So what if it’s a made-up holiday? Festivus is cheap, funny and irreverent. It has rituals and its own songs. But nobody squawks if you ignore them. And if you throw a Festivus office party, nobody feels excluded — unless you count the people who just don’t get it.
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Festivus may be the first holiday spawned by TV. Credit “Seinfeld” character Frank Costanza
Jerry Stiller), who in the Dec. 18, 1997, episode introduced “A Festivus for the rest of us!” as an alternative to the distorting materialism of Christmas.
As evidence, he recounted when he wrestled another department store customer to the ground over a Christmas doll, destroying it in the fracas.
For all of its knife-edged satire, Festivus struck a nerve that is still jangling eight years later. People named their cats, beer, ice cream, workout routines, even playoff seasons Festivus. One Festivus cat gave birth to a kitten that was named Microfestivus. Festivus blogs have sprung up. Google hits have climbed into the hundreds of thousands.
But most of all, people created their own Festivus parties — a serious case of life imitating art. With “Seinfeld” reruns in a near-continuous loop, new adherents are baptized every year. Festivus especially caught on in the Midwest, said Allen Salkin, author of “Festivus: The Holiday for the Rest of Us” (Warner Books, 2005, $14.95).
“If you live in a place that is repressed or intolerant, you can come up with this smart, clever alternative,” said Salkin, a New Yorker. “It’s a lot of fun. But there’s a statement that comes with it: `I’m sick of you telling me what to do.”‘
People are exhausted by the expectations of costly gifts, attendance at parties and the nice things they’re supposed to say to people they don’t like, Salkin said.
“You go into somebody’s house, and they have this aluminum tree they bought four years ago, and it’s incredibly ugly. You’re expected to say what a beautiful tree it is, as if otherwise you’re insulting who they are as people and their religion. And you’re supposed to bring these people with the ugly tree a gift that costs $50.”
In designing Festivus rituals, the Costanza character borrowed from the most odious of real-life family traditions. He took the aluminum tree and reduced it to its essence: an unadorned foil-covered pole.
He took fractious family fights during holiday dinners and created the ritual “Airing of Grievances.”
And to clear the air after nasty disclosures, he proposed “Feats of Strength.” On the show, Frank recounts how his son, George (Jason Alexander), has disappointed him, going nowhere with his life. Then father and son wrestle to exhaustion. Frank wins.
“Imagine, with Festivus you walk into somebody’s house and they have a pole, which is obviously ridiculous. It invites you to say whatever you really feel,” Salkin said. “By praising the pole, you show you’re in on the joke.”
According to “Seinfeld” orthodoxy, the party doesn’t end until the head of the household is wrestled to the ground and pinned. But inventive Festivus revelers count almost any activity as a feat of strength: mechanical bull riding, Hula-Hoop contests and thumb-wrestling while outfitted with tiny wrestling masks. One group in Missouri has participants hold their breath in a pail of ice water. The record: three minutes.
Part of our culture
“`Seinfeld’ is part of our everyday culture now. You hear people quote the show all the time — `not that there’s anything wrong with that,”‘ said brewer Jeff Williamson, whose Town Hall Brewery in Minneapolis created a Festivus beer last year. “People who are in tune to the `Seinfeld’ culture knew exactly what we were talking about.”
There’s something hip, inclusive and cathartic about Festivus that appealed to Carolyn Reisberg, 42, facilities manager of the Great Lakes Aquarium in Duluth, Minn. She grew up Lutheran in Minneapolis, but now she considers herself spiritual but not religious.
For years, Reisberg’s friends held an “orphans” holiday party for friends who couldn’t — or didn’t want to — go home. Seven years ago, they renamed it Festivus.
“We don’t buy into the whole Christmas theme of buy, buy, buy and people getting trampled to buy Tickle Me Elmo,” Reisberg said.
Festivus is a push-back to “how we were raised — this expectation of gifts, I’m going to get this for Christmas, but Santa is watching and won’t come through with presents if you’re bad. It’s preposterous!”
Reisberg laughed uproariously when she first saw the Festivus episode.
“I think people relate to it because we had so many painful experiences at Christmas,” being reminded that they didn’t turn out the way their parents had hoped, she said.
Their Festivus gathering at “Hippie Dick’s” studio in Duluth starts at 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Reisberg knows that’s at variance with Festivus orthodoxy of Dec. 23. But it’s perfect for latecomers who use it to decompress after family gatherings.
Feels like Mardi Gras
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For them, Festivus feels like Mardi Gras. People arrive in wild costumes, bearing food and beverages. Rod Stewart, a Duluth character who looks like the singer, usually makes an appearance with his bubbly wife. There’s the tattoo master and folks from the local art scene. Friends who have moved away return. Local musicians jam downstairs. Dogs run loose. And random people wander in from the street.
“It’s not as organized as it sounds. It’s more self-inflicted,” Reisberg said.
There’s no pole. Nobody has been organized enough to get one.
“But those of us who are educated about Festivus understand the significance of the pole because it’s so bare and lonely and cold,” he said.
The airing of grievances is voluntary and often forgotten.
“We drink and laugh and talk about our own shortcomings. We use humor to highlight the negative — failed relationships, getting fired, your car died. You have to laugh at yourself just to get through this life because it’s so strange,” Reisberg said.
“I think Festivus is a statement to the human spirit, that in amongst all this muck we can still function.”