Sleep No More

In elementary school, my friend Ashley and I found an old suitcase in my parents' attic. My mom said she didn't know where it came from, and so somehow we decided that it belonged to an old mental patient of my mother's, named Jenny. There were a few strange drawings and documents in the suitcase and we spent hours building mysteries around them. I remember writing in my diary something along the lines of, "WE FOUND OUT NEW THINGS ABOUT JENNY TODAY!!!!!!" I believed in these stories with every fiber of my being and they brought me great pleasure.

I thought about suitcases and attics and mysteries last week when I went with my lovely friend Gayle to see Sleep No More, which I can only really describe as a "production." Or, like a Shakespearean haunted house. It was a lot of fun and I highly recommend it. But the experience was bittersweet because I realized how much work it takes, at the ripe old age of 25, to wholly activate my imagination. During the exploration of the old hotel, I wanted to make believe that I had stumbled upon it myself and was now parsing through some dark, gothic past. And yet, I found myself analyzing my struggle to fully engage ("This will make for a great blog post!"). Alas. My 9 year old self could have dove right in at 100%, whereas I peaked at around 15%.

But it did bring me back to the days of being young and desperate for real seances, graveyards, secret trapdoors, mirrors, diaries, and adventure. With a touch of Edward Gorey for good measure.

Happy Birthday?

So many of my lovely pals have springtime birthdays! I tried to get a card for my friend at an your average, run-of-the-mill chain store and the pickings were slim.

Borderline sexist.

Depressing.

Creepy.

Disturbing/Unfunny.

...

I had to settle for a card of Elvis Presley which was pretty rocking, but still. What happened to the days when most stores carried blank cards with whimsical, inoffensive photographs on the front? Am I going to have to call in for greeting card back-up? Oh, JGL. I'll tolerate the worst movies just to watch you onscreen.

I Regret To Inform You

I love this mock letter from Baroness Schraeder. I always felt she was equal parts conniving and sympathetic. And also a fierce fashionista.

The Great Stumble-Upon

Once in a while, I mentally flirt with the idea of moving to Los Angeles, even though it's a city that I never ever in a billion years thought I'd be interested in living in. But sometimes it's winter in New York City and it's cold and my skin is all pale and sallow from lack of sun and I think about Ed Ruscha and Charles Bukowski and John Darnielle's lyrics in The Sunset Tree, and all of a sudden Southern California seems very romantic in a burnt-out, Hollywood sense.

And then there are days like last Thursday, when I can't fathom leaving New York.

Gayle and I spent the late afternoon and evening weaving around Greenpoint, with no goal in mind, just exploring the neighborhood in the nice spring weather. We stumbled upon a really wonderful bookstore, where I purchased Under the Banner of Heaven, and we meandered through the "historic" district (although the informational signage was covered in graffiti). We passed kids playing on quaint, narrow streets under leafy trees, and other kids playing in sad, littered playgrounds near the docks. We bought sauerkraut-and-mushroom pierogis from a Polish restaurant and ate them on the steps of a church. We browsed through cheap DVDs at an independent video store and bonded with the store owner about Boy A and what an underrated movie it is. Then we met up with some friends and went to a free neighborhood concert at a Mexican restaurant, where the lead singer of Wheatus (and Greenpoint resident) played "Teenage Dirtbag" for a bunch of hipsters.

It was great and almost completely unplanned. And that seems to be the beauty of living in New York: the ability to walk around a neighborhood and stumble upon all the weird and wonderful gems it has to offer. It's also what worries me about a city like Los Angeles. When you have to drive to your destination, do you ever see any of the places in between? Is there any unplanned wanderings? Any getting lost on foot?

Current or former residents of L.A., is the stumble-upon possible in your city? Or do you find your metropolitan thrills in other ways?

(Now I'm done with my Carrie Bradshaw-esque musings, I promise.)