In a recent article, I described the post office as ‘an incredibly tense atmosphere.’ Perhaps that’s just an American big city post office. Or perhaps, if I were English and dealing with the Royal Mail in the early 1900s, I would’ve had more fun with the posting of my letters.

W. R. Bray happened to be what I just described, and he most certainly did have fun with it. After picking up the latest edition of the Post Office Guide in 1898, a handbook on how to correctly post and address one’s items, Bray thought he’d have a bit of fun testing the boundaries of these rules. (He certainly had a bit of time.)

Bray addressed this letter backwards. The postman, to his credit, still delivered it to the correct destination.

An address written in verse. I'd like to think that, even if the keywords weren't emphasised, the postman still would've delivered it. 'Now Postman be kind if you will/Deliver this down at 'Torrhill'/This house is situate in Devon/The post went out about eleven/The Post Office is down in the village/The name of which is Ivybridge/The address I think I've now you told/Except the name is E. Arnold.

The postman didn't always pass Bray's tests, such as this letter with a picture puzzle address. The address is supposed to read 361 Brockley (broccoli) Road, Near Ladywell Wood, and Lewisham.

Using a picture postcard to do have the addressing work, Bray simply addressed this 'To a Resident nearest to this rock.'

In addition to sending strangely addressed letters and postcards, Bray also sent strange objects through the post, including a turnip with the addressed carved into it. In 1900 Bray found out that he could post himself through the Royal Mail. The Englishman didn’t put himself into a box, which was what I initially thought, but simply went to the post office and asked to be delivered. By the rules found in the Post Office Guide, this was perfectly acceptable, and Bray was escorted to the desired address by a postman.

A postman delivering Bray and his bicycle to his patient father, Edmund.

In an interview, Bray said, ‘A [postman] is sent with the human letter and frankly it’s a very useful service. Once on a very foggy night I could not find a friend’s house so instead of wandering about for hours I posted myself and was delivered in a few minutes.’

Sources:
Images from the W. Reginald Bray website
Information and general curiosity from John Tingey’s book The Englishman Who Posted Himself and Other Curious Objects

Kate’s Joint
East Village, New York City, New York

Kate’s Joint is my kind of joint. Pretty divey, pretty punky, and pretty vegan. It has all the unassuming charm of a neighbourhood dive bar. Rock posters and graffiti on the wall. Orphaned chairs and tables. I happened to go on a weeknight, so needless to say it was spacier and quieter. I’ve heard, however, that Kate’s Joint never really gets too wild, so it’d be a nice alternative to the louder bars in the neighbourhood.

Often enough, a completely vegetarian menu nearly brings tears to my eyes. To find a menu of the sort in such an atmosphere filled me with dangerously high emotions, and I could’ve easily handed the menu back to my waitress and simply have said, ‘Yes.’ Instead, I narrowed my choice down to a Southern dinner: vegan chicken cutlets, mashed potatoes and gravy, yams, and something else I no longer remember because I probably ate it too quickly. Oh, yes, and Kate’s Joint has a full bar, and it’s probably one of few bars in the entire country that would gladly make you a White Russian with soy milk.

Taos Pizza Outback
Taos, New Mexico

I can honestly say that Taos Pizza Outback doesn’t just make the pizza outside of Italy – it makes better pizza than most of what I’ve had in Italy. This is the best pizza, besides my parents’, in… the world. The slices are bigger than my face and are made individually. I’ve had every pizza on the menu and I still have trouble ordering because they’re all so good!

Tucked away on a small dirt drive behind a salon, TPO is covered in layer upon layer of crayon doodles where kids and adults alike have scrawled all over the walls for years and years. There is always good beer on tap if the servers can remember what it is. I should mention the waitstaff. Keep in mind, this is Taos, and with that comes a certain… acceptance… of people with different, ah, states of mind. Just accept the waiters as a sort of sideshow. Free entertainment, if you will.

Viva Cupcakes
Sydney, Australia

Though not technically a restaurant, Viva Cupcakes is more than worthy of a mention. I learned of them when my girlfriend was searching for a vegan bakery in Sydney for my birthday earlier this month. Though they don’t yet have a storefront, Viva Cupcakes offers something even better: they deliver vegan cupcakes to you (in biodegradable boxes, no less). Well, as long as you’re in Sydney, that is. (Sorry, North American vegan friends.) They also sell their cupcakes at Vegan’s Choice Grocery in Newtown. I had the Dark Side of the Moon, and they were truthfully the best vegan cupcakes I’ve ever had (and I’m something of a connoisseur).

While Babycakes in NYC and recipes from Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World are thoroughly enjoyable, the cupcakes from Viva Cupcakes are unbelievably delicious. Three things make them better than all the rest: chocolate chunks in the cake part, whipped, yet thick, icing, and a 1/2 and 1/2 icing to cake ratio. I’ve also never seen vegan frosting look so beautiful. Viva Cupcakes also offers a wide variety of flavour and decorating options. If you’re in the Sydney area, for goodness sakes have some vegan cupcakes delivered to you from Viva Cupcakes. These deserve to be famous!

Geo

This picture isn't even staged.

Sarah

I have a problem. There, that's the first step, right?

Margaret

I swear I'm going to stop buying books and start reading them. (And I might even return that library book!)

Next week’s theme: Mysterious Forces. Send us photos of what’s at work in your world for next week’s High Noon Urchins.

(Stephen) Colbert is currently exploring a run for President of the United States of South Carolina. Because of this, he cannot be associated with any Super PACs, although he has asked Americans For A Better Tomorrow, Tomorrow to forward any periodicals of an “adult nature.”

- Recent Press Release from  The Definitely Not Coordinating With Stephen Colbert Super PAC.

Pastel drawing of Hughes by Winold Reiss

Langston Hughes, primarily known as a poet of the Harlem Renaissance, also happened to be a pretty legit traveller. No further evidence is required than his travelogue of the 1930s, I Wonder As I Wander. In a decade slammed by the Great Depression, chest-deep in Jim Crow, and anxious under the looming shadows of World War II, this poet from Cleveland travelled the world to witness and live it all, firsthand and from multiple sources. Here’s a quick rundown of Hughes’s life in the 1930s. (In the book, Hughes wasn’t explicit with years, but I trust that he presented his material in chronological order, so they are thus presented to you as such.)

- drove with a friend from Cleveland to Miami, and then hopped a boat to Cuba before moving on to Haiti.
- toured the South, reading his poetry and giving lectures to black universities. His tour would ultimately expand and take him west and then north all the way up to San Francisco.
- after agreeing to participate in an all-black movie production in Moscow, Russia, Hughes drove coast to coast from San Francisco to New York City, barely catching the boat to Russia.
- after spending a year in the Soviet Union (the film ultimately fell through, but Hughes managed to write many articles), which also included the more remote regions of what is now modern-day Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, Hughes managed to board the Trans-Siberian Railway, which he rode to China and Japan.
- after significant time in Russia as well as a well-publicised luncheon with Madame Sun Yat Sen, Japanese officials believed Hughes was a Communist spy and kicked him out of Japan.
- back in the states, he spent a year in Carmel, California, to focus on writing.
- after receiving news of his father’s passing, Hughes went to Mexico City, the home of his father and one of the many places Hughes called home as a child. He attended the funeral but, not surprisingly to Hughes, received nothing in his father’s will. Still, Hughes decided to spend a few months in Mexico City, rooming with a photographer by the name of Henri-Cartier Bresson.
- moved back to New York City to find that his play, Mulatto, was being produced on Broadway
- accepted the opportunity to go to Madrid to cover African Americans in the International Brigades fighting against General Franco and his fascist armies.

Hughes’s book could’ve just as effectively been titled I Learn As I Land, for that seemed to be the quest behind these seemingly spontaneous decisions.

I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go. You might have to squeeze through a knothole, humble yourself, or drink muddy tea from consumptive bowls or eat camel sausage, pass for Mexican, or take that last chance, but—well, if you really want to get there, that’s the way it is. If you want to see the world, or eat steaks in fine restaurants with white tablecloths, write honest books, or get in to see your sweetheart, you do such things by taking a chance. Of course, a boom may fall and break your neck at any moment, your books may be barred from libraries, or the camel sausage may lead to a prescription of arsenic. It’s a chance you take.

While you wouldn’t normally find me endorsing establishments that offer buffets (all-chocolate offerings notwithstanding (please email me if you know of such a place)), Govinda’s in Sydney, Australia provided one of best nights out I’ve had in a long time. The fact that I’ve been living in a van for the majority of the past three months and my night at Govinda’s marked one of only a handful of outings during that time should not diminish that glowing testament.

Govinda’s offers a vegetarian (and mostly vegan) buffet dinner in the tall-ceilinged, big-windowed second floor of an unassuming building in Sydney’s King’s Cross neighborhood. Some lovely-looking outdoor seating is available on the balcony, but as my visit coincided with a sudden summer wind storm, we opted for a table next to the window. The food is mostly Indian, with several delicious curries, cauliflower bhaji, both white and brown rice, and a variety of sauces. Pasta, salad, bread, and soup also make less-mention-worthy appearances.

After stuffing ourselves with as many plates of yummy vegetarian/vegan fare as possible (the food was so rich we somehow only managed two small-proportioned plates each), we headed upstairs to a…wait for it…movie theatre! And, I must say, it is one of the coolest movie theaters I’ve ever seen. About six of seven rows of ‘seating’ fill a comfortably-sized room in front a just smaller than normal screen. Rather than stiff-backed, isolated movie theatre seats, Govinda’s has both couches and beds for you to get comfy and snuggle with a pal. The beds in the first two rows are cushions  (each subsequent row elevated above the first) that accommodate a fully stretched out person and have headrests adorned with plentiful throw pillows and larger cushions. The rest of the rows are more like couches, higher off the ground and with taller backs, but still long enough for you to fully stretch out. I’m 5’2″ and my feet were far, far from the edge of the cushion. I noticed normal-sized people’s feet didn’t hang over the edge either.

As if the vegetarian feast and cosiest movie going experience imaginable weren’t enough, Govinda’s offers a fantastic selection of films. I saw Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, and noticed that a showing of We Need to Talk about Kevin was scheduled for later that night. The small capacity of the theatre also allows for something beautiful and rare: an intimate shared experience with strangers. When we laughed at something in the movie, it felt conspiratorial, like we were all a big group of friends watching together. It was wonderful.

Whether you live in Sydney or are planning to visit, I would highly recommend an evening at Govinda’s. They offer two screenings (each of a different film) a night, and you can opt to eat at the restaurant beforehand or purchase a movie ticket alone (though I say go for the whole experience and dine in first!). Due to the small size of the theatre, and given that both the restaurant and theatre were fully packed when I went on a Wednesday night, bookings are recommended.

And while you’re in the area, I would also recommend bopping into the adorable 50′s-themed neighborhood bar Hinky Dinks before or after your dinner and movie date. With retro styling and jazz wafting through the air, it feels like stepping into Mad Men, but without any of the depressing, oppressive bits. I opted for one of the happy hour drinks, a Gypsy Blood, and at risk of abusing my superlatives quota, it was the best drink I’ve ever had. Fresh, refreshing, sweet, but not too sweet, and potent, but not too potent, it was perfect. The atmosphere was so intoxicating I even waltzed out the door. But that may have also been the Gypsy Blood.

Govinda’s
112 Darlinghurst Road
Darlinghurst NSW 2010, Australia

Hinky Dinks
185 Darlinghurst Road
Darlinghurst NSW 2010, Australia

Thirty minutes before leaving to go ice climbing for the first time, I discovered my backpack was soaking wet – as was everything inside, including my down jacket. I threw it in front of the fire and hurriedly repacked my summer backpack, sincerely hoping a frozen waterfall wouldn’t be that cold and I wouldn’t need the jacket.

Well, I’m here to tell you: frozen waterfalls are that cold.

Rory and I frantically downed as much coffee as we could before rushing out the door;  grabbing my still damp jacket on the way out. We were already running well behind to schedule to meet our guide 30 miles away.

Okay, I told a bit of a fib earlier. I have been ice climbing before. Although, I’m fairly certain climbing on an indoor ice wall in London doesn’t quite count. At least not to our climbing guide, Everett. It’s a sport I’ve always had a mild interest in, but never enough so to cough up the cash. I already have two other expendo hobbies – snowboarding and rock climbing.  But when the opportunity for a free ice climb with Kling Mountain Guides came up as part of our volunteer duties at Durango Mountain Resort, Rory and I couldn’t say no.

We reconnoitered at the Resort with Everett and another snowshoe guide, Jan, before heading toward Cascade Canyon. In the summer, Cascade Canyon is just as it sounds: rushing water pouring down endless waterfalls in the narrow split of land. In the winter, it’s like Disneyland for ice climbers with towers, walls, pillars, crevices of ice appearing everyday.

We met at a skating rink of a parking lot next to a snowmobile tour shack, whose owner is rumoured to be a groper. Everett pulled out a pile of gear: mountaineering boots, crampons, harnesses, helmets, and ice axes. I don’t quite know how to explain the bizarre joy of strapping stainless-steel blades onto one’s feet. Front, back, and on each side, a crampon has 10 “points;” which I prefer to call “stabbies.” Rory and I strapped our crampons on and stabbed around the parking lot to get used to the feel of them (and to stab the parking lot.)

I asked Everett how far the hike into Cascade Canyon is.

“About half a mile.”

“Oh, half a mile. I hope I can handle it.”

He gave the kind of look where I knew I’d immediately regret my sarcasm.

Naturally, fifteen minutes into the “hike” I felt like a moron. After hanging onto a rope and descending a steep, wooded and very snowy canyon wall we carefully trekked along a frozen creek, careful to avoid thin spots.

Shorter climbs in Cascade Canyon.

It’s no news to anyone that this winter has been abnormally warm and dry. In the San Juans, we were pounded with snow in the first part of December, but we did something to piss off the snow gods and haven’t received more than an inch since. It’s bad news for skiers, but the rush of melted snow that freezes every night in Cascade Canyon is a blessing for ice climbers. Everett said this is the best he’s seen it.

Now, let me tell you a little something about ice climbing. Stabbing a block of ice isn’t as easy as you’d think. Most of the time your axe just bounces off. Or you hit a convex (a bulge in the ice) and it shatters, sending sharp ice particles at your face. And then you’ve got your feet to deal with. Imagine the nervous feeling of walking on ice. Now, imagine walking on vertical ice. Stab, stab with your ice axes, then baby stab, stab, stabs with your feet.

No big deal.

In the shade of the canyon, it was still well below freezing, but it must have been near 40 in the sun. For a mere two hours, the sun skimmed over the canyon, warming the ice up just enough to splash like a slush puppy.

One of my first attempts.

Rory's last climb on a thin column.

I’m one of those weird people that enjoys a good challenge. And ice climbing was certainly that. As we climbed out of Cascade Canyon at the end of the day, I have to say, I was ready to go again.

Two months ago I received a letter in the post from a friend in Los Angeles. In it, she proposed that perhaps she and I begin a written correspondence, just like those wonderful writers of yore.

I loved the idea. It seems that most people enjoy receiving personal, handwritten mail, yet it’s a dying art. So why, gosh darnit, should I do nothing to keep this source of happiness from extinction? I’ve expressed my fascination with letters before, as well as my disquiet in the absurd possibility of someone publishing Reply All: The E-Mails of Geo Ong. The day after receiving my friend’s letter, I parked my caboose in a coffee shop near work and began the first of what I hoped would be many letters.

Despite having to stop often because my hand hurt, I felt good about finally writing a real letter. But, oh, rats! I have to go to work in five minutes. No worries, I told myself. I will resume where I left off.

Two weeks later, I remembered that I had an unfinished letter in my notebook. How did that happen? It was like my life were a train, and the letter missed it. Or something. Regardless, I was determined to finish the letter I started, not only for my dear friend but also for dear me and the future of letter-writing for this entire planet. Again, I occupied another coffee shop and this time didn’t leave until it was finished (lest we risk another missed train). After the signature, I held the letter up triumphantly in my hands, laughing a manly echo. The barista asked me to leave, and I said, ‘Gladly! Because I’m going to the post office! Good day!’

I wasn’t really going to the post office right then and there. It’s the post office. You need to psyche yourself up for that kind of intensity. Well, to be honest, I spent a good three days trying to brainstorm a way to mail the letter without going to the post office. I tried to buy a stamp off a friend, but none of my friends had any. I considered giving it to a wanderer who was on his way to California anyway, but I didn’t meet a single one I felt I completely trusted. I contemplated turning a New York City pigeon into a messenger bird. I even saved an empty wine bottle to hurl into the Atlantic (which would inevitably pass through the Panama Canal and make its way up the coast, you know, because of the currents and the tectonic plates). Alas, there was no other way. I had to go to the post office.

I’ve been to pleasant post offices before. This was my first visit to a Brooklyn post office. I knew what to expect. What an incredibly tense atmosphere the post office is! The harsh lighting, no music, everyone ready to be supremely pissed off. The queue seemed to be made up of two different kinds of people: the very confused, and those who’ve mailed nearly every type of package and thus know how everything works.

Like a ballet, the two groups play off each other rather well. It’s quite beautiful at times. A confused person, overwhelmed by the multiple windows, all the unhelpful signage on the walls, and the fact that there were two different lines, would just shout in exasperation, ‘I just want to be a flat-rate box!’ The seasoned veteran, standing in the queue, sighs and grunts but offers her help: ‘They’re right over there.’ The confused person would thank her profusely and then walk in the wrong direction, repeating her act. But at least she’s out of our way. Meanwhile, not wanting to give away my inexperience and downright fear, I turn to the veteran and shake my head with a smirk, which in so many words translates to ‘Can you believe it?’

Finally I got to the window and offer my letter, a month old now, its contents probably severely outdated, and told the teller that I’d like to send it to California. ‘Just a stamp?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘You didn’t need to wait in line,’ she said. ‘You could’ve used the self-service system by the door.’ What I wanted to say to her was that I wasn’t gonna deal with any robots in this environment, but instead I just said, ‘I’ll do that next time.’ She stuck a stamp on the letter and dropped it in a hole. I turned and muttered under my breath, ‘If there is a next time.’

To my friend, who I think still reads the site: Consider this my apology for my letter’s tardiness, although I hope it was still entertaining to read. Furthermore, if you have the patience, we can keep trying. I think I just need a bit more practice.

Which reminds me: I have another friend whom I promised a letter. I better write and send her one before her lease runs out.

Graduation by Kanye West

The art for Kanye West’s album Graduation, while perhaps not as ethereally beautiful as, for example, Bjork’s Biophilia, marks a significant collaboration between West and one of my personal favourite artists, Takashi Murakami. Kanye’s choice of Murakami to visually represent his album containing such anthems as ‘Stronger,’ ‘Homecoming,’ and ‘Flashing Lights’ (single art also by Murakami) not only demonstrates Kanye’s status as a true bellwether of cultural phenomena and taste, but represents an interesting and exciting step for hip-hop into the fine art world. As an Urchin, artistic collaborations thrill me to the core, and I love the thought of the Kanye, from the South Side of Chicago, and Murakami, from Tokyo, coming together to create. The final product is everything the two artists are: iconic, symbolic, and really, really cool.

Revolver by The Beatles

I’ve never been able to pick a favourite song or album (naturally I would be choosing from the Beatles), but I have always been able to say that, without a doubt, Revolver is my favourite album cover. Musically, Revolver was the turning point in the Beatles’ career. No longer were the Fab Four teenage, pinup idols – and the album art is so indicative of that. A collage of illustrations by Klaus Voormann, a friend of the Beatles from their days in Hamburg, and photographs by Robert Whitaker, Revolver shows the many sides (and faces) of John, Paul, George, and Ringo – until 1966, the Beatles had always been pictured on their album covers as heartthrobs. Revolver, both the album and the artwork cover, represented a change in rock music history.

The Score by Fugees

The Fugees had a short career, made up of just two albums, yet they remain one of the most important names in 90s hip-hop, thanks to their album The Score. The cover of that album has become as iconic as their hits, perfectly encapsulating everything the Fugees were and wanted to be: hard-line, raw, and to the point, with just enough militant attitude showing through each of their cool expressions.

Sarah

New year, new age, new haircut in New South Wales!

Geo

Move over, David Caruso. Samuel Beckett is the new star of CSI: Miami. YEAAHHHH!

 Margaret

Out with the old. *Editor's Note: The moldy beans are actually still in the refrigerator. Margaret just took a picture of them, then put the container back.

Next week’s theme: Bad Habits. UMail us photos of your dirty dishes, chewed off nails, or whatever it is you do. Seriously… we’re probably the only people in the world that want to see that.