By MICHAEL TITTINGER is Editor of the Daily Press and rarely peacocks around in red. He
Spoiler alert: This column calls into question the true identity of one Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus.
FINDING JUST THE RIGHT WORD TO describe the feeling one gets watching excited children and patient parents line up on the Third Street Promenade Tuesday to hoist the little cherubs up and onto Santa’s lap can be difficult donkeywork.
But I’ll take a shot: Creepy. The scene isn’t solely disturbing because of the promenade hedge dinosaur heads seemingly engaging in battle just over the perch of Santa’s makeshift headquarters, nor the 5-foot menorah planted in St. Nick’s immediate sight line, though they surely add some nonsensical nuance to the mise en scéne.
No, within the tent, cloaked in the crushed red velvet and furry white trim of Christianity, Father Christmas sits on his Teflon throne. No matter his vices, parents will undoubtedly run off the resident sugarplums and fill their offspring’s minds with heroic tales of the jolly one who plants himself in the middle of a mall for 10 hours at a time, inviting scared little children everywhere to find respite on his chubby little leg.
It’s surprising how many parents still urge their children to take a knee, given that the identity of the man donning the big red suit remains a mystery. Maybe that’s half the fun. In light of all the recent abuse scandals, they probably wouldn’t do the same with their neighborhood priest, a vocation which used to enjoy the complete trust of parents. But a rent-a-Santa at the mall? Sure, go for it, Billy.
It’s the familiarity of Santa Claus from when we were kids, from when we raced to the Christmas tree in the morning to see what he left us, that makes everything OK, no matter that the dude in a rental suit from Robinson Beautilities is a down-on his luck actor or an obese slacker we might ignore the other 11 months of the year.
Ask yourself if the guy pulling the 10-hour shift in the mall without bathroom breaks is the type of guy you would normally thrust your child upon in the first place? That Christmas magic makes us do some funny things.
Two weeks ago, actor Peter Graves joined the Santa Monica College Chorale and First United Methodist Church Chancel Choir singers for their annual holiday performance at the Wil-Mont church, interspersing readings that spoke to the true spirit of Christmas. One described how we are yearning to celebrate Christmas as we always did, keeping traditions we would discard at any other time of year, was our own inner child’s attempt to hold onto that holiday magic we seem to write and sing and reminisce about like we were a bunch of lame-ass Longfellows.
Actually, our collective freezing of Santa in time is what makes him a pretty cool figure in today’s politically correct, treat-everyone-with-kid-gloves, anal-retentive, afraid-to-say-anything off-color times. St. Nick is impervious to everything that changes around him, and therefore, is a man’s man if ever there was one.
Look at the man we’re putting up on a temporary cardboard pedestal — he smokes, he eats too much, he breaks into homes, he puts kids on his lap by the millions, he flies in restricted airspace, he defies sweatshop labor laws, he doesn’t pay taxes, he surrounds himself with groupies (ahem, elves) and puts Don Imus to shame by talking ’bout “Hos” like they’re on every street corner. Hold the eggnog and bring on the gin & juice.
Santa Claus basically thumbs his nose at every societal dictum, every governmental agency and every cultural taboo he can grasp with his frozen sausage fingers. He’s outrageous and flamboyant and peacocks around the ladies in a bright red suit that takes some serious snowballs to pull off. His confidence is admirable and defiance downright rebellious. The guy is his own nation, his own post office... his own man. In a sense, he is the epitome of the modern man — classic and unbending for anyone. Sure, he’s got a wife to whom he’s faithful, but he basically dresses her as he pleases and keeps her at home cooking and keeping house for him and his buddies. The guy should be pitching on a friggin’ Old Spice commercial, for goodness sake.
“Political correctness? I’ll stick that in my pipe and smoke it,” he seemingly sneers, before letting out another raucous, uninhibited belly laugh. God love ’em!
No wonder mommy was making out with him when the kids were fast asleep.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on December 12, 2007. Read the original PDF.