We lingered last weekend at the 18th Firebird Festival in Phoenixville, PA, where a giant wooden figure shaped like a phoenix had been set ablaze for hundreds of fire worshippers to behold.

“This is my kind of celebration,” I told Swamp Rabbit. “Perfect for the winter solstice. Burn the mother down and start the new year fresh.”

But my mangy friend was spooked. “Looks like a sneak preview of one of them wildfire seasons out West. Too radical, if you ask me.”

I told him it was a mainstream event. An act of creative destruction. Even Milton Friedman and the vulture capitalists would approve. Elon Musk, too.

Swamp Rabbit remained unmoved by the spectacle. He broke the seal on a pint of Wild Turkey and took a big swig. I told him he should read about the myth of the phoenix instead of boozing and watching football games in his broken down old shack. “Our hopes will rise from the ashes,” I said.

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna rise from them ashes but smoke,” he replied. “I’ll stick with the booze.”

Footnote: The headline paraphrases a line from “Fire,” by the Crazy World of Arthur Brown… To really get into the holiday spirit, watch The Wicker Man (the original with Christopher Lee, not the ghastly remake with Nicolas Cage).