Paul Constant

Harper's Index noted that in 2005, people in 29 cities across the globe took part in Santarchy, the daylong pub crawl of dozens of drunken revelers wearing Santa outfits. Tonight, Seattle's streets are packed with Saint Nicks—if there's such a thing as a Yule-o-philiac, today would be, well, Christmas for them.

The drinking started at noon at GameWorks, where Santa played Dance Dance Revolution. By six o'clock, the party had moved to the Nite Lite. There were maybe 300 Santas and a few elves and reindeer. There were Santas with real gray beards and goth Santas wearing black, and dozens of sexy Santas, some wearing red velvet crotchless chaps and ruffley red panties, and one guy—Feliz NaviBob?—wearing a Christmas-themed poncho and sombrero.

When a Santa arrives, everyone shouts "Hey! Look! It's Santa!"—no real names are allowed. Which gets kind of creepy when Santa's giving Santa a lap dance and Santa's licking tequila off another Santa's breasts. I get invited back to a few house parties after the whole thing's done, but there's a long night ahead. With a group cry of "Hey hey! Ho ho! Santa Claus has got to go!" they all march down the street—"Santa says fuck you to traffic lights!"—to Benaroya Hall for some caroling, and then it's on to Belltown. On the sidewalk, the Santas are being nice to a 4-year-old girl. They give her presents and send her off beaming. Santa shouts: "Merry Christmas, little girl!" Once she's out of earshot, he turns around and takes a hit from his flask, grumbling: "Sorry about your future."

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