Santarchy

I saw about a hundred and fifty Santas scattered across three bars in Georgetown last night. Most of them were packed into Nine Pound Hammer, but there was a smattering at Jules Maes and a couple dozen eating food up the street at a place called Smarty Pants.

Surprisingly, there were only a few drunken bicycling Santas were in attendance; on my way there, I came across a convoy of half a dozen, but that was all I saw the rest of the evening. And, in general, the level of drunkenness was lower than I would have expected, although it was fairly early in the evening. Nevertheless, the crew of red suits did manage to get almost 86th’ed (let’s call it 85th’ed) from one bar, but it wasn’t so much a matter of overall rowdiness as it was of sheer numbers.

Lots of the Santas wore the traditional garb—red suit, white hair and beard, the requisite pointy cap—but there were also plenty in something less typical: one in a prom dress, an Elvis Santa, a handful of naughty Clauses, both boys and girls, some elves, and at least one wearing a bike helmet.

I didn’t commit fully, but I did sport my red plaid smoking jacket and so could, if pressed, claim to be a kind of Hugh Hefner Playboy Santa, albeit without the pipe. Although, I was glad, ultimately, to be somewhat on the outside of the action; later, at the Elysian Pub, a table of Santas was holding forth and they struck me as obnoxious, if not downright creepy.

What I liked best out of the whole experience was riding bikes back from Georgetown with a guy in full Santa regalia; it’s quite impressive how much room cars give to you when you’re dressed like Kris Kringle. Nobody cut us off, and all three times people honked at us it was good-natured. No driver wants cream Santa Claus, especially when he’s on a bike.