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.

Wicked Little Town (part three)

From Wiccapedia:

The Stonewall riots were a series of spontaneous, violent demonstrations against a police raid that took place in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, at the Stonewall Inn in the Green Witch Village neighborhood of New York City. They are frequently cited as the first instance in American history when people in the mutant community fought back against a government-sponsored system that persecuted genetic minorities, and they have become the defining event that marked the start of the mutant civil right's movement the United States and around the world.

When the spinning beer bottle of Miss Calamari Antoinette (a tentacled, drag queen) made solid contact with the head of Vinny Laurenzo (a mustached, beat cop) could anyone have predicted what the next 30 years had in store for mutants?

After Stonewall, mutant activists rallied by Civil Right's leader Harvey Milk made bold strides in gaining acceptance from a middle America who, by instinct, had learned to fear anyone different than themselves. Hollywood also took charge in changing popular perceptions. From Wart and Burnie on Sesame Street to a fish faced Carol Brady, folks couldn't get enough of mutants. Bird beaked models graced the catwalks of Paris, and revelers glued fake fingers to their hands to trick the doormen at Studio 54. In 1979 there was even rumor of a Federal Constitutional amendment granting citizenship status to any Americans born of dissimilar Darwinian descent. Then, in 1981, the BURP plague appeared in primarily mutant neighborhoods, like the Castro in San Francisco and New York's Green Witch Village. 

Everything went to shit from there.

The Blatta Upper Respiratory Parasite, aka the BURP, prematurely labeled MRRI (Mutant Related Respiratory Illness) and jokingly called "the Coughroach" is best known as the Bug. It's a bug. To be precise a mutated species of cockroach that infests the patient's chest cavity. Feels like asthma at first, but if ignored turns into coughing blood and roaches peeking out from one's nose. Eventually they eat through the lungs. It's a slow and wheezy death. Then a thousand flying maggots burst through the skin, and a pandemic is born. 

At first, America was fairly nonchalant to the potential health risk. The infestation was contained to mutant ghettos. But in 1983, teenager Bryan White lost consciousness in a public pool and received mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a mutant who was BURP positive. Bryan's subsequent infected status became a rallying point for the Clean-Gene movement and the forced relocation of ALL mutants -- regardless of BURP status. Infected humans, including Bryan White, were also quarantined. Entire neighborhoods were simply walled up and left to their own management. Monthly deliveries of food, supplies and medicine have continued for the past twenty years, and to date no government official has confirmed hearing any communication from the ostracized mutants.

Urban legends do persist of bug covered mad men banging on subway car windows, but there's far spookier things in underground New York than a few short of breath mutants.

Pat yourself on the back, America. The relocation seems to have stopped the Bug. With that notion public perception has slowly began to shift. Fifteen years ago, a baby born with a pig's snout would have been shipped off to the nearest bio-hazard zone. But today's mutant kids are welcomed, for the most part, at some public schools. There was even a mutant winner of American Idol. Viewers had their suspicions confirmed when the rocker parted his gelled hair and winked at the paparazzi with a guy-lined, third eye. And as part of his Promise to America, President Barney Frank has vowed to open the mutant slums by 2012. 

It's hard to be skeptical of anything in this world, but just dropping in for a friendly hello after two decades of incarceration is something I'll believe when I see it. If the mutants come out wanting revenge (I would), can we handle two wars in this city?

Next, I'll conclude my profile of nightmare Manhattan with a focus on the wyld womyn of the Green Witch coven. And 9/11: When the veil between worlds ripped apart, and New Yorkers came together to push the infernal hordes back to their pits of Hell. And we're still fighting...

Wicked Little Town (part two)

Welcome back!

It's cold for early October. I'm shivering 86 floors above Manhattan on the Empire observatory deck wearing only a sweater and slacks. Suffering so I may highlight some of this super(natural) city's most infamous neighborhoods. I hope you recognize my sacrifice as you sip hot cocoa, draped in your Snuggie, an unseen presence reading over your shoulder. "Unseen presence?", you scoff.

Trust me. It's there.

Did you also know the best neighborhood in which to raise a family is the beautiful Upper West Side. There's a minority owned, organic grocery on every corner and an abundance of pet boutiques. Young mothers (on maternity leave from their fulfilling, high powered jobs) attend infant and mommy yoga classes, while making time for shopping, laundry and being their daughter's bestest friend ever! The brightest kids in America benefit from the bilingual preparatory academies and a vast selection of wholesome after school activities. And all the children are gifted! The fathers are creatures of a new era, men able to succeed in the kitchen, boardroom and especially the bedroom. And every very happy family owns a spacious brownstone with original interior accents, hard wood floors and some form of a delicious, nasty secret hidden away in the attic, screaming to be released for all the subtle amusements of their very happy and very competitive neighbors. And once such a family shame is let loose, the nightmare in plain sight of the Upper West Side is revealed. Paranoia, gossip, knowing smiles at the organic market, picking through one's trash for more tidbits of salacious information, all forms of social cannibalization followed by subtle (yet totally obvious) group shunning.

"Why didn't the Michaelsons invite US over for Trivial Pursuit night?"

"You HAD to have one more glass of wine and talk about little Timmy's condition!" 

And once the ostracized family has no more anguish, no more shame, nothing else for the "alphas" to savor... they somehow disappear. The herd has been culled. Perhaps jackals took them away in the middle of the night? Instantly a social void is formed that must be filled. Perky real estate agents with fresh baked cookie scent appear on the scene. "Available: 5BR/2.5BA UWS Townhouse. GREAT Find! Original Details! Amazing View! Great Schools! NO FEE!!!!" A drop of blood on the floor or a small crack in a window is easily overlooked when the promise of the American Dream is so very close. Another career mom, another sensitive dad, another pair of gifted children and a puppy named Rex or Poncho move in right away. And the process starts all over again. 

Some folks say the Upper West Side elite are psychic vampires. Others swear they're praying mantis people. Only the foolish know them as their neighbors. 

Further down the West Side of Manhattan, the sterling white teeth of the Upper West Side are out shined by the luminescence of New York's famed Broadway theater district. Dreams can come true on Broadway, nightmares too. Every night cabaret acts can be found where any audience's fancy will be staged for the right price. There's a never ending supply of chorus boys and starlets eager for their big break - broken bones included.

And when the dazzle of Broadway's shine leaves you thirsty for something less family friendly, look no further than Times Square. This is where those previously mentioned, bruised starlets go when the more reputable venues will no longer showcase their classical talents. There they stand, on every street corner, eager for another audition - another chance to impress a daddy figure, to be told they're good enough. The Void is their pimp now, and it's a mean sonofabitch when the girls come up short. Fans of games of luck can also find ample opportunity to part with their cash in Times Square. Sports betting, card games, illegal gambling and pit fights (man versus man, animal, monster and anything in between) exist in every bar backroom.

Times Square is the cancerous heart of the city. It beats irregularly as a nonstop flow of taxis, buses and pedestrians choke it's filthy, crowded corridors. And high above the litter and human trash of Times Square, in a world of steel and glass, a powerful cabal of suit wearing wizards view the chaos beneath them and manipulate all assortment of details to their direct advantage. From the worth of foreign currency to next Fall's television line up, nothing that has a discernible value is left to chance. The CEOs and Presidents of these multi national conglomerations consider themselves modern era gods and goddesses. But even deities face termination when a potential trend is not noticed or an opportunity for expansion not seized upon. Everyone in Manhattan has a higher power to pay tribute to.

Monday I'll continue my third segment of mystic Manhattan with a gay jaunt to the Chelsea bio-hazard zone. Mutant plague sucks, ya'll! And we'll meet the descendants of the original founders of Manhattan, the Green Witch Coven.

Legend has it they bought the whole island for a few magical buttons. It's true!

T’Ain’t No Valley Low Enough

Snow on the first day of spring? The forces of darkness are afoot.

Those Black Party boys better double-stuff some seriously high pig bottoms this weekend, because I expect glistening rosebuds (of the floral kind) by Sunday, not the destroyed catcher’s mitt kind that will be on display following the annual leather-sex-party- celebration of spring’s glorious return.

Seriously.

I’ve never been to the Black Party myself. (But I do certainly have an opinion of it!) However my occult studies in London did take me to a sacred valley in Ireland where I witnessed the conjuration of satyrs and an embodiment of Ostara, a fertility goddess – the Celtic incarnation of Persephone, herself. Let me tell you bitches something, it was breezier than a Summer’s Eve commercial!

So there I was, a guest as a favor of a friend of a friend. Honestly, those lesbian priestesses did NOT want me there. Said I had too much “taint” on my soul – they didn’t like my reply that I’ve "barely had enough t’ain’t anywhere on me!" That didn’t win any smiles from the high Gaelic priestess who relegated me to a far away patch of grass and said if I interrupt the proceedings I’d be kicked out of the stone circle. So me, my t'aint' and my tainted soul sat there and watched (yes, very impressed) as these womyn of the wyld worked their charms, and brought spring back to the Emerald Isle.

They sang a chorus of songs. As each song progressed their singing was accompanied by the sound of flutes. And one by one an orchestra of small, hairy, hoofed and horned men gently pranced from the tall grasses. They walked first as though curious, but then quickly joined in the revelry. They spun and danced. Their wooden flutes trilled delightfully.

I’m not sure if it was the witches’ spells, the presence of the mythological creatures or the hallucinogenic seeds I was fed before the ritual, but something seized me. I suddenly found myself clasping hands with the womyn and skipping-to-my-loo among the circle of stones. The High Priestess smiled and allowed my entrance freely. My taint had dissolved!

And then the whitest, purest light flooded the ritual space. And the High Priestess suddenly appeared taller, even more regal. Her ears tapered into fine points and her blond hair cascaded down her narrow body and seemed to weave itself into the vibrant green grass. Her features were sharp and delicate, like a fairy queen of Celtic mythology. All around us flowers of every shape and hue grew and unfolded. Yet, something darker was happening in my periphery, was it the sacrifice of a pig? A frantic,  high pitched squeal became mixed within the chorus of singing voices. The satyrs wove the flowers their beards, and we laughed and sang. Everyone laughed. I laughed! I actually laughed!!!

And then I passed the fuck out. I ALWAYS pass out!

When I awoke, I was back where I’d been sitting. The witches were cleaning up from a picnic feast. The High Priestess came and sat with me. We discussed what I’d seen, the satyrs, her embodiment of Ostara. It was all very surreal, but very serene, very peaceful…

Perhaps I’ve been too judgmental of the Black Party. In many ways my transcendent experience matches the jubilant reports I’ve heard from my friends; horny, furry men with “flutes” in their mouths; women taller than life, glammed out of proportion beyond everyone else; a pig’s frantic squeals; music and decorations, men passing out.

I now regret deriding the annual party earlier in this discussion. In fact such a catharsis, Black Party or woodland valley witchy Celtic Goddess summoning, would likely leave anyone super-jazzed for springtime, regardless of wobbliness hobbling home or unexpected snow on the streets. I respect you, satyrs. I’m simply not ready to relinquish my t’ain’t to the beat of the Black Party.

Yet…