Living with Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog

For the Love of Money

Writer Joe Ambrose has always loved the outré culture associated with the building,  so much so that he wrote, Hotel Chelsea, Manhattan, a book that includes interviews with William Burroughs, Paul Bowles, Herbert Huncke, Richard Hell and numerous Warhol collaborators. Ambrose is also the author of Moshpit Culture (2001), an investigation of covert punk culture from inside the moshpit, and Gimme Danger (2002), a biography of punk icon Iggy Pop.

What do you do?

I do all kinds of things within the arts. I work as a DJ and member of experimental hip hop group Islamic Diggers.  Islamic Diggers produced the Dutch East India/Sub Rosa 2CD, 10%; File Under Burroughs which features tracks by Brion Gysin, Bill Laswell, Herbert Huncke, Chuck Prophet, Marianne Faithfull, John Cale, and William Burroughs.  In 2000 Islamic Diggers organised NO EXPECTATIONS, an evening of 60s Super 8 movies by Anita Pallenberg. These films, featuring Pallenberg's pals like Keith Richards, Allen Klein, Marianne Faithfull, Mick Jagger and Brian Jones were shown at the  ICA and The Chamber of Pop Culture in London. I write regularly for www.outsideleft.com and www.thehandstand.org

When did you live in the Chelsea?

2001 and 2002.

What inspired you to live in the Chelsea?
After reading in the Protestant Times a dodgy piece which managed to make one of the most fascinating places in the world seem like the most boring, I thought about the Chelsea.  Despite the soporific nature of the article it reminded me all over again that the Hotel existed and, since I had to go to New York anyway, I decided to give the Chelsea a shot.  Frank Rynne reminded me that Miles, the counterculture activist and Allen Ginsberg biographer, had said to mention his name to Bard, who would then fix me up with someplace decent. Miles said Bard was an old sweetheart about whom he had nothing but good things to say.

Miles was right. Bard told me on the phone that he wouldn’t give me a reduced rate but that when I got there he’d charge me their lowest rate and ensure that I had a good suite. He was as good as his word, I got good rooms in the heart of Manhattan and was properly looked after. 

I stayed at the Chelsea Hotel as a sort of whimsical joke to, and on, myself. All my life I’ve loved the outré culture associated with that building, everything from the queer/junk-orientated Beat Generationers (principally Burroughs and Huncke) through to the punk rock mythology of the Ramones, Blondie, Patti Smith and Richard Hell - scenarios also well tinctured with touches of junk and queerness. It would be fair to say that, insofar as I can be said to stand within any movement, I am happy to make my stand within the broad parameters of culture as defined by early Seventies New York punks.

What is your favorite Chelsea Hotel story?
This is one of my own Chelsea stories, from the book on the place which I'm working on.

Suicide King and One Eyed Jack, who lived in reduced circumstances in small rooms alongside one another on the Chelsea's teneth floor, were the best of friends.  Every Friday night they tried their hands at the poker game that Hannah Reed ran on the third floor.  So, when Suicide needed money one day, One Eyed Jack pulled out a roll of tens.

Later they fought because Suicide King refused to pay back the loan, though his circumstances had greatly improved.

"Un hombre duro!" Suicide King said sarcastically about his old pal, when Jack got annoyed and threated to do something about it.
"Despotico!" One Eyed Jack replied, sad to have lost his friend over so very little money.

Would you move back to the Chelsea?
Yes, when I move to Manhattan, which I will, though not in the immediate future.

The Stage (Continued from 6/14 & 6/21)

           III. A Threat.

It was inevitable that The Umpire should eventually run afoul of Magda.  A ballet dancer in the forties and fifties, now elderly, Magda was a tough old broad who had cultivated a life-long habit of never taking any shit from anyone.  Magda was famous for threatening junkies—with a pistol—who attempted to shoot up in her shared bathroom.

            I was sitting there in the lobby when Magda came walking through, dressed jazz-age cool, her hair in a snow white bun.  Though she wasn’t frail, she walked with a cane, perhaps for defensive purposes.  As soon as she caught sight of Magda, The Umpire began running through her usual repertoire of signs, unambiguously disparaging this time.

            Most people just ignore The Umpire, or else, if they’re feeling cruel, they make a series of their own gestures back at her.  Magda, on the other hand, advanced right up to where she was standing, and said, “Something bothering you, honey?”

Though showing, I thought, some distress, The Umpire continued to alternately hold her nose and give the old heave-ho.

“You got something to say to me?” Magda asked.

The reply was another series up hand signals. 

I cringed, half expecting her to assault the Umpire with her cane.  Instead, showing remarkable restraint, she marched up to the front desk, and said, “You better keep that woman away from me, or I’m gonna kill her.”

            “Ah, come on, Magda,” the manager said, in his Brooklyn accent.  “Give her a break.  She’s crazy.”

The Umpire had followed, either unafraid, or, more likely, compelled by her madness, and now stood nearby, making her signals behind Magda’s back.

            “I know damn well that bitch is crazy,” Magda said.  “I’m gonna kill her crazy ass.”

Ed Hamilton

All Tomorrow's Parties

June 27,  3:00 – 11:00 p.m. Suite 303, the hair salon of the Chelsea Hotel, in conjunction with Chelsea Piers presents WORK IT OUT.   April (in the photo) and the babes of  Suite 303 will be giving free haircuts on the West Sundeck at Chelsea Piers from 3:00 to 11:00.  You can't get addicted from just one free haircut. Entertainment by Scratcher, Damian Pierce, Jesus Speed, and DJ Mariano begins at 7:30.

June 27, 6:00 – 8:00 p.m.
Charlie Houston celebrates the release of his second novel “Six Bad Things.”  In his first novel, "Caught Stealing" Charlie had the bad guys hole up at the Chelsea, so I asked him why.  Charlie replies, " First off, the Chelsea has all this great punk cache.  It's hard to create a fictional place that's going to evoke Warhol, The Velvet Underground, Leonard Cohen, Sid Vicious and so on.  So why bother trying?  Also, I'm sure the security is all very up to date these days, but it still feels like a wild west kind of place.  The kind of place where a couple desperados on the run could hole up.  Short answer: the Chelsea is cool."
Junno’s Bar 64 Downing just off Varick

June 29, 7:00 p.m.

The Kettle of Fish reading series features Sarah D. Bunting, Matt de la Pena, whose debut novel Ball Don't Lie is forthcoming from Delacorte, and Bridgett M. Davis author of the novel, Shifting Through Neutral.

59 Christopher Street

                         

Starting July 1, stop by the West of the Moon Gallery and enjoy the fine paintings of former resident Casebeer.  The opening reception will feature music by Joe Myers, another former resident (Troubled Notes from the Hotel Chelsea). 111 East Aspen, Flagstaff Arizona

A Reader from Australia Writes...

I'm guilty of neglecting the visual artists.

Brett Whiteley.  A very important Australian painter who lived at the Hotel in the early 70s.  He seems to be a bit neglected in Chelsea history.  A recent doco (documentary) shown here about his widow, Wendy, included Chelsea footage.  Here is a link to the transcript of the documentary.  Stanley Bard talks about the Whiteleys. The Whiteley's may have lived with Vali, (Vali Myers ) I'm not sure- I hear different stories.  The Hotel has what is, I imagine, a very valuable Whiteley at reception. It is unusual in his body of work and seems a pre-cursor to his most collectible works.  The child that he and Wendy raised there, Arkie, was a very close friend until her bitterly unfair death about five years ago.  When you come visit I'll take you to the Whiteley studios. http://www.brettwhiteley.org/

Here is a transcript of an interview with

The 92nd St Y was snubbed too...

Earlier I blogged about the Chelsea being snubbed by The New York Times Literary Map of Manhattan. Now the 92nd St. Y is feeling snubbed too.

"The New York Times‘ interactive Literary Map of Manhattan—which cites places where “imaginary New Yorkers lived, worked, played, drank and looked at ducks"—got a lot of play in the blog world a few weeks back, but we couldn’t help but notice a gap in its coverage: Where’s the 92nd Street Y?"

More Meltdown Coverage

Author and former resident Joe Ambrose is in London covering Patti Smith's Meltdown festival.

"...Smith, as befits a woman whose remit is broad and attractive (seminal rock woman, authentic second wave Beat Generationer, anti-Bush polemicist), has chosen wisely. Amongst the many features of her Meltdown, she has brought the remnants of the LES/Chelsea Hotel/Nova Convention counterculture crowd to London in the form of Richard Hell, John Giorno, and Yoko Ono..."

Additional Meltdown Reviews
Patti Performs "Horses" in London
Patti Has The Power
It Was Ladies' Night
Hats Off to the Scream Queen
William Would've Loved It
Patti Smith/Steve Earle
Some Give a Song, Some Give a Life...

Chelsea Girls

The Guardian applauds Patti Smith's Meltdown festival which ended with: "...Smith's extraordinary reading of Burroughs's moving, retrospective introduction to Queer; she ends up on her knees, bellowing disjointed phrases, punishing the clarinet. Spaced-out, almost shamanistic intensity. Burroughs would have approved. And just what Meltdowns are meant for..." 

Sally Singer plays herself in Douglas Keeve's new film Seamless, which follows the lives of three young fashion designers trying to impress Sally and other industry super stars with their design know-how. 

The Green Bay Press Gazette recommends "Wacky Chicks: Life Lessons from Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women" for your summer reading list.  The book features two Chelsea girls: Warhol muse Brigid Berlin and nightlife queen Suzanne Barsch.   It's worth looking inside the book just to read author Simon Doonan's description of Suzanne's Chelsea apartment.

5 Authors Who Don't Live at the Chelsea

Five authors made the annual Forbe's Celebrity 100 list: Dan Brown ($76.5 mil), J.K. Rowling ($59.1 mil), James Patterson ($27 mil), Nora Roberts ($28.8 mil), and Arthur Agatston ($16 mil).

The Stage (Continued)

II. The Umpire

There’s a middle-aged woman who hangs out in the Chelsea lobby and apparently can’t control her gestures.  (Maybe she has Tourette’s too; unfortunately, I’m not a psychiatrist.)  When you walk through the lobby she’ll let you know what she thinks of you through a series of hand signals: thumbs-down, up-yours, the finger, holding her nose: P-U.  Though she’s really more like a third base coach, giving the batter a series of signals, somebody once called her The Umpire, and the name stuck.  Though she usually expresses a rather negative opinion of people, sometimes The Umpire will actually give the safe sign, or the thumbs up, or even the OK sign.

            One day three tourists came into the lobby, three young women in pastels: two blonds, slightly heavy, and one brunette, thinner.  They were staying at the hotel, and had gone out for the day, but one of the women had lost her sunglasses, and now they had come back looking for them.  They looked around briefly near the chairs where they had been sitting earlier in the day.  But it wasn’t long before they noticed that The Umpire was sitting across the room wearing a pair of sunglasses that looked suspiciously like the ones that had been lost.  (They may very well have belonged to The Umpire, I can’t say for sure, but the tourist women thought otherwise.)  The women huddled and stood exchanging nervous glances, whispering amongst themselves.  They were intimidated by The Umpire, and were afraid to ask her about the sunglasses, because whenever they would look in her direction, she would give them the finger or make some other obscene gesture.  Finally, they decided to tell the manager.

            The Umpire had stood up and come over near the desk to wait for the elevator, so the manager didn’t have to go far.  He came out from behind the desk and asked her, “Are those your glasses?”

The Umpire nodded up in down in reply.

“You didn’t find those glasses sitting here in the lobby?”

She nodded her head back and forth.

The manager threw up his hands.  “Well, if she says they’re hers, there’s not much I can do.”

            As often happens, the elevator was taking a long time to arrive.  The three women, slightly dazed, stood there waiting for it with The Umpire.

Finally, one of the women, the brunette, the one whose glasses had been stolen, couldn’t take it anymore.  “Why are we going back up to the room to look for the sun glasses?!” she said.  “We know where they are!  She’s wearing them!”

            The other women tried to shush her and calm her down  I think by now they had begun to realize that The Umpire was rather off.

The brunette refused to be mollified.  “What?!  I’m just supposed to do nothing while she steals my glasses and then gives me the finger.  I’m just supposed to just lay down and take it?  I don’t think so!”  And she launched into her own series of gestures, imitating The Umpire: “Same to you!  Up yours too!  How you like them apples?”

The Umpire shrugged her shoulders, unfazed.  She gave them a final flurry of signs, and then, as the elevator had by now arrived, stepped on and left the women standing there in the lobby.  (Next Week -- A Threat)

Ed Hamilton

To Do List - June 19 - 26

Monday, June 20
6:00 - 9:30
Opening reception for painter Robert Lambert will be held in the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Chelsea.  The Grand Ballroom was the home of artist Richard Bernstein until he died in 2002.

The Last Time I Saw Jean Michel Basquait by Robert Lambert.

Sunday, June 26
36th Annual LGBT Pride March 12:00 pm.
Celebrated Hotel Chelsea resident Storme DeLarverie  always retains a place of honor, along with other Stonewall Veterans, in a baby blue Cadillac near the front of the parade.  During her early career, Storme was the sole male impersonater of the legendary Jewel Box Revue.  And, she is credited with throwing one of the first punches during the Stonewall riots.
Fifth Avenue and 52nd Street to its final destination in the West Village.   

Father's Day Special

It's always nice to meet a kindred spirit who appreciates the literary history of the hotel.  In "A Literary Father's Day at the Chelsea Hotel," Susan Swan celebrates her father, Thomas Wolfe, and the Chelsea.

Thomas Wolfe, not Tom, I say to young friends who haven’t read his magnificent and uneven novels that closely follow his own life.  Wolfe was only one year older than my own father. Like my father, he was too young to enlist in the First World War. And like my father, Wolfe was a physical giant at six foot eight. After his death, the staff at the Chelsea found a pair of his size 13 shoes in the hotel basement. A member of the Thomas Wolfe Society quickly came and took them away. Wolfe’s writing still tends to invite such touching acts of homage.  The essay is online at the National Post.

Dancing to Texts by Arnold

Tonight is the last chance you'll have to catch the Christopher Caines Dance Company's performance of "Tenebrae," which incorporates the work of Chelsea Resident Arnold Weinstein.

The Christopher Caines Dance Company continues through Saturday night at St. Mark's Church, Second Avenue at 10th Street, East Village.

Is This Buzz?

• Blogchelsea calls us a rich source for stories.
• CitySpecific reports that we seek to be a repository for all things artistic and notable about the people of the Chelsea Hotel/Hotel Chelsea.
• Curbed asks the penetrating question, are we the new Lower East Side of blogging?  At least he didn’t call us the new Williamsburg of blogging.
• Edward Champions Return of the Reluctant considers us to be an interesting niche blog. 
• Karl Ufert "jokingly" refers to the Chelsea as an Old Folks Home. That is music to my ears.
• Last, but not least, in an interview with Atlantaboy, Leslie Jordan of "Will & Grace" calls the Chelsea "home to lots of riff-raff."  He'll have trouble getting a reservation in the future.

Heartbreaker

Our esteemed proprietor, Stanley Bard, turns 71 today.  Without Stanley Bard the Hotel would probably be just another yuppie condo building in Chelsea.

Whenever we tell people we live at the Chelsea, they invariably ask us, How the hell did you get a place there?  It’s very difficult, you see, and a lot of people get turned away on a daily basis.  Mr. Bard himself says, ''The way I manage this hotel I would flunk every business course I ever took, but overall I feel it enhances the value of the building.''   (New York Times, Feb 15, 1998) 

Stanley Bard’s influence on the New York art world has been well documented in interviews with writers, painters, musicians, poets, and dancers.  According to an e-mail I received from a former resident, Stanley is writing a book.  I bet it will be worth the wait.

If you have been successful in getting Mr. Bard to let you live at the Chelsea, share your story in the comments section.  Or, if you have been rejected, we'd love to hear that story too.

Road Trip to Death

Chuck Klosterman‘s third book called Killing Yourself To Live: 85 per cent of a True Story, chronicles his 21 day road trip to places where rock stars have died. Of course, the Chelsea Hotel, scene of Nancy Spungen’s death was not to be missed. 

Klosterman is not the only one to make that pilgrimage.  On a daily basis when I walk through the lobby I over hear a conversation similar to this:

Rock & Roll Tourist:  “Can I visit Room 100, Sid & Nancy’s room?”

Desk Clerk:  “There is no room 100.  You can buy a Chelsea Hotel key chain with Room 100 etched on it.” 

The Stage

I. Lobby Mascots

Stanley Bard, our justly esteemed proprietor, always sees to it that his guests are well entertained.  In particular, he provides us with an unbroken series of inadvertent performance artists, appearing daily on that grand old stage known as the Chelsea Hotel lobby.

The first, in my residence, was Hiroya.  A fat Japanese man who dressed in red overalls (though later he got thin, and switched to a suit), Hiroya was a self-promoter par-excellence, in fact almost to the point of mania or psychosis.  He would accost anyone who came through the lobby, art critic, movie star, tourist, whoever, with wild boasts of his artistic greatness, and dogged attempts to lure them upstairs for a show of his paintings.  I suffered through many such shows myself, though I have to admit his work was rather powerful.  In the end it was his personality, rather than his art, that did him in.  (More about this in a future column.)  The desk people called him Annoy-ya.

After Hiroya’s untimely demise, we were treated for a time to stylings of The Angel.  Another Japanese man, The Angel dressed in drag, with feathered wings on his back.  He was usually attired all in white, but sometimes he would appear as a sinful red angel, or even as a black angel of death.  But no matter what color he wore, he was, essentially, a seedy angel.  Though at times he would wear a splendid long gown of a costume, topping it off with a bejeweled tiara, at other times, in keeping with the faded grandeur of the hotel, he allowed his costumes to deteriorate, the lace to get torn and dirty, the feathers of his wings to molt, like an angel fallen to earth.  The strangest thing was that The Angel got mad if you mentioned his appearance.  He just wanted to go around dressed as an angel; he didn’t want anyone to notice.  When it was hot, The Angel would sometimes just wear his frilly panties with a pair of wings on his back—maybe he got the idea from Victoria ’s Secret--and I think that was what finally ran him afoul of management and got him kicked out.

Then there was the long run of Blondie, a disheveled woman with Tourette’s syndrome who would stand out on the street in front of the hotel and make weird guttural noises, and who would generally flee if you approached her—several times she ran out into the street to escape me—though sometimes she would hold her ground and hiss at you, like a snake.  She refused to go into her room—demons lurking in there, apparently--and would sleep in the lobby, or in the hallways.  Periodically, Blondie would disappear for a week or two, apparently to get treatment, and then come back looking more bedraggled than ever.  Her sojourns abroad increased in frequency and duration, and then one day she returned no more.

We seemed to be heading downhill with that third one, I must admit—though some got their jollies by chasing after poor Blondie and running her up the stairs--but lately things are looking up, especially now that we have The Umpire in residence.

(Next week: The Umpire)

Ed Hamilton

To Do List

June 9 - 18
Hal Holbrook channels Mark Twain in his one man show.  Twain stayed at the Chelsea when he was on a lecture tour in 1888. (Turn West on 23rd Street)
Brooks Atkinson Theatre
256 West 47th St

June 9 – June 26
Arnold Weinstein, librettist for the opera A View From the Bridge and lyricist for William Bolcom's Casino Paradise, will premiere a suite as part of The Medicine Show Theatre.   (Arnold has been doing this for a while, on June 12, 1961 his satire The Red Eye of Love premiered.)
The Medicine Show Theatre
549 West 54th St NY NY

May 28 - June 14
Star Art  features paintings and photographs by former residents William Burroughs, Dee Dee Ramone and Bob Dylan.  Dee Dee's painting is of a Chelsea guest who O'D.d.
Chelsea Art Musem
556 West 22nd St NY NY

Jan 22 - June 25
The Historic Costume & Textiles Collection at Ohio State University has an exhibit of rare works by former resident and designer Charles James.  If you can't make it to Ohio, at least check out the online exhibit.  (I previously blogged about my boyfriend coming across James' drafting table during a dumpster diving session.  Too bad he didn't find one of these lovely dresses.)
Columbus, Ohio

Legal Talk

The trendy David Barton Gym, located in the historic McBurney YMCA building directly across from the Hotel Chelsea, is being sued by a member because of purported sexual activity in the steam room.  The YMCA has a rich sexual history.  After all, The Village People were reportedly inspired by the fun atmosphere of the McBurney to write their monster hit “YMCA.” 

Leonard Cohen has been charged with extortion.  Mere speculation on my part, but I bet we will soon hear about a countersuit.

Full Service Hotel

• The Chelsea is a full service hotel.  This week alone various bloggers were able to get a haircut, have their photo taken in the lobby, spot Ethan Hawke eating barbecue and recall Crowe behaving badly at Serenas.

Patti Met William

In a recent interview, Patti Smith recalls meeting William Burroughs and how listening to his advice impacted her life.

"I met William at the Chelsea Hotel, in about 1969," recalls Patti Smith. "I had a terrific crush on him. He was handsome, charming, intelligent. I used to follow him around and he befriended me, he became my guide, he taught me a great deal. He told me to make my own choices, not worry about fame or fortune, nor be swayed by other people or promises. Not to let my work be re-directed..."

Patti Smith and William Burroughs 

Susan Always Stays at the Chelsea

Internationally acclaimed author Susan Swan tells us why Casanova wasn't a cad and why she always stays at the Chelsea.  She also shares details about her forthcoming project which happens to involve one of my favorite Chelsea authors, Thomas Wolfe.

What do you do?
I'm a Toronto novelist with six books of fiction published internationally, here, in Europe and South America. My latest novel is What Casanova Told Me, published this week by Bloomsbury US. It was timed to come out with the anniversary of Casanova's death, June 4, 1798. He wasn't really a cad who used women like Kleenex but a talent literary writer who once famously said, "I've never made love to a woman whose language I didn't speak because I like to enjoy myself in all my senses at once." My novel tells the story of his last legendary love affair with Asked For Adams, the American cousin of John Adams, and a descendent of puritans. Her story of her travels in the Mediterrean is told in a journal passed on to a descendant who is visiting some of the same places.

Why did you choose to stay at the Chelsea?
I always stay at the Chelsea when I come to town. I first came here in 1986 and met Jerry and Stanley who don't change. When I walk into the lobby, they say, WElcome home, Susan. Where else do you find hotels that treat you like that? In my fantasy for the next five years of my life, I would like to rent Norm's suite on the tenth floor and tend his gorgeous roof garden. Maybe it was my years as a performance artist in the 1970's that told me there is more to life than corporate style hotels. That goes for everything I do.

What is your favorite Chelsea Hotel Story?
My favourite Chelsea story just happened to me. In March, I was looking to sublet at the hotel so I noticed the very tall blonde woman riding up in the elevator and asked her if she knew anyone who had a space to rent. She looked me in the eye (I'm six two too) and said, "Yeah, me. It's Thomas Wolfe's old suite." Now I'm renting it while I publicize my Casanova novel. The first night I slept in it I dreamt of Wolfe who said nice things about my novel. I love its faded baronial splendour and when the sun goes down, I toast his ghost with a glass of delicious California Zin.

Would you ever have a character in your fiction stay at the Chelsea?
Absolutely. Wolfe, for one. I am currently writing some pieces for the New York Times about his legacy or what's left of it. Usually, my obsessions and I have one with Wolfe end up in fiction too. Recently, I've been thinking the Chelsea would be great material for a TV sitcom.

If you want more information on me and my books, visit  www.susanswanonline.com There's also a BookShort based on my latest novel the two and a half minute version is available to watch online.  There is also a DVD available of the six minute version.  Vist the the BookShorts site or contact [email protected]

Meet the Author, 12:00 - 2:00

This may be your last chance to catch Swedish author Sara Stridsberg's pilgrimage to the Chelsea Hotel to capture the spirit of Valerie Solanas.  Today, between 12:00 and 2:00, Sara will be working in the lobby frantically retyping Valerie's SCUM Manifesto.  Here is what Sara has to say about the proposed novel and staying at the Chelsea.  (If you are able to speak Swedish you can probably get more info about the project than I was able to get.) So please stop by.

What do you do?

I´m a writer and Malin Arnell is a visual artist. Right now we´re travelling in the footsteps of Valerie Solanas to celebrate her work.

Why did you choose to visit the Chelsea?

We´re staying at Chelsea hotel to retype her manifesto since she wrote it there 30 years ago.

Why did you choose to write a novel about Valerie Solanas?

The reason why I choose to write this novel about her is not clear to me. It started when I translated the manifesto into Swedish. I think that I was touched by the huge gap between the manifesto and her life, and also moved by the fundamental lack of connections with the "real" world in her life...  All I wanted to do was to to talk to her... the bitchy brilliant baglady...

What is your favorite Chelsea Hotel story?

That must be Valerie writing her brilliant manifesto in the hotel and being a pain in everybody´s ass in the lobby. She taught us everything about not being "Daddy´s Girls", even if we still very much are Daddy´s Girls.

THE ULTRA FAMOUS INCREDIBLY CHIC CHELSEA HOTEL BAR

There’s a nightclub in the basement of the Hotel Chelsea.  Most everybody who lives in the hotel would rather have a laundry room, or something practical, but instead we’ve got a trendy nightclub where hardly any of us ever venture.  (A real A list place. I saw Monica Lewinski go in there!)  I went in Serena’s once just to see what it looks like, and—surprise!--it looks exactly like a basement, with low ceilings and exposed pipes.  But besides that, it’s nicely decorated, in red and black like a lot of clubs these days.  I have to admit they did a good job with it, under the circumstances.

            The club was started by Serena—I forget her last name—who actually lived here for a time, maybe she still does, in order to cash in on the hipster cache of the Chelsea.  Serena herself no longer owns the club, however.  She sold it, hopefully for big bucks.

One night recently, a thin, pretty, young blond woman, in Manolo Blahnik heels and a sexed up dress, burst through the front door of the hotel, and came running frantically up to the desk. “Please don’t send hotel guests to my club!” the woman said, hysterically.  She was apparently the hostess at Serena’s.

“People come downstairs and ask where the bar in the Chelsea Hotel is,” the desk clerk said, matter-of-factly, “and so I give them directions to Serena’s.”

“Oh, my God!  Please don’t do that anymore!” the woman shrieked.  “There’s a guy out there who’s already been drinking!  And he’s wearing a Kentucky Wildcats sweatshirt!  And now he wants in my club!”

I was standing there waiting for the elevator, and, hearing this crazy rant, I burst out laughing and the hostess turned and glared at me.  “Sorry,” I said.

The hostess turned back toward the desk.  “What am I supposed to do with this guy?” she said, a bit more calmly.

The desk clerk shrugged his shoulders.

“Not our problem!” the switchboard operator piped up from her corner.

The staff likes to play tricks on people.  Or maybe they just get tired of explaining that there really is no Chelsea Hotel Bar.  In certain guide books—apparently written by people who never visited the hotel, it says things like, “Be sure to stop by the Chelsea Hotel Bar, where Dylan Thomas and William Burroughs hoisted beers.”  If they mean anything, they mean the El Quijote, which was once, 80 or 90 years ago, the hotel dining room.  The El Q has more in common with the hotel, and anybody who wants to hoist beers with bohemians would obviously be better off there.  But sometimes I guess it’s just good for a laugh to send an unfashionable looking tourist or two down to Serena’s.

Copyright 2006 Ed Hamilton

Not a single mention of the Chelsea

The partial Literary Map of Manhattan is now available.  You can complete your map by adding these additional fictional characters who resided at and/or visited the Chelsea.   Judging from the list it seems that for some authors the Hotel Chelsea is synonymous with crime.

Robin Hudson, the female detective in The Chelsea Girl Murders -- Sparkle Hayter
Daisy Dalrymple, the female detective in The Case of the Murdered Muckraker – Carola Dunn
Jack,  Found in the Street – Patricia Highsmith
Hank Thompson, the bad guy in Caught Stealing – Charlie Huston

Matt in The Devil Knows You're Dead -- Lawrence Block

Most of the characters in Chelsea Horror Hotel -- Dee Dee Ramone

To Do List

Monday, June 6 at 9:00
George Chemeche reads at the Bowery Poetry Club.  George Chemeche is an artist, author and curator. He checked into the Chelsea Hotel in 1972 for one night and he is still there. Thus he refers to his work as the " Chelsea years." His book of poems, Rebecca from Tribeca is due soon. His writing is ironic and satiric: "I write bad poems for those who hate good ones."
Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery, NY NY

Tuesday, June 7 at 7:00
A reading and screening with Susan Swan, author of What Casanova Told Me, and hotel Chelsea guest. Her novel is part of the BookShorts short films based on books program.  And, check back here later this week to learn why Susan always stays at the Chelsea.
McNally Robinson
50 Prince St., NY NY

DEE DEE’S CHALLENGE

June 5 will mark the third year anniversary of the death of Dee Dee Ramone. He and his wife and dog lived on and off in the hotel during the year preceding his death.  For part of that time, Dee Dee was my neighbor.  Here is the story of how we met.
 
Somebody new had moved into the room next door.  I had heard him moving his stuff in late the night before, but as yet I hadn’t met him.  He was quiet now, just before noon, apparently asleep.

            Some workers began doing renovations on the floor above us: a lot of sawing and tap-tap-tapping with a hammer. After about a half an hour of this noise, the guy next door started banging on my wall, screaming, “Shut up!  Shut up!  Shut up!” 

            I didn’t think he could be talking to me, since all I was doing was sitting there writing.  But after a few more minutes of banging on my wall, the guy came out of his room and banged on my door.

            I opened the door and there stood Dee Dee Ramone.   I had seen him around the hotel, but never like this.  He wore only his underwear, his white jockey shorts, and he was covered with tattoos: skulls, pistols, dice, black cats, the numbers 13 and 666—over his arms, chest, and legs.

            I was taken aback, and stood marveling at his tattoos. Though Dee Dee was small and skinny, skeletal even, with all the tattoos, he was still kind of threatening.  On top of that he was insanely angry, shaking with rage.

            “Is that you making that noise?!” he demanded.

            “No, Dee Dee.  It’s not me,” I replied.  “I think it’s the construction workers upstairs.”

            Without another word Dee Dee went back into his room, flung open his window, stuck his head out, and yelled up at the construction workers: “Shut up, you motherfuckers!  You do that work later!  Shut up!”

            One of the workers must have looked down from the window above, because then Dee Dee said, “I see you, motherfucker!  I know who you are!  I don’t wanna hear that hammering again!”

            It got real quiet for a moment.  And then from above I heard a very deliberate: TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!
            “You motherfucker!  I’ll kill you!” Dee Dee screamed.  “You come down here to the third floor!  I’ve got a knife, and I’ll be waiting for you in the hallway!” (Copyright 2006 Ed Hamilton)

Poet/Painter

An article in LAWeekly spotlights several west coast independent publishers including BukAmerica, Santa Monica Press, TOKYOPOP, Equator Books, Red Hen Press, and Perceval Press.  Perceval Press recently published a first book of paintings by poet/Chelsea resident Rene Ricard.

THE REVELATORY WORK

I found a purse in the shared bathroom one morning.  It contained the usual junk that women carry around, and a wallet with an ID and forty dollars in it.  From the picture on the ID, I could tell that it wasn’t anybody who had any business using our bathroom.  I suspected the worst, that she was a junkie who had broken in to shoot up, and that made me feel like taking the money and throwing her purse in the trash just to teach her a lesson.  But really I had no evidence of that, and I’d seen her around the hotel, so I asked for her room number and took the purse up to where she lived on the fifth floor.

The woman who answered the door was tall, middle-aged, with long, dyed-red hair.  She wore bracelets and a flowing, robe-like, Turkish hippie shirt.  She had apparently been sleeping, or otherwise indisposed, and at first she didn’t understand what the hell I was saying, but when she caught on she was really grateful: “Oh my God!  I didn’t even know that was gone.  Oh thank you so much.  Let me give you a reward.”

            “That’s OK.”

            “No, no.  I should give you something for your trouble.  I’m so scatterbrained!”  She checked her wallet, then said, “Oh, I’m afraid I’m kind of short right now.  I’m unemployed at the moment.”

            “Don’t worry about it.”

            “Actually,” she said, “I’m a poetess.  At the moment I’m composing a long revelatory work of scope and vision that I believe will open the eyes of a great many people around the world.”

            “Wow,” I said, and then, mercenary son of a bitch that I am, asked, “You think you’ll get some money for that?”            

“Perhaps,” she said, with a touch of condescension. “Certainly I’m not in it solely for the money.”

            “Of course not.”

            “Cynthia Blair, by the way,” she said, extending a long, thin hand.

            I didn’t hear anything more from Cynthia for a few weeks after that, but apparently it had been bothering her that she couldn’t give me a reward, because one day she showed up at my door.  “I still don’t have any money,” she said, “but I have this coffee pot.  It’s a nice coffee pot, don’t you think?”

            There was nothing nice about it whatsoever.  It was an old, used coffee pot.  I must have looked rather bewildered, because she clarified her offer: “You can have it if you want.”

            I took the pot.  “Thanks,” I said.

            “I just wanted to give you something for your trouble.”

            Now the strange thing about it was, it was a very small coffee pot, apparently for espresso.  I had never seen one before.  “Uh, how do you use it,” I asked

            “I don’t know.  I’ve never used it before,” Cynthia said.  “I think you just put it on the burner.”

            “Hmmm.”

            “It needs a basket or something to go inside, but maybe you can find one of those.”

            “Oh yeah, I’m sure that’ll be no problem,” I said, unable, despite myself, to suppress a hint of sarcasm.  “Thanks.  It looks real good.”

            We stood there in the doorway for a moment, not knowing what  more to say to each other.  Finally, I asked, “How’s the revelatory work coming?”

“What?  Oh, very well, thank you.  I believe it’s being well received.”

            “Good.”

            “However, as I’m sure you must realize, these things take time to be resolved, and in the meantime the mold is growing thick all around us.”

            Cynthia turned to go.  But then she thought of something and turned back and said, “Oh, by the way, I’d rinse that pot out if I were you.  I had bleach in it.”

            I wondered, but I didn’t ask.  Something for the trash after all.

Ed Hamilton