BEWARE THE BEARD

Santa Claus gives me the creeps. Maybe it's because I'm a Jew in a Christian world. Maybe it's because I grew up virtually gentile for a large portion of my childhood. Flocked trees, plastic trees, ham encased in jiggly gelatin inside rusting tines, fake fireplaces with low-wattage yellow bulbs hiding behind accordion-textures cardboard. And Santa Claus. And that big, white, fucking beard. He's the whitest of wonder bread. Jesus. He's everywhere.

I've told the story before, but my "greatest" Christmas memory is when, at 12, I was sent by my gentile step-relatives to pick up beverages at that liquor store on Overland near Palms, the one with the duck on the sign, while the gifts were being opened. Sneaking into the Vatican to see the Pope for Midnight Mass with a consumed bottle of wine on Christmas Eve, 1986, gets an honorable mention. 

When I finally grew up, in my mid-30s, I became more interested in my Jewish faith, largely because it was important on my soon-to-be wife. We took it slowly, hitting the high holidays at the Shofar Group service, held at the DGA on Sunset. Rabbi Jan was our master of ceremonies, and he was the perfect Hollywood rabbi; his flock included many sitcom third bananas, so it almost felt glamorous. It was Jew-lite, but it helped me get a grip on what has become a fairly significant portion of my life. Now we belong to a conservative synagogue (though I admit I sometimes still have trouble wrapping my brain around that).

2008: Two superconsumers -- ages 6 and 3 -- run roughshod around our Valley Village crip. Chanukah is an every-five-minute discussion. Thank you, TV. You help pay my bills, but you are the fucking devil. (Though I will admit, I did Tivo something called Sex Change Hospital on the title alone.) Commercials are evil. "I want that" has replaced "hello," "please," and "thank you" in the kids' lexicon. And if we don't acknowledge their televised bloodlust, there is additional hell to pay. But I have it down to a science. I look up at the tube for a millisecond, say "ok," and that seems to satisfy them, at least until the next advert pops up. 

They're well-verse in Chanukay because they both attend a Jewish private school. Yet during those odd moments when we venture outside the house or school, we are bombarded with Santa Clause. And Santa Claus is like crack to my kids. 

We were at the horribly useless (except for H&M, my wife assures me) Americana mall in Glendale last weekend. It's bad enough that the very-good-but-still-overrated Katsu Ya opened a Eurotrashy outpost of their sushi empire there -- are they becoming the Chan Dara of sushi? Just asking -- but they've also put up one of those scary Santa's Workshop things in order to extort parents for big cash for cheeseball photos of the little ones sitting on the old guy's crusty lap. 

Of course, Emmett, my 6 year old, wanted to check it out. He wasn't totally psyched about it or anything, but maybe he thought there might be free candy (always worth a long wait in line). Or maybe it was like a science field trip -- to see how the parallel universe lives. Or may it was to have that reference in his memory for a punchline of some sort later in life.

We waited in line for about ten minutes before we were ushered in to meet with The Great One. By this time, we were joined by my wife, Carrie, and my daughter, Liv, 3. Liv was smartly freaked out by the fat guy in the red suit who wanted her to sit on his lap. Good girl. Instead, she clung to my leg, gawking at the spectacle of her brother -- the kid does homework that's entirely in Hebrew -- sitting on the lap of the embodiment of crass Goy-dom. 

I sensed Emmett regretted it as soon as he reluctantly got on the rent-a-Santa's knee. It was a proud moment, I must say. Santa had to work for his minimum wage with my son. Emmett didn't immediately cough up what was on his wish list. (Just ask me. I have it memorized.) Finally, he admitted he wanted video games. But when the guy asked if Emmett had been good this year, my boy paused. His expression was one of: And exactly why should I be telling you this? To his credit, Emmett told the truth. "Sometimes," he said.

I figured Emmett knew he could be honest. After all, he got his lollipop. And he knew Santa wasn't the guy he had to butter up in order to get what he wanted.