Oh, the scenery outside is frightful...
Okay, so, the big day has come and gone. The candy sugar buzz and turkey tryptophan have probably worn off, and we're all just sitting around, dreading the renewed onset of reality.
I don't think I'm obnoxious about it but inwardly, I'm a cynic, holiday-wise. For one thing, I always resent the idea that I'm supposed to feel or celebrate some idea or happening because the calendar says so, instead of when I am moved to. Why should I celebrate romantic love on February 14th, or my Dad in the middle of June? It only means something if it's actually motivated. My mom's birthday is a week from Mother's Day, and when I was growing up I was obligated to buy two presents back-to-back if I wanted to keep my mom from having a total meltdown at how none of us loved her. The fact that she had a meltdown practically every day of the week and twice on Sundays and was often the farthest thing from being "celebrated" at the time was irrelevant--buy her the damn present or face more torture. Not that she as a person didn't deserve appreciation back then, no matter what her mental state, but dammit, it sure felt like a form of blackmail. Now my mother's in 300% better mental health, and I very much appreciate appreciating her. The other day I had a free pass to a screening of something I thought she'd like, complete with a celebrity panel talking about it afterward. She came out and we had dinner together in a new-to-her restaurant she adored and, in general, a totally lovely evening. If I had listened to the calendar about what to celebrate that day, I guess we would have both stayed home.
I suppose I'm just big on actions actually meaning what they profess they do. To me, the reason for most holidays is about a million miles away from the modern celebration of them. I view what I see as the "real" motives and feelings being played out and get mildly depressed at the pettiness and meaninglessness that gets lauded as "Christmas spirit." A few Christians might hammer you with "Jesus is the reason for the season" sentiments (usually preached from such lofty heights as say, garage door decorations), but these days, I've joined the ranks of those that take theological issue with the stuff I was taught growing up. Where I used to be able to piece together some actual significance, now every Christmas item I see holds something that clashes with my perception of what the world's really about.
I thought about writing a big long post getting more specific about that. And maybe some day I will. But I'll get less depressed if I just make fun of Christmas decorations.
First off, an update, as my next-door neighbor has offered yet another "interesting" seasonal interpretation outside her door for the last two weeks:
I don't really know how the stolen laundry hamper features in--maybe it's all really deep. Maybe the whole thing's a really post-modern nativity scene, man, and the laundry hamper represents a manger. And it's empty, man, like we all are. ::drinks espresso, adjusts beret::
Look more closely--you can't really see all the carefully cultivated dust, but you can see the inexplicably pink-tipped leaves. My cute little gay boy neighbors call it the Pepto Bismol tree.
And then there's the cutesy office crap one finds--at all times of year, really, but none more than now. Nobody does inexplicable, cavity-inducing decorations like secretaries. To support this theory, I offer Exhibit A:
Hark! It is the anniversary of the birth of our savior! It's only logical that I will adorn my cubicle with a strangely humanoid deer-creature wearing a sweater and kicky boots!
I will give him an oddly benign expression and an ankle bracelet. He will straddle a picture of mine to keep this important talisman in close proximity yet block his crotch from my view. Thus all will know my joy that He is born!
Hmm, what else can I do to express my gratitude that God has sent me his only Son? I know!
I'll enjoy the sight of Santa's disemboweled lower half, filled with paper clips! Oh, how his mutilated yet strangely-still-clothed corpse will fill me with glee--AND give me needed office supplies!
Okay, so those are things I hate, But then there's the cheesiness I love. Like that house in Hancock Park with all the David statues...
...about which I will blog properly later--this picture doesn't do it NEAR justice. But see, when I started to take pictures of it the other day my camera's batteries gave out, so I'll have to go back. I'm pretty much sure it's been blogged to death, but there's something so FANTASTIC about this guy's unapologetic bad taste, that it just makes me too happy not to add my $.02.
And then there's the best holiday thing that's ever happened, ever, captured by my friend the Kennedy Kabasares at the Grove the other day:
As Kennedy says: "It's a TINY FAKE CHRISTMAS TREE TIED TO THE ROOF OF A V0LKSWAGEN B33TL3!"
OMG, so, so worthy of the Snoopy dance. I'm sure my flist will get the wonderfulness. But yeah, to some, I find my Christmas joy in strange places. But I think the same thing of most other people. So we're even.
I don't think I'm obnoxious about it but inwardly, I'm a cynic, holiday-wise. For one thing, I always resent the idea that I'm supposed to feel or celebrate some idea or happening because the calendar says so, instead of when I am moved to. Why should I celebrate romantic love on February 14th, or my Dad in the middle of June? It only means something if it's actually motivated. My mom's birthday is a week from Mother's Day, and when I was growing up I was obligated to buy two presents back-to-back if I wanted to keep my mom from having a total meltdown at how none of us loved her. The fact that she had a meltdown practically every day of the week and twice on Sundays and was often the farthest thing from being "celebrated" at the time was irrelevant--buy her the damn present or face more torture. Not that she as a person didn't deserve appreciation back then, no matter what her mental state, but dammit, it sure felt like a form of blackmail. Now my mother's in 300% better mental health, and I very much appreciate appreciating her. The other day I had a free pass to a screening of something I thought she'd like, complete with a celebrity panel talking about it afterward. She came out and we had dinner together in a new-to-her restaurant she adored and, in general, a totally lovely evening. If I had listened to the calendar about what to celebrate that day, I guess we would have both stayed home.
I suppose I'm just big on actions actually meaning what they profess they do. To me, the reason for most holidays is about a million miles away from the modern celebration of them. I view what I see as the "real" motives and feelings being played out and get mildly depressed at the pettiness and meaninglessness that gets lauded as "Christmas spirit." A few Christians might hammer you with "Jesus is the reason for the season" sentiments (usually preached from such lofty heights as say, garage door decorations), but these days, I've joined the ranks of those that take theological issue with the stuff I was taught growing up. Where I used to be able to piece together some actual significance, now every Christmas item I see holds something that clashes with my perception of what the world's really about.
I thought about writing a big long post getting more specific about that. And maybe some day I will. But I'll get less depressed if I just make fun of Christmas decorations.
First off, an update, as my next-door neighbor has offered yet another "interesting" seasonal interpretation outside her door for the last two weeks:
I don't really know how the stolen laundry hamper features in--maybe it's all really deep. Maybe the whole thing's a really post-modern nativity scene, man, and the laundry hamper represents a manger. And it's empty, man, like we all are. ::drinks espresso, adjusts beret::
Look more closely--you can't really see all the carefully cultivated dust, but you can see the inexplicably pink-tipped leaves. My cute little gay boy neighbors call it the Pepto Bismol tree.
And then there's the cutesy office crap one finds--at all times of year, really, but none more than now. Nobody does inexplicable, cavity-inducing decorations like secretaries. To support this theory, I offer Exhibit A:
Hark! It is the anniversary of the birth of our savior! It's only logical that I will adorn my cubicle with a strangely humanoid deer-creature wearing a sweater and kicky boots!
I will give him an oddly benign expression and an ankle bracelet. He will straddle a picture of mine to keep this important talisman in close proximity yet block his crotch from my view. Thus all will know my joy that He is born!
Hmm, what else can I do to express my gratitude that God has sent me his only Son? I know!
I'll enjoy the sight of Santa's disemboweled lower half, filled with paper clips! Oh, how his mutilated yet strangely-still-clothed corpse will fill me with glee--AND give me needed office supplies!
Okay, so those are things I hate, But then there's the cheesiness I love. Like that house in Hancock Park with all the David statues...
...about which I will blog properly later--this picture doesn't do it NEAR justice. But see, when I started to take pictures of it the other day my camera's batteries gave out, so I'll have to go back. I'm pretty much sure it's been blogged to death, but there's something so FANTASTIC about this guy's unapologetic bad taste, that it just makes me too happy not to add my $.02.
And then there's the best holiday thing that's ever happened, ever, captured by my friend the Kennedy Kabasares at the Grove the other day:
As Kennedy says: "It's a TINY FAKE CHRISTMAS TREE TIED TO THE ROOF OF A V0LKSWAGEN B33TL3!"
OMG, so, so worthy of the Snoopy dance. I'm sure my flist will get the wonderfulness. But yeah, to some, I find my Christmas joy in strange places. But I think the same thing of most other people. So we're even.