Dandy Darkly

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 Our first farms and fields, so lovingly and carefully maintained by early man, have been replaced by automated harvesters and growth hormones and genetically mutated grains.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 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!

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!

Curiosity Killed the Kitty Cat Clock

Try this at home, kids.

Take a jagged shard of glass, let it touch down on the surface of that milky white, twitchy moon that is your eyeball. Then dig out that fucker like it's a carton of vanilla ice cream and there's a line of screaming brats holding plates of birthday cake that need a la mode-ing. Then if THAT doesn't make you pass out, begin hammering a half dozen steel carpentry nails as hard and as deep as possible into the bloody remains of your former baby blues or greens or browns or hazels. THEN take a welder's torch and set the whole thing ablaze so the heads of the nails fuse into one molten, metal candle, and the imbedded ends of the things grow hot enough to singe the surrounding tissue, and you'll ALMOST have the headache I have endured for the past week.

It's all my own fault.

I tried to discern the identity of that mystery spirit sitting in booth twelve. And the backlash busted every blood vessel in my head, knocked my legs out from beneath me, caused a discernible panic among all the patrons (they fled into the night) and I chipped a fucking tooth! Oh and I lost another job. Patrick the perpetually sweaty fired me for being a clutz. That was after he ventured back into the ransacked diner, dishes broken, glasses smashed, frost covering the floor in patches. I'm lucky my walking papers didn't come with a court summons.

So Saturday night, there I was toiling at Hipster Burger. I was totally slammed, but still booth twelve was vacant the entire night, except for that familiar spectral presence. I won't deny I'm a competitive asshole at times. But now, here we were packed and still the hostess refused to sit booth twelve with customers. Alas the subtle influences of the paranormal world kept my booth empty, night after night. Sure I had other customers, but when you're so focused on the evil in an empty booth, how can you possibly be on top of refills and ordering some drunk asshole's burger medium rare. Goes without saying my tips weren't that great. Who the hell comes to a greasy spoon for exquisite service anyways? 

The Devil, that's who. (Or so I thought...) So there I was. On the wall, the smiley cat clock's little paws were inching towards midnight, the witching hour. Patrick continued to remind me to refill the sugar in booth twelve, food getting cold, to restock clean dishes, blah, blah, blah... but all my senses were aimed at the shadow form with his long skeletal fingers stirring that black cup of coffee...

I don't know when I decided to risk it. I'd brought some things with me, but who doesn't carry bits of human bone in their pockets? Enough was enough. This entity, his passive aggressiveness, had pissed me off. The kitty cat clock struck twelve. It was go time! I poured myself a cup of hot water. I nicked my finger so a droplet of blood formed. I pulled a few items from my back pocket; dried bone, a small brown and white feather. Facing booth twelve, I spoke beneath my breath:

Old crone's stew

Poison foul

Rancid marrow

And feathered owl

Crooked finger

Child born of sin

Pull back your hood

Fiend or friend!

With the final syllable, I downed a shot's worth of the bone, blood, feather tea and my physical world tripped out HARD! Patrick's sweaty face spun completely upside down. He was rattling off food orders backwards from his forehead. And then, like a raindrop rippling a swamp, his face simply collapsed in on itself leaving a featureless orb in it's place, like he had a beige egg on his shoulders. Everyone in the diner had featureless heads, yet they all watched me. Then the pain hit. I crumpled. The eggheads all reacted as one group mind and bolted for the door, screaming.

I'd fucked up the spell. Something had gone wrong. Why were they reacting this way? (Logic would suggest because I'm a freak, but again what use does logic hold in my world?) I was vomiting blood at this point, not all of it mine, most of it a distasteful after-effect of stirring up such a nasty, old-world witch's potion.

And then I felt the chill. What had spooked the cattle wasn't my distress: I'd finally gotten the attention of the ghost in booth twelve. It was no longer sitting idle. Now it was standing above me, the dirt crusted linoleum began to freeze as the entity regarded me at it's feet.

The kitty clock mewled like a feral cat, spinning on the wall before launching itself across the room. All the tables jumped and shook. Germ covered silverware rattled likes tambourines. Dishes and glassware cracked and shattered.

I looked up, barely able to open my eyes from the blinding pain. The thing's image shifted between dirty black robes and a midnight blue suit. I felt it crouching towards me. I wanted to cry. I wanted to drag myself behind the service bar. This was the end. The final, fucking bitter end! "Do it!" I thought. "Let's get this shit over with." The thing's breath was close to my face. A putrid combination of rotting meat and stale coffee.

"Finally, you asshole," it bitchily hissed in my ear. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to grow the balls to do something? ANYTHING?! God, you're pathetic." I gazed into it's sunken, gaunt face. I felt the brew's charms working. I gasped. Like, seriously gasped!

"Yeah, yeah... Listen take this," the creature pulled forth a worn Metrocard. It pushed the bit of plastic into my hand. "Don't lose it. You'll need it again... someday."

And then the spirit vanished into a cloud of buzzing flies. And immediately the police and fire department stormed into the diner. Right on their heels was my manager, his piggish features sadly returned. He seemed unphased by the enchantment and sfter a weak "I think we're going to have to let you go" speech, Patrick ordered they carry me out on a stretcher. I refused and proudly limped out of the diner to find myself a cab.

Remember when Pandora opened that box and all the evils of the world came flying out? But for all the pain and suffering she'd unleashed, there was still a tiny glimmer of hope at the bottom? For all my vomiting blood and painful headaches and loss of power, I have seen my own glimmer of hope in the darkness. But my personal salvation hides in a despair darker than the bleakest of mankind's trivial worries. And the being in booth twelve has given me the means to begin my journey into the abyss.

The entity in booth twelve, it was me.

Half Empty

Humanity craves the Extreme sandwich.

They put french fries on a sandwich, along with mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers. A swaggering jock-bro named Tommy seeks immortality with the invention of his very own Extreme sandwich. But Tommy will only get his name on the menu if our over-achiever-over-eater consumes five Extreme sandwiches in under forty five minutes. Tommy fails and vomits in a trash can. Folk legends aren't what used to be.

And up next on "Extreme Pig Outs" is the Heart Attack Cafe where waitresses (too-dog-faced-to-strip) wear nurse's uniforms and serve calorie soaked lunches to grossly obese, chauvinist pigs. A sweaty, chinned beast that resembles Tommy-at-fifty propositions a nurse-waitress for "mouth-to-mouth" after sucking on a lard slathered "quadruple by-pass" burger. The burgers are named after cardiac procedures and the establishment's owner is named, simply, Dr. Jon. 

Dr. Jon is not a doctor, by the way. Yeah, your world is rocked. Mine was too.

"Dr. Jon" informs the viewer that there's a grand reward for the littlest of sins: gluttony. Eat the whole thing and your choice of nurse will roll you out to your car in a wheelchair, and if you weigh over 350 pounds then you eat FREE, for LIFE! 

FUCK YOU HUMANITY! 

Fuck you. I'm HAPPY I'm powerless to save you. I've spent months freezing and starving in third world ghettos pursued by the nastiest creatures unimaginable, all for this? So fat Tommy can eat for life at the Heart Attack Cafe? Yep, I'm feeling bitter. Yep, I'm feeling useless. And for the first time in my life, I'm watching daytime television. And it's not a good thing! 

My new nighttime occupation serving less-than-Extreme sandwiches continues this miserable eve. Where once I vanquished nightmares and creatures of darkness, now I'm the vanquisher of midnight munchies at a Williamsburg greasy spoon. Once in Hungary a ghoulish horde cried for my brains. Now a hungry horde of guylined hipsters cry for organic, "violence free" fare. My secret words of power, once so familiar and now powerless, have been replaced with "do you want fries with that... sir?". 

And every single night, a shadow sits in booth twelve. 

And it recognizes me for what I once was, and what I am now: a failure. It pours sugar into a phantom cup of jet black coffee. And Patrick, my persistent manager, constantly reprimands me because booth twelve's sugar is half empty, but he doesn't understand what is sitting there! HE DOESN'T SEE IT! NONE of the sickening cattle who squat in those filthy booths and stuff their smacking mouths SEE it. You're all meat and bone and chicken fingers and nacho cheese ... and there was SO MUCH MORE to my life before all the death was taken away from me, and by the very fuckers who claim to protect you, the Church! That's the hilarity of all this. 

Maybe it's Death himself sitting in booth twelve? Is the master of The Void stirring his black coffee with a crooked, boney finger; his eyeless sockets fixated on my repetitive actions. 

Fill the sugar... 

Place the sugar... 

Fill the sugar... 

Place the sugar... 

Fill the sugar... 

Suddenly I'm one of the trapped repetitive specters I so pity. No...

I think I'm more like fat Tommy (aka fat Humanity) than I realized. My skills were renowned. I was on that menu board. I practically wrote the menu! Five extreme sandwiches? Fuck that. Give me eight, ten, a dozen! Destroy me and I will still be stronger than anything you can shove down my throat! (Vaguely sexual, yeah?) But it wasn't that midnight world who made me choke. It was Man himself.

In all my pride (another of our littlest sins) I failed to see my own arrogance had corrupted my journey. And here I am. What will happen if I don't fill that sugar? If Death runs out... will it be Patrick (humanity) who snaps first - or The Void in booth twelve?

It might hurt... but let's find out.

Night Swimming

The Little Ghost Girl ran around the perimeter of McCarren Pool screaming for help.

"Help! Help! ... Help!" Her pale arms waved in the July night.

"HELP!"

I was in the center of the drained expanse, sitting in lotus with my eyes closed. A tiny white candle flickered - sending wobbly shadows across the empty pool's walls.

"HELP! ... HELP!!!"

"SHUT UUUUUUPPPP! No one cares! I'm not here for you, anyways."

The ghost retaliated and showed me her death mask. Suddenly I was underwater. The little girl hung limply above me. A bubble escaped from her lips. Her eyes matched the color of the water, and her blond curls were a halo framing a peaceful, angelic face. Two more small bubbles. A lifeguard launched himself from his observation chair, and a blond mother in a corset style swimsuit shrieked.

"Help! HELP!"

...and I was back sitting crosslegged in the empty pool. The Little Ghost Girl of McCarren Pool dashed in the opposite direction around the massive (originally built to hold close to seven thousand swimmers) concrete bed. Her cries for help eventually faded away.

But she's not the only ghost that haunts McCarren Pool - just the most famous. Behind the rotting walls angry anonymous eyes glared from broken windows. In some places the grafitti moved - slinking together to form vaguely humans yet vaguely feral faces. The Greenpoint music venue simmers with indifference on weekends as area Hipsters cram skinny jean leg to skinny jean leg - and it absolutely burns with malevolence once the sun sets.

Ghosts HATE Hipsters.

Tonight (especially) the haunts were in a ruckus due to the morning discovery of a badly decomposed body in a nearby shed. With local imaginations dreaming up all sorts of spooky shit, The Void was sucking up the fear. And all the OD'd junkies, murdered vagrants and one little drowned girl were out in full force as a result.

I was there to reach through all the uproar and track down the soul of the dead male discovered in that shed. Unfortunately - I'm pretty sure any trace of the poor guy's soul was dragged into the abandoned building hiding what now felt like a particularly nasty spectre we call a Soul Eater.

Soul Eaters are when two or three particularly corrupt souls perish (usually via a death pact) and merge into one and then have to eat souls to maintain and grow. The more souls gobbled up means the bigger it gets. NOT a pretty sight after a few decades. The more I thought on it, the more certain I was that the many spirits I had originally felt were actually just One. Big. Pissed-off. Soul Eater.

And the soul I was searching for was in there too... poor thing.

I'd need to come back with some firepower. Good timing too, the NYPD showed up. I blew out my candle and discreetly left. Apparently, someone heard a little girl screaming for help.

So I'm heading back to McCarren Pool this weekend... Fun. 

Alligator Tears

The bent form feebly leaned against the stained wall, totally ignored by the morning commuters. But I noticed him, of course.

Love handles (the result of a good life) and in his late fifties, he wore polished alligator skin shoes. Like some lost used car salesman who accidentally wandered off his Texas lot and into Gotham's labrynth, he also sported blue polyester slacks and loud tie. But curiously, "he" wasn't really there-- not in the same way that a departed soul manifests in a fixed spot. But wow - whatever he was, he was really bright.

Bright is a term we purveyors of the paranormal use to describe a spectral manifestation's visual accuity. Imagine an image ranging anywhere from a grainy, black and white screen to a high definition color monitor. (Some MIT parapsychology professor created a scientific scale and mathematical formula for defining brightness, but I leave the numbers to the amateurs who host those retarded ghost chaser shows on America's suckling teet, the television.)

Back to bright. Like I said - whatever he was, every detail was availabe, from a tiny teardrop rolling from under his giant reading glasses to a pale band around his ring finger where a wedding ring had recently been removed. Such vivid encounters are a rare treat.

It was 2001 - almost a year after 9/11 and I'd only been in New York for a month. I was considering  wandering further northeast to explore Boston, but this very encounter convinced me to stay in Manhattan.

I continued to examine the crying man, his face now cherry red and his back leg shaking violently. He cradled his limp left arm like a delicate new born. And then I felt it.

I felt a soul - but not his soul.

This soul belonged to a young man with wavy hair and kind eyes - but desperately not wishing to be seen, He had obfuscated himself quite admirably. But now he stood watching the collapsing man - a figment of his own manifestation.

He looked at the space around him. More people's images, but less detailed, appeared either brushing past the young man or standing with newspapers open but their eyes keenly focused upon the ailing gentleman in those slick alligator skin shoes.

But no one did anything to help.

Panic and anger flushed hot and salty around the young man's blurred form. He stormed down the subway platform. I chased after him, bumping through a crowd of Asian tourists as they disembarked a train in the real world and real time.

The young man's ghost stretched his neck peering over a mass of forms who materialized to block his view. He pushed through them and darted down the subway platform. I followed. His aura spoke of helplessness, but paired with an overwhelming anger toward the authority he was so desperate to find yet so desperate to avoid. The fabulous combination made me dizzy.

His frustration battled a desire for a typical nonchalance that was suddenly rebuked by the unexpected (and pathetic) sight of a total stranger in dire need of help. But no help was available.

The fluffy haired ghost blew back past me towards the brick wall. More figures, the young man's memories of that moment materialized - his memory of the many commuters who stood by and said nothing and did even less to help the dying man.

And yet, the young man, so desperate to remain an anonymous face in the crowd also said not a single word nor offered a hand as the dying man continued to sink towards the sticky floor of that subway platform.

Suddenly a rush of adrenaline flooded my senses. My own pulse quickened as he ran towards the stairs leading up to the ticket booth. Finally the apparition spoke, "Get help! There's a man--", but an approaching train drowned out his plea.

And another wave of blurred forms pushed him down the stairs as more commuters hurried to catch the express train which had just arrived. I caught my breath.

It was the young man's train too.

Indecision now - a huge inhale of it, that pivotal left or right, yes or no, Marvel or DC decision. That moment when we ask ourselves to step up and make the hard - before I could finish savoring the conflict, the young man's ghost made up his mind and stepped onto the train.

I suddenly saw the scene from his eyes. The doors slid shut and the train slowly began to move. The brick wall approached - and there he was in those alligator shoes. The man kneeled slumped against the wall and didn't move. He looked dead.

I thought the young man's thoughts, "Look at those shoes - he deserved it. Fuckin rich prick." And the young man's anger at the man's wealth and his anger at the absent police swallowed his guilt for not doing more.

"I said excuse me, please!"

I startled from my trance. I was standing on the platform where I had originally seen the older man slumped against the wall. His form was gone. The young man's specter/aura had vanished as well. His soul faded back into the crowd as it so desired. Had I even moved at all? Trippy. And that's when I decided to stay in New York.

***

And speaking of New York... the prolific posting prior to my auspicious absence was quite exhilarating. I admit that I hadn't realized the potential for education that this electronic journal represents.

And call me paranoid, but I've no doubt The Void did indeed work its influence to regain the dis-harmony it so prefers. A little blabber mouthing about ghosts and The Void freaks my shit out because of it. Luckily The Void doesn't hold grudges. It blusters, but I can tell it's curiosity is piqued as well.

The Void is weird.

So following my (fated it turns out - more later) encounter with the Pope's modern day witch hunting squad, I spent some time away. I'm pleased to acknowledge that all the portents originally malevolent have returned to a lovely shade of pale lavender, a most calm and spooky color. I use the word acknowledge because I've learned that to acknowledge something brings it into being. Thus it's true. Yay. I love the internet.

So - I'm back.

Also pleased to report that I pretty much quit my temp job - and as Libra's balance would have it, I floated peacefully into a dream job at (set your phasers on nerd) a gaming company.

I am single again, but such is for the best right now. That's just fewer movie dates to cancel at the last minute.

In closing--

There's a calmness that some of the more talkative ghosts refer to before they met their first death. Its like the world simply slows down and the soul which is about to leave that mortal shell can finally take the time to appreciate those last few seconds as it passes into a different reality.

For once in a long time, I feel a smiliar focus and clarity and calmness - and potential. Maybe it's wearing shorts and flip-flops to a job I love, perhaps it was my two months of meditation - I hope it's not that gross out blood baptism courtesy of the Catholic Church, but whatever the reason - things are good now.

Name Calling

My fucking hand refuses to heal. After the rat trap snapped my knuckles, I've had a perpetually bloody bandage decorating the most important God-given finger of them all - my middle one.

Week two of the new day job - and taking into account a fading black eye, my bloodied left hand and yesterday's two hour nose bleed (not to mention my ever present pink criss-crosses: four on the left wrist, two on the right), I'm certain my new bosses suspect FightClubesque extracurricular goings-on as their new hire's after-work-fancy. I told them I'm on a gay rugby team. Let's hope I don't catch a pox while banishing something; only so many lip sores can be explained away by a team of homos in short-shorts.

Oh, vino. I should be in the corner kitchen of my cozily appointed Clinton Hill apartment making turkey meatballs with angel hair pasta, instead I'm drinking Malbec and considering the tougher-than-expected exorcism of Sunday's mafia ghost. Ouch. Typing is difficult (and painful) with three swollen fingers.

So... still trying to feel out how I want to arrange this journal of the occult. I've considered relating a weekly encounter, and then detailing the methods used. Although that seems awfully clinical.

Clinical is the primary reason why, as a wine lover, I never fell into the aesthetic of wine-tasting. Why contribute so much "sissy-science" to a pursuit that really trickles down to simple taste and a knack for "knowing" what is good and what is bad? For what it's worth I'm drinking a Familia Mayol Malbec 2008 from Luyan de Cuyo, Mendoza Argentina. $12. But whatever. I can stalk the moors of Scotland in pursuit (as I have) of a dread banshee, but would the layman know such a vaunted specter from a common house spook? Probably not.

I totally need to tell my trip to Scotland someday. I was such a newbie. I still can't hear parts of the upper register because of that damned red head's screaming.

I digress, Names. Names have power in the world of the dead -and the living for that matter.

I have a name that's on my driver's license and Social Security card, but the name that the minions of The Void know me as is: Dandy Darkly. It's my "industry" nom de gloom, if you will.

There's much power in a name. I'm loathe to call into being our current leader in chief, but much of his own failure attributes to sharing the same name as his presidential daddy. Truth be told, even though I hate the man - (hah like I even know the real guy? Likely we'd smoke out, drink some whiskey and I'd say something really profound which in response he'd say "that's really deep.") But even though I HATE George Bush - if I ended up in Iraq banishing suicide ghost bombers (not that I would ever! yikes) I'd definitely call up the name of George Bush as a Get the "dubya" outta here! solution.

For reference: imagine two columns side by side. Column A you have Names that the Ghostie would react poorly to (considering the mortal age of the ghost and it's education level) and Column B you have Names that Mankind would consider an appropriate "opposite" to the "type" of ghostie you're trying to vanquish. Again, typing this makes it sound like I'm playing Dungeons & Dragons. (Not sure if Gary Gygax was a servant of The Void.)

Likely the soul of that nasty ghost-rat didn't know who the hell Ganga is (Indian goddess of cleanliness and namesake of the Ganges River.) But when you're me, simply screaming her out feeds on the fifty-trillion Indians who do know - and that lends credence and power to her name.

Hippocrates may not be a "god" per se. Ugh, what is a "god". We'll get into that later, trust me, but it's good enough to trigger a reaction in a pestilence spreading vermin like rat-ghost, and voila - it's scared and scurrying away.

Many a darkness spook I've run away by yelling out Edison's name. After all, what are early industrial scientists other than America's "magicians"? Could you invent a light bulb? No.

How do I do it? I read a lot of ancient mythology -- and I travel abroad when I can. And attend religious ceremonies. And most important: I was born this way. Duh. Lately I've been stuck stateside, but in my twenties I had traveled abroad quite extensively. Funny thing about New York City: it's full of ghosts.

Oh - number one misconception about ghosts is that calling out their true name will banish them outright. Hah. No way. Ghosts don't give a fuck if you know their name. By the time they become ghosts  they're so juiced by The Void that such beginner's crap is below their notice.

Certainly there'll be more regarding names to come. Names of the ancient Magi have power: Vainamoimen, Ilmarinen, Circe, Merlin and Baba Yaga to name a few hold tremendous power -- my head spins from simply typing them -- or it's the Malbec. Oh? Did you know serial killers become ghosts simply because of their notoriety? Its true.

Will Dandy Darkly live up to the esteem of his peers? With a bar set so high, My journey has extended three decades prior to this trivial exercise. Those gifted I've named - their journeys - some of them centuries or eons prior to my own.

I have no shame in expressing absolute candor and pride in regards to my present endeavors, but when regarding the literally earth-shaking power of my elders - I demur to utter humility on every count.

Because, for better or for worse, such powers are still among us.  Now I'm off to cook dinner... for my boyfriend. No name given, nosy bitches.

Laughing Stock

I left my former financial job with little more than a shinier resume and a few thousand dollars in a 401k - the value of which has plummeted in light of a recent portent of gloom by whatever prophets of industry who control the ebb and flow of our nation's wealth.

I hated the job - who wants to play fetch for a billionaire - begging at the table for any scrap to be tossed in your direction? Not me.

Not all of the job was without any interest. I was fascinated by the magic of these modern day wizards in pin striped power suits and colorful cravates. Their conjuring is no different from my own: a series of time and place calculations, a deeper understanding of how the world really works. Sometimes their mysticism goes awry - resulting in the loss of millions of dollars, but often (if skilled enough) they are richly rewarded for a lifetime of service to an entity more powerful, but not out of reach. The corporate ladder stretches far into the heavens - but the higher you climb, the further to fall. The bereaved souls poised to jump from Wall Street's windows make for a succint testament to this fact, as well for a lovely midnight stroll.

The new job pays considerably less, but the work is far more interesting. (My paranoia regarding the false sense of social judgement by my new peers was unfounded.) The video editing staff are laid back. Considering the stresses of my evening work, it's refreshing to be in a casual setting from nine to five. Still I can't seem to shake the sensation that somehow The Void had a hand in putting me where I am.

Finally, I feel I must acknowledge the hot-mess-ness of my prior post. The object which ignited a week of drunken self-loathing has been safely put away in one of my many storage spaces. Hopefully I will never need to call on it's potential.

Interview

Greater than The Void -- more ominous, far reaching and capable of reducing a grown man into little more than a blubbering mess of past regret and failure-- is the temporary staffing specialist.

How I hate these bitches.

I jest. To be certain, The Void would devour such prissy pollops... and their faux leather day planners and office photos of doofus husbands or elderly relatives. Yet these harpies have undeniable power, keeping me chained like Prometheus while they dissect my resume -- the vulture devouring the liver.

Over and over and over.

A fitting punishment for my sins will be a carpeted cubicle with a perky staffing specialist and never ending questions. "Where did you go to college?" "What was your typical day like?" "Do you have experience with Outlook?"

I grind my teeth behind my smile. Unfortunately ghost busting doesn't pay the bills. Today's spirits don't lead you to buried treasure. We live like cannibals where the young symbolically eat the deceased in the way of wills and inheritances.

Tammy the staffing specialist asks, "Is my grandmother's cancer going away, doctor?"

What The Void hears is, "Die bitch. The family wants to go to Disney World with your savings."

By the way, granny knew what you were up to, Tammy. The very elderly (death) and toddlers (life) are strangely attuned to The Void's broadcasts. (Pets too, but that's a whole seperate post.)

Ghosts are the poorest cats on the block, poorer than me even. Hurt feelings and a loathing of the living are all ghosts got, but it's enough to get an interview when The Void is hiring. So there boring Tammy sat. Seriously asking me to describe my most rewarding experience answering a manager's phone, and utterly ignorant that her deceased grandmother's soul sat perched in the form of a greasy turd atop her pigtailed head.

"I just enjoy being a help around the office..."

I trailed off as the angry turd-soul let out a teensy fart and resettled, gunking up Tammy's hair with a caramel chutney of regrets and accusations.

"You never visited me in the hospital!" "You dress like a whore!" "It was your fault you were raped!" "I hate you!" "I HATE ALL OF YOU!"

And then I had a seizure.

People with epilepsy tend to speak to the dead easier too. It's a chicken or the egg kinda thing: do epileptics see ghosts or does seeing ghosts give you seizures?

Anyways, I woke up and the paramedics had been called. Tammy was being consoled because of course it was such a big, fucking drama FOR HER! Stupid bitch. I tried spinning it into a sympathy thing like I totally need money for my medication, but no luck. Tammy was too freaked out, and I didn't get the job.

The turd mocked me. Her grandmother knew she caused my seizure. The realization gave it more control over her fragile Tammy's psyche. Whatever. Back to Craigslist...

Update: Turns out maybe The Void doesn't have as strong a grasp on my life as I previously believed. One of Tammy's co-workers actually arranged for me to begin work on April 1st with a small public relations firm as an event marketing associate. I love bullshit titles.

Ever cynical, I'm prepared to be greeted with an overture of "April Fool's!" upon my arrival, but the promise of a paycheck is one tiny glimmer of hope in a darker than usual universe.

Hope Tammy (and granny) enjoys the trip to Orlando.