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In This Issue

• Positively Sino-Soidal
• AIDS, SARS, Avian Flu... Bean Curd?
• A Paradoxical Paroxysm of Pancakes
• Letters to the Editor
• International Yuks
• Après Moi, Le Corbusier
• Get a Free Bobblehead, for a Limited Time Only!
• The Sweet, Sensual Twang of Success
• Shut Up, Shut Up.
• To Sachs With Love
• Santa's Grottos Steal X-Mas
• Broad Goes Abroad to Paris
• A Lesson on Father Christmas
• Hugo Chavez in 2008: He’ll Crush Us Like Grapes!
• Martha’s Civil Unrest Tips
• Politics: Opiate of the Asses
• A Plan to Unite Humanity Without Using Glue
• Mad Cow: All the Cool Kids Are Contracting It
• Things Around the World on Which to Pee
• Trapped in the Closet (Deleted Scene)
• Mario Around the World!
• THEY WATCH
• The Staff of 21.4

Michael Bredin

It is that time of year again when everywhere I go I feel the Christmas Gods jumping on my head, gouging my eyes with their pointy elf shoes.  In every store I am covered in fake pine and engulfed in Christmas ballads.  It's all okay until the Duane Reade employee can't hear me scream "Where do you hide the tampons?" over Regis Philbin‘s cover of "Jingle Bells."  Yes, Regis made a Christmas album while wearing a tuxedo, according to the album cover, and yes, I find this latest development in the Regis Philbin phenomenon disturbing, yet somewhat enticing.

     The last time I feigned interest in Christmas was when I begged my mom to let me buy a Chanukah Bush for the living room, to be decorated with a tasteful blue and white Jewish star ensemble.  My mom denied me this request and forcefully threw out the tumbleweed-to-be-Chanukah-Bush I had brought in to the house from the dirt lot next door.  Ever since, I have had disinterest bordering on severe disdain for the holiday.

    That is, until I found Europe's best kept holiday secret: Santa's Grottos!  I first encountered one in London, where I was studying at the time.  As I meandered through the shopping tourist area known as Covent Garden, I came across a hamlet of little wooden shacks.  Each shack was selling a different thing, whether it be some warm cider or hand-carved wooden animal figures, that I could buy as a gift then take home to wrap and ask "What the hell was I thinking buying this shitty little wooden monkey for my grandmother?"

    I left London in mid-December for some winter traveling and you wouldn't believe what I found in every single place I went.  If you guessed prostitutes standing in windows, you're right.  But no, silly, I found Santa's Grottos everywhere!  Santa's little slum workshops are a ubiquitous craze across Europe.  Who thought crappy wooden shacks selling cheap fair food and local arts and crafts could be such a runaway success? Then again, who knew an electronic ball of fur that yelled "Furby!" abusively at young children when it wasn't being petted would have such wide appeal?

   There was a breaking point in Bruges, Brussels when I hit my Santa's Grotto limit.  The problem was that after nine p.m., there was little else to do in the charming town besides loiter around the grotto.  It was my third night of having grotto shrimp skewers when my traveling partner and I shared a stand-up table with two older men also enjoying the grotto cuisine that night.  We heard American accents from our dining companions and abided by the universal law that when you hear your native tongue while traveling on foreign soil, you must make empty conversation.

    "Oh! You guys are from the US," said the more gregarious shorter man.

    "Yeah. Where are you from?" I asked.

    "San Francisco," said the shorter one.  The two men were obviously flaming and though I knew the answer, I asked anyways:

    "Oh, what part of San Francisco?"

    "Well, my name is Gary and this is my partner Patrick and we live in the Castro!" the shorter one exclaimed.  

    "Cool," we said.

    "Would you like a bite of my sausage?" Gary asked my male traveling partner, as he leaned over the table with his sausage roll combo.

    My male companion kindly refused, and refuted Gary's insinuations that he was uncomfortable around homosexuals by confessing he was actually a vegan.  We chatted for a while, but eventually it got awkward as most conversations with people you just met sans alcohol do.  That stood as my final trip to a Grotto, mostly because I couldn't ingest another shrimp skewer or sausage sandwich, and I had already visited each craft shack with enthusiasm twice over.

    While I tired of Santa's Grottos abroad, I am considering bringing them to the states, shacks and European shack workers in all.  It is not that you can't get the same low-level wood carvings or fast food here.  I just think the unique Grotto experience offers up a special atmosphere that puts the spirit back into the place in our hearts where Duane Reade now puts a Regis Philbin Christmas album (and a tampon).