Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Night Toure

The artificial newness of Phoenix does things to people.  They freak out about weird stuff.  I know because I'm one of them.  Last night I was taking pictures of a hidden doorway on the corner of 1st & Jefferson because...the doors are like soooo old!  Some routine-ass turn of the century doors flipped me out.  I feel this viscerally enough that I think I would probably vandalize/steal from properties because, well, those doors should belong to me, not Dan Majerle, or whatever.  I mean, only from commercial properties.  I'm not that bad.  Or abandoned houses.  Nevermind.

I enjoy observing the way people react to my museum.  It is pretty unusual here.  It's definitely the only restored Victorian house in Phoenix that you can actually tour, and that probably applies to the entire megalopolis as well.  The others are either private or derelict.  Locals are amazed and almost disbelieving that it is authentic and in its original location, while people from eastern cities glance around like bored teenagers before disappearing into their phones.  Also, locals ALWAYS ask if it is haunted.  Because old houses like this are only seen in movies about ghosts.

No, dudes.  This house isn't haunted by anything but bad taste and the living (you should see some of these volunteers, whaaaaat). 

Anyway.  Some people came through for a night tour after an event a couple of weeks ago and I decided to take some poor quality phone pics of the house looking darker than usual.

 Pocket doors.  My favorite.  The good thing about people being idiots is they inadvertently protect things sometimes.  Example: some time in the 40s, the pocket doors were sealed up and a wall was erected in their place, thus protecting them from generations of abusive renters until restorers came along in the 70s.  The original wood floor was also protected by layers of linoleum!  The tin ceilings were protected when dumbasses lowered the ceiling to cut down on heating costs.  Bad taste kept the best original features intact.

Light ghosts!

Looking down Monroe from the turret.  I definitely try to scare people when I have occasion to be in the attic.  I just stand in the windows and wait for someone to notice me.  This is basically genetic assholishness.  My dad used to stand quietly behind doors wearing a Hulk (Incredible, not Hogan) mask, waiting for my mom to walk into the room so that he could lunge at her.  My mom has the constitution of an epileptic chicken, so it's probably lucky that she didn't die.  It was a pretty scary mask, after all. He once hung it over the handle of a vacuum cleaner, parked it in front of my bedroom door, and knocked.  It's one of my earliest memories. 

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