Christastrophe

Our capitalist culture goes into overdrive during the holiday season trying to convince us that happiness is to be found through consumption; we’re told by our televisions, newspapers, and internets that we’d better go out and buy the newest and flashiest gizmo or gem if we have any hope of finding something akin to bliss in our lives.

But, of course, it’s much simpler than that.

All you really need to have all the joy you’ll ever need is just a bike, some booze, and a fire.

And, I should add: several dozen acquaintances, including long-lost and far-flung heroes still recovering from jet-lag and/or nuptials, mixing together at a thoroughly over-planned checkpoint-style bicycle race inviting participants to kiss one another, imbibe thoroughly disgusting holiday-themed libations, and puff away at cannabis or nicotine all while meandering through actual old-growth forest paths within shouting distance of the illuminated downtown of a major metropolitan area.

That’s all you need, but also, for good measure, grown men roped together by a stretched innertube pedaling away from each other on children’s bikes until one or both are yanked backwards—that never gets old, no matter how many times you laugh out loud at it.

And, I suppose, it doesn’t hurt to include a lovely two-wheeled spin on car-free paths on a late fall night warm and dry enough for just a little wool flannel.

Or, in addition: a clubhouse after-party with singing and dancing and toys and gifts—some of which are quite desirable and even fairly valuable—for everyone.

That’s all it takes, really, to have a shit-eating grin on your face for something like eight hours in a row; you don’t need to go to the mall on Black Friday or max out your credit cards to be overwhelmed with the holiday spirit; you just need the Christmas miracle that is simultaneously a disaster of the very best sort, a gift that keeps on giving no matter what it takes.