sleep_no_more PeeT greta gave me this invitation for christmas. it was typewritten on a white handmade card. on the outside it said in all capital letters: MERRY CHRISTMAS opening it: DEAR MR. DAD YOU HAVE BEEN FORMALLY INVITED TO THE MCKINTTRICK HOTEL FOR A NIGHT OF MISCHIEF AND LIBATION. SINCERELY, SNM and therefore we traveled to NYC in the crunchy snow this past friday so i could attend, and first had lunch at Five Leaves in Greenpoint. it was packed with hipsters that burned my eyes. one was trying to be johhny depp and epically failing. we ate grass fed beef and sipped the first of endless cappuccinos. greta lives in Bushwick so we hung about in her sparse apartment, except for a row of plastic Venetian carnival masks lined up like a row of spectators on the top of a white leather couch. they are the masks one wears during sleep no more to create the sensation of being an anonymous voyeur or a wandering ghost. zero, a cat who she first raised at the upstairs place she shared with garret, her producer boyfriend, was there. she now belongs to sarah the roommate. another cat, a stray that has been trying to con its way with a pitiful plea into their home, was there on schedule. sarah is figuring out if it is possible to bring her in. their bedroom windows look out to a collection of neighborhood backyards similar to hitchcock's film, rear window. a line of cats were sunning themselves in the sun like a Greek island photo. on greta's dresser i saw the gypsy mystery boxes i made for her. i was so curious about sleep no more. we had reservations for the 11:45 show. i knew it was better to go into the show knowing nothing, but i just had so many questions. i asked a few. she smiled, tight-lipped and let a few secrets slip. we moved on to Dumbo and watched European children at a quiet birthday party ride the 100 year-old carousel next to the east river. the fading light of a frigid winter sunset was perfect for kathy's iphone photography. i was ill-equipped for the severity of the chill. cold wind on icy water, lapping at the shoreline. back to Bushwick for dinner at roberta's, tucked away in an industrial section. we sipped on dean's dream at the bar. the place was ramshackle but charming with its woodburning stoves and garden feel. sarah arrived and so we munched on cheesus christ pizzas, sweetbreads, and butter-dripping ravioli. she had been to sleep no more three times with greta and other friends. her only advice to me was, "fortune favors the bold." 120122 ... PeeT we checked into the empire hotel across from the lincoln center. a bosnian bellhop had several questions about our new mini countryman. our conversation soon fell upon skiing as it usually does with every stranger i meet. a trio of young ladies sauntered by on their way into the lobby, their questions of curiosity falling upon the vehicle. yeah. it is that cool. after relaxing with a grand view of 9th avenue, we played about near the fountain in front of the nyc ballet. show time approached us in the swanky lounge. i drained two ginless tonics while the fragrance of greta's blends were intoxicating and soon a taxi ferried us to chelsea. Completed in 1939, the McKittrick Hotel was intended to be New York City's finest and most decadent luxury hotel of its time. Six weeks before opening, and two days after the outbreak of World War II, the legendary hotel was condemned and left locked, permanently sealed from the public. Until now... a long line had already formed. greta and i joined it and immediately realized we were surrounded by foreigners. several languages were represented. identification was checked. passports were presented. finally we entered and were both given a playing card. 120123 ... PeeT mine was a 6. greta's was a 7. we walked on, entering a darkened hallway, lit only by tiny floor candles. it felt like alice falling down the rabbit hole. we were leaving something behind and moved onwards, anticipating with swirling butterflies what lay ahead. there were sharp corners to turn and then a curtain to push through. suddenly, we were back in time. a speakeasy. small bistro tables. a stage set for a swing band. heavy velvet. streaming background music from the jovial 20's. a full bar serving prosecco and absinthe. we sat down with our drinks. others like us filled the room as a tall man with a tuxedo stepped up to a microphone. his hair was slicked back. he held a martini glass and placed his lips against the voicebox. he looked directly at me. "number 6," he said, his voice slurring the words. 120124 ... PeeT turns out he was just gathering the next group for he continued to announce numbers in succession. i watched people stand up and gather and i guess greta saw me stir. she said to wait. so we sipped another cocktail. it helped to calm me down. i was pumped. ten minutes later he returned and said the same numbers along with some quip from the bard; for this was Macbeth in a hotel. greta was ready. this was her fourth time and she had an agenda. we joined a small line waiting to get into an elevator. the man from the stage greeted us. he approached an attractive woman next to me and whispered in her ear. i asked her what he said. "i could love you." she said, gushing. 120127 ... PeeT we were gently herded in the guise of coercion into an elevator and welcomed by a sprightly woman and man, dressed in garb of the roaring twenties. they handed us white, venetian carnival masks and told us not to speak. we were advised to make our own experience. fortune favors the bold. greta was permitted to exit the elevator. i had to stay for a few moments longer in order to separate us. the man in the tuxedo mumbled incoherently while i waited. 120128 ... PeeT when i stepped out of the elevator, i felt like i had broken through a veil. there were rooms all around me with doors opened and permitting. people in masks were exploring desks with papers, shelves with books, they were peering through windows and digging through drawers. all around us a thin, dry ice fog snaked anonymously to a Bernard Herrmann/ Psycho soundtrack. so i joined them in their quiet exploration. sensing a gripping expectation of potential engagement. yet i could not help but wonder. where are the players? 120129 what's it to you? who go blather from