Misadventures in Necromania...

So I did indeed venture to Necromance on Melrose to find "authentic" gothic decor for my "Murder at Marie Antoinette's Court" Soiree.

Authentic is one way of putting it.

I don't know what I was expecting, really. I mean, a store name that is obviously derived from the word Necromania, which means, in simpleton speak, a weird sexual attraction to death and dead people, should really speak for itself. I suppose I was expecting the slightly sanitized Disneyland version. That is most certainly not what I got.

Let me paint this picture for you. I actually awaken Tuesday morning in an uncommonly colorful mood. This is rare. I like black. A lot. So anyway, I'm feeling vibrant and cheerful, also somewhat of a rarity, especially in the morning. Without thinking, I throw on my trendy, frayed and cropped boyfriend jeans, a light grey (I know, I know...baby steps) sweater that falls slightly off shoulder and my favorite lace-up hot purple (like hot pink but purple) gladiator sandals. I'm even rocking a bright red scarf.

At some point in the day, I decide that Necromance is my next stop. Still totally unaware of myself (how completely LA of me), I roll up in my big, shiny yupster SUV to a spot right in front of the store. This, my fellow Angelenos will agree, is a feat of nature not unlike outrunning a tornado on foot. It just doesn't happen. So here I am, on this strangely deserted stretch of Melrose, talking on my cell, nodding my head to Miley Cyrus' "Party In the USA" (HATE Miley....LOVE that song), my hair in a jaunty ponytail with Chanel sunglasses pushed up on top to keep my "bangs" out of my face. Yep, I am pretty much a walking cliche at this point. I could totally pass for a blond version of a Kardashian sister. It's pretty pathetic.

So I get out, cell phone still in hand, texting away, and try and find the entrance. The only sign is a hand-painted skull perched above a rather crypt-keeper looking door. I try it. Doesn't budge. Meanwhile, my first clue that something might be awry is when I notice a vintage babydoll skewered horror movie style on a meat hook in the window. Now, I don't remember that from the Haunted Mansion ride...

Anyway, so I knock, ever so gently, and after what seems like an eternity and a half, a woman pushes open the door, looks me up and down, mutters something about cell phones and the devil, and walks away. Ok, I think, no worries. If I can venture into Chanel on Rodeo Drive the morning after the Oscars clad only in pumpkin sleep pants and a t-shirt that reads "I See Dumb People," I can do this. ( a long story from my celeb assistant days...I don't normally leave the house looking like that).

I enter, and two thoughts jump into my head simultaneously. The first is, I am pretty sure I'm not finding a damn thing for my party in here. The second is, it smells like death. And patchouli. Or maybe patchouli trying to cover up the smell of death. Whatever it may be, It's not pleasant. Despite this, deserted boutique etiquette states that you must at least browse before making a hasty exit, so I am stuck. And desperately wishing I had worn my typical uniform of black on black on black with maybe a touch of black and white. The red scarf is making me feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz in reverse as I keep tying and untying the ends as some kind of nervous tick. I'll avoid the trite "there's no place like home" cliche, but you know I was thinking it.

So I start from the front and work my way back, and am introduced to everything from Victorian Era Mourning Photography (really old photographs of dead people in various states of repose) to dried, stuffed animal parts including armadillo feet, bird heads, bat wings, bugs, teeth of unspecified origin and a dead mouse in a trap that I stare at for a good thirty seconds before I get a "Yes. It's real." yell from the back of the store. There are actual skeletons, including a rather large collection of skeleton heads with their age tacked on to each one. One of them said 33 days, and I am still trying to decipher if it was a 33 day old person that died or if the skull has been separated from it's owner for 33 days. I'd actually rather not think about it...

A little farther back, in a gorgeous antique curio cabinet I wouldn't mind at all having in my house, are actual x-rays of human bones. The ones with very obvious breaks in them are more expensive. I mean, obviously, right? The bone saws are more than a little disturbing, as are the old-school dental extraction tools and glass eyeballs. Now my eyes hurt. As do my teeth. Seriously, people really get off on this crap? I turn warily toward the back to see how much further I have to go. Then, like a light shining down from heaven above, I see a rack of somewhat normal looking postcards near the cashier and make a beeline for them, eliciting a little sneer and a knowing roll of the eyes from the saleswoman, who I don't even need to describe because she looks just like you're imaging.

Twelve dollars, 10 postcards and a pack of absinthe gum later, and I spill back out into the 97 degree California sunshine, never in my life so glad to have a lungful of extremely warm, smog-laden "fresh" air.

Next stop: Anywhere but here. As it turns out, I am officially NOT a necromaniac, and am quite thankful for that fact. I'll also probably never be a hard core goth chick, which I pretty much suspected all along. As for the party, I'm back to square one.

P.S. See, people, this is what happens when I go and wear COLOR. That damn scarf is all but dead to me now...
P.P.S. I apologize for the novel. Short posts for the next few days, I promise.