In these uncertain times perhaps you have considered going back to school.

How about Iceland’s Elf School?

With a syllabus, classrooms, textbooks, diplomas, and ongoing research, Álfaskólinn (Elf School) teaches about elves, hidden people, light-fairies, dwarfs, gnomes, and mountain spirits. There are many variations: 13 types of elves, 3 kinds of hidden people (including the Blue People), 4 varieties of gnomes, 2 forms of trolls, and 3 types of fairies. You will also learn how to discern one from another.

For example, Icelandic elves have chicken-thin legs, floppy ears, and shaggy hair. Contrary to mythology they don’t wear pointed hats or shoes.

Icelandic dwarves, on the other hand, have a penchant for pointy hats and shoes as well as long cloaks, and sometimes even a beard.

Magnus Skarphedinsson is the head of The Icelandic Elf School. Despite Magnus never having a personal encounter with an elf, hidden person, or fairy, he has spent years recording the statements of others who have.

According to Magnus, while only 4% of Americans believe in hidden people, 54% of Icelanders do. And 90% of the population “takes notice” of this community, which is said to number anywhere from 7000 to 20,000.

Not long ago there was an incident between the Public Roads Administration and a rock on the side of the road outside Reykjavik, a locale said to be owned by dwarfs.  A multi-lane highway construction was delayed while the rock was moved out of the construction zone.

No doubt the move saved significant expense as other road projects that have threatened hidden people’s homes have met with baffling equipment breakdowns and even illness and injuries to workers. Soon-to-be-homeless hidden folk have been known to resort to sabotage.

Could a diploma from Elf School secure you employment as a lobbyist for the wee furies?

Financial advisor Suze Orman says unless you have abundant disposable income, Elf School should not be thought of as a good investment.

My conduit to the world of, uh, exotic sex, is a fairly disgusting friend of mine. I say disgusting on account of his determination to disrobe me. I say friend, loosely.

It’s been a while but I tracked down ‘Marko’. I explained I hoped next time he was in New York City, he would take me with him, when he’s next hunting for his octane-sex-fix. I propose a night out at the pleasure and expense of Takimag.

‘I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’ Marko said. ‘I’ll take your clothes off everywhere we go. Heh.’

I was mildly sickened at the thought.

Months later the day arrived when Marko did, indeed, make it to town. Gradually we shaped a plan around his eating schedule. We’d meet in the middle of the afternoon, at a noodle shop near 4th Avenue and 10th Street. From there we would proceed to the W hotel, sip on drinks, and fiddle on the internet. We’d look up Marko’s swingers club websites. He went so far as to entrust me with his secret code to enter the site, in case, ‘I liked anything I saw.’

It was going to be a long-ass day. My commitment to the task of investigating the seamy side of life flagged.

As the hour of our appointment drew near Marko left a spray of messages. Each one rawer, dirtier than the last.  He somehow managed to inject a visible leer into his tone. Chilling.

Almost too late I saw the imploding obstacle to an evening with a ‘domi-mondaine’. While Marko was an authentic gateway opportunity, he was also too authentic, too awful, to be around.

The time for us to meet came and passed, and I never picked up the phone or returned messages of any kind from Marko. He went bananas. Left hundreds of entreaties for days solid, right up until the moment he departed, headed whence he sprung.

His pleas were a rainbow of emotions. I was unmoved.

I think, for an Ess, he will grudgingly appreciate being ‘Emmed’.

I’m moving again.

It seems a short while ago I dragged my possessions into this house in Sag Harbor, September 2008.

I never unpacked.

It is Sunday and I’m faced with Tuesday next, my official ‘move-out’ date, and I’ve got nothing lined up.

Not that I haven’t had the time, just sort of lost track of it.

I know I’m moving for sure because I’m just starting to find where things are. Yesterday I figured out how to switch the light on in the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, there’s an abundance of available rentals. Whittling the selection are my criteria: cheap and quiet.

I visited a train carriage, up a dirt path, stuck back behind some other actual houses. I sent a text to the owner to say, no, no way Jose. He promptly strafed me with texted questions. He needed to know right now, exactly, why did I not want his home? He pressed on, urgently, repeatedly, begging for a reason.

I fell instantly in love with a perfect cottage, up wide shale steps, with sky blue trimmed welcoming French doors and a cheery capacious interior. The back garden was hemmed by a fern draped rock wall. An inky dark blue oval swimming pool twinkled center stage. It was all beyond charming. But behind a thin copse was an active lumber yard with trucks the size of trees.

Gingerly I trod through an ancient mariner’s dwelling, with low ceilings and warped, sea-sick inducing plank floors. I had to run outside to gasp air.

One house I walked in to find the realtor had the televisions blaring, alerting me to the probability we were surrounded by noise. I looked back out to the street. Ah, a bus route.

A lady moving to Florida was ‘desperate’ to off load her creepy trailer. The agent described it as ‘Adirondacks’, which turned out to mean fusty and better suited to a goblin.

Jane, with the East Hampton townhouse, arranged for her friend Mike to show me her home. But when I went to get the key he said he’d forgotten it- it was in his other car.

‘What are you looking for?’ Mike posed.

‘I need something by Tuesday.’ I said.

‘I have a pool house you can rent. It’s just me, and my dog, and 60 acres.’

Yucko!  But thanks anyway.

I settled for a Victorian house up a hill, down the street, a few blocks from where I am.

Home at last. Again.

I was on time, for once in my life, for dinner at the house of a new friend. 

I parked my car and without bothering to ring the doorbell, I barged in.

A sullen quiet filled the foyer. The lights were off. There appeared to be no one home.

‘Helloooooo?’ I called out. It has happened that I’ve messed up dates in the past, or gone to the wrong house entirely. But no denying it, things weren’t looking good.

A door slammed, snapping my attention to the top of a flight of stairs.  A man in a terry robe. Erik. My host.

‘We said 7! It’s only 6!’ He cawed. ‘I still need to take a shower!’

Inexplicably, he was clutching a purple teddy bear.

‘No worries!’ I lied easily. ‘I’ve a got a quick errand that needs doing.’

To fill the hour I ventured to a diner. The smells of coffee and French fries stirred my appetite. I ordered a cheddar cheese omelet.

An hour later I returned to my host’s home to find the lights on, soothing music playing, and Erik ably manning pans in the kitchen. All was well.

Except all was not well. Everywhere I looked, I saw foodstuff forbidden to me due to boring allergies.

‘There’s nothing I can eat here!’ I declared. ‘Why don’t you let me take you out to dinner?’

‘But I want to cook!’ said Erik. 

After some negotiations of what I can eat and what he had on hand, Erik settled on making me a cheddar cheese omelet.

‘Brilliant.’ I said, feeling a little sick. There is simply no room for the truth in such situations.
After dinner he invited me to join him on the sofa. I sat at the opposite end, facing him.

But then he swiveled, so that he had his legs stretched out between us. Deliberately, he thrummed his be-socked feet against the cushion I was sitting on.

I pretended this was not happening.

The toes wiggled in dingy mustard socks.

Trying to create a moat of space I pressed myself back against the arm rest.

Erik excitedly jabbered on about some recent good fortune come his way, but I found myself distracted by these little bunny ears twitching beside me.

Ratcheting up the affront, Erik suddenly grabbed my ankles and attempted to haul them into his lap.

‘No!’ I said, as I yanked myself from his grasp.

‘I want to give you a foot rub!’ Erik was blushing. ‘And I want you to give me a foot rub. I love them!’ He said, and pressed the awful socks against my thigh.

Almost involuntarily I sprung to my feet.

With giggles to help diffuse the awkwardness I excused myself. It wasn’t until the drive home I remembered the purple teddy-bear. I should have known right then. I should have known better than to return.

Have you ever wondered where the 80s party people are? Probably you haven’t given it a whole lot of thought.

But consider the cultural impact as they seep out into the hinterlands, taking with them keepsakes of good times past.
For example, my friend Nalim, a glamour-God, who glammed it up from coast to coast on every continent.

Until one day when he felt decidedly burnt out. He relocated somewhere up-state New York. Far enough away to restore his health, while close enough to return to the trough of vice, should need be.

When Nalim first arrived in his new home town, and took his clothes to the local dry cleaners, he was automatically offered a 10% discount, ‘because they thought I was with the circus.’

When the office-soft bank manager asked me for my Social Security Number I fell into temptation and switched up a couple of the digits.

I’ll blame my childish behavior on healthy curiosity. I’ve been asked this number all my life, for one reason or another, and I’ve always told the truth. This was more ‘social experiment’ than ‘outright (potentially felonious) fib’.

I was there to open an account. Mr. Peter, the bank manager, gathered my pertinent stats and tapped away at the keyboard of his computer.

Then began a gnashing of teeth from behind Mr. Peter’s desk. Sliding out from a fax machine came a page, like a tongue.

Mr. Peter threw his left arm out and snatched the page without so much as turning in his chair. Must receive a lot of faxes, I figured.

He grazed the page with a quick look, and then he froze. Mr. Peter was no longer typing. He was now very deliberately and carefully re-reading the page in his hand. A glistening of sweat spread over his face like morning dew.

Surreptitiously he tried to check me out. He cast furtive glances as I skittered nervously in my chair. My ‘experiment’ was clearly going awry. His was not a look that screamed ‘sexual harassment’. Rather, it appeared, as if he thought he might be in danger of physical harm.

I started to sort out an alibi should my trick tumble any further south.

Mr. Peter was now flashing crazy looks my way.

“Anything wrong?” I asked while trying to sound mighty blasé, despite worries of life-long incarceration.

“Have you ever lived in Ohio?” Mr. Peter managed to stutter, turning pink, over-heating like a boiling lobster.

Turns out the person to whom my switcheroo SSN belongs is wanted by the Feds. He is on record for Account Abuse. I don’t know more as the perspiring Mr. Peter refused to up any extra details.

“Gosh!” I said, as, with grace, I extricated myself from any ties to this cheapening scene. I blamed the numbers error entirely on dyslexia.

I would like to think I’ve learned a valuable lesson about the importance of telling the truth.

‘Tis a weekend in late August and two non-indigenous tribes have descended on the twin forks.

The 34th Hampton Classic Horse Show attracts a crowd of aficionados. For the week-long event a field is converted into a micro-village. The show is a striking affair. The owners of the fabled beach front properties are in attendance. The crowd is sleek. Men wear linen, women mostly in white. One super-hottie sucked up all sorts of attention in silver shorts that barely cleared her perfect bottom, high chunky heels, and a tiny, floaty, black thing for a top that mostly worked to advertise the product beneath.

The summer sun is hot like a sauna. A leaden humidity is infused with ladies perfumes and wisps of horse stench.

Riders in tan jodhpurs and spit-polished knee high leather boots, cling in clusters, evoking Degas’ dancers.

Horses and riders alike are daunting in their perfection. The equestrian world is an art form of its own. Only diehard PETA-heads could fail to note the magnificence.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Bill sent pre-storm threats by manner of line-backer-sized chunky waves. Local surfers pride themselves on tackling the beast at their shores. But a hurricane will draw surfers from long distances, like firemen to a 9 alarm.

After a hard day of paddling and defying imminent death the water-babies were to be found at the Stephen Talkhouse nightclub, in Amagansett.

A time to decompress, trade fish tales.

‘Only problem was my board hit me in the head, like, 20 times.’

‘I died twice today. For real! I drowned twice.’

An energetic fiesta engaged on the dance floor, a veritable sweat-swamp. The band was bangin’.

Off to one side, in another world, a couple sat on a bench. Young, supple, luscious, they were making out. She was sitting on his lap and they were kissing. Oblivious.

Spoils of the day.

A pink-faced Atlanta cherub exclaimed: ‘I came out here for the weekend and I’m gonna learn how to surf.’ And then he fell over, crashing into a table of drinks, taking it all down to the sticky dirty floor with him.

Jocko, banker by day and one of the more expert surfers around, was disappointed in Hurricane Bill. ‘The waves are up to 20 feet, but they’re choppy. Not good.’ With his plastic cup of beer he pointed at Pocahontas Surfer Babe, a tanned, taut, loose-limbed beauty, appetizing as a pastry. ‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘because tonight I’ve fallen in love. I think.’

As inevitably as the weekend would end, Hurricane Bill diffused and the storm riders dispersed. Crusting jalopies, with surf boards lashed to roofs, cruised out of town alongside the very latest in motoring excess. To each his own experience, though never the twain shall meet.

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, I was walking along the shore of a bay.

A movement out on the water caught my attention. I couldn’t make it out as the sun was directly behind it. Whatever it was, it was shuddering with speed.

Speeding and zooming into view it turned out to be a Sunfish sailboat.

In an instant the Sunfish was vertical and the dude aboard was standing up with the little boat traveling behind him, like a wall. The mariner was grappling with the ropes and a crazily flapping sail.

Full speed, sliding over the water, he was headed for land and, slowly I noticed, I was directly in the way.

Panic.

Heart racing, I clumsily attempted to scarper in the direction of the dunes.

But the Sunfish was too quick and it struck the beach, right at my toes.

I held my breath, but just as suddenly, the boat was all innocence. Not so much as a whisper from the sails. The monstrous danger evaporated into the original perfect sunshiny afternoon.

Up close I could see the young man in charge was no more than a boy, maybe 14.

He hadn’t seemed to notice me at all.

Our parallel realities related only in their intensities.

He stayed sitting on the now tranquil vessel, ran a hand through tangled hair.

Then he started yelling:

“I was pissing in my pants in the whole time! I’ve never been more frightened in my whole life! That was great!”

Friday evening at the Lodge, in East Hampton, I walked in on the improbable vision of Dan Aykroyd working behind the bar. He shook a silver shaker and passed out rounds of triangle goblets of fluid bliss to awestruck spectators. He was there to promote his new line of brew, Crystal Head Vodka.

I went over to say hello and he introduced me as Foxenberg. Gotta love it! Dan emanates a humble, infectious contentedness and, along with his elixir, a merry time was had. And the martinis were delicious.

Turns out Dan was in town for many reasons, one being to ride the lead motorcycle and guide a parade for the Soldier Ride that honors America’s wounded warriors. This is a huge local happening.

The parade of motorbikes, bicycles, strollers, walkers and the Head Mobile (the Crystal Head Vodka official motor coach) would slither from Amagansett, and via Sag Harbor it would wind up in Montauk.

Before leaving the Lodge that night, Dan invited me to ride on the back of his Harley at the parade. I actually jumped in place at this invitation of the century.

Dan said: ‘just be at the fire house in Amagansett, at 9am tomorrow’.

What I don’t say out loud is, ‘Hi, my name is Christina, & I’m an insomniac’. Instantaneously, I activated panic mode at the thought of being anywhere at 9am. I dashed home to a bottle of sleeping pills.

The pills did nothing. Dread grew. I took more pills. Inevitably I did sleep, very deeply.

It was mid-afternoon when I awakened. I’d missed everything, and I felt a profound regret.

I tracked Dan down at the Amagansett Liquor store. I intended to apologize for my no-show. At the liquor store Dan sat behind a wood barrel and charmingly conversed with entranced vodka purchasing fans. The see-through liquid is bottled in a clear glass skull that ought to be macabre; but instead is witty.

Without compunction I lie and tell Dan I didn’t show up because I never in a million years thought he was serious. I didn’t have the nerve to admit I over-dosed myself on sleeping pills.

To my astonishment Dan tells me my failure to appear was a good thing! He explains he had to steer the hog at parade speed and it would have been hard for him to manage with my additional weight. I ignored the implication of the mass of my ass.

In a flash I saw it. Bugles would have been bugling. Marines in attendance. I saw myself hopping onto the back of a shiny motorcycle bearing our visiting super-star Dan Aykroyd. And then I saw us tumbling to the tarmac, on account of my own self.

I am in awe of our soldiers and would have had to kill myself if I had mangled their special day.

Everything had worked out perfectly. I almost fainted with relief.

Dusk was nestling into shadows and it was time for Dan to go perform at the concert. Without hesitation he surged with notable fortitude into the motor coach.

I asked him where he gets the energy to get through such grueling days.

He said, “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

We rumble off-road, down trails switching left and right through the gangly forest. We’re in the backwoods of the Springs. It is creepy and coal black.

And then came looming flood lights and the outlines of a tent, white peaks pulled tight, merely a roof over a thick group of dazzling young faces. All of them solid looking and intense. I notice one handsome fellow walking with an almost imperceptible limp, my eyes gawk down to acknowledge an artificial lower leg. My heart explodes for him. I am paralyzed by the enormousness of what it all means and I cannot look at him again.

The band Booga Sugar is on the stage, everyone in position, belting out something noisy.

Dan storms up, and the crowd booms. Dan slams right into the song, he is a big man and he can dance like you wouldn’t believe. He went Cajun right before my eyes. Dan’s magnificent perfectly rhythmic hips beat out the bass of the ditty.

I watched the faces of the soldiers. These young people looking at Dan, their eyes, bullets, fixed on him. I saw them, twenty, maybe thirty deep, at the front of the stage, comfortably pressing into an almost solid entity. An entity of hopefulness, and scrubbed youth, and ravaged possibility.

Dan delivered the goods as only he could have. Those beautiful boys and girls, men and women, were lifted from the heaviness if only for the length of time they watched wonderful Dan give them that diversion of joy. And he did. I saw the glow on the faces of those soldiers, sort of a trance. It was magnificent.

There’s a rumor going around that men are not getting enough sex.

This is all being blamed on the cost of ‘dating’, of ‘wining & dining’. Getting a girl out of her pants the old fashioned way, by paying for it, one way or another.

But with no cash, what’s guy to do?

Drama Boy, we’ll call him, is a true Darwinian, and he has adapted. He’s in his mid 30s, with languorous eyes, and an aura of melancholy. When he lost his flash job, so too went his portfolio of easy girlfriends. “So I got a little creative with my presentation. And”, he claims, “I can pull chicks like I used to.”

Drama Boy developed a theory based entirely on exploiting the female predisposition for empathy.

Sympathy sex.

He does in fact live in a brick-and-mortar house of his own (rental), and has a job (retail): he reveals none of this.

Instead, on any given Saturday night, he will stroll along Main Street, and hunt. Matter of time, and he’ll spotlight a weak gazelle.

The female is incapable of resisting sweet-talk. Using flattery you effectively sink a claw into her hind flank and grapple her to the ground. You run the show with ‘where are you froms’ and ‘what do you dos’.

Once she is properly entranced, Drama Boy will let slip his recent tragic losses. Domicile, security, a future with the light on.Tears coil into her trusting eyes.

He will tell her he hasn’t eaten in days.

Prey will feed him.

Post repast, with Drama Boy in the passenger seat of Prey’s luxury motor, she’ll offer to take him home.

Denouement.

“I have no home.” Baleful expression expertly cast. “I’ve been living under the bridge. It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

Drama Boy invites her to see his encampment. She is as repulsed as she is eager to earn her merit badge as a Samaritan. And there, under the stars, and the traffic noise on the bridge, Prey will put out like nothing before. She is all the more sensual for believing she is doing a good thing. Making someone’s life a little better.

The economy of seduction.