108p: As I walk into the heart of Union Square, I fully take in how expansive SantaCon really is. This is bigger than a trending hashtag on Twitter. EVERY other goddamn person is dressed up as Santa, an elf, or a festive slutty reindeer. I suddenly wish I could care about normal things the way everyone outside cares about SantaCon and suddenly feel out-of-place in my black overcoat and red beanie. Maybe I should’ve brought the decapitated head of a reindeer? Just a baby one. Just to see how it feels.
230p: As the grey skies get even darker from the slowly worsening snowstorm, I begin to notice a general atmospheric change within the SantaCon community. People seem tired, belligerent, and chilly. Most of my queries to take a photo are met with guttural laughs and middle fingers.
This sharp barometric drop in character becomes especially evident on the corner of St. Marks and Second Ave, as I witness two separate Santa groups attempt to consolidate into one. A brave diplomat steps out from Group A and attempts to start a conversation with an elf lighting a cigarette from Group B.
“Yo dude, which bar are you guys coming from?”
“Cigarette-ville,” says the elf, not taking his eye off his lighter.
“Ah, go f*ck yourself.”
The consolidation is a failure, and I mourn for the great things that could have been accomplished had these two groups gotten together. Every time a group of tipsy Santas fails to resolve their feelings, an angel gets
punched in the face its wings. God bless you, intoxicated Yuletide heroes.