‘Tis the season, or why Santa is a bear

Published 22, Dec, 2012
Author // Michael Bouldin

Has Michael Bouldin been a good boy or just wants a good boy? We are not sure, but his is another voice who questions Santa’s sexual orientation. And is Santa a bear? Read on

‘Tis the season, or why Santa is a bear

So Bob Leahy, that happy puppy (and editor of this site), emails me the other day and says, “Hey Michael, why don’t you write something light-hearted for the holidays? Something uplifting, easy, a present for all the poz boys and girls?”

Or something to that effect.

Well, ‘Easy’ is my middle name – not a word from the peanut gallery, please – and making Bob happy is one of my reasons for getting up in the morning (how the poor man puts up with me, I do not know), and it occurs to me that Christmas at least can be even more homosexualized even beyond the angels, elves and glitter everywhere, so here goes.

Think it through for a second: Christmas is all about consumption. Vast, awesome, garish and guilt-free consumption. So that’s our baseline, and you know what, I say go for it. If I’m going to have to listen to hundreds of god-awful, off-key renditions of Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer (how did he get that shiny nose, anyway? I have my theories about that little four-legged tramp), damn right there better be some material benefit. Note to boyfriend: iPad.

Then there’s the iconography. Poor Joseph; his wife gets knocked up, spins some likely cover about divine intervention (Mary must have hit him over the head with a menorah to get him to buy that story), and the poor guy winds up scurrying around ancient Israel looking for a hotel. Been there, done that, and where does the guy wind up? In a freaking leather bar avant la lettre. Really?

Or take the angels. Even as a little boy (maybe in a hint of things to come), I always thought they would have to be hot. Smoking gorgeous hot, chiseled faces, sculpted bodies, the kind of exquisite material any Catholic would be familiar with. Go to any church in Rome (or anywhere we’ve planted our flag of guilt, pagan art and lecherous clergy) and you’ll see what I mean. The Sistine Chapel might as well be in West Hollywood, and if the Cardinals had their way, it probably would be.

But Santa, now he’s a problem.

Start with the residence. Who in their right mind – sorry, Manitoba – wants to live at the North Pole? Unless you’re some survivalist freak gun nut (or Sarah Palin, but I repeat myself). Even the local bears seem to be tiring of the place, and small wonder: it’s melting.

His life/work arrangements likewise are suspect. There is apparently a Mrs. Claus, if one chooses to credit what seems fairly obviously a fabrication of some clever PR department.

But Mrs. Claus or not (now might be the right time to expound on the drag queen theory), the man lives surrounded by elves. Not Tolkien’s elves, mind you, the kind that wield swords, but a bunch of preternaturally happy, hard-working androgynous male children. What we further south call “twinks”, except for the happy and hard-working part.

Perhaps they’re the reason why he’s at the North Pole in the first place; the entire arrangement reeks of scandal, not to mention a deliberate flouting of the child labor laws that obtain in any respectable jurisdiction. Are there any paparazzi up there? Ravenous gossip blogs? No? I rest my case. If TMZ or Gawker were within a string of pearls throw of the place, we’d know the truth. As it is, we’re left with dark suspicions, vague innuendo and crucially, no sex tape. With the polar bears out of the picture, well, you do the math.

All of that said, you’ve probably met Santa; and no, I’m not talking about his deputies at the mall, vaguely disconcerting as they may be.

The simple fact is that Santa is a bear. A bit of a paunch, check. Excessive facial hair, likely stretching down his front and back into regions I don’t even want to think about, check. Thigh boots? But of course.

Face it: if you haven’t gone home with Santa yet (and I’m not ragging on you if you’d like that; no judgments), you’ve at least been asked, little cub. Forget about the presents: what kind of toys does the man really have?

Man, the stuff we do for toys. Happy Holidays. 

About the Author

Michael Bouldin

Michael Bouldin

Michael was born in California in 1970 – actually, hatched from an egg – and spent the next twenty years of his life hopping across the globe, wherever America saw fit to station troops for some inexplicable reason. In what was likely a fit of absent-mindedness, he acquired a Masters in Communications, Political Science and Comparative Literature from the University of Mainz in West Germany, probably because it was roughly equidistant to the clubs of Paris, London and Berlin. Along the way, he modeled, tended bar, wrote copy, ran an ad agency, got bored, and moved to New York City. He remains there today, making a living as a wordsmith and creative brain, all the while making sure nobody ever sees that portrait in the attic. 

Oh, and before he partnered up, he probably slept with your boyfriend.