Temporary Structures, Tiny Tim’s Tinny Screeching, The Heroism of Live Theater, And An Ill-Considered Llama

The winter after I turned four, the Scientologists set up their first Christmas display on Hollywood Boulevard, a beautifully campy confection with the nondenominational theme “L. Ron Hubbard’s Winter Wonderland.” Santa, the patron saint of Nondenominational Winter, sat on a red velvet throne in front of a backdrop of ice-covered mountains. Over the years the set was upgraded to include a gingerbread break room for Santa and behind it, a two-story painted backdrop of the Hollywood Hills reimagined as an Alpine village, dotted with steep-gabled cottages and covered in snow, all surmounted by the Hollywood Sign.

My parents wouldn’t let me visit Scientology Santa, who handed out free copies of Dianetics along with miniature candy canes. Once at the laundromat, my mother caught me filling out one of those Scientology personality quizzes and reacted like she’d found me playing with a loaded gun.

“I wasn’t going to mail it in,” I protested.

“Still,” she said.

Finally she allowed me to fill in the lengthy quiz (I was very bored at the laundromat) as long as I promised to not put my name or address on it anywhere. “Never give Scientologists any personal information” and especially never give them your home address, or else they’ll show up at your door. We thought of Scientologists as something akin to vampires: never invite them in.