Dandy Darkly

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?

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!

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…

Bricks and Blood

It was London, and I was twenty two or twenty three. I managed to crawl across the bedroom floor towards the prone form a guy around my age. I pried his mouth open with both my hands. He twisted his head and attempted to vomit blood upon my face. Hateful!

We were both exhausted from our prolonged wrestling match, but I’d managed to pin him with a few secret words – and a lot of rope. And now the ugly part… I hefted a b rick and slammed it into the open orifice. Teeth, blood and rubbery skin mashed in a disgusting crunch. And then four more crunches as I hammered the block of stone deep into his throat. He stopped convulsing and finally laid still.

No stake through the heart. No crosses. He didn’t turn to dust. He didn’t evaporate when I opened the window to let some early morning sun into the room. Instead I dragging the body to the lower floor of the Tottenham flat, retrieved a shovel from my equipment and buried the fiend facedown in his own backyard. And then set fire to the hovel in which he’d digested a baker’s dozen of tramps and almost yours truly. 

So that’s how you kill a vampire in the real world. I’ve only taken out two, but both were extremely arduous affairs. I much prefer exorcising non-corporeal entities. Whereas the “science” behind banishment has evolved over the centuries, the means of bludgeoning a bloodsucker really haven’t. I was reminded of my efforts by a recent article in NewScientist which detailed the uncovering of an ancient skeleton believed to be one of the first vampire killings:

(Italy) A SKELETON exhumed from a grave in Venice is being claimed as the first known example of the "vampires" widely referred to in contemporary documents.

Matteo Borrini of the University of Florence in Italy found the skeleton of
a woman with a small brick in her mouth while excavating mass graves of plague victims from the Middle Ages on Lazzaretto Nuovo Island in Venice.

Borrini says his study details the earliest grave to show archaeological "exorcism evidence against vampires".

You can find the article (and additional photos) in it's entirety here. Mr. Borrini, be extra wary you don't let the right one in should a mysterious stranger come knocking at your door.