By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
As the night wore on and the mead levels got lower in the enormous Igloo jugs, the mood turned into that of any bar on any Saturday night. Drunken boasts were made, pickup lines used ("Hey, you look really hot in that wizard suit") and provocative talk was tossed around the campfire about who was going "skyclad" (naked) later. A noticeably drunken woman in a satin bustier was attempting to get people to dance with her.
"Come on," she said, pulling The Spike's arm. "I can't get this party started all by myself."
The Spike wanted to argue with her, as she was doing exactly that -- dancing around the fire in bare feet and a flame-printed skirt, hair flapping like a sail in the brisk wind.
Suddenly, a man who had complained of back pain threw himself through the fire before the pole holding the scarecrow had fallen down, singeing his elbow on a flaming apple. Soon, everyone was jumping over the fire as the desert became a tavern, and the pagans became rabble-rousing barflies.
After a while, The Spike became cold and disenchanted, so packed up its camp gear and the still-living Chihuahua and went home.
What had felt for a few hours like the Old World had suddenly become the same old everyday world. Maybe it's the Internet networking, or maybe it's the fact that everyone had to be back at their desk jobs on Monday morning, but something magical was decidedly missing -- and missed.
But The Spike thinks it's nice to still see pagans in the world today. Even though the costumes were more Harry Potter than Mists of Avalon, and the mood a little more Sam Adams than Samhain, The Spike appreciated that they tried to create something more meaningful.
After all, it hasn't been long since Christians and pagans couldn't exist in the same city without someone ending up barbecued.
The Spike's pretty sure that's a reason to be thankful.
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