Beehive Bazaar

Christmas Blows Everywhere Except The Beehive Bazaar

I've been trying to ignore 2009's ever-impending holiday season since a few months ago. But yesterday I walked into a Smith's to get my nightly Bachelor Meal – one Totino's Party Pizza, one High Life tall boy and a pack of Pall Mall lights – and, to my dismay, heard Taylor Swift singing “Santa Baby” over the store PA. It's undeniable: Christmas is coming, there's nothing I can do about it, and I am officially in a pissy mood.

“Christ. Make that two packs,” I muttered to the shopkeep.
The plain and simple fact is that Christmas is only fun for the following people: small children, spoiled collegians, and orphans who are too socially awkward to have any friends or significant others. For everyone else, Christmas in America is a veritable Kilimanjaro  of obligation, guilt, financial acrobatics, and endless lines. There are the family visits which require a Marlon Brando level of method acting in order to uphold the flimsy pretense that you actually get along with the mutants who spawned you. There are the holiday parties, which, if not overpopulated with elderly lizard people, are overrun with Hipster Douchebags trying to one up everyone else on who has the most God awful Christmas sweater. Tacky decorations everywhere. Hoards of soccer moms who are morally prepared to shiv each other like prison denizens over the last Rocky The Robot Truck in stock. Every ounce of chimpanzee shit that TSA can fling at you, should you be masochistic enough to travel.

And then there are the presents. This is the sovereign bellyache. Because you have too many people who will all require a gift, if only to stave off the inevitable guilt you will feel when they show up at your door with a gift and walk away empty handed. All those friends, kind of friends, relatives and ex-girlfriends that you want to win back mean that you'll have to pinch pennies so hard that you can hear Lincoln screaming and wander around Borders looking for the right individual trinket to toss at all the ravenous mangy dogs you know. If you're like me, then Yuletide is one more reason to wish you were born a Yid, right up there with having a better shot at a Jewish Princess with overworked gums who squeaks when she cums.

But take heart, consumer! Because there is a way to skirt a significant portion of the nuisance in a few short hours. What miracle be this, you ask? Simple. Get in your car, get over the played-out arch-snobbery that keeps you north of Point of the Mountain, and drive your ass down to Provo for the Beehive Bazaar.

Spearheaded by Molly Call and Noelle Olpin, the Beehive Bazaar is a semi-annual craft fair for people who aren't dried-out old ladies. Not that dried-out old ladies aren't welcome, in case there are any grandmas out there who would actually venture onto SLUG Magazine's web site. But the Beehive Bazaar is definitely not the place to find aprons with tired jokes about diets and cat lady chotskies. Think of it as the place where all the coolest girls you know (and a couple of very talented dudes) get together and peddle their affordable homemade wares. In one fell swoop, a person can come to the Women's Cultural Center in Provo (310 W. 500 N.), get an armload of gift items and be done with Christmas, at least until next year. Don't be too optimistic. There will be some lines to stand in. But in these lines, people sell you delicious treats and there is a significantly lower number of screaming children. Take a look at what some of Utah's best and brightest are offering in the way of unique, interesting and just plain funky-ass crafts!

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