There is nothing quite like Christmas in New England. I grew up in the winter wonderland of Connecticut. Chestnut actually roasted on my family’s open fire. Jack Frost nipped at my toes and fingertips. Somehow Santa Claus was able to deliver presents to my house every year, regardless of financial stress or blizzards.
Six years ago, I left New England for sunny Los Angeles, where Christmas would never be the same. Palm trees covered in holiday lights and weather record high of 85 degrees. (The Christmas Day average is 67 degrees, by the way.) Somewhere over Arizona, Santa has to switch into cargo shorts as he flies into Southern California.
LA’s attempt at Christmas is like McDonald’s effort to convince us that a McRib is, well, rib-like.
Here are my top 3 reasons why Christmas in Los Angeles doesn’t bring me holiday cheer:
#1 The Beverly Center’s Hunky Santa and his North Pole Dancers – “The Candy Canes.” (Did someone say, “Ho Ho Hoes?”)
Grab a drink at the Beverly Center Mall’s court bar on level six to watch the “talented” Hunky Santa and his North Pole Dancers, the Candy Canes. The Candy Canes ladies are dressed as holiday treats as they drop from the sky from aerial silk. (A couple weeks ago someone fell and broke many bones. Hopefully, that won’t happen again.) Take a picture with the topless, 6-packed Santa and don’t be surprised if you get coal in your stocking this year.
I don’t know about you, but I like a traditional Santa: elderly and obese.
#2 Ice skating at W Los Angeles-Westwood Hotel
Although I appreciate the W’s holiday effort, their backyard swimming pool is not an appropriate ice skating rink. My bathtub might do a better job and is almost the same size as their “rink.” Their ice isn’t really ice, it’s more like super high-density polyethylene plastic. So it’s as if you’re skating on a cutting board. And you can rent skates while sipping on a Cosmopolitan. (And if your Cosmo needs some limes, you can cut them on their “ice”).
Once again, I prefer the traditional Lincoln Center rink, minus the screaming children and the cloying heterosexual wedding proposals on ice. Hmm, maybe that Cosmopolitan isn’t such a bad idea after all.
#3 DWP Light Festival In Griffith Park.
The DWP light festival is a huge tradition for many people in Los Angeles. But I don’t know if DWP knows what the word “festival” means. Maybe they think it means being trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic for two hours with a lame lite brite display on the driver side of your car and a row of port-o-potties to your right (Gross, yes, but you might need one if you’ve been stuck in a car for two hours.) Hey, at least this holiday hostage situation is free.
Christmas is my favorite holiday but somehow living and celebrating it in Los Angeles has turned me into an Ebenezer Scrooge. Bah! Humbug!
P.S. I’m going to see Hunky Santa and his Candy Cane hookers in an hour. I can’t WAIT!
