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...

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."