying a four-year subscription to this magazine!!!) and more diet books (Lose 95 lbs in Three Days on the pickle-and-ice-cream diet!!!!).  In other words, our culture sells us junk food, and then they sell us junk solutions (and they also commit atrocities with punctuation, but that’s my teacher personality squeezing out).

The actual solution, as Allen stated, is to listen to our bodies.  Listen when they ask for fruit, for tofu turkey, for exercise, for rest.

So, dear angry reader, I ask you now for one favor: if you are still upset with me, please post a message on the response board.  Argue with me.  Point out where I’ve been a doofus.  Vent.

But do continue to read Blog Further.  Even if I occasionally veer into a flailing diatribe, the other writers will always steer you well.  And I’ll do my best not to sound whiny.

Sincerely,

Robin

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.