I should be lunching on goat today, the same one ritually slain last night to mark the Winter Solstice. Alas, it is not to be — the Solstice passed unremarked this year.

I look back in fond memory at past Winter Solstice celebrations, celebrations that would last for several days. The solstice always seemed to come at just the perfect time: finals were over, or school was over, and no one involved had any other real responsibilities back then. A perfect time for a descent into Solstice madness. While we never explicitly acted pagan per se, much of what we did do was contrary to the laws of both God and man. Slothfulness? Gluttony? Public intoxication? Furnishing alcohol to a minor? Check, check, check and check.

So come Solstice time we would descend into a sort of feral paganism, aided by the good people at the Blitz-Weinhard company and easy access to cable, Nintendo, darts, skateboards, and biker bars. It’s a Solstice miracle that everyone always made it home for Christmas alive. Those were the days.