By Anna Pulley
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Erin Sherbert
By Rachel Swan
By Joe Eskenazi
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
Being a San Francisco native, I have only on very rare occasion experienced the traditional white Christmas with carolers, chestnuts, and candy canes. Frankly, I don't see the allure. For my money, there's nothing like sunshine, wine, and foolishness to generate good will toward men: In Córdoba, Spain, Christmastime is celebrated by the Dance of the Madmen, during which the chief-elect berserker leads a mob of deranged twinkle-toes bounding through town and whirling through people's living rooms, just to test the good will and humor of their neighbors. This celebration is outdone only by the Festival of Verdiales in Málaga, Spain, where thousands of people converge on an old mountain road to watch a marathon flamenco competition among 20 groups comprised of several hundred musicians. Apparently, volume counts almost as much as stamina. A somewhat quieter but far more ridiculous holiday tradition takes place in Oaxaca, Mexico. The Night of the Radishes commemorates the Spanish introduction of the radish, which grows very large and misshapen in this region, and of Jesus Christ, which grows very large and misshapen in almost any region. By day, local artisans spend tireless hours carving the spicy white flesh of the radish into intricate scenes from biblical stories and Aztec legends. As dark falls, cash prizes are awarded to the masterwork roots and the night explodes in a fireworks display that threatens life, limb, and pious loyalty.
Oh! What I wouldn't give for a radish Nativity scene and a small block of dynamite this holiday season! Sadly, I must settle for home-grown Christmas lunacy, which is, as always, in grateful abundance.
"Honey, I'll beat your ass with this stuffed candy cane!" howls 26-year-old Sherman "Sure, man" Manacoll. "Don't you think I won't!" Manacoll wields his plush toy with deadly accuracy, catching his friend Lu, a large queen with dishwater-blond hair, between the shoulder blades. Lu yelps and runs to the end of the long line waiting outside the Metropolitan Community Church for the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence's holiday installment of Ba-Da-Bingo!
"OK, OK," gasps Lu as Manacoll rains candy-striped blows upon her head. "I love Christmas. I love bingo. And I love you."
"That's better," says Manacoll, flicking his green pompom-trimmed scarf over his shoulder and tucking his weapon under his arm like a triumphant brigadier. "Let's get back in line. We don't want to get stuck with a blue blotter."
The giddy crowd huddles together in the brisk winter night as a Sister in festive holiday habit and full makeup scampers by shouting, "Good evening, darlings!" It's worth the wait: The hall is bright and cozy, strung with garlands and portraits of Sisters past, and the crowd is nutty. Just as the last of the 230-plus people settle into their seats, arranging their bingo cards and displaying their good-luck bingo talismans, the overhead lights go out. A pulsing dance beat fills the hall, accompanied by synchronized Christmas lights, which blink in rhythm across the balcony and over the stained-glass arches. The audience goes wild, clapping and hollering as five Sisters line up in the central aisle, waving flashlights like runway attendants as Sister Betty Does LNM comes in for a landing, a high and holy, fluttering bingo queen.
"We don't have spotlights," says Sister Betty through her beard, "but we make do."
Sister Betty nods at their decrepit old bingo cage, which has brought in over $25,000 for local charities over the last two years.
"We finally raised enough money for an automatic bingo machine," she says to great applause, "but someone flew a plane into a building so we donated that money to the Red Cross." The crowd moans.
"Thankfully, Andy and Bill wrote us a check."
Andy and Bill, who sit in the front row with daubers in hand, are invited onstage to accept honorary crowns. Sadly, in all the excitement of flipping the switch on "Ball-Bushka,"the new bingo machine (so named because it roars like a disabled Soviet jet engine), Andy and Bill forget their distinction and remove their crowns, the punishment for which is public spanking and, worse, smooching Sister Dana Van Iquity.
But all generosity, frivolity, and thrashings aside, the crowd is here to play bingo and win some holiday swag. Sister Sparkleand Sister Constance Craving pass out condoms and lube as Sister Kitty Catalyst OCPbegins the calling.
"If you've got amphetamines," suggests Sister Betty, "pop 'em now. You'll want to keep up."
"B-1!" But for the roar of Ball-Bushka, the hall falls silent.
"B-9!" A young man behind my seat cries, "Not malignant!"
"I-22!" A couple of serious players with multiple bingo packs and lucky trinkets shout, "Toot! Toot!"
"O-69!" The crowd erupts into hoots and catcalls.
"O-68!" A few men in the back row shout, "Tease!"
"I-18!" A gent in a Santa hat hollers, "You wish!"
The crowd shouts, "Oh, Daddy!" just as someone in the balcony calls out, "Bingo!" The rest of the players hiss loudly and throw their losing cards into the air. By game three, Lesbian Bingo (so named for the L-shape required to win), balled-up bingo cards lie across the floor ankle-deep, like colorful snowdrifts. By game eight, numerous folks have been flogged (one Canadian gentleman quite severely for squeezing his dauber until it exploded, and for being Canadian); several players have been awarded DVD players (for having nice hats and the like); cash prizes have been won (and returned for charity); and the entire crowd has had phone sex with a lonely queen living in Barrow, Alaska, without a movie theater, a bar, or a road out.
"It's the least we could do," says Sister Betty of the pornographic cell-phone call. "A little Sisterly charity for a poor soul stuck at the top of the world."
"It's all about giving," says Susan Duong, who chose to let the Sisters keep her bingo winnings. "And laughing."
"Tallulah hoards everything," explains chimpanzee keeper Francesca Fazio. "She's the dominant female, and she doesn't like to share."
Even before the San Francisco Zoo's holiday festival, Joy to the Animals, has begun, Tallulah is plotting, pushing her nose up against the window and watching her keeper's movements with a greedy eye. When the chimps are finally allowed outside, Tallulah completely ignores the burlap stockings hanging from the jungle gym; she makes a beeline for the Christmas tree, where she yanks every piece of red licorice from the boughs.
"She has a real sweet tooth," says Fazio. "She'll get ahold of something she's not supposed to have and she'll barter with the keepers for sweets. This is her favorite time of year."
Tallulah sits high on her jungle gym happily munching on red vines while Cobbymakes a territorial display, throwing sugar cane at the audience and tossing his stocking up into a tree.
"More for me," Tallulah seems to say as she fills up on Christmas treats.
Tunya, an adult male lion with tremendous paws, shambles up to the large stocking hanging from one of his trees and tugs. It holds, so he turns his attention to a snowman constructed of white bedsheets and stuffed with hay drenched in female lion urine. He sniffs a gift box wrapped in red paper lying at the snowman's feet and, using his claw, rips it open. His great nose disappears inside the box and comes up chewing a big chunk of meat. The early-morning crowd applauds appreciatively. Tunya knocks over his snowman with a playful swipe and devours the goodies inside, then turns his attention back to the stocking. He lies on his back underneath the sock, playfully batting at the package as a house cat might a Christmas ornament. Finally, the sock gives, spilling out rabbit hearts, watermelons, and rolls of paper towels. Tunya sits up, arranging the rabbit hearts between his paws and daintily devouring them. Then, with a happy leap and a rumbling purr, he shreds the paper towels, a behavior mimicked by smaller cats with smaller rolls of paper in households throughout the world.
Next door, two 9-1/2-year-old tigers fight over their gifts -- horse meat and squab wrapped in colorful boxes -- as if they are sibling rivals.
"They're brother and sister," confirms Lori Komejan.
At last, taking clawing cues from Tony, Emilymanages to open her own present and devour the contents. They both go to work on their stockings, with occasional play breaks to romp in the straw drenched in their favorite fragrance: Calvin Klein's Obsession.
It's a wonderful day at the zoo, and all the animals seem to know it. Perhaps it's the carolers singing at every bend or the decorations hanging from the trees or the smell of hot chocolate and roasting chestnuts rising from the food carts. Maybe it's the weird guy in the polar bear suit riding around on the zoo train. Whatever it is, the animals know what Christmas means, and they all have their own style: One polar bear charges at his boxes like a lunatic, scattering fish across the ground and lapping them up in great mouthfuls, while the other bear dips her head inside her box, genteelly pulling out one fish at a time. The "fish-cicles" -- blocks of ice filled with fruit and seafood and dyed red with fruit punch -- are similarly treated. One bear gnaws on his block, picking it up in his great jaws and dropping it, while the other licks it demurely, occasionally scraping ice away with her claw.
In the Asian elephant habitat, Tinkerbellis beside herself with excitement, staring at the piles of presents, which are just out of reach across the moat, while Calle, Tinkerbell's pal, is relaxed and content to play with her keeper. It's frustrating to Tinkerbell, you can tell. She paces back and forth in front of her pile of loot, waiting for her keeper's attention to be diverted, then stretches her trunk as far as it will reach, though she gets nothing for her efforts but a scolding.
"Back up," says Tinkerbell's keeper, "or no presents."
The 35-year-old elephant miserably backs away from the moat, never once taking her eyes off the gifts, and waits, but as her keeper carries the gifts over the moat, the anticipation becomes too much, and Tinkerbell begins to rock back and forth, tossing dirt in the air with her trunk, eyeing her keeper with despair. At the first quiet word of encouragement, Tinkerbell charges over to her pile of presents, all censors forgotten. She stuffs trunkfuls of red licorice into her mouth, and she stomps on her gift boxes, causing melon and fruit to explode in all directions. Tinkerbell shoves apples into her mouth, one after the other, and delicately scrapes the flesh out of her watermelon before shoving the rind into her mouth as well. She stomps on another box, uncovering a pineapple, which she cores with a perfect, swift yank of her trunk, much to the delight of the crowd, before also eating the core. By the time Tinkerbell is finished, the ground about her feet is sticky with fruit juice and she is vibrating like an overexcited child. Thirty-four-year-old Calle, on the other hand, has just started her second box, which she adroitly opens, using the tip of her trunk, before selecting one piece of fruit at a time. No mess, no hurry. Just like a little princess. Tinkerbell decides to eat her box.
"If Calle were a person," snorts Tinkerbell's trainer, "she'd be the kind to fold up the wrapping paper and save it."
As if in agreement, Tinkerbell snorts back, spraying watermelon mush on the nearest spectators.
"Nothing says "Merry Christmas' like getting sprayed with elephant snot," says a man in red scarf and earmuffs.
It's funny because it's true.