Today, I returned to the library all the Sam Shepard plays I had checked out, probably the last time I'll ever see those particular copies, ahead of the Santa Clarita branches of the County of Los Angeles library system transferring to city control and being managed by LSSI, to this valley a faceless corporation that runs other libraries throughout the nation.
I wish I had time for those, but I don't. My research for my three presidential books takes priority, as I need to get to the major books, such as Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow. Dad said in the car after the library that while the Valencia library is closed, he wouldn't mind taking me to the one in Castaic.
I don't know. To get to anywhere in Castaic, you take a small section of the freeway to get there and would it really be worth going that often, depending on Saturday traffic? Dad can drive the freeway as effortlessly as a tightrope walker makes it look. But even so, would it be worth that every Saturday? It's only a month, until the Santa Clarita branches are supposed to reopen in July under LSSI control, so maybe. I'll figure it out.
I figured that Sam Shepard's plays, for me, are best explored slowly, not in a rush like that stack had presented. I want to learn how Shepard operates within his plays, for my own benefit and inspiration as well. But I want to explore it like I did his prose, by re-reading lines, by learning about how he develops his characters. And I can't do that right now. Besides, I'm sure these plays are cheap enough online, and there's a chance a few of them could become part of my collection, just like Neil Simon's and Herb Gardner's plays are, just like The Glass Menagerie is. That would be a bonus. But for now, I'll crave them.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Truth from the newest episode of "The Big Bang Theory"
"The Enagement Reaction," in which Howard tells his perpetually offscreen mother that he and Bernadette are getting married. This is at the hospital after the doctor says that Howard's mother wants to see Bernadette first:
"Me? Why me?" - Bernadette
"Jews have been asking that for centuries; there's no real good answer." - Howard
"Me? Why me?" - Bernadette
"Jews have been asking that for centuries; there's no real good answer." - Howard
Friday, May 13, 2011
A Small Space for Paradise
Last September, on a Saturday, we went to Legoland in San Diego and then to Hash House a Go Go which serves huge portions that make you wonder if they've reinforced the table underneath to hold it all.
To get to that Hash House, the original Hash House, as we learned, we had to park in a lot in which you stuff dollar bills into the slot amidst a bank of slots that corresponds to the numbered space you parked in. That was a few blocks from Hash House a Go Go, so we walked past bungalows, a rare instance for me to marvel at people living in the midst of what looked like a kind of downtown San Diego. Maybe it was actually part of downtown San Diego. Obviously that thought shows that I know nothing about San Diego beyond Sea World and where we were, and even then I couldn't tell where we are.
Passing the bungalows, there were blinds open in one window, revealing a very small study/library with a lamp in a corner, a small plush red leather couch and a matching red leather easy chair. Right away I wanted to live there. Forget the other rooms in that bungalow, I just wanted that one room. I loved how small it was, how private, and that the bookshelves were tall enough to promise whatever adventures you seek in words.
On our walk back from Hash House a Go Go to the car, we passed that same window, but the blinds had been drawn. But I've never forgotten about that room, especially today, reading The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle, about an illegal Mexican couple's battle to survive in Southern California, living in a ravine and looking for work, and a gated-community couple who want to keep the world out, though the husband is more conflicted than his realtor wife because he writes a nature observation column for a conservation magazine, though it's debatable how much nature is left and especially how much beauty when the Arroyo Blanco Estates homeowners association wants to erect a high wall against the rest of the world, trying to keep out the coyotes (which snatched up the couple's two dogs) and everything else they see as a threat, including illegal immigrants.
I know this world. I live in this world. I see it differently. You do what you can here, whoever you are. You live however you can make it work. The most we have in my Saugus neighborhood (located at the ass end of the Santa Clarita Valley) are people who don't pick up after their dogs, though that means nothing to me because I've never witnessed it and therefore it isn't my problem. It's just the problem of those for whom it's a genuine concern and those nosy types who walk around looking to stir up trouble just to make themselves feel good.
Oh, but I know all about homeowners associations, how the board is populated by little Caesars who know that this is the only kind of power they will ever have, and they're gleeful to use it and abuse it.
Anyway, as I read The Tortilla Curtain, I remembered how I need to make more time for books like these, to inspire me, to reignite my love for understated fiction, of which Boyle is an expert, and stocks it with so many observations that are ironic, absurdly funny, somber and sad. I know for sure that I want to read all of his other books.
And I remembered that study/library, and how this is a perfect book for that kind of setting because you rise up from that room and out into the world, into this particular world, and when you return, you can sit comfortably, pondering everything you've read. And then the shelves beckon again. I want a room like that one day.
To get to that Hash House, the original Hash House, as we learned, we had to park in a lot in which you stuff dollar bills into the slot amidst a bank of slots that corresponds to the numbered space you parked in. That was a few blocks from Hash House a Go Go, so we walked past bungalows, a rare instance for me to marvel at people living in the midst of what looked like a kind of downtown San Diego. Maybe it was actually part of downtown San Diego. Obviously that thought shows that I know nothing about San Diego beyond Sea World and where we were, and even then I couldn't tell where we are.
Passing the bungalows, there were blinds open in one window, revealing a very small study/library with a lamp in a corner, a small plush red leather couch and a matching red leather easy chair. Right away I wanted to live there. Forget the other rooms in that bungalow, I just wanted that one room. I loved how small it was, how private, and that the bookshelves were tall enough to promise whatever adventures you seek in words.
On our walk back from Hash House a Go Go to the car, we passed that same window, but the blinds had been drawn. But I've never forgotten about that room, especially today, reading The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle, about an illegal Mexican couple's battle to survive in Southern California, living in a ravine and looking for work, and a gated-community couple who want to keep the world out, though the husband is more conflicted than his realtor wife because he writes a nature observation column for a conservation magazine, though it's debatable how much nature is left and especially how much beauty when the Arroyo Blanco Estates homeowners association wants to erect a high wall against the rest of the world, trying to keep out the coyotes (which snatched up the couple's two dogs) and everything else they see as a threat, including illegal immigrants.
I know this world. I live in this world. I see it differently. You do what you can here, whoever you are. You live however you can make it work. The most we have in my Saugus neighborhood (located at the ass end of the Santa Clarita Valley) are people who don't pick up after their dogs, though that means nothing to me because I've never witnessed it and therefore it isn't my problem. It's just the problem of those for whom it's a genuine concern and those nosy types who walk around looking to stir up trouble just to make themselves feel good.
Oh, but I know all about homeowners associations, how the board is populated by little Caesars who know that this is the only kind of power they will ever have, and they're gleeful to use it and abuse it.
Anyway, as I read The Tortilla Curtain, I remembered how I need to make more time for books like these, to inspire me, to reignite my love for understated fiction, of which Boyle is an expert, and stocks it with so many observations that are ironic, absurdly funny, somber and sad. I know for sure that I want to read all of his other books.
And I remembered that study/library, and how this is a perfect book for that kind of setting because you rise up from that room and out into the world, into this particular world, and when you return, you can sit comfortably, pondering everything you've read. And then the shelves beckon again. I want a room like that one day.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
It's Been a Long Time Since I've Done That on Facebook
I don't use Facebook as often as I used to. I love that there's new versions of The Oregon Trail, Carmen Sandiego, Jeopardy!, and Wheel of Fortune on there, but that's not how I like to spend my days. My stacks of books keep me pretty busy and happy.
Last night, I had intended to finish reading the rest of Rutherford B. Hayes by Hans L. Trefousse. 50 pages to go. But I had a yen to post the good news I had learned about Zooey Deschanel getting her own series on Fox for the fall TV season (The New Girl), and the Bones spinoff, The Finder, getting a series order. I'm especially excited about the latter because it'll be nice to see Michael Clarke Duncan on TV every week.
Then a chat window popped up. Greg Harbin, from Japan. An acquaintance-friend, I call him, though after last night's conversation, I'd erase the "acquaintance." I'd forgotten the benefit of a conversation with him for a solid hour. I knew him when I used to be a member of NP2K.com, run by Chad Peter, which started out as a Natalie Portman fan site, but then branched out into pop culture in general, and movies, and filmmaking.
I've always respected Greg because his opinions have always been sharp, and there's a wealth of knowledge behind them. As we talked last night (or maybe last night for me, since I'm never sure what time it is in other countries), he was watching Octopussy, one of the very few James Bond movies he hasn't seen. "Just wait 'till you get to Roger Moore in clown makeup," I told him. "It presages the terror of seeing Moore age rapidly during the pre-credits sequence of A View to a Kill."
The conversation really started with me mulling over a few of the multi-camera sitcoms on tap for the fall season, especially with the hidden news that Michael Chiklis's sitcom Vince Uncensored (about a guy who has a near-death experience and comes out of it deciding to be honest about everything. The pilot was directed by Kelsey Grammer) was picked up, based on Chiklis hosting the Boston Pops special on July 4 on CBS. CBS doesn't let that happen unless the host in question is doing something for them in the fall.
Greg told me that the last three-cam sitcom he saw was Back to You, starring Kesley Grammer. Then we went into Tim Allen's new show on ABC about a guy trying to keep floating in his world of only women (a household full of women), and then we talked about his excitement over Felicia Day retweeting something he had said. Actually, the chat window had popped up with that first.
He thought he should write a book about it and I jokingly suggested the title My Felicia Day Year: An Emotional Journey into the Dark Underside of Twitter for a Retweet. Greg figured that since Adam Bertocci, one of our other NP2K cohorts, but for a long time now a full-on Facebook friend, has had such success in the publishing world with his Shakespearean adaptation of The Big Lebowski (Two Gentlemen of Lebowski), that he would have a shot, too. Then he dug into past conversations and Twitters, seeing if he could use snippets of those conversations for the pull quotes on the book, you know, the ones praising the author. But instead of the usual praise, it would be something like:
"Damn, Harbin!" - Rory Aronsky
I treasure any conversation that winds down with talk of favorite Bond films. Greg told me, after finishing Octopussy, that that is probably his second-favorite Bond film. I asked what his favorite is and he said it's From Russia with Love. My favorite Bond film is On Her Majesty's Secret Service, and it's the best of the series because of how much time is given to developing Bond as a character. I'm not sure what my second-favorite Bond film is, but I told Greg it would probably be From Russia with Love. Or, thinking about it now, maybe GoldenEye. Or maybe Tomorrow Never Dies just for sentimentality's sake, since it was the first Bond film I had ever seen, back in 9th grade. Nah, probably From Russia with Love because it stays tethered to the real world.
By this time, 11 p.m. hit and I had to go to bed. Since I'm up between 7 and 8 each morning, and occasionally later than 8, that's the right time.
Greg had another hour and 40 minutes before his wife's flight got in, so he wanted me to stick around a little more. I would have liked to since it had been a long time since I had had such a solid conversation like that. But I'll log back on tonight and hope that he's around. I could use another round of beneficial mental aerobics like I had there.
Last night, I had intended to finish reading the rest of Rutherford B. Hayes by Hans L. Trefousse. 50 pages to go. But I had a yen to post the good news I had learned about Zooey Deschanel getting her own series on Fox for the fall TV season (The New Girl), and the Bones spinoff, The Finder, getting a series order. I'm especially excited about the latter because it'll be nice to see Michael Clarke Duncan on TV every week.
Then a chat window popped up. Greg Harbin, from Japan. An acquaintance-friend, I call him, though after last night's conversation, I'd erase the "acquaintance." I'd forgotten the benefit of a conversation with him for a solid hour. I knew him when I used to be a member of NP2K.com, run by Chad Peter, which started out as a Natalie Portman fan site, but then branched out into pop culture in general, and movies, and filmmaking.
I've always respected Greg because his opinions have always been sharp, and there's a wealth of knowledge behind them. As we talked last night (or maybe last night for me, since I'm never sure what time it is in other countries), he was watching Octopussy, one of the very few James Bond movies he hasn't seen. "Just wait 'till you get to Roger Moore in clown makeup," I told him. "It presages the terror of seeing Moore age rapidly during the pre-credits sequence of A View to a Kill."
The conversation really started with me mulling over a few of the multi-camera sitcoms on tap for the fall season, especially with the hidden news that Michael Chiklis's sitcom Vince Uncensored (about a guy who has a near-death experience and comes out of it deciding to be honest about everything. The pilot was directed by Kelsey Grammer) was picked up, based on Chiklis hosting the Boston Pops special on July 4 on CBS. CBS doesn't let that happen unless the host in question is doing something for them in the fall.
Greg told me that the last three-cam sitcom he saw was Back to You, starring Kesley Grammer. Then we went into Tim Allen's new show on ABC about a guy trying to keep floating in his world of only women (a household full of women), and then we talked about his excitement over Felicia Day retweeting something he had said. Actually, the chat window had popped up with that first.
He thought he should write a book about it and I jokingly suggested the title My Felicia Day Year: An Emotional Journey into the Dark Underside of Twitter for a Retweet. Greg figured that since Adam Bertocci, one of our other NP2K cohorts, but for a long time now a full-on Facebook friend, has had such success in the publishing world with his Shakespearean adaptation of The Big Lebowski (Two Gentlemen of Lebowski), that he would have a shot, too. Then he dug into past conversations and Twitters, seeing if he could use snippets of those conversations for the pull quotes on the book, you know, the ones praising the author. But instead of the usual praise, it would be something like:
"Damn, Harbin!" - Rory Aronsky
I treasure any conversation that winds down with talk of favorite Bond films. Greg told me, after finishing Octopussy, that that is probably his second-favorite Bond film. I asked what his favorite is and he said it's From Russia with Love. My favorite Bond film is On Her Majesty's Secret Service, and it's the best of the series because of how much time is given to developing Bond as a character. I'm not sure what my second-favorite Bond film is, but I told Greg it would probably be From Russia with Love. Or, thinking about it now, maybe GoldenEye. Or maybe Tomorrow Never Dies just for sentimentality's sake, since it was the first Bond film I had ever seen, back in 9th grade. Nah, probably From Russia with Love because it stays tethered to the real world.
By this time, 11 p.m. hit and I had to go to bed. Since I'm up between 7 and 8 each morning, and occasionally later than 8, that's the right time.
Greg had another hour and 40 minutes before his wife's flight got in, so he wanted me to stick around a little more. I would have liked to since it had been a long time since I had had such a solid conversation like that. But I'll log back on tonight and hope that he's around. I could use another round of beneficial mental aerobics like I had there.
Monday, May 9, 2011
What an Honor!
Reading the latest issue of Saveur, I found a review of an anthology called Man with a Pan, subtitled "Culinary Adventures of Fathers Who Cook for Their Families." I wanted to read this book so badly, so I did what I always do: abebooks.com and the cheapest price I could find among the booksellers there.
I must not have been paying attention at the time. I only wanted the book, and I clicked on the cheapest price, $12.45, including shipping, never noticing the seller.
UPS dropped off a package just now, and on the box, in a red oval is "NEW YORK CITY", and below that in bigger letters, "STRAND", and below that, "18 MILES OF BOOKS".
Oh my god! THE Strand! I've heard about this magical place! I've dreamed of going there one day, maybe making a stop in New York City after visiting the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, as part of my life's goal to visit every presidential library in the nation.
18 miles of books. Well, if there was ever a combination of words to turn me on, those are it. And this is a fresh copy of Man with a Pan, too. No corners bent, no pages smudged, no spine separation. I imagined that the Strand cares greatly for books, and it's evident here.
I know that the Strand will keep on living, and it had better so I can see it for myself. There's no way it could die anyway, not with all it has to offer, not with appearing to love books as much as I love them.
And I just opened the book and found between the cover and the title page something I will treasure and make sure it never gets bent: A Strand bookmark. I will never lose it.
I must not have been paying attention at the time. I only wanted the book, and I clicked on the cheapest price, $12.45, including shipping, never noticing the seller.
UPS dropped off a package just now, and on the box, in a red oval is "NEW YORK CITY", and below that in bigger letters, "STRAND", and below that, "18 MILES OF BOOKS".
Oh my god! THE Strand! I've heard about this magical place! I've dreamed of going there one day, maybe making a stop in New York City after visiting the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, as part of my life's goal to visit every presidential library in the nation.
18 miles of books. Well, if there was ever a combination of words to turn me on, those are it. And this is a fresh copy of Man with a Pan, too. No corners bent, no pages smudged, no spine separation. I imagined that the Strand cares greatly for books, and it's evident here.
I know that the Strand will keep on living, and it had better so I can see it for myself. There's no way it could die anyway, not with all it has to offer, not with appearing to love books as much as I love them.
And I just opened the book and found between the cover and the title page something I will treasure and make sure it never gets bent: A Strand bookmark. I will never lose it.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Look for One Book and Find Dozens More to Crave
Upon reading the descriptions of food in Oliver Twist in Literary Feasts: Inspired Eating from Classic Fiction by Sean Brand, I impatiently tore through the rest of the book and then rushed to my room to look for Oliver Twist. I thought I had a copy. I swear I did.
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
The Hotel Still Speaks
I've been thinking a lot about the Fairmont Hotel in Newport Beach, about the table next to the breakfast buffet where I met The Wall Street Journal Weekend, but didn't shake hands until Meridith and I had reached the pool chairs, and I began reading. I've also been thinking about Meridith and I walking all the floors of the hotel. Even though they looked like the same design, I noticed that the lower floors were more susceptible to room service, based on how many trays we saw. I also was amused at how on some production line, little glass bottles are filled with ketchup and mustard for hotels like this one.
I've also been thinking about what I could possibly want from the Fairmont Hotel now. I remember it as a day of total relaxation which is possible even if you're not a guest and you're just there because your father is a member of the California Business Education Association (CBEA), and they're holding a meeting there. I remember eagerly checking out the vending machine on every floor, seeing the same drink bottles displayed behind a plastic covering (but the actual vending hidden from view). I remember seeing planes take off from John Wayne airport not only from where we were sitting at the pool, but also as we reached the higher floors. I remember, of course, the girl in the red bikini who had brought a book to the pool and impressed me on both counts. Interestingly enough, she doesn't factor into my creative plans for these memories.
I'm not sure yet exactly what I want to write that would be related to this hotel beyond what I've already written twice in this blog. A play set at that pool would be worth thinking about because I loved how self-contained it felt and how, even though those planes flew overhead often, the hotel still felt like its own world and it was true on the higher floors when we saw it surrounded by small business parks and a school. And the shopping centers across the street from the Fairmont were small enough not to overshadow the at-first foreboding nature of the Fairmont entrance, based first on the high shrubs and the high-end cars parked across from the automatic glass doors.
What about a play or an introspective novel set in one of the rooms? As we walked passed the doors of many of the rooms, there were one or two that were open because the maid service was working in those rooms, and we saw a sliver of the inside. Plus there's photos online and I could certainly transfer my feelings onto those and write something. Or maybe something set in one of those hallways, since that's where we spent the most time, obviously.
I know I want to do something with everything I saw there, especially the Disney air they had, that air from the vents in the hallway that let you know you're somewhere truly different. There is a class divide in the hotel but only if you're doggedly looking for it. The vaguely rich are here, but the cars outside don't entirely indicate that. I think the Fairmont Hotel's greatest talent is not telling the world that there's fresh money here, that those who are here can afford a week on what you struggle to pay for a night. In a sense, it's just there. It's not surrounded by malls selling $500 pairs of shoes. It's interesting in that respect.
I imagine that hotels have been used often in plays, though I'm curious to see how often they've been used in novels. I'm sure it's about the same there, too, but just like that area off the lobby of the Grand Californian on Disneyland property, I feel something that I want to articulate. It'll come to me one day.
I've also been thinking about what I could possibly want from the Fairmont Hotel now. I remember it as a day of total relaxation which is possible even if you're not a guest and you're just there because your father is a member of the California Business Education Association (CBEA), and they're holding a meeting there. I remember eagerly checking out the vending machine on every floor, seeing the same drink bottles displayed behind a plastic covering (but the actual vending hidden from view). I remember seeing planes take off from John Wayne airport not only from where we were sitting at the pool, but also as we reached the higher floors. I remember, of course, the girl in the red bikini who had brought a book to the pool and impressed me on both counts. Interestingly enough, she doesn't factor into my creative plans for these memories.
I'm not sure yet exactly what I want to write that would be related to this hotel beyond what I've already written twice in this blog. A play set at that pool would be worth thinking about because I loved how self-contained it felt and how, even though those planes flew overhead often, the hotel still felt like its own world and it was true on the higher floors when we saw it surrounded by small business parks and a school. And the shopping centers across the street from the Fairmont were small enough not to overshadow the at-first foreboding nature of the Fairmont entrance, based first on the high shrubs and the high-end cars parked across from the automatic glass doors.
What about a play or an introspective novel set in one of the rooms? As we walked passed the doors of many of the rooms, there were one or two that were open because the maid service was working in those rooms, and we saw a sliver of the inside. Plus there's photos online and I could certainly transfer my feelings onto those and write something. Or maybe something set in one of those hallways, since that's where we spent the most time, obviously.
I know I want to do something with everything I saw there, especially the Disney air they had, that air from the vents in the hallway that let you know you're somewhere truly different. There is a class divide in the hotel but only if you're doggedly looking for it. The vaguely rich are here, but the cars outside don't entirely indicate that. I think the Fairmont Hotel's greatest talent is not telling the world that there's fresh money here, that those who are here can afford a week on what you struggle to pay for a night. In a sense, it's just there. It's not surrounded by malls selling $500 pairs of shoes. It's interesting in that respect.
I imagine that hotels have been used often in plays, though I'm curious to see how often they've been used in novels. I'm sure it's about the same there, too, but just like that area off the lobby of the Grand Californian on Disneyland property, I feel something that I want to articulate. It'll come to me one day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)