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 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)"

The Halloween Bride

Prepackaged hamburgers, vacuum sealed and ready for the radiated waves of a beeping glass carousel, and sugar sweetened water, carbonized and bottled in the plastic cancer that grows deep within Mother Earth's metastatic land fills. And to the dark sorcerer who conjured Man's first Funyun, my pointed hat s'off to you. For better or for worst. In sickness and in health (mostly sickness), these are the delicacies which sustain the masses in this modern world. Our first farms and fields, so lovingly and carefully maintained by early man, have been replaced by automated harvesters and growth hormones and genetically mutated grains. And almost gone are the ancient rituals associated with the end of the harvest and the blessing of the fields in preparation for next spring's planting.

Except for one such ritual -- the Halloween bride.

In the Night's Time, when the country sides and meadows were rife with creatures of The Void, the crones taught protective blessings to the farmers who tended Man's flocks and fields. They risked their safety living outside the growing cities, a risk casually dismissed by those walled away from the hidden things lurking between the rows of corn. 

One such blessing (the greatest such charm given) was the invocation of the straw man or the scarecrow, a delightful sort of golem who hung in the fields to shoo away unwanted gremlins and ensure a bountiful harvest throughout the planting season. Few ever saw this folksy effigy take from his pumpkin patch post to battle trespassers into his territory, but all written accounts agree in the deadliness of his dispatch, followed by a most charming display of local dance before settling himself back on his wooden stand.  

As it was in Night's Time, and still is today, nothing came without a price. The scarecrow, henceforth known as Sam Hain in honor of the harvest season's ancient name, required gifts to guarantee his protection for the next planting season. Once the fields were reaped and the livestock slaughtered, the rural townsfolk gathered in colorful costumes to celebrate the harvest and tempt that ragged scarecrow, Sam Hain, down from his peg to dance a jig.

And what a fabulous party! The spirits (evoked) of family passed mingled with the spirits (distilled) of fermented grain. Emboldened by their disguises (and the alcohol), the hardworking men and women of these rural areas threw caution to the wind, taking up chanting and dancing in circles with the cursed crones who were typically shunned, the wyld women who lived even outside of country society. There they celebrated another passing of the year, and paid tribute to the master who kept their plates filled, and families safe.

And once the festive frenzy hit a crescendo, that stitched sack of hay and twigs would suddenly jump down to the delight of the assembled guests. Kicking, shimmying, swaying and grooving, there Sam Hain danced while villagers and farmers laid at his prancing feet offerings both beautiful and profane, both a trick and a treat. 

You see, Sam Hain, like all conjured entities, exists in the world between Man and The Void. And the gifts for his services had to be equally exquisite yet grotesque. A lovely carved knife stained with demon's blood, for example; or a detailed painting of a crying child, one enchanted to actually sob out loud; or thirteen white doves, all skewered on a silver arrow; are all documented examples of a few gifts offered in harvest rites gone by.

And as the years passed, old Sam Hain had time to think about his situation hanging up on that stick, roasting in the summer sun or swaying in an autumn breeze. The scarecrow realized how lonely his life had become. He came to anticipate his tribute with increased emotion. And he found himself envious of Mankind for their loving relationships. The crooked crones relayed Sam Hain's wishes. He now wanted a bride, one every year to continue his blessings on the harvest, or else he'd let the monsters of The Void ransack their farms.

The farmers had no choice in the matter. And now a young, virgin bride (or groom -- being a scarecrow, Sam Hain naturally swung both ways) was selected from their midst to keep him company for the long, cold winter. She'd travel with him into The Void and bid goodbye to Man for eternity.  

There are rumors that in some of Man's cities (those with a strong connection still to nature such as Atlanta, Bergen and Portland) elaborate, costumed weddings to Sam Hain still exist. Halloween brides are said to be chosen at birth, and raised with the knowledge their destiny lay within The Void, and at the side of the Master of Halloween. And the lucky guests who give gifts to that dancing scarecrow are entitled to all manner of blessings for the year that follows. But only if your gift exceeds old Sam Hain's expectations.

And only if you're on the wedding guest list...

Wicked Little Town (part one)

On a clear evening, from the rooftop observatory of the Empire Tower for Astrological Sciences, one is afforded an unobstructed, three hundred and sixty degree view of my new home, the lovely necropolis called Manhattan. 

Down Fifth Avenue, past the Flat Iron Building, the crowded shops of SoHo and the ornate golden rooftops and winding alleyways of Little Beijing Market, you can see the razor sharp spires of the Bergen Bridge. Their elegance sits in stark contrast to the dull, squat masonry of the massive toll bridge, Goblin's Crossing. 

Both bridges deposit the traveler in the state of New Norway, the eleventh state of our great nation which geographically encompasses the entirety of Long Island. One of the oldest settlements on North America, New Norway was discovered circa 1100 AD when the viking explorer Thorkell Leifson (son of famed adventurer Leif Ericson) made contact with America's indigenous people there. The civilized Norsemen admired the Lenape tribe's deep sense of honor and rich pantheon of powerful deities. They were equally impressed by the natives' giving nature and capacity for deadly retribution if threatened. The two groups were fast allies long before the Spanish sorcerer Giovanni da Verrazzano's ships sailed past the Narrows in 1524. And almost a century later, when Henry Hudson's expedition glided up the river that would later bear his name, the two races were indistinguishable as one.

Much of New Norway's capital city, Bergen, is visible tonight. The towering totem poles, carved with likenesses of Odin and Freya, are as impressive as their unique homes and buildings, ecological and architectural masterworks cradled within the limbs of hulking, living trees. And sure, occasionally a sacrificial scream or two echoes across the Hudson, way more during their hedonistic full moon rituals. But for the most part, the tribes of New Norway are good people and amicable neighbors. 

(If only the same could be said for our Eastern state, the toxic swamp people of New Jersey. Seriously.)

Back in Manhattan, further north from Little Beijing Market, the colorful murals featuring laughing, round faced children riding whiskered dragons abruptly disappear. In their place are filthy, graffiti covered brick walls with broken windows. Buzzing neon signs point out tattoo parlors and absinthe lounges. In the East Village, pierced young people grind away a life of self-destructive bliss. And the old ones, the ones who somehow managed to survive it all, they roam the shadows, hungry for any scrap narcotic The Void tosses their way.

Midtown... bleh. Busy little gnomes busy making piles and piles of cash. Next!

Moving around the observatory walk... gross. There's a winged rat sitting perched facing the Upper East Side. No, it's not a pigeon. In my Manhattan the rats actually have wings -- black raven's wings to be exact. They're gross. Shoo, rat.

A perpetual fog hangs over the Upper East Side. New York's most influential, original families still own sprawling residences among the grim granite buildings and stuffy English pubs here. It's in this dreary neighborhood that you'll find the Mayor's mansion. Mayor Gloomberg, laughably running yet again for re-election, holds the post in perpetuity. And, yes. He's a ghost. A very, very old ghost to be certain.

I sincerely hope you, delicate reader, don't find these dreadful admissions to be too shocking. Tis simply the world I've come to inhabit. I consider it my honor and duty to share it's secrets with you. Moving on --

New York's enormous, fifth avenue museums form the backbone of the fence separating Central Park East from the rest of the city. The spiked barricade runs the entire perimeter of the 800 acre park. Most New Yorkers think the barbed wire and razor sharp spikes are in place to limit the access of the gardens and lawns to those who reside in Manhattan's wealthier neighborhoods. In honesty, it was erected to keep Central Park's myriad nasties from interrupting the rich folk's genteel croquet matches and well earned steak dinners. But occasionally something truly twisted does get loose. 

And it runs its ten legged, twelve eyed self straight to Harlem!

Wouldn't you know the black folk just happen to got stuck with the side of the fence that no one can seem to keep repaired? And that's precisely why Councilwoman LaShawndra LeFay went into politics. Fed up with how the city was dumping all their shit on her Harlem, she's now become one of the most influential politicians in the entire state.

There's also a persistent rumor that Ms. LeFay is the infamous Voodoo Queen of Harlem with hexes on Manhattan's most powerful movers and shakers and a horde of blood thirsty zombies at her disposal. But you can't believe every rumor you read on Page Six. Can you?

OK. That's enough for now. I'm not convinced your suspicious natures can accept the fantastical things you've read on this interdimensional diary of darkness.

In the cards for tomorrow:

The bohemian west side of our horrific hamlet: Are the jovial families of the posh Upper West Side any happier than the smiling troubadours gracing the prosceniums of Manhattan's famed Broadway? Not really. Both groups are paid to look happy.

And once again Times Square is a cesspool of low morals and filthy pleasures!