All the necessary components were on display: cookie-eating, beer-drinking, trail-riding, fire-standing, reindeer-gaming, gift-giving, clappie-awarding, and, I seem to recall, song-singing as well. I got to parade along behind a remarkably patient Fred to all of the checkpoints that were still checkpoints and even a few that were no longer. The rain stopped being rain pretty much right on schedule so that most of the wet for most of the time was from the inside, although by then, it was all “how dry I am,” in the old-fashioned cartoon drinkee-bird way.
I try to live my life in the present, but it’s hard not to anticipate these sort of shenanigans for so long it makes the weeks before drag on, just like when you were a kid as Christmas approached at its glacial pace. But unlike that holiday, which—due to its lack of air rifles, skateboards, or go-go boots, was inevitably something of a disappointment, the 2015 version of Point83’s gift to itself exceeded its promise, bestowing upon not only the nice, but also the naughty, everything a little girl or boy (not to mention old men of a certain age) could wish for and plenty they wouldn’t for anything.
My favorite part of the evening was all of it but I especially enjoyed the uphills through one of the fancier sections of our fair city. That’s a price you pay for being rich: there’s no getting out of your driveway without heading steeply up or down. Everyone was all lit up for Christmas and plenty of houses had illuminated Christmas displays, too, ba-dum-bump.
The enduring image of the night for me was of the Angry Hippy standing on a bench barking commands at scores of holiday revelers; Derrick, too, tabletop, handing out packages; I somehow made it home without a present, Disaster itself my gift.
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