This is the second in a series of three. And if you are now the proud owner of a ceramic horse head, among other cheap crap bought for 99¢, then you probably read the first in this series: "Give the Gift of Cheap Safe Sex for the Holidays." Here I take an aesthetical tour of Hollywood Boulevard on Christmas day - so you don't have to...

It's a head-scratcher, in and outside the Christian kingdom. It's Christmas morning and gifts are strewn, breakfast is gobbled, and you've slipped into that abominable Christmas sweater only to conclude that you're not wearing it; it is wearing you. The clock strikes a mere 8 a.m. Now what? The whole town's shut down, practically everything, but for those perpetual twin engines of the American capitalist machine: 7-11 and Starbucks. But it's too early to look a Slurpee or eggnog latte in the face. Then from a couch across the living room comes the gnashing of teeth and you are reminded of out-of-town guests you've plied with coffee and sugar cookies. But even that old trick of stuffing them until comatose is foiled; they are from the Midwest and total pros when it comes to carbohydrate assimilation. You bellow silently: In name of sweet Jesus, on this most boring day of the year, what oh what doth I do all day? And how do I get these people off my couch?

These questions boggle not just the Christmas tree crowd on Christmas day. Also affected are the lazy and/or grumpy who make no attempt to celebrate at all, pissed at the entire concept. Then we have those who never bought into the idea that a flesh and blood man, after unconscionable bodily harm, could possibly emerge after three days trapped in a musty cave, with no ventilation!, totally refreshed and thoroughly resurrected. If you fall into none-of-the above then you're most likely from way out-of-town, somewhere like China. You say fuck Christmas; I'm here to see movie stars! But you bought the map and already drove by all their houses and remarked at what nice long driveways they have. That was in your Enterprise rent-a-car on Christmas Eve. So you too now join the Christmas morning chorus: Where oh where do we go?

Evidently, on this high and holy day, you go to Hollywood Boulevard! In all its grubby mayhem, the ‘vard was shoulder-to-shoulder mobbed on Christmas day, abrim with tourists, hucksters, hawkers, the drug addled, the luckless, the zealously religious, the zealously irreligious, the unimaginative, the reluctantly dragged and the totally bored. Among them were the inveterate Christmas day moviegoers who had come single-minded: to see Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Christmas day for this ilk was spent in the dark watching gooey-jawed aliens splitting skulls and removing brain matter with their teeth. Peace on earth!

But we focus here on the majority of folk who spent Christmas day alfresco, names of Hollywood stars imbedded in the filthy dirty sidewalks under sneakered feet. And which star, on this day of Jesus' fictitious birthday, got the most attention? If you guessed Jackie Chan then you are a cultural genius; he's probably as popular in China as Jesus is in the Western world. Forming an impenetrable circle, Chan-lovers took turns lying, kissing, posing, squatting and fawning over his star, making eternal his name in an endless flurry of snapshots. At one point I counted a dozen cameras clicking away, faces so full of joy that I wondered where Jesus would have ended up, with all his star-like charisma, if he hadn't been so involved in saving our blackened souls - and was born after the invention of film. Here, Jesus, this star's for you:

Working hard, or hardly, were the usual character actors posing for pics and hawking for tips. Yet today, a few were a bit starchy about the tipping part, demanding it in low growls, rather than ‘reminding' the bastard with the camera that posing in a shitty costume ain't done for free. I found myself reprimanded by The Grinch, and by some sort of slut in tall black boots, for not having my dollars out and ready. No man scares me, let alone a fat green one. But the slut lady reminded me of all the Catholic girls that beat me up in high school. Being scared to death that she'd follow me to my car, with her glitter whip, all I got was this passing shot of her evil boots. And a shot of the Grinch arguing with a layperson about how to get to the freeway. Good will to men!

Some actors, though, were dutifully cheerful, like Sweeny Todd, a lanky guy in whiteface. He showed up with a switchblade and a beat-up swivel chair. You could sit in it and have your picture taken as he pretend-slashed your throat. Here he prepares to slay a little blonde girl, who seemed to have no idea why her parents were making her do this macabre act of submission on Christmas day.

The Michael Jackson guy played his character without a speck of irony, which is how the real Mr. Jackson plays his life, so I'd like to report that everyone's on the same self-serious page. This Mr. Jackson spoke only to children (who intuitively kept their distance) in that paper-thin cotton candy voice that the real Mr. Jackson uses to speak to everyone, underage or not. I thank sweet Jesus for his sake that he could dance the signature dance, super fluid in the feet, which is a strict requirement of any Michael Jackson imitator worth his salt. Here, his tip basket and boneless ankles.

I'm not quite sure what the Phantom of the Opera was doing out here today, milking the limelight that wasn't, after the movie was released to blah success, what, a few long years ago. Nonetheless, this guy was one of the most buoyant of the actor/hawkers, ever ready to hand you a sword for a spirited joust. Here he attempts to thrust one into the spleen of Mr. Jackson who wanted no part of spontaneous playfulness, yet performed a Christmas day miracle circumnavigating the attack in character. 

Impractically, our friend Superman didn't show up with a little sack, like the rest of them do, for the cramming of tip money. Instead, he kept all his bills in an iron tight fist. I didn't get a chance to ask him about it; he was busy crouched down on one knee talking with great sincerity to some very young girls. But I think that perhaps his integrity for authenticity is what kept him from strapping a fanny pack across his ass. That would be so, like, lame. Here's a shot of his fist full of dollars at crotch-level - the crotches of superheroes being always, for me, an area of aesthetical fascination.

It is apparent that superstar actress Kirsten Dunst didn't make enough money swinging her way through all those Spiderman movies. Here she is hawking for tips prettily dressed as the Enchanted Princess. I'd like to add that she was the hardest working of all the actors out here on Christmas day, going the extra mile, crafting balloon sculptures which, I learn, is no mean feat: you must smile, talk sweetly, and pump the crap out of a balloon pump with all your skinny muscles working really hard, in effortless simultaneity. 

This brings us the "L. Ron Hubbard Winter Wonderland" across the street. Overhead looms a wordy sign about trust. Deeper into the display, I find out that the man who invented Scientology, based on trippy excursions into sci-fi, doesn't need to adhere to the strict logic of Christmas protocol when making his own goddamn Christmas extravaganza. Seated in this winter wonderland made of swirly fluff and fake gingerbread was Santa, lap-ready. Santa! I found this an irresponsible breach of Christmas tradition, if not a total confusion to the wee ones. Ostensibly, the dude's job is done by sun-up. This begs the question, why would a kid want to sit on the lap of Santa after the fact, but to complain about the gifts he didn't get? Why give a kid the chance to do a follow-up interview? And hey, isn't Santa on Christmas day day-old news? Unless, it's Scientological celebs Tom Cruise or better yet John Travolta up there on the platform of painted plywood, giving it up for the Ron-ster. Sadly, on close inspection this Santa was just some guy, and the whole thing a missed recruitment opportunity for Team Hubbard. All those bees and no honey! I left feeling a little gypped.

Just before skulking wearily back to my car, I am stopped by a young hawker selling CD's of his hip hop music, or maybe it was rap, or maybe he's the next Kenny G. Whatever! He was doing what the record-deal-less musicians do now, approach with headphones to cajole you into listening then buying what they churn out on their bedroom Casios. Being from Philadelphia, I am polite. So I said, No thank you, but good luck. "Good luck? Fuck that," he snorted, leaving me speechless in his trail of cheerless dust. 

And so. Thank you sweet Jesus for a day minus tinsel, shiny balls, and a perfect silver star atop a perfectly decorated tree. Would I do it again? Heck no. Next year I'll seek out far less grubby excitement, or maybe grubbiness in a more indoors kind of way, just me and my Duralog, burning faintly.   

 NEXT TIME: CHEAP JESUS! FINDING POST-HOLIDAY RELIGION FOR 49¢...

 ROBYN EWING is LA2DAY'S REPORTER OF AESTHETICS-AT-LARGE

 rae@la2day.com