Harder than Pappi Swarner hits the slopes of Whistler or harder than Ike ever pistol-whipped Tina, Tacoma’s first ever Santarchy celebration bitch-slapped Tacoma Friday night. Festivities got under way at the Swiss around 6 p.m., and judging by the way things started, the bowl-full-of-jelly fun only escalated from there.

Santarchy, as I learned thanks to a very informative article in this week’s Weekly Volcano by Robert Dobbs, is a celebration rooted around miscreants in Kris Kringle suits consuming copious amounts of booze. Santarchy began in San Francisco nearly 20 years ago, and has since invaded towns and cities across our great country. In fact, Dobbs referred to Santarchy as a “pan-continental holiday,” so Mexico and Canada may well be involved now too.

I arrived at the Swiss at 6 p.m. sharp, when the event was scheduled to start, ordered a vodka and cran and tried to locate myself close to the action. The problem was there was no action to be had, at least in the beginning. There were a mere three Santas in attendance, and for all I knew they were either just getting off of work at the mall or on their way there. Very few signs of Santarchy were visible.

I stepped outside for a cigarette hoping things would improve. It was from outside I saw my first carload of Santas arrive. The Santas in question came in a white, ’90s Mazda with at least 175,000 miles on it. They emerged sporting cockeyed beards and cigarettes. A few of the Santas repositioned their guts.

Back inside, the number of Santas had seemingly quadrupled. What had been three or four Santas was now 15 or 20. A reindeer and an elf were now in the mix too. Close to the stage, in a strangely intimidating pack, the Santas began to mingle and drink. An Elvis Santa greeted a disco Santa, and so on.

It was then that Santa Mercenary approached, and offered me a Hershey Kiss. I gladly accepted. Who the hell is Santa Mercenary, you ask?

A mix between Santa and a female pirate.

Duh.

As six o’clock grew into seven, the drinking only intensified.

“Where does one find a Santa suit?” I posed to a group of particularly festive Santas.

“It’s pretty fucking hard, man. Let me tell you,” said one of them, his suit only slightly better than the Santa wearing red trash bags.

“The party store! Fifteen bucks, dude!” interjected another, obviously more of a professional.

I moved on, and found a loner Santa drinking with a purpose. I learned the group would soon be leaving, heading to the next stop on their yuletide bar crawl, 21 Commerce. I tried to picture all these Santas with martinis. It wasn’t easy.

Time was running out. I knew the Santas would soon be gone, and I had yet to find the “Head Santa.” The Head Santa was in charge, or so I had been told. Without talking to Head Santa I had nothing. Luckily, she found me. After confirming the group would, in fact, soon be off to 21 Commerce for their second stop, I asked what the meaning of all this madness was. Was it to protest Christmas? Was it to spread holiday cheer? Was it to celebrate the birth of teeny tiny baby Jesus?

“It’s just about a bunch of Santas getting drunk! That’s it! There’s no catch!”

And so it seemed.

I pulled back to a stool away from the stage and realized Santas now dominated the entire second room of the Swiss. One leaned against the wall next to me.

“So, how many beers does it take to get Santa loaded?” I asked

“Right now, four.”

“But it’s early,” I pointed out.

“And it’s going to get late!”

With that, the cheer began. “Ho Ho Ho, Santa’s got to go. Ho Ho Ho, Santa’s got to go.”

I watched the mob of red suited alcoholics file through the door. As fast as they’d appeared, they were gone. What happened at 21 Commerce, or anywhere else along the way, I can only speculate. However, it’s safe to assume that at least one Santa is throwing up tonight, a couple Santas are getting laid, and more Santas than you can shake a stick at will wake up tomorrow with a nasty hangover. For now, Santarchy ’07 is in the books. â€" Matt Driscoll

Photography By Kelly Driscoll