by Gwenda Bond
So why is it that the holidays always feel apocalyptic? It can’t just be those grand fictional memories–you know, like what happened to Kate’s dad in Gremlins (”That’s when I noticed the smell.”). I firmly believe the Mad Max people missed an opportunity for some holiday crossover action (put that in your four quadrants and smoke it).
No, there’s something particularly bomb shelter in nature about the holidays’ particular brand of forced jollity and surprise, the frequent return to the too-close quarters of a car or plane, the silent desire of everyone to be somewhere else even if it’s only asleep. The neverending parade of desserts like a demented dream plucked from some underweight starlet’s head. The unceasing DREAD. Come on, this can’t be just me, can it?