From the velvet rope in front of Hyatt Centric, I observed the procession of half‑carries and half‑cries that is Clark’s Christmas Wrap Party. The guests, a mélange of local philanthropists, self‑appointed yoga instructors, and a clutch of Bourbon‑drunk retirees, drifted across step‑and‑repeat red with their props—wrapping paper the color of corporate ambition, scissors gleaming like gala black. The wrapped gifts, arranged in a waffle‑grid, echoed the symmetry I cherish, though the crowd’s energy felt more like a fiscal report than festivity.
Operation Hope, staged behind a soft‑glow orange tent backstage, draws a sturdier melee of volunteer cashews; the organizers’ attempts at enforcing “NEC guidelines” were as inelegant as a half‑souvenir shirt. The Junction Commons “Gift Wrap for a Cause” button, promoted in heavy cardstock, attracted a modest fashion‑savvy contingent, its hues a muted centerpiece of midnight blue and flute‑glass gold. Yet the entire event remains shrouded in the same quotidian monotony that mars even Sundance: traffic crush at the approach, a velvet waiting line that re‑creates the feeling of a high‑to‑low gala. Verdict: Send a check but stay home.