01/03/2026
New Year's Eve, the clocks misbehaved again. Worse than before.
Cogs whispered. Goggles gleamed. The Lord Baltimore Hotel leaned politely out of the present and hosted the Time Traveler’s Ball, sponsored proudly by Poe’s Magic Theatre, The Baltimore Faerie Faire, and the ever gracious Lord Baltimore Hotel itself, who once again proved it knows exactly how to hold a secret and pour a drink while doing so.
Reality thinned early. Fairies drifted through the ballroom like rumors made manifest. A vampire appeared, elegant and entirely unconcerned with the passage of time. A Time Traveling Ghostbuster crossed paths with several Doctors and their TARDIS companions, all of whom seemed to agree that this particular paradox was worth keeping. In my experience, when that many timelines nod at each other, you stop asking questions and dance.
The performances were nothing short of temporal vandalism. Vince Wilson, the Paranormalist, twisted story and coincidence until the air itself leaned in closer. Nina Amaya shimmered between centuries with effortless grace. Paulo Garbanzo arrived as if fired from a brass cannon aimed directly at delight. Frenchy and the Punk tore through eras with music that felt ancient, future, and right now all at once. Hot Todd Lincoln brought heat, humor, and the kind of presence that makes time pause out of respect. Cailin and Leigh Targaryen, unquestionably the finest hosts across any century worth visiting, guided the night with charm, wit, and absolute command of the chronometer. Tapitha Kix and Teresa turned the evening into a joyous, unruly celebration that refused to stay in one genre or decade.
The guests understood immediately. Corsets, coats, wings, gears, velvet, leather, light. Conversations that began in 1889 and ended sometime after midnight. Laughter echoing off marble, memory, and possibility. A crowd that showed up ready to believe, and then believed harder.
I found that nights like this do not end cleanly. They cling. They follow you home. You find them later in a scuffed boot, a song stuck in your head, a sudden certainty that time is less a straight line and more a suggestion written in pencil.
We cannot wait to return for the next Time Traveler’s Ball. Which is, of course, also last year. And several future years. And possibly happening right now, somewhere behind a velvet curtain, if you listen closely and hear the gears turning.
Your Humble Servant,
Lord Reginald Baltimore
