I’m hosting Union Hall’s NYE Show in Brooklyn! Come ring in the New Year with 30+ of NYC’s best comedians presenting their best joke of the 2024. It’s always a blast, and we can party at UH after. You might even make it into the newsletter. Tickets here.
And if you’re in LA, don’t miss my hour of stand up, powerpoints, and crowd work (flirting) on Friday, January 10 at Lyric Hyperion. Tickets here.
In the name of science, I decided to go where no 33-year-old has gone before…
Day of the Week: Saturday
Neighborhood: Midtown to the East Village, baby
The Crew: Gorgeous comedian and my Drenched co-host Nina Barnett in the morning and then my adopted sons, a group of 23-to *allegedly* 25-year-olds, Jack, Nick, and Thomas, from the afternoon to early evening.
The Fit: A Santa Baby corset that I wore for the first time for my 30th birthday where I gave everyone Omicron (vintage!) with black Abercrombie trousers and short shiny black pleather combat boots. The vibe was Mz. Claus.
Home (and legally brain dead) by 6:30pm
THE GAME: SANTA-CON!!
Once a year, on a Saturday in mid-December, the Santas descend on Manhattan for a yuletide bar crawl. Leaving, not presents, no, not Christmas cheer, but noise pollution, terror, and generally bad vibes in their wake. If you don’t live in NYC, think like the cicadas in the south, but human-sized and bro-ier. Both pests.
Now most New Yorkers logically choose this day to shelter in place. But not me. Because I’m a scientist. Despite living in this city for 10+ years and drinking in it for longer (with a Pennsylvania fake ID ofc), I’ve never participated in Santa-Con. But that ends now.
My friends were rightfully worried about me having at 33-years-old, what doctors call a “geriatric Santa-Con,” but no one could stop me from lacing up a XXX-Mas corset and buying a $15.93 wristband and running straight into the snowstorm (and by that I mean c*ke obviously).
The official start of Santa-Con is 10am at a designated meeting point near Times Square where the Santas are “unleashed to paint the town red.” A direct threat from the app.
Shlepping up to Times Square to be surrounded by the worst men you’ve ever met, from the full Tristate area (New Jersey! Staten Island! Boston too!), who are already blackout before noon? No thank you. So I went to pick-up my wristband at the much more reasonable hour of 11am.
Upon exiting the subway at Penn Station, where Santas commuted straight from the pole (no offense to strippers, I could never do what you do, no core or arm strength), as far as the eye can see were boys in ill-fitting red suits, flo creeping out from under their hats, clutching water bottles of piss-colored liquid. You better watch out. You better not cry…Santa Claus is coming…he’s already here.
BAR 1: Avenida
I picked up my wristband from Avenida, a two tier, Mexican cantina across from the CVS on 8th Ave. Upon entry, I told the check-in elves that it was my first Santa-Con, and I was here for research. I’m a journalist. As they could see, I paired my corset with trousers.
“Don’t worry! It’s for charity!” They shrieked to be heard over the din of the bar.
What? Did I hear that correctly? It’s hard to know because everyone - from sorority girl in tall heeled black leather boots (Vixens) to dudes in reindeer onesies (Blitzens) - was yelling.
Santa-Con is for…charity? That can’t be right. Santa-Con. The most evil event in NYC, worse than when the rats convene in the bowels of the subway. Santa-con is for charity?!
To the average New Yorker, this onslaught of drunken Santas are acting naughty. But St. Nick is the one who checks the list. Yes, they’re acting naughty, but they’re BEING nice. The event needs better PR.
A group of college girls in matching Christmas jammies said hi to me in the bathroom while I reapplied my lipstick. Is it possible that we’ve misjudged them all along?
I got myself a huge $12.89 mimosa that would have taken out an elf and eavesdropped while I waited for Nina to meet me. She was late because she was having trouble with her mistletoe headband. Bah Humbug.
“So you’re a freshman?” “No I’m a sophomore.”
“Bro"
“Dudeee, fuck that kid”
“Is Christmas Santa’s birthday?”
After two sips of my breakfast drink, Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” blaring from the speakers finally started to sound not only livable, but kind of…good.
I convinced Nina to accompany me to create content and once she arrived, together we were the perfect Census Workers. We went up to a group of guys downing Miller Lights on the roof in matching red suits (an impressive level of coordination from dudes who probably don’t use a top sheet) and collected data. All 23-years-old. Cooool.
BAR 2: The Tailor
We looked to the phone app for a suggestion of the next bar. And the user experience has no right to be this good. It’s a better app than Disney Parks.
But if I know anything about software engineers, it’s that they love two things: usability and getting fucked up. So they will be improving upon the user experience of getting fucked up. I knew one who always had tampons in his apartment…because the UX design for the insertion tube is perfect for skiing (and again, I mean c*ke).
The Tailor is a ginormous Irish Pub in the heart of Midtown that I imagine is for tourists and maybe cops and housed more Santas than I’ve ever seen. It was a Where’s Waldo of Santa’s…look there is one flirting…that one is chugging a beer…that one’s screaming about how much he loves “Kill Tony.”
Nina and I couldn’t hear our own thoughts (but they were mostly “get out! get out! get out!) so after we surveyed boys in the line (…you’re never going to guess this….median age 23-years-old), we hopped to the next bar.
BAR 3: The Rutherford
The Rutherford, another multi-story mammoth of a sports bar, was too packed to move. On the website, it looks shockingly well-designed and even chic for 34th St., but in the moment, I missed the nice leather bar stools and the grain of the wood while I was trying not to DIE. Trampled by 1,000 obliterated Santas…actually the way I’m most likely to go.
Still, Nina and I met one 21-year-old in overalls who flew out to the city to get blackout with his older brother. Who says straight men can’t be sweet!?
BAR 4: American Whiskey
Now at 12:30pm, my mimosa buzz was fading, and I reallllly had to pee. We entered American Whiskey, another nondescript sports bar around the corner from Penn Station, and it was… quiet? Just… adults…watching the Rangers game. Not a single Santa, despite being included in the app. Eerie.
Maybe the 23-year-olds were intimated by even the suggestion of whiskey. If it were a bar crawl for their dads, it might be different. And maybe I’d find actual husband material.
BAR 5: Walters
The last stop in our Midtown crawl was Walters, a tiny pub with dart boards where I used to break down the good/bad moves in our sets with my improv team (lol and RIP).
The Santas inside were eating the cookies and milk of Santa-con, wings and IPA’s, fueling up for the next leg of their journey. And Nina’s journey was over…she was going to be late for brunch.
BREAK: Nina’s Apartment and CVS
A pit-stop at Nina’s apartment then I walked her to brunch at Anton’s which explicitly warned “no Santas” on their door. I was not welcome there.
I stood outside in the harsh light of day, strategizing my next move. Could I really continue on, a Santa down. Just one girl, dehydrated, in an itchy, slutty costume, with a phone at 10%. Is this it? Is this all I can take?
But then it hit me. I’m not just a girl. I’m a girl scientist.
I rushed into a CVS to buy a charger (I had forgotten my power bank, rookie mistake) and scanned my items in self-checkout next to four guys in ugly Christmas sweaters restocking up on beer to put in brown paper bags. If they could get back out there… so could I.
BAR 6: Bar 13
Now, nearing Union Square, I went to the biggest venue nearby, Bar 13, a “club” that I imagine primarily exists for NYU students to test their fakes. It was a square room with an empty dance floor, disco lights, and “Naughty Girl” blaring from the speakers at 2pm.
It was harrowing.
I was alone, and I was afraid. Naked & Afraid, sure, Alone, okay fine, try SURVIVING BY YOURSELF FOR EVEN 5 MINUTES IN BAR 13.
And my phone was almost dead.
BAR 7: High Note
I escaped to High Note, a vibey little dive where I once had a delicious espresso martini. There were tables of hot Mrs. Clauses and a group of couples in their 50’s who were actually old enough to be Mall Santas taking shots. Finally!!!!
I hope that when I’m in my 50’s, I’ll be so full of energy and Christmas spirit (and Botox ofc) that I’ll be celebrating with my friends, who have all never left New York, at Santa-Con because fuck it, if you can’t beat the 23-year-old menaces… join ‘em. Though…it’s also possible this group was just holly, jolly, and…really high. Let’s not think about it.
There were fun vibes, but there were no outlets.
BAR 8: The Hidden Lane
I left High Note. They were chanting “lets fucking go!” on the streets. Yes, lets. Lets fucking go.
In the Hidden Lane, on the same block, I was shocked to find it was cozy, quiet enough to hear your friends, and had a menu full of speciality martinis. For Santa-Con, it was downright classy…even romantic.
I found a spot at the bar where, miracle of Christmas miracles, there were outlets and USB ports every two stools. I…love this bar. As I charged my phone, I was approached by a tall blonde, tipsy Santa. My eighth bar of the morning, and finally, FINALLY, I was hit on. It only took EIGHT DIFFERENT BARS for a guy to try to flirt with me. I’m calling it. Dating is over, we’re doomed.
Jack was from Chicago, and visiting his friends Thomas and Nick, all Northwestern grads, allegedly between 23-25 (I’m wondering if Jack just told me he was 25 because it was after I told him I was 33). Median age 24. Mean also 24. Someone remind me what the mode is…
I told them I was there alone for research, and they agreed to let me join them for the next phase of their crawl. Now here were guys that appreciate a woman in STEM.
BAR 9: High Note (Again)
I recommended that we return to The High Note because they hadn’t been there yet. I warned them about Bar 13. I was their Rudolph, leading the way.
They bought a round of beers ($0 thank you) and taught me Pub Golf, a game where you try to finish your drink in as few swigs aka swings as you can to earn par. Did I explain that right? I do not care about golf xo.
Men reaaaaaallly care about golf though, huh. They manage to play it even when there isn’t a course. And my boys (because that’s what they were starting to become) had been playing it all morning. …how? AND Thomas and Nick’s girlfriends were elsewhere (at a different bar and long distance) while they played all day.
This was golf-golf…for real. You don’t need a ball to play golf - you’re barely hitting it anyway - the game is about leaving your girlfriends behind and getting drunk with your guy friends. Golf doesn’t need a ball, it just needs a club…or bar. Golf is a mindset.
And so is Santa-Con. It’s a mindset. And going for research…well sure, you can observe, you can take notes, but to really learn about it, you have to really do it…you have to immerse yourself in it…and by that I mean, get drunk in a big group. That’s the only way. And what kind of scientist would I be, if I didn’t?
And it’s not about meeting someone romantically either. “It’s a red flag to meet at Santa-Con,” Nick very wisely said, two chugs of Miller Light deep. Imagine “ever since I saw you at Santa-Con…” in the vows, the officiant would object. No, the true spirit of Santa-Con is the friends you blackout with, and the friends you make a long the way…to that blackout.
BAR 10: Laurels
It was somehow still light out as we walked towards the East Village. And out of any of the Santas that I could have met on my journey, I was lucky to be accompanied by this sweet trio. Why…I theorized?
“I have two gay dads,” Nick explained as we walked by Artichoke Pizza near 1st Ave. Eureka! This is what it must have felt like when they accidentally discovered penicillin.
We passed our destination Coyote Ugly, insane line, and went into The Laurels, an adorable restaurant with ornaments and pine garlands hanging from the ceiling.
Another round of beers, that again I didn’t pay for ($0), and more Pub Golf, while I talked to my sons about their jobs, girlfriends, and Jack’s plans for Christmas decor in his apartment back in Chicago. He’s going to wrap his artwork. My sweet sweet boys.
I ordered a tequila shot, which the bartender gave me for free ($0), just for “being nice.” Oh my god. Oh my god!
Many establishments, from Midtown to the East Village, hang a sign that says “No Santas.” The whole city complains, locks their doors, and hides away. The Santas are excluded, leered at, and villainized. I’m guilty of this vitriol too! But, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, not all Santas.
My hypothesis was Santa-Con is going to be terrible, but I was wrong. My theory is…Santa-Con can be really fun…even wholesome…with the right group of people and not every Santa means ill. The Santa discrimination needs to stop. And like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day. Or maybe it was my stomach because I was super super bloated from all of the beer. Ew.
BAR 11: Grey Lady
Jack urged us to go to Grey Lady where he “knew one of the DJ’s.” Say less.
We briefly waited for the bus, and I decided it was time to play a dangerous game with Thomas.
“How old do you think I am? Guess.”
I like playing this game now, but there will be a day where it irrevocably hurts my feelings. Maybe kills me.
“You could be anything from 22-28,” Thomas theorized.
That day is not today. I opened up my Gmail, and I cancelled my upcoming botox appointment. Merry Christmas.
Thomas was shocked to learn I’m 33-years-old. But he was also wearing sunglasses indoors the entire afternoon so it is possible that he…couldn’t see.
When the bus didn’t show…why we thought the bus would come, I don’t know. That’s like believing Santa is real. I hailed a taxi ($20) for my boys. It was the least I could do.
We waited in the long line outside of Grey Lady, surrounded by 23-year-olds, now kind of slurring their “les fuckinnn gooes,” watching girl after girl clutch onto her friend’s polyester and white fur sleeves to stand, wobbly in her Uggs, freezing in her bare legs. Close to 5pm, it was finally dark outside…and inside the hearts and minds of the partiers.
I don’t know know what Grey Lady is like on a regular day, but on Santa-Con, it is hell. It was the scariest place I’ve ever been. Scarier than Bar 13. It was impossible to take one step without smashing into a heavily gelled Santa wearing a chain. Fuck-boy Santas in every corner. We had lost Thomas outside in the line, on the phone with his girlfriend. Then, I turned and realized we lost Jack in the fray. I hope he’s okay. Keep him in your prayers.
It was just me and Nick and the Santas they warn you about. He got me a Truly ($0) and escorted me to the bathroom. A concrete dungeon without toilet paper. And I knew, I couldn’t make it any further.
I hugged Nick goodbye. Thank you, Nick. Thank you, Jack and Thomas. If any of you are reading this (and I think you could be, you seem like readers which is actually a huge compliment), you’re a good person and don’t ever let what they say about the Santa-Con contingent hurt you. That isn’t about you. It was never about you.
I clocked out at 4:50pm and dragged my buzzed ass over to Empanada Mama where I sipped on a white sangria and ate two empanadas and ordered a third for my purse. Because you should always have a purse empanada.
The sangria was too much, of course it was, I shouldn’t have ordered it. I tried to offer it to a regular girl in a puffer jacket sitting at my communal table, and she declined.
It’s weird…actually really weird. to offer a drink to a complete stranger… I was really fucking weird for doing that. But I wasn’t thinking like a normal person anymore, I was thinking like a Santa.
Where should I go next!? Leave a comment, email me, or send me a DM, and I’ll wait in lines, try the cocktails, and literally put my life in danger for you!
And if you have any suggestions of bars and clubs you’d like me to try, please get in touch!
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