Dandy Darkly

An Offer of Optimism

I don't like to think I'm naive. I prefer to consider myself, instead, an optimist. I like to believe my eagerness to find the hidden answer is what sometimes (lately more often) results in my less than favorable situational hardships. Take my shitty apartment for example. There's barely any plumbing. It's beginning to freeze at night. And a week ago, I found a winged rat had chewed through my loaf of bread.

But my particular pseudoscience is a reactionary one. The ghost haunts a house, so I take steps to shoo it away. And I do so happily. The same strategy applies with my apartment. I bought a gym membership (on credit) to shower, heavier blankets to stay warm while I sleep, and a cat to slay the rat. For the record Artemis Kitty hasn't killed it yet, but I'm optimistic.

This said, I attended the wedding of Sam Hain over the weekend. Sam Hain the Scarecrow King, the Master of Halloween, the Exalted Patriarch of Pumpkins, His Haunted Holiness... 

I arrived as planned to the wedding. The annual event was held in Prospect Park at a gothic pavilion called the Picnic House. Grinning pumpkins lined the twisting path through the ancient trees to the ceremony. Merely approaching the shrine, I was made giddy by the spiritual aura emanating from the location. All this before I even saw the paparazzi. 

Mayor Gloomberg was there, calling in some favors for his struggling re-election bid no doubt. Lady Gaga, too. A variety of Manhattan and Bergen's social elite, all seeking a favor from the only groom capable of shaping destiny with a nod of his head. And me. There I was in a tuxedo bought for me, with perfume obtained from rooting in garbage high on psychedelic tea, expecting to waltz right up to Sam Hain on his wedding day and then what?

Such blinding optimism.

While credentials were checked at the door, I caught a glimpse of chandeliers made from lush ivy wound around hanging elk skulls and lit by circling fireflies. Waiters in long nosed, Italian masks served guests dainty finger foods and frosted cocktails. A brutish ogre in an elegant, white suit examined my invitation, looked me up and down and motioned to an attendant who took me through the door, but not towards the festivities.

I was ferried to a side room where stacks of presents awaited the soon to be groom and his bride. Some were lavishly wrapped with towering bows while others simply sat on the table with little fanfare. Still my optimism refused to be broken. I thought certainly I'd been shown here to place my ridiculous sewer perfume before rejoining the costumed revelers. So stupid. I wasn't allowed to leave the room. I began to panic. My temper flared. I demanded an answer as to why I was being kept separate from the other guests. Eventually the doorman who had examined my invitation came to the room. My optimism was shaken, but still held firm, certainly this mix up would be resolved. No such luck. The doorman was resolute. He did indeed let me through the door, but I was not a guest at the wedding. I never had been. I was in attendance as a wedding gift to Sam Hain.  

I was dumfounded. I began to raise my voice. What was this idiot talking about? I was there as an offering? Was that even possible? I debated the ridiculousness of the entire situation. If I were a gift, as this dullard continued to insist, then who was I a gift from? He flipped through his notes, seemingly unable to find the answer to my easy question. Then he said the name.

"Kristakos. You are a wedding offering from a Mr. Kristakos."

And my optimism crumpled.

Tuxed and Taxed

I'm certain I broke my big toe. Ever since returning from the hallucinogenic haze of Little Beijing Market's sewers, it has ached terribly when walking. But my injury is a mere triviality to Kristakos and the sadistic shoe salesman trying in vain to wedge a narrow Oxford on to my swollen foot.

"Feet. So gross to look at. Like misshapen, stubby hands. Well it's your own fault. You knew how important this wedding is," the goat hoofed sissy snipped.

"I didn't do it on purpose. It happened. Ow!!"

The shoe was finally on. I gingerly stood and regarded myself in the store mirror. I pulled the cuffs down beneath the black tuxedo sleeve and adjusted my crooked bow tie. I must admit. I looked damn fine. With my abilities returned, the depressed funk I'd been in had moved on. Along with it went the daytime napping and Chubby Hubby night-capping. I haven't weighed myself, but I'd guess I've lost twenty pounds in the past three months. But beyond a little weight loss, there was something else there; a renewed confidence that only comes when you recognize something special in yourself that no one else can see.

"You look fat," remarked Kristakos. "Can you lose fifteen pounds by Friday's wedding?"

...

It was a downpour as I limped home with my boxes of formal wear, which Kris was kind enough to pay for, nonetheless! An email was waiting for me from a prospective client. She's apparently hearing chains in her attic. But any such diversions will have to wait in light of Sam Hain's quickly approaching, nightmare nuptials. There's still research to accomplish and a host of ritualized offering stances to memorize before Friday.

I'm also more than a little curious to see my old Brooklyn through the veil of this new, wicked world. I've yet to set across either bridge off of Manhattan island in the few months I've been here. How will this "New Norway" reflect my former home which I knew so well?

Big Tripping in Little China (part two)

Continued from Big Tripping in Little China (part one).

Mr. Hsu sat cross legged on an opulent pillow. His head was bald and covered with liver spots. He wore a shiny, silk robe. The owner of the Opal Trading House took a slow drag from an ivory pipe.

He narrowed his eyes in my direction and exhaled slowly, "Would you care for some tea?" 

The air in the small room was choked with heavy incense and tobacco smoke.

"No, thank you." I primarily wanted to find a suitable gift, whatever this shriveled man suggested, and get going.

"Please? I insist. It's very good tea," a claw-like hand, all dead skin and curled fingernails, passed me a teacup of bitter smelling, steaming liquid. The hand then darted back within the folds of his robe. I didn't want any tea, but if I've learned anything by Kristakos' example, it's that social graces can carry you far in this midnight version of Manhattan. 

I sipped the tea and we began to talk of gifts appropriate for Sam Hain, the master of Halloween. 

I stretched my jaw muscles and mouthed out each syllable, "Halloween. HAAAAlloween. HallOOOOween. HallowEEEEEEEEEn. I really like the sound of that one the best. Halloweeeeeeeeeen. So, anyways, what was I saying? Oh yeah. When Laurie decides to take on Michael Myers, she totally sets a major slasher film precedent about standing the fuck up to your Jasons and your Freddies and... wait..." 

Suddenly I was very confused. 

How long had I been sitting there? Had I really been talking to Mr. Hsu about Jamie Lee Curtis and how her portrayal of Laurie Strode paved the way for the modern, assertive scream-queen found in the contemporary horror genre?

Oh yeah. I certainly had been. It felt like I had been doing so for hours.

Mr. Hsu quietly regarded me and took another long drag from his pipe. I was sweating. I took another sip of tea. It blistered my tongue. He smiled at me. His teeth were jagged and sharp. The fucker had snake eyes! Keep it together. I was totally trying to tell myself, like... wow it was suddenly really hot in that little room. Or was it me? I drank more tea to cool down.

"So... your store is nice. What you got around in here. For weddings for... It's a nice store by the way. Much nicer than..." I was whispering.

Then I clumsily spilled my tea. And duh. The tea! Fucking tea. Fucking Chinese snake shaman dosed me with his magic mushroom tea. 

Mr. Hsu watched me from atop an emerald mushroom. His tiny head sat on the bloated body of a sapphire colored caterpillar. I stared upwards to his perch where he slowly smoked his pipe. I was knee deep in a field of daisies, and a lazy cloud of twirling, exhaled smoke took the form of a Chinese dragon. Above us twinkled a glistening diamond sky. And a manicured hand reached down and shook the serene scene.

The daisy field 
       flew with fury 
               far above before
                             fluttering back

                                                 as...

                dainty...

              deflowered...

flurries...

I returned the snow globe to the shelf with the others, each one a showcase of a joyous memory or a moment to forget. In one, a very young bride, swathed in burgundy and black, danced with her arranged groom on their Gothic wedding night. Her perfume smelled like lavender. In another, a father received a folded flag from two soldiers in dress uniform. Sparkling tears rolled down his cheeks. His sobbing now echoed from three rows behind me. It was a loathsome sound, emotion cut directly from the man's soul, forever destroyed. The wailing intensified as I crept closer.

There he stood in his own dress uniform. His son's flag was clinched beneath his arm, the barrel of a handgun in his mouth. His bloodshot eyes met mine. He pulled the trigger. The image vanished. Floating in its place remained a small crystal object, a perfume bottle. It shined like a diamond. 

I'd found my gift.

Then it fell to the concrete. I dove to catch it, but not fast enough. The splendid bottle broke. Lavender perfume stung my eyes and overwhelmed my sense of smell. I wiped away protective tears and examined where it had landed. There were easily a hundred exact replicas. I panicked. The perfume had shattered in to itself. I panicked. Which one was the original? I began examining each bottle. They were all the same! I continued digging through the pile of bottles.  

Suddenly my hands were covered with filth. Warm water flowed around me. My panic became terror as more liquid, stinking of raw sewage, flooded into the room. It covered my shoes,  then suddenly my thighs. I lost balance. I screamed like a little bitch! I was caught in a torrential flush of water. Off balance and completely submerged I tried swimming. Perfume bottles floated around me. I grabbed as many as possible, shoving them into my pockets and kicking against what felt like glass. Through the splotchy surface I saw stacks of jars with screaming human heads in them. I looked down for my body, but it was gone.

I was nothing more but a decapitated head in a pickle jar myself. I screamed even louder. 

The NYPD officers who found me said they were responding to reports of a crazy man in an alley way. And, yep, they were. When I came to my senses, I was soaked to the bone and rolling in trash hollering about my body. A few yards away, a sewer lid had been forced open. Considering everything I'd been through, I was surprisingly lucid. The officers threatened to issue a citation, but I played the gay mania card, sobbing that my boyfriend dumped me and that I was freaked out. They found that shit more distasteful than the actual shit on my trousers and opted to move along.

Mr. Hsu's home brew had left me in a bit of lurch. Following a hot shower and some nuzzling from Artemis Kitty, I began detailing the hallucinogenic imagery I experienced. It was then I remembered the perfume bottles. I ran to the trash bag where I stashed my stinking garments and began emptying my pockets. Wrapped in a bit of soggy newspaper, I found a delicate bottle of perfume. Upon the sparkling surface there was gilded lettering which read "Eau de Toilette."

The supernatural world is not without a sense of humor.

Big Tripping in Little China (part one)

It'd been six days with no word from Kristakos. He'd set out to find me a way into the wedding of Sam Hain, but having witnessed firsthand the results of his social bridge burning, I assumed the surly satyr had given up. Then yesterday Kris called with great news. He'd been able to secure an invite for myself alone to the Halloween's Eve wedding, one week from tomorrow in Bergen.

I'm excited, to say the least, but also understand how much work lay ahead of me the next few days to procure a properly supernatural gift for the Halloween master and his bride. My wedding shopping started with a call to the special orders department at a store known for having "everything the shopper needs, guaranteed." 

Wednesday, close to dusk, I pushed my way through the buyers and tourists standing shoulder to shoulder in Little Beijing Market's most popular destination, the famous Opal Trading House. Chinese clerks bustled among towering shelves carrying bolts of embroidered silk and intricately carved, jade statues. Row after row of porcelain rice bowls sat for sale alongside crystal glassware and polished silver cutlery. And most spectacular, from the ceiling hung the twisting skeleton of (supposedly) an actual Chinese dragon. The ancient serpent's embossed bones glimmered like gold in the ruddy glow of the setting sun. And past a wall of three-pronged daggers and curved swords, I found a nondescript staircase with a simple hand written sign. It read "Special Order by Reservation Only." 

Making my way to what felt like a basement, I met a woman in her fifties standing behind a cluttered desk. The piles of Chinese invoices were dwarfed by a gigantic, ancient cash register, like one you'd see in a wild west movie. The woman seemed ageless, beautiful even beneath the buzzing florescent lights of the cramped storage room. She quietly regarded me. 

Finally I spoke, "I'm here for special orders?"

She replied in English but with a very thick Cantonese twang, "Speciar oldel foul hundled dorrar."

I was dumbfounded, "I'm sorry. But no one mentioned it would cost four hundred dollars to--"

She interrupted, suddenly shouting and pointing, "Speciar oldel FRIVE hundled dorrar!"

"But you just said four--"

"Speciar oldel SIX HUNDLED DORRAR!", the woman screamed.

"OK. OK! Stop raising the price! Here! Here's the money."

I pushed a wad of twenty dollar bills into her greedy hands. The behemoth cash register mockingly ka-chinged. And without a hint of the former accent, the woman replied, "Thank you kindly. Please follow me this way. Mr. Hsu will see you now."

The lying, hateful woman disappeared into a small side door. I had to hunch to fit through it. I was ready to Yelp some nasty shit about Opal Trading House's crooked business practices, but any notions of internet revenge quickly turned to those of wonderment as we walked past the truly bizarre merchandise hidden beneath what must have been the main selling floor.

Here, the rows upon rows of lovely (but mundane by comparison) Asian wares were replaced by jars of monkey heads pickled in brine, some smiled serenely, others wore a death mask of sheer terror. We walked past an assortment of small, potted trees. Some sported small flowers, others thorns. One even held a small flame, like an oil lamp. Beyond another shelf I caught a glimpse of beautiful, pale faced dolls that seemed to giggle as a cloud of tiny, clockwork butterflies contently floated in place with no breeze needed. Further back, near some yellowed maps, there stood a statue of an ancient Imperial soldier, it's weapons stained with what resembled fresh blood. I looked into the statue's eyes. From deep within it, something violent glared back...

"Mr. Hsu will see you now." I jumped as though the sculpture had gutted me with it's spear. The attendant finally cracked a smile and motioned me to yet another even smaller door, the frame of which was warded with elaborate carvings. I crouched and entered. There inside sat Mr. Hsu.

Continue to "Big Tripping in Little China (part two)"

Enter Sam Hain

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound of silver satyrshoes striking cobblestone kept a fast pace as I set out to explore the elite side of Manhattan nightlife.

"HURRY UP!!! We must be at Alexio's before 11, or we can fucking forget about getting into Club Wyld. It'll be fast. Kiss, kiss, a little drinky and on our way."

"To Club Wyld?"

Kristakos the social satyr scoffed, "Noooo! Oh my goodness! Do you even go out at all? Wow! Club Wyld is an after hours club. And we must visit Charles' gallery after Alexio's. Do you know Charles? About this high. A bit of a party boy, but sooooo talented - if you consider photography art."

I briefly wondered if "after hours" meant an experience outside of regular time. Perhaps a chance to exist as past, present, future all in the same moment. There'd be the early twenties version of myself, all Italian disco wear and gypsy curses. Maybe I'd have a chance to chat with the ghastly doppelganger who lured me to this world? I asked Kris if "after hours" meant between normal time or simply meant--

But I was interrupted... again...

"Are you CRAZY!? Have you ever been out to a club?! It just means the place stays open late. Wow. Where are you from again? Wow! Do they have bars in your dismal world? Wait til Alexio hears this one. Wizards and their crazy notions. How much of that shit did you smoke anyways?"

"Not much," I lied.

We finally ended our brisk, Green Witch Village walk at a pair of towering red doors, framed in gold. An equally tall, dark skinned doorman in a black suit intercepted Kristakos as he headed for Alexio's bar.

"I'm sorry Mr. Kristakos. But you're not on the V.I.P.--"

"What!? What the FUCK are you talking about? I'm on the V.I.P. list. I'm a VERY V.I.P.! Get the FUCK out of my way or I will FUCKING have your job! DO YOU HEAR ME YOU LOW PIECE OF SHIT. Wait until Alexio hears this! This is OUTRAGEOUS!!! Where is Alexio?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Kristakos. But this comes down from Mr. Alexio himself. You are not allowed on these premises." The giant of a man maintained a calm demeanor as the satyr raged at his kneecaps.

"FUCK YOU, ALEXIO!" Kristakos shrieked into the night. A trio of young men whispered and giggled as they easily passed the doorman, "And fuck you too, stupid Jersey tunnel-trash!"

Kristakos spun on his hoof and grabbed my arm, "Let's get the fuck out of here. This place is nothing but low rent hookers and shitty music!"

CLICK! CLACK! CLICK! CLACK! CLICK! CLACK!

It was a similar scene everywhere else we went. Security refused to let Kristakos inside their property. We ended up at a decidedly 'before hours' diner, where between furious bites of souvlaki, I heard of the bitter demise of Manhattan's party scene, how Kristakos was (by his accounts) the number one party promoter in Manhattan, how everyone unfairly turned their backs on him and how no one knows how to throw a good party these days.

The satyr stole a curly fry from my plate, "Well except one person. That person being Sam Hain, of course... Yep. I'm certain I'm tight in Sam Hain's book. So long as those bitches haven't filled his ear with their lies. Yeah... Sam Hain..."

He chewed and waited. Of course he wanted me to ask who Sam Hain was. I didn't want to...

But I dully acquiesced, "Who is Sam Hain..."

Kristakos' eyes rolled, "You don't know who Sam Hain is? He's the number one dude around these parts. He's the guy who can get you anything you want! Wow. Just WOW. You are so like... Wow. Doesn't know Sam Haim? Wow. Sam Hain is the Master of Halloween!"

I was beginning to understand how this belligerent half man, half goat had become a blight on Manhattan nightlife. But with the mention of Sam Hain, his mood had certainly brightened.

"That's it, man! That's it. Why didn't I think of it sooner! You gotta meet Sam Hain. I probably can't get to him, but you can. You totally can," Kristakos was absolutely beaming now.

"OK. What bar is he at? Are we going tonight?"

"Oh wow! He's not at a bar! Sam Hain doesn't go to bars. He's waaaay above bars," the satyr chuckled to himself while he sucked strawberry milkshake through a straw.

This was getting exhausting. But maybe someone as connected as this Sam Hain guy could answer my questions about how I ended up here. I took a deep breath, "Soooo... where can I find him then? How do I get to meet him?"

Kristakos said plainly without a hint of jest, "Easy. You need to crash Sam Hain's wedding on Halloween's Eve."

Home Hung Overhead

My head hurts.  

But worry not intrepid purveyors of blog mine. Unlike my previous bouts of painful brain syndrome, this is not some maleficent side effect of miscast magic but rather the ill effects of drinking an infamous elixir called the 'Dok Suni Saketini', four to be exact, at a popular Korean restaurant. It was all in celebration of a new friend's birthday, followed by two vodka sodas and several beers at a local bar. Happily, the ancient potion called coffee is helping to ease my brain's burden this blustery, New York morning... And 3 pm is still morning when you've just woken up. OK?

Ah, the wonderful life of a gay bachelor: social networking, binge drinking, making a home in the filthy remains of a coffee shop adjacent to Tompkins Square Park. The elderly Irish woman on the third floor, apparently her son is the slum lord, wrote me out a lease the day I said, "Sure. I guess."

I'm not convinced I'm not illegally squatting.

I'm also realizing more and more that I didn't map out this journey to (new) New York as well as I could have. There's a space heater in the storeroom where I sleep on a cot. I brought no winter clothes with me, and already the front area gets cold in the evenings. I packed more dried up specimens in jars than I did underwear. Good news is I did bring most of my books, but daily I'm reminded of something forgotten when I go rummaging in my suitcase. I've helped myself to anything in the store's boxes, mainly broken junk and paperwork. I found a small frame with a dollar in it. I pocketed the dollar and replaced it with the Metrocard that brought me here. It now hangs above where I sleep.

The storefront window is obscured with graffiti, so I painted over the interior of the glass in black. Over that I've taped charts, maps of Manhattan, a particularly weird Cathy comic I found in the trash. The front doors are permanently chained shut. I come and go via a small back door near the washroom. There's usually a junkie passed out, tripping the pavement fantastic, in what (according to my lease at least) should be my own private alley way. I've stacked most the dusty chairs and tables against the far wall. On the floor I've begun a rudimentary circle for casting and scrying. I'm detailing it's perimeter as my journey here unfolds: trinkets, candles, etchings. I find in the long run this process creates a richer tableau for the spells worked within. 

And I have a roommate, too. A week after I moved in, dead mice began appearing on my door step. Soon after, the huntress introduced herself to me. She was a black and white tabby who readily took to an offering of tuna. I named her Artemis because the patterns of her coat shift based on the phases of the moon. Today while she makes kitten biscuits on a pile of parchment, her coat is primarily white. On Sunday (my birthday by the way), she'll be an even black and white. And on the 18th she'll be jet black like the moonless sky. The details of this magic kissed New York are making themselves more apparent as I look for them. But only if you want to see them.

My friend from last night's drunken soiree, for example, is a darling, 29 year old, slutty satyr named Kristakos. The average person on the street doesn't want to know he has goat's feet and little horns, so they don't see such. Unlike the contemporary mutants who demanded recognition, the mythological folk who've been here forever are quite content to glide under society's radar.

My coffee is cold now. I'm gradually getting back into the exorcism business. It's a tricky game, as the haunted sometimes hold less sway than the ones doing the haunting. So far I've met a few promising (paying) clients through Craigslist. Kris (Kristakos) says he knows the best connected individuals who can help me answer some questions. We're hitting the town this weekend to meet who he calls the real movers and shakers of New York nightlife. Yay... Until then, going to climb back into bed. 

Head. Hurts.