Because One Round of Elfin Anarchy Isn't Sufficient

Santarchy: In New York, the Saturday Night before Xmas. Drunken yuppies dress up as Xmas-related figurines and lose their collective mind publicly.

In San Francisco, seemingly any Saturday night after Thankstaking because of course no one can simply agree on doing something collective just once, so every little posse's gotta take matters into their own damned Bay Area hands.

So my first conscious brush with Santarchy was quite accidental last year. It went a little something like this:

I was innocently walking home. I was stone cold sober. A piss-poor bone chillingly cold Saturday night before Xmas. December 17,2005. When I suddenly realized:

Something is afoot in San Francisco.

And it looks like a goddamned drunken santa/elf convention out there.

I am telling you, the streets are scary tonight. There are santas in every crevice. Not just your run of the mill bell ringing salvation army santas either. Not the homeless fellow trying to get a buck in a santa cap, which completely and utterly sucks on 8 million levels.

I'm talking a santa/elf paramilitary takeover. I'm talking santas in stilettos, santas in fishnets, santas who pull down their beards to swill beer. Groups of santas in the street, shaking fists and cursing cars as they get nearly mowed down. Gaggles of elves fighting with other elves. Cold santas hopping foot to foot awaiting the bus. Frat-culture-stereotype santas. Santas waving bells screaming Merry Christmas, just shy of taking off your cheek off by their sheer proximity. Elves calmly in line to take 20s from ATMs. I started to count them. They are everywhere. In the four blocks near my house, I counted no shit over 39 santa/elves in just under 4 minutes. And I am not even counting the santa/elves who were all at Zeitgeist (a big ol ol-school-turned-pro hipster biker bar place a block or so from me) because such attire won you a free drink in which to completely drown your dignity.

I helped three santas either readjust their beards and/or find their cars. (Elfin Man: "Dude. I parked it on Valencia and 14th. Where IS Valencia and 14th? Where AM I?" Response: "Physically, you are on 14th and Guerrero. Does that help you at all? Because if you cannot find your car, it is perhaps a sign from Santa and his elves you should maybe not be driving.")

It's like community theater and I never got the flyer. It's like loud, furry, red white green roach swarms. It's like an epidemic. It's like the Castro during Halloween. It's like Fantasia, part 2: the LSD Really Kicks In. It's also like... a little annoying.

And let me tell you it is DUMPING rain and friggin freezing (ok, freezing for me, not freezing for you new york types, I know....). But does that keep the skimpily clad santas and the elven eared folks at home? Noooooooooooooooo. They are taking over.

One block 'til my house I passed a slower moving gang of santa/elves on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, on my right, I saw a crew of 6 santa/elves chowing down sausage sandwiches together. The restaurant bunch, sitting in the window, sees the sidewalk crew and starts banging on the window. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Santa Kin! Santa Kin! And the crew on the sidewalk starts hoopin and hollerin back and clanking those crazy bells. And as I tried to maneuver my way through the madness, a third batch of elf-santas saw me and started "merry xmas"ing me like popcorn. Like this (imagine high-pitched helium-esque Alvin and Chipmunks voices): Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! (Just keep going as they pile up in your ear.)

And I stopped and said:


Seriously, what the hell is going on around here? Where did you all come from?

And they giggled and smiled and cackled and grinned and said in those 90 rmp sped up record voices, "Ooooooh, isn't it wooooooonderful?" and "It's like a christmas miracle!" (I kid you not - verbatim) and popcorned "Merry Xmas" me more. And I stopped. And I looked at them. And I said:

Actually, I find all y'all deeply deeply disturbing.

And though I admit to the creepings of a maniacal and somewhat incredulous grin making its way to my face by the time I passed the puking-in-the-median-and-on their pointy-curled-up-shoes santas, just imagine if I were some christmas-adoring 3 year old who still believed in santa. Were I then on the street around my place, on so many levels, I would be fucked up for life.

So....

My friend M-Pants, who is worldly and wise about anything related to costume dressing, Burning Man, and other rituals that scare me, heard my rant the next day and responded.... oh, Santarchy. That was Santarchy, Granny (Aside: she calls me granny. You may not, but she can).

She's all calm. Like I should feel better because that freakiness has a name. Right. But she told me the history and all. Like anything with a history makes it ok. Like the Spanish Inquisition? OK? Lots of history. Right.

So my really long-winded point? One of the things she told me was that it takes place all over the world the Saturday night before Xmas. There were hundreds of thousands on debaucherous Santas in Moscow this year, apparently. Look it up. But did you get M-Pants' wording, people? THE. THE = ONE specific.

But somehow, in its transmoglification over time, the THE got lost. Which means that the two Saturdays of December I was in San Francisco, neither of which were THE Saturday before Xmas, little spouts of Santamas-Santacon-Santarchy arose. And wove singing and blathering down my street in bunches. Veeeeeeery anarchist. Hats off to y'all, but it unfortunately means I have to hunker down and hide under the covers up to THREE Saturday nights before a holiday I otherwise ignore anyways. Sigh.

Here is what I have to say about that:

Go Elf Yourself

Happy best-day-to-take-a-walk-in-San-Francisco-except-Thankstaking-Day....

Smooch.