Way back from Santacon 2005
Last night was the 2005 Wilmington, NC Santacon. An idea that arose nearly 10 years ago. I am not sure what the exact origins or backstory of the event are but I am certain that it involves a creative mind with a van and lots of hard drugs. It is an event of pure hedonism and confusion, the idea being to collect as many people with Santa suits and slow survival instincts as possible, throw them all in vans with lots of alcohol and run amuck in a city.
As the night began, I had just gotten off work. I had nearly forgotten about the glorious night ahead of me and therefore had only a few hours to locate a Santa suit. After hours of fruitless driving, cursing, and homocidal thoughts in the crowded isles of department stores, I finally ended up with a pair of red sweat-pants, a matching sweat-shirt, a hat, a bag of cotton, and a stapler. After twenty minutes of stapling and more cursing, the collaboration of my mind and hands had produced a crude, grim semblance of Ol' Saint Nicks attire. Three attention deficit children working in a room lined with TVs each playing a different episode of Barney could have done better. But I was late and had no time for such frivilous accessories as accuracy.
On the way to the Gypsy, where all of the Santas were to meet, I wondered how in the hell I would ever be able to talk myself out of a ticket in the event that I should get pulled over. Upon my arrival I was greeted by one of the most confusing sights my eyes had ever had the pleasure of taking in. Thirty or more flamboyantly dressed, jolly, fat men all standing outside of a bar, removing their cigarettes only to slam back a beer. This is surely the true meaning of Christmas. We were all to assign ourselves Santa Names by applying a Santa name tag. Since I was wearing enormous aviators I could have pulled off Ted Kazenski Santa, and because of the fact that my proverbial "bowl full of jelly" consisted of a bookbag worn backwards that was hanging out from under my shirt as if I were in labor, C-section Santa was also a possibility. However because of the shoddy state of my suit (the cotton was falling off leaving diseased-looking patches of fur everywhere) the decision was narrowed down to Mange Santa, Rabid Santa, and several other delightfully offensive disease-laden names. Seeing as how after all of this deliberation I no longer had a full fur lining I finally settled on Prepubescent Santa.
The event was kicked off by a foot-race to the liquor store. A fitting beginning seeing as how the remainder of the night would be spent by us drinking the products of this race out of Windex spray bottles and various other house-hold cleaning product containers. Once all Santas were carrying brown paper bags and looking sufficiently homeless, we loaded up into two vans, only one of which had seats. Since I ride in a car that has seats all the time I decided to change it up a little bit and ride in the paddy-wagonesque seatless van. Sitting on the floor of a seatless van with around 10 other people all dressed like shitty, dollar-store knockoffs of Santa is quite an experience. Its like being in the openning scenes of some Guy Richie movie and you are about to steal some diamonds or something. Or like you just tried that and are all now being hauled back to the police station.
Our first stop was the mall. By this time I had had some Windex and a few shots of straight Popov. We used a back entrance and burst triumphantly into the mall right behind the professional Santa. After a few sprinting laps around Santa we were escorted out by mall security. While most of us were waving at people in various stores who had that open mouth smile on their faces that seemed to say "I dont know whats going on, but it makes me happy" as the nearly fourty half-drunk Santas were escorted past them, Urban Assault Santa was politely educating the guards on what Santacon is. Once in the vans, the guards continued to lecture us on how we just confused the kids because we are all obviously dopplegangers of the highest caliber for the 'real' Santa. One guard then proceeded to claim that the Mall Santa has the right to sue us. Obviously this was a bullshit claim because if I could get money for every weird fucker that comes into the car wash I would not be working there anymore.
We then proceeded to the next destination on the Santinerary, Rossi's. Rossi's is an upscale piano-bar near one of Wilmingtons richest neighborhoods. In route we began to love a new sport. Van surfing. The idea is for a Santa to stand in the middle of the van without touching the roof or sides and try to stay up for as long as possible while Marcy slams on brakes randomly and drag-races other cars at stop lights. The games difficulty level is raised if the Santa is currently trying to embibe Windex. It is a thing of beauty that rivals the Pyramids, the Roman Aquaducts, Tootsie-Roll Pops and nearly any other of mankinds great accomplishments that you care to name. Once, at Rossi's, Mrs. Santa Slut wasted no time in trying to flirt with the piano player. We were greeted warmly by the bourgeois in much the same way that a jovial homeless person is treated just about anywhere. Santas drank, Santas danced, Santas sang, Santas crammed twenty-deep into a limo that did not belong to us then all filed out of the vehicle which, from a distance, I am sure looked like some very high-class, circus performance. During all of this we noticed that a photographer from the Star News was following us and we accepted him into the herd and eventually gave him a Santa Suit.
Urban Assault Santa: "Where are we going next?"
Bash Santa: "Pure Gold."
Pimpta Clause: "Strip club!"
Our arrival was not joyously accepted. The strippers and the management did not take kindly to our moto for the night: Santas Dont Pay. So to avoid a Santas Vs. Strippers brawl we left.
Several minutes of surfing and drinking Windex later we were back at the Gypsy to drop off Santas and pick up a few new ones. I wandered in to find Nate and some of his friends. I told him of the debacheries thusfar while drinking Oxyclean. I missed my mouth on several occasions and the Vodka-Koolaid mixture left reddish splotches on my beard so for the rest of the night I looked like a Santa who slid down a chimney, encountered a dog, and bit it out of self-defense.
Our next destination was a private party somewhere in the vicinity of the intersection of 2nd and Anne Streets. There was much drinking and confusion. An oldies band was playing a variety of hits from the 60s. I never dance out of sheer ineptitude, however, the Windex was flowing due to several generous sprays from Urban Assault Santa so I grabbed a girl and hit the floor swing-dancing. She was laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and so was I. I apologized for the fact that I can not dance:
Prepubescent Santa: "Sorry, I can't dance at all... and I am half-drunk on top of that."
Girl: "It's ok. I can't dance either and I am completely drunk."
So at the conclusion of that statement I did the logical thing and spun her. We held the height of the extension momentarily before I spun her back in and held her close. I looked at her and it took her a moment before she regained her orientation. She smiled that same open-mouthed smile as the people in the mall and just as her eyes met mine, I dipped her. She laughed an extremely drunken laugh and staggered away to sit down. I, on the other hand, moseyed over to the snack bar and tried out all of the cheeses before being handed two beers by some random Santa and being told "We are about to leave. Help finish these." A phrase that would be repeated throughout the night.
The night began to slowly devolve after this point. We went to a The Rox, a dance club that many of the more grunge/hippie santas were not really in to. We did however get some amusement out of watching Kung Fu Santa walk around in his own little psychodelic world looking at the light show. From there we went to Ibiza, the gay club downtown. They, much like the strippers, did not take kindly to our chant and so we went to Slice of Life. Pizza was eaten, beer was consumed at an incredible rate of speed. Then on to The Whiskey, Tango du Chat, and Cape Fear Wine and Beer where our night ended in a soggy van-surfing venture back to the Gypsy.
As the night began, I had just gotten off work. I had nearly forgotten about the glorious night ahead of me and therefore had only a few hours to locate a Santa suit. After hours of fruitless driving, cursing, and homocidal thoughts in the crowded isles of department stores, I finally ended up with a pair of red sweat-pants, a matching sweat-shirt, a hat, a bag of cotton, and a stapler. After twenty minutes of stapling and more cursing, the collaboration of my mind and hands had produced a crude, grim semblance of Ol' Saint Nicks attire. Three attention deficit children working in a room lined with TVs each playing a different episode of Barney could have done better. But I was late and had no time for such frivilous accessories as accuracy.
On the way to the Gypsy, where all of the Santas were to meet, I wondered how in the hell I would ever be able to talk myself out of a ticket in the event that I should get pulled over. Upon my arrival I was greeted by one of the most confusing sights my eyes had ever had the pleasure of taking in. Thirty or more flamboyantly dressed, jolly, fat men all standing outside of a bar, removing their cigarettes only to slam back a beer. This is surely the true meaning of Christmas. We were all to assign ourselves Santa Names by applying a Santa name tag. Since I was wearing enormous aviators I could have pulled off Ted Kazenski Santa, and because of the fact that my proverbial "bowl full of jelly" consisted of a bookbag worn backwards that was hanging out from under my shirt as if I were in labor, C-section Santa was also a possibility. However because of the shoddy state of my suit (the cotton was falling off leaving diseased-looking patches of fur everywhere) the decision was narrowed down to Mange Santa, Rabid Santa, and several other delightfully offensive disease-laden names. Seeing as how after all of this deliberation I no longer had a full fur lining I finally settled on Prepubescent Santa.
The event was kicked off by a foot-race to the liquor store. A fitting beginning seeing as how the remainder of the night would be spent by us drinking the products of this race out of Windex spray bottles and various other house-hold cleaning product containers. Once all Santas were carrying brown paper bags and looking sufficiently homeless, we loaded up into two vans, only one of which had seats. Since I ride in a car that has seats all the time I decided to change it up a little bit and ride in the paddy-wagonesque seatless van. Sitting on the floor of a seatless van with around 10 other people all dressed like shitty, dollar-store knockoffs of Santa is quite an experience. Its like being in the openning scenes of some Guy Richie movie and you are about to steal some diamonds or something. Or like you just tried that and are all now being hauled back to the police station.
Our first stop was the mall. By this time I had had some Windex and a few shots of straight Popov. We used a back entrance and burst triumphantly into the mall right behind the professional Santa. After a few sprinting laps around Santa we were escorted out by mall security. While most of us were waving at people in various stores who had that open mouth smile on their faces that seemed to say "I dont know whats going on, but it makes me happy" as the nearly fourty half-drunk Santas were escorted past them, Urban Assault Santa was politely educating the guards on what Santacon is. Once in the vans, the guards continued to lecture us on how we just confused the kids because we are all obviously dopplegangers of the highest caliber for the 'real' Santa. One guard then proceeded to claim that the Mall Santa has the right to sue us. Obviously this was a bullshit claim because if I could get money for every weird fucker that comes into the car wash I would not be working there anymore.
We then proceeded to the next destination on the Santinerary, Rossi's. Rossi's is an upscale piano-bar near one of Wilmingtons richest neighborhoods. In route we began to love a new sport. Van surfing. The idea is for a Santa to stand in the middle of the van without touching the roof or sides and try to stay up for as long as possible while Marcy slams on brakes randomly and drag-races other cars at stop lights. The games difficulty level is raised if the Santa is currently trying to embibe Windex. It is a thing of beauty that rivals the Pyramids, the Roman Aquaducts, Tootsie-Roll Pops and nearly any other of mankinds great accomplishments that you care to name. Once, at Rossi's, Mrs. Santa Slut wasted no time in trying to flirt with the piano player. We were greeted warmly by the bourgeois in much the same way that a jovial homeless person is treated just about anywhere. Santas drank, Santas danced, Santas sang, Santas crammed twenty-deep into a limo that did not belong to us then all filed out of the vehicle which, from a distance, I am sure looked like some very high-class, circus performance. During all of this we noticed that a photographer from the Star News was following us and we accepted him into the herd and eventually gave him a Santa Suit.
Urban Assault Santa: "Where are we going next?"
Bash Santa: "Pure Gold."
Pimpta Clause: "Strip club!"
Our arrival was not joyously accepted. The strippers and the management did not take kindly to our moto for the night: Santas Dont Pay. So to avoid a Santas Vs. Strippers brawl we left.
Several minutes of surfing and drinking Windex later we were back at the Gypsy to drop off Santas and pick up a few new ones. I wandered in to find Nate and some of his friends. I told him of the debacheries thusfar while drinking Oxyclean. I missed my mouth on several occasions and the Vodka-Koolaid mixture left reddish splotches on my beard so for the rest of the night I looked like a Santa who slid down a chimney, encountered a dog, and bit it out of self-defense.
Our next destination was a private party somewhere in the vicinity of the intersection of 2nd and Anne Streets. There was much drinking and confusion. An oldies band was playing a variety of hits from the 60s. I never dance out of sheer ineptitude, however, the Windex was flowing due to several generous sprays from Urban Assault Santa so I grabbed a girl and hit the floor swing-dancing. She was laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and so was I. I apologized for the fact that I can not dance:
Prepubescent Santa: "Sorry, I can't dance at all... and I am half-drunk on top of that."
Girl: "It's ok. I can't dance either and I am completely drunk."
So at the conclusion of that statement I did the logical thing and spun her. We held the height of the extension momentarily before I spun her back in and held her close. I looked at her and it took her a moment before she regained her orientation. She smiled that same open-mouthed smile as the people in the mall and just as her eyes met mine, I dipped her. She laughed an extremely drunken laugh and staggered away to sit down. I, on the other hand, moseyed over to the snack bar and tried out all of the cheeses before being handed two beers by some random Santa and being told "We are about to leave. Help finish these." A phrase that would be repeated throughout the night.
The night began to slowly devolve after this point. We went to a The Rox, a dance club that many of the more grunge/hippie santas were not really in to. We did however get some amusement out of watching Kung Fu Santa walk around in his own little psychodelic world looking at the light show. From there we went to Ibiza, the gay club downtown. They, much like the strippers, did not take kindly to our chant and so we went to Slice of Life. Pizza was eaten, beer was consumed at an incredible rate of speed. Then on to The Whiskey, Tango du Chat, and Cape Fear Wine and Beer where our night ended in a soggy van-surfing venture back to the Gypsy.
posted by Seth Parham at 12:48 PM
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