Living with Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog

The Strung-Out Junkie Ghost of the Chelsea Hotel

He was the angel-headed hipster who dragged himself through the Negro streets at dawn, looking for an angry fix.  He was the man who taught Bill Burroughs how to shoot heroin, and helped him grow marijuana on his farm in Texas.  His exploits are recounted in Ginsberg’s Howl, Kerouac’s On the Road, Burroughs’ Junky, and sundry other staples of Beat literature.  Con man, junkie, Times Square hustler, jailbird, and muse to the Beats, Herbert Huncke was also a fine writer in his own right, penning, among other works, the autobiographical Guilty of Everything, some of it written in a stall of a Times Square subway station.

Unlike the more famous Beats, Huncke was never able to make a living off his writings, and so his story is, in a sense, one of failed ambition.  He felt that he was the real deal, that these other figures were all to some extent poseurs, and that, perhaps due to his lack of an Ivy League education, his own work had never received the attention it deserved.  Always a gentleman, Huncke’s old age found him living in a tiny room at the Chelsea Hotel with a bathroom down the hall, struggling to maintain a quiet dignity in the face of failing health and the addiction that had dogged him throughout his life.

            Like all junkies, Huncke liked to shoot up in the bathroom and nod off while sitting on the toilet.  A private bathroom would, of course, have been ideal, but since his finances didn’t permit the extravagance, Huncke was forced to make do with the shared bathroom.  For the most part, however, this arrangement worked out fine, as Huncke’s neighbors and bathroom-mates knew his schedule and were respectful of his privacy and special needs.

            That was until the whores moved in.  There were usually three of these strumpets, though sometimes up to five, living together in a small room with a shared bathroom—Huncke’s bathroom.  They were all really young, teenagers in fact, except for their leader—a girl with one leg, the other cut off at the knee--who may have been twenty or so.  The youngest girl, who was fat and had a bad case of acne, looked to be all of about 16 and was no doubt a runaway.

            No stranger to the sex trade himself, Huncke had absolutely nothing against such “ladies of the evening,” and at first didn’t give their presence a second thought.  Though he did kind of wonder about the one with the stump, he soon learned that she was in great demand, a specialist, it turned out, esteemed for her singular endowment and thereby respected in her field.

            However, through some odd coincidence, some ironic quirk of fate, in all his time living in Hell’s Kitchen and Bowery flophouses, Huncke had somehow avoided ever having to share accommodations with such beings.  Perhaps if he had been subjected to such an arrangement at an earlier age--say in his twenties—he would have cleaned up his act and gone to dental school, or moved to New Jersey and founded a dry-cleaning dynasty.  But as it turned out, this deficit in Huncke’s lived experience would allow Destiny or Providence to exploit what can only be viewed as a sort of tragic flaw in a man who had for so long lived a heroic outlaw existence on the fringe of society.

            The whores were, to say the least, heavy bathroom users.  They were forever taking long bubble baths or fussing over their hair and makeup, either singly, or in teams. Besides that, Huncke soon noticed that they seemed to own, collectively or not, an incredible amount of lingerie—which makes sense when you think about it—which they rotated strategically, washing the various filmy garments out by hand and draping them to dry over the shower curtain rod, the sink, and the toilet, even hanging some over the mirror.         

            Even outside of that, it soon turned out that the bathroom was an integral part of their business operation.  They were in there constantly, because—barring the occasional twosome or (prohibitively expensive) threesome--when one of them had a john the others had to have somewhere to hang out for the duration, and it would have been rather inconvenient to bother putting their clothes on and heading down to the lobby.  Especially since their turn might come next.  Nor did they merely idle away their downtime: they took with them their cell phones—huge, clunky things at the time--and appointment books, and transformed the bathroom into their makeshift office.  In that way they were able to assure a steady stream of clients, one every half-hour, from afternoon until the early hours of the morning.

            The whores ran around in the hallway in their skimpy negligee, and when Huncke knocked on the bathroom door they often answered it fully nude, and though this might have made the whole ordeal bearable for a heterosexual man, Huncke was gay, and so it didn’t do a thing for him.  At first Huncke asked them politely if they would mind not staying in the bathroom for so long.

            “If you need in, just knock,” said the one-legged leader, cheerfully smacking her gum.

But they would mill around right outside the bathroom door in their faux-silken teddies and polyester nighties while Huncke fumbled nervously with his works.  If he took more than a couple of minutes they started banging on the door: “We’re freezing out here!  Come on, we’re in our underwear!”

            Huncke didn’t really want to get into a nasty argument with the women themselves, because, from experience, he knew that where there are whores, there are inevitably pimps, and he didn’t relish the thought of a rangy, gold-toothed young man lurking in the dark hallways to spring upon him with a knife.  At his wits end, he finally could think of only one recourse.  Though he’d never been a squealer, not even when it could have saved him from hard time in the can, he sucked it up and went down to complain to the management.

            The result--which Huncke knew in retrospect to be inevitable--was that the guys at the front desk acted like he was completely out of his gourd, like they’d never heard anything so crack-brained and loony in all their lives.  As they guffawed and rolled their eyes and suggested he check into a mental hospital, Huncke, disheartened, slunk back to his tiny room.

            Nevertheless, the management did do something about it: they called the whores and told them that Huncke had complained.

            Later that afternoon, dozing in his bed, Huncke was startled by a loud wooden thumping at his door.  Opening the door, he found himself confronted by the leader of the whores.  “Why do you hate us?!” she demanded, as two of her scantily clad co-workers stood behind her for back-up.

            Huncke started to explain that he didn’t hate them at all, that he just needed to use his bathroom sometimes, but she cut him off abruptly. “You’re just jealous because we’re young and beautiful!” she declared, her boob bouncing out of her negligee as she hopped in place on her crutch.

            “Yeah, and you’re just a shriveled up old man!” her co-worker with the acne, pointing at Huncke accusingly, added over her leader’s shoulder.

            After that, the situation progressed from bad to worse, ten times worse.  It may be an overstatement to say that the whores drove Huncke to his grave, but they certainly didn’t help matters, and may have hastened the progression of the illness that would eventually consume him.  After the confrontation at Huncke’s door, the whores made it a point of staying in the bathroom round the clock, smoking crack and eating their lunch in there, and, Huncke came to believe, even sleeping curled up on the floor sometimes.  Now they wouldn’t come out even if he knocked, but would simply shout back that he should use the sink in his room--or just go in his pants for all they cared.

            Thus the poor man’s last days on earth were transformed into a living hell.  In his final hour, Huncke had but one simple desire: to get into the bathroom to inject the one blessed substance that would ease the pain of his tortured existence, relax the iron bonds of consciousness, and allow him to slip seamlessly into the next metaphysical realm.

            Alas, the whores were laundering their lingerie.  Because his longing had been so intense, and because he died agitated and unfulfilled, Huncke was consigned to a Limbo, a lonely, shadow-infested, half-aware state between living and final oblivion—that finds its God-forsaken locus within the crumbling red brick walls of the Chelsea Hotel.

            Often the door to Huncke’s old bathroom will be found standing open in the middle of the night, and his old neighbors know that Huncke has been by.  Sometimes the door will slam shut, for no apparent reason.  The wind?  Perhaps.  But if you’ve stayed at the Chelsea for long you’ve surely heard the mournful wail, howling up from the black depths of the airshaft in the wee hours of the morning like some forlorn Bohemian banshee: “Get out of my bathroooooooom, you fucking whoooooooooooooores!” -- Ed Hamilton

[Editor’s Note: The preceding story is fictional: ghosts don’t exist; and even if they did, Stanley would never have allowed them—or for that matter whores or junkies—to roam the halls of the Chelsea Hotel.]

The Spiritualist Who Foretold His Own Death

Arthur B. Davies, an artist, made "spiritual" paintings--dancing nudes, etc. (See below.) He also traveled the world, collecting both ancient and modern art.  By 1928 he had crammed into every available space of his Chelsea Hotel studio more than a dozen Picassos, five Cezannes, four Matisses, and various other valuable works too numerous to mention. In 1928, his collection had grown so large that he expanded into the studio next door.

People considered him shy and reclusive, but in fact Davies concealed a scandalous secret, Along with his wife, Virginia, and many children living on his upstate farm, he had a second wife, Edna, and daughter in the city. His "city" daughter, Ronnie, went to school with the children of Davies' artist acquaintances, but because she lived under the false last name of "Owen," the adults did not know that her father was their friend. Aside from the two families, Davies and his beautiful young model, Wreath McIntyre, had been close since she began posing for him at age 14.  By the time he moved into the Chelsea, Davies had shipped Edna and Ronnie to Europe to avoid detection. He spent his time at the Chelsea with Wreath.

One day, Davies, who believed in spirtualism and the life beyond, consulted an astrologer who told him he would soon die abroad. Convinced that one's fate could not be avoided, he planned a trip to Europe

anyway. At the end of his last day of work with Wreath, he escorted her out of the Chelsea, turned to her and said, "I've never wanted anyone else to pose for me. It's been a wonderful fourteen years." Then he lifted his hat to her and walked away. Later that evening, he dined sumptuously with Virginia at a favorite restaurant in the city. The next day, he set sail for Europe, where his second wife, Edna, and their child were waiting.

Two months later, he was dead of a heart attack. His last words, Edna claimed, concerned a "great spiritual light which has come to me this night." In his wallet she found a scrap of paper on which were scribbled the words, "That light which never wintry blast / Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes, / That light that shines from loving eyes upon, / Eyes that love back."

Edna had his remains cremated, brought them back to America, and presented them to Virginia--introducing herself and her daughter for the first time. Eventually, Virginia gained access to her husband's treasure trove at the top of the Chelsea Hotel, which she had never seen. After a life of hardship on her upstate farm, Virginia was amazed to find "an Arabian-Nights treasure trove" of abandoned works of art. She auctioned off most of the collection.  But she brought much of Davies' own work back to her farmhouse, where she burned a large portion of it, claiming that she considered it "unsuitable." That was quite and expensive bonfire, a New York Times reporter remarked.

Davies' works were included in the original collections for the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney Museum. But thanks largely to his first wife's mishandling of his legacy, his body of work rapidly dropped out of sight and lost much of its value.  The strange, sensitive, secretive believer in unseen vibrations and psychic phenomena had been unable to influence his own legacy from beyond the grave. – Sherill Tippins

[Most of this information comes from the book, The Lives, Loves, and Art of Arthur B. Davies, by Bennard B. Perlmann, The State University of New York Press, 1998.]

New Piece of Crap to be Thrown Up at Perry and Washington Streets

     Born and Drukier are really running roughshod over New York.  Now they are proposing a massive 9 story glass hotel for the corner of Washington and Perry.   They already have two of their ghastly towers, the Meiers buildings, nearby at 173/176 Perry Street.  Additionally, they are responsible for the glass tower at 166 Perry Street. Why has it suddenly become open season along the entire west side of lower Manhattan?  West Chelsea, the Meatpacking District, the West Village, and West SoHo are all starting to  look like some crappy suburban office park.  (It seems like every single project that developers come up with is designed to be the biggest, gaudiest monstrosity they can possibly get away with.  Doesn’t it ever occur to any of them to build a modest, attractive building that a reasonable person would be proud to call home? ) Isn’t there room for human scale development or better yet, leaving well enough alone – anywhere in New York? 
     This kind of megalomaniacal insensitivity to all concerns of context, community, aesthetics, human sensitivity and decency – though patently typical of some New York developers – should be enough to raise red flags for anyone who lives at the Chelsea Hotel – also controlled by BD Hotels for the time being. We don’t want our building to go the way of the West Side of Manhattan.  -- Ed Hamilton  (Photo: Gothamist)

Welcome NY Times Book Review Readers

     Welcome to everyone who’s coming to the blog from the NYTBR.  I’m sure you’ll find much of interest here, including updates on what has transpired since the beloved Stanley Bard was ousted as manager over the summer.  In a nutshell, the long term manager and majority owner of the hotel Stanley Bard, was accused by the minority share holders Marlene Krauss and David Elder of being a bad businessman and forced out in a hostile takeover.  The bottom line is, the hotel had simply become too valuable and the millions that their shares were producing for them just wasn't enough.  They brought in glass tower developers Richard Born and Ira Drukier to manage the hotel.  And the bohemian vibe of the Hotel was forever altered as media outrage ensued.   We’d like to see the Bard family reinstated, and for that reason the attention generated by the review is doubly welcome.

    It’s nice to get a reviewer (Jeff Giles) who really knows how to write.  What’s more, despite some of his more critical comments (which I thought were more or less fair enough), he seems to really get where I’m coming from with the book, and the comic/tragic vibe of the hotel.  One correction:  the book is not exactly a collection of the blog entries.  About half of the material in the book has never appeared on the blog.  -- Ed Hamilton

 

Plight of Chelsea Hotel Still Buzzworthy

     Thanks to Chelsea Now for keeping the plight of our residents on the front page.  (Well, the second page anyway.)  They quote us in their buzz column this week on the anonymous Chelsea Hotel tenant who has his rent raised from the exorbitant $200.00 per night, to the near extortionate $315.00.  We have heard of two other similar cases since then, indicating a pattern of efforts to get people out. 

     We do need to clear up one misconception however:  The tenants in question are permanent tenants, rather than transients.  Of the cases we mentioned, the shortest term tenant had been in his room around 8 months, the longest almost two years.  Any tenant who has lived in a residential hotel for more than 29 days is considered permanent, and may well be rent stabilized.  Whether you are charged by the day, week, or month makes no difference. 

     We must stress once again that BD cannot simply call the cops and have you evicted.  They must go through a long, drawn out court proceeding that could take a year or more and may result in your rent actually being reduced and you being paid damages.  Please, don’t take our word for it: consult a lawyer.  If you feel you cannot afford to consult a lawyer contact the West Side SRO Law Project at 212-799-9638.  --Ed Hamilton

The Severed Hand

By 1920, the theatre district had moved uptown to Herald Square, except for a few bawdy houses and burlesque palaces that remained on 23^rd Street, and the neighborhood was getting a bit rundown.  The Chelsea Hotel, however, was still at or near its peak, the stained glass windows and plate glass mirrors remaining intact, the ornate woodwork not yet obscured by the thick layers of paint that would one day cover it.

Nadia lived in the Chelsea with her well-to-do parents in a large suite of rooms.  That’s where she was born, in 1896, where she grew up, spoiled like a princess, where the artistic spirit of the Chelsea grew within her, and where, enlivened by that spirit, she was inspired to learn to paint: delicate work in the Japanese style on sheets of silk cut from bolts her father, a successful silk merchant, sometimes brought home from the warehouse.

And the theatre district, in full bloom while Nadia was a child, was where she met her handsome husband, a playwright and song writer who sold his songs on the old Tin Pan Alley on 27th Street.  They struggled for awhile on their own, moving from rooming house to rooming house, but her husband was an alcoholic and, though he managed to avoid serving in the war, could rarely find work.  And Nadia’s paintings failed to sell.  By the late teens they had two children, and soon no way to feed or cloth or even shelter them.

Her father made Nadia a deal.  She and her family could move back into the Chelsea Hotel—there was an extra room for them—in exchange for housework.  It was a great deal for everyone except Nadia, but her husband convinced her to accept.  Soon she was single-handedly cleaning the large suite, cooking three meals a day for the extended family, and washing out by hand her incontinent and demanding mother’s underwear.  All the while her husband sank further into drink, and was soon unable to bring in even the paltry few dollars he previously was able to earn through his songwriting.

            Nadia believed that her father, wealthy as he was, could have helped out with the money, but he was a tightwad, and what’s more, he wanted to teach her a lesson.  The old man had warned her about marrying that good-for-nothing dandy, and now, like a stern prophet of the Old Testament, he declared from his moral mountaintop that she must reap what she had sewn.  Already stretched near to the breaking point, Nadia was forced to take in piece work to made ends meet.

Amazingly, with the brats squalling in the background, the incontinent mother calling for fresh underwear, and the weak-willed husband calling for more drink, Nadia still managed to snatch a few minutes here and there for her intricate art.  Unfortunately, far from consoling her, this only served to reinforce her feelings of bitterness and disillusionment, as she found that her hands lacked the power to translate her ideas onto the canvas.  Looking at the offending appendages, she saw that the house work had coarsened and calloused her palms, knotted and gnarled her knuckles, aging and discoloring her skin before its time.  Flexing her hands, the joints felt tight, stiff, the result of the exacting needlework she so loathed, and Nadia came to believe that she was developing early arthritis.  “I’m working my fingers to the bone!” she cried out in anguish.

            That was to become her constant refrain. The early twenties are the time of life when mental illness typically first manifests, and at one point Nadia had to be hospitalized for two weeks at a rest facility on Long Island for a nervous disorder akin to hysteria.  (No one could see anything wrong with her hands.)  But she was much too valuable to the household to be allowed any further leisure, nor was her father willing to part with any more money to pay “those quarks” their  “extortionate” fees, and soon Nadia was back at work, and almost immediately her problems returned.

Finally, late one night, the children asleep in their beds, her husband passed out dead drunk on the floor, Nadia was able to tear herself away from the washtub of soiled undergarments long enough to put the finishing touches on what was to be her masterpiece, a scene of cranes cavorting in the Bethesda Fountain.  With intense concentration she willed her ravaged hand to put the final subtle stroke to the ambitious silken creation.  Stepping back, she surveyed her work critically.

It was crap!  Enraged, she seized a huge pair of industrial shears that she used to cut the silk and slashed her painting to shreds.  And then, very deliberately, she wedged the sheers into the corner, placed her right wrist between the blades, and fell upon the handles with all her weight, severing her delicate hand.

She hadn’t counted on the pain: searing, unbearable.  Howling in agony, and knowing her time was about up anyway, Nadia rushed to the window, threw open the French doors, and flung herself over the balcony, plunging the five floors to her death.

Since that fateful night, Nadia returns to the Chelsea on moonless nights, hovering outside people’s balconies, waving her bloody stump, barred by some infernal power of cosmic retribution from ever again re-entering the hotel.  So if you ever see a ghostly shape flit by your window at night, it’s hair and gown billowing though the air, you’ll know it’s Nadia, come to reclaim her hand. -- Ed Hamilton (photo: bluehour)

[Editor’s Note: The names and details have been changed to protect the ectoplasmic.  Thanks to Sherrill Tippins for pointing us toward the March 6, 1922 New York Times article that inspired this story: there really was a woman who chopped off her hand and jumped out the window at the Chelsea, and if that won’t make you leave a ghost behind, I don’t know what will.]

Home of Bad Behavior Indeed:BD Website Looks Pretty Good, But Sweeps Old Man Under the Rug

The redesigned official Chelsea Hotel website is less cluttered and it’s much easier to use.  The focus is clear as well: make a reservation.  (We didn't try the registration tool but we hear it's still confusing.) But that’s a little bit disturbing, since it tends to de-emphasize the status of the Chelsea as a cultural institution.  People used the old site as much for information about the hotel as for booking rooms.

            Of course, some of the information on the old site was false—such as the claim that Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward Angel while at the hotel (he actually wrote the similar-sounding You Can’t Go Home Again)—but BD has introduced its own errors into the public discourse.  For the record, Dylan Thomas did not die at the Chelsea: he collapsed here and was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital, dying there.  Also, there’s actually no evidence that Eugene O’Neill ever stayed here, according to our sources.  (And get an editor: the history is clumsily written and there’s even a few misspellings.)

One thing that confuses me it that the site says that the hotel is a “cultural preservation site and historical building of note.”  I guess what they mean by that is that it’s a National and City Landmark.  It’s odd, since calling it by its more commonly accepted designation would seem likely to increase its appeal as a tourist destination.  But for some obscure reason (perhaps related to finance) they don’t want to call it by that name.

            There are a couple of errors in the section on restaurant reservations.  Neither La Chinita Linda (sadly, since it was great place) nor the Subway on 22^nd and 8^th Ave (in the old Allerton Hotel, another recent victim of gentrification) are in existence any longer.   They were both closed, I believe, before BD even took over the hotel.  And what about El Quijote?  Though we know BD wants them to vacate the premises, they are there for the time-being, and they have served the hotel and its guests and residents well over the years (70-plus!), so it seems downright un-neighborly not to mention them.

            The most egregious error, as well, is one of omission.  I’ve searched the whole website, and, unbelievably, there’s not one mention of Stanley or the Bard Family.  It’s hard to deny that, besides being one of the chief celebrities of the hotel, he had a little bit to do with making this place the unique artistic attraction that it is today.  So give the man his due.  What would be the harm in mentioning him? 

The Mad Baroness of the Chelsea Hotel

Today, our thoughts turn to Halloween.  Last year, we published a slew of ghost stories some of which were sent in by guest contributors.  We've got even more scary in store for you this year.  As Sherill Tippins admits, this isn't much of a ghost story, but it's still kind of scary since everybody in it loses their sanity. (And then at the end the whole country goes bonkers and gives women the right to vote!) It also features a dwarf:

In 1901, the glamorous Mrs. Frank Leslie moved into the Chelsea--probably onto the sixth floor. Born Miriam Florence Follin in 1836 to an old New Orleans family run to seed, she was rumored to be the
illegitimate product of a liason between the debonair, French-born Southerner Charles Follin and one of his slaves. Be that as it may, Miriam was raised by Charles and his wife as a precious flower whose beauty and brilliant intellect might, through a clever marriage, pull the family out of their economic decline. Tutored at home, she learned to speak and read in four languages, to dress to her advantage and charm well-born gentlemen with her quick wit and deceptive submissiveness.
     As she approached womanhood, the family moved to to New York, where the marriage market promised the highest return on their investment. They established a boarding house precariously near the slums of the Lower East Side. When 17-year-old Miriam allowed David Peacock, an older jewelry store clerk, to seduce her in exchange for the chance to adorn herself with the shop's diamonds, her parents efficiently arranged a shotgun wedding and then a quick annullment to preserve her reputation. Peacock ended up in an insane asylum, where he died.
     Miriam went on to perform onstage with a new mentor, Lola Montez, and then to become the mistress of a retired United States Senator, before finally making the marriage her parents had hoped for--to the famous archeologist and diplomat Ephraim G. Squier. But Squier was much older, and Miriam was bored. When the couple went to work for the even richer and more powerful Frank Leslie, founder of New York's Frank Leslie Illustrated Newspaper publishing empire, she encouraged Leslie's divorce and invited him to move in. For several years, the Squires and Frank Leslie enjoyed the era's most celebrated menage a trois, until Miriam divorced Squire (leaving him to go mad and die alone), married Leslie, and took over Frank Leslie's Illustrated after Leslie's death.
     By 1901 Mrs. Frank Leslie had become a multi-millionaire, building her late husband's business into one of New York's most successful publishing houses. She had dabbled in romance--marrying Oscar Wilde's drunken brother Willie and then returning him to his mother and filing for divorce; and engaging in a flirtation with the Marquis Campo Allegre Villaverde, Court Chamberlain to King Alfonso of Spain. But by the time she arrived at the Chelsea, she had decided to simply give herself the royal title she craved, without the bother of another marriage. She checked into the Chelsea as the diamond-bedecked "Frank Leslie, Baroness de Bazus," and began presiding over Thursday evening salons with her coddled Yorkshire terrior, featuring Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the "poetess of passion" ("Laugh and the world laughs with you/ Weep, and you weep alone") and Marshall P. Wilder, the well known hunchback, dwarf vaudeville performer who "broke the ice during dull afternoons" by hiding behind the grand piano and making baby-squalling noises until the others collapsed with laughter.
     As the years passed, rumors spread that the Baroness was losing her sanity. She forgot things, they said; her conversation drifted off in directions. The rumors increased dramatically after her death in 1914, when it was learned that she had left her $2 million fortune to the Suffragist movement. Family members sued; reporters sneered, the legal case dragged on. In the end, half of the legacy was wasted on lawyers, administration fees, taxes, and legal settlements. But about $1 million did go to the Suffragists in time for the final push toward ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment in 1920. -- Sherill Tippins

A Cautionary Tale for the Chelsea

The history of The Windermere, that graffiti covered eyesore at 9^th Ave. and 57^th Street, parallels that of the Chelsea Hotel in many respects.  Both were built in the 1880s as a part of the wave of large, ornate luxury apartment houses that were built around the city after the invention of the elevator. Like the Chelsea, it fell on hard times in the early decades of the 20^th Century and was carved up into smaller apartments.   The Windermere too, while not enjoying quite our illustrious reputation in the arts, was home to numerous creative people by the 60s.

As reported in The New York Times (from which I drew most of this info) what happened to the Windermere was that in 1982 the landlord decided to empty the building of rent-stabilized tenants.  The present landlord continued the trend, letting the building run down to the point where pigeons were nesting in rooms open to the elements, finally forcing the city to close the place down and relocate the residents to an SRO.  The landlord used illegal tactics, but as of this point, he got what he wanted anyway!

I doubt that anything this bad will happen to the Chelsea, but it just goes to show that where money is to be made, landlords will frequently resort to any means necessary to get rid of rent-stabilized tenants. – Ed Hamilton

More Legends to Come

     The good news is, Legends of the Chelsea Hotel has been selling briskly at the Barnes & Noble at 6th Avenue and 21st Street.  Unfortunately, if you've been by there in the past couple of days, you may not have been able to find the book.  That's because they sold out.  But more are arriving, just in time for my reading on Tuesday, Oct. 23.  If you don't see any copies, ask for one.
     The book will be available in bookstores nationally very soon.  Watch for the review of Legends in the New York Times Book Review this Sunday, Oct. 28.  To read other reviews visit www.chelseahotelbook.com

Recent Efforts to Raise Rents/Empty Apartments

We’ve heard of a couple of instances recently where BD has been trying to raise resident’s rents. 

In one case, they were successful in getting the person to leave.  This individual had been living in the hotel for several months when BD told him his rent was going to increase from $200 a night to $315 per night.  When the tenant made an effort to talk to BD about this outrageous increase, reportedly their response was to tell him that he would be evicted if he didn’t pay the new rate.  We also heard that BD threatened to call the cops.  Faced with such hostility and threats, regretfully this tenant moved out. 

Though this tenant had lived in the building for less than a year, we’ve also heard rumblings that some residents who have been here for years are being threatened with rent increases.  (Obviously, we can’t discuss these cases in detail, as the tenants wish to remain anonymous.)

The bottom line is, it’s all about the money. They want you to leave and give up your rent stabilized apartment, which is probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to them. Not to sound like a broken record, but if there is anybody in this building who hasn’t talked to a lawyer yet, you really need to do so.  Don’t think that you can negotiate with these people yourself.  They will say anything – including lying as to what your rights are – to get you to leave.  -- Ed Hamilton

PR Triumphs Over Reality at DeNiro's Greenwich Hotel

"Hey, why is the wood floor squeaking in this room I'm paying $1500.00 a night for?"  "You dumbass, we designed it like that so it would seem old!"  Thus does mind triumph over matter at DeNiro's new Greenwich Hotel, and developers everywhere are paying attention.  Take note that BD Hotels is DeNiro's partner in this venture.  "Why is the hinge on this cabinet in my million dollar condo broken?"  "It's supposed to remind you of an old railroad flat from the 50s." "Why is the bathroom tile cracked and yellowed?"  "It's like one of those very cool ticky-tack houses in a cool town, like Woody Guthrie sang about."  "How come the walls are so thin that I can hear my neighbors talking?" "It's like living in a shantytown in Tompkins Square Park in the 80's.  Doesn't it make you nostalgic?"
     Sorry, but I don't want the floor buckling underfoot when I get up to take a piss in the middle of the night.  Did you artifically splinter some of the boards as well?  Are these  nails sticking up for that little extra touch of realism?  Shoddy materials are a bitch, but no reason we can't put a good face on things. -- Ed Hamilton

Vali Myers, “Witch of Positano” Remembered in New Memoir

Gianni Menichetti lived for 30 years with the Australian artist, witch and free-spirit Vali Myers in her mountainous retreat in Positano Italy.  While Vali painted and worked her magic in a specially designed cage with her pet fox, Foxy, Gianni roamed the town looking for food to feed their huge pack of dogs and goats and various other animals.  In Gianni’s revealing memoir, you’ll learn how he and Vali conspired to get rid of her husband, Rudi, so that their love could bloom unencumbered.  You’ll also read about Vali’s lover, Caroline, who lived in a near-by cave.  Find out if a fox can be house-trained, and what he’ll do to your Victrola if allowed the run of the place.
 
Vali didn’t spend all her time in Italy, but rather cycled back and forth between there and New York where she could sell her art.  Read the book and find out what Stanley Bard did when she couldn’t pay the rent.  That one is too explosive to print in this family-oriented blog, but here’s an excerpt that mentions two more of our fellow Chelseaites:

  Someone Vali often spoke very fondly of was Mason Hoffenberg, who wrote the infamous novel Candy with Terry Southern. I never met him but Vali described him as a man of few words, very stocky, with a pigeon chest and a deep voice.  She told me that he could drink a lot, and they did drink a lot together.  The way she described him, he was hardly an Adonis, and yet, once, they made it together.  At the end of it, Mason Hoffenberg said, “Well, that’s that.”  Vali told that story over and over.  She thought it was so funny! …

It was through her friends Ruth and Donny Shomron, from whom he was taking Hebrew lessons, that she first met Hoffenberg.  Ruth and Danny had been living crammed into a tiny room at the Chelsea Hotel, and when someone moved out of a much larger one, they moved in without asking owner Stanley Bard’s permission.  Lucky for them, he didn’t kick them out.  Vali especially loved Ruth, who was very good to her during difficult times.  Ruth and Danny acquired one of Vali’s original drawings, called Wala Wala.

For more on Vali, see my article in Chelsea Now.  And, come to the book launch party to eat, drink, and be merry – and buy a book!  Click through for the invitation:

Decline & Fall of Fun: Michael Maher Administers Last Rites to Coney Island

Australian filmmaker Michael Maher, who shot a documentary about the gentrification of the Chelsea Hotel and Chelsea neighborhood for his "Postcards from New York" series, is back in action again, having set in sights on another threatened New York institution, Coney Island. In case you haven't heard, what's happening out there, is that developers are tearing down most of the seedy old amusement park so they can build condos for rich people who, apparantly, don't like to have fun.  (Is anyone taking bet on how long it will be before they complain about noise, drunks, etc., from the Cyclones ballpark next door.)
     The film features interviews with Coney Island characters such as Captain Bob and Freak Show Kingpin Dick Zigum, and a great aerial shot of Coney at night.  So check out the film, and get out to Coney for one last hot dog before seriousness triumphs once and for all over frivolity.  (Oh well, at least they they transformed Times Square into Disneyland.)

The New Lost Generation in New York

A life-long New Yorker writes in to lament the current state of things at the Chelsea, and in New York.  Unlike some of us, however, he believes he's found a silver lining.

Ed,

Somewhere between the many letters you must recieve from those abroad that are concerned with the current conditions and the uncomfortable chatter of permanent residents you must recieve letters from that "energetic new blood" you speak about. If you haven't, this is one. And it is a concerned one yet a hopeful one.

While I haven't been a resident in my 25 years I have been a lifelong New Yorker (which ironically makes it easier now to play with the outsider aesthetic in this city). I first realized things were going all wrong last month when I stopped in the hotel to have a recorded chat with Mr. Bockris. While waiting for the elevator I couldn't help but hear two guests ask the front desk if there was "any decent food on this block". The elevator door opened. The front desk started calling off names of fancy five star restaurants in midtown. The elevator door closed just in time.

I'm not surprised to hear about what is going on in regards to management. There's a certain sadness in knowing the doors won't be open to new residents and that great change has plagued the air used by the ones already there. Living at the Chelsea is a pontification not a circumstance. Am I wrong to be romantic about this?

I could only hope that this city's gentrification will be a new kind of challenge to the artist and a new kind of work will be produced by the threat. As artists we reserve the right to rewrite things. Well let's rewrite Hem's history and call his era something else. This is the Lost Generation. Unfortunately we're lost in our own backyards. But like any lucky kid we could say we've got the biggest backyard on the block.

Regards,

Julian Stockdale, New York Poet

Thanks Julian.  That's just like BD: they are complete outsiders, out of touch with whats going on in the hotel and the Chelsea neighborhood.  Author Victor Bockris by the way, a long-time Chelsea resident is no longer with us.  Bockris, a fixture of the Warhol Factory who penned biographies of such counterculture figures as Patti Smith and Lou Reed, is a recent causalty of BDs ongoing campaign to gentrify and homogenize the Chelsea.

BDs Incompetence Costs The Chelsea Another Customer

Here's what happened when Kelly (who we wrote about last week) tried to book a room.

I wanted to let you know that i've been toying with the idea of staying still...so i decided to call and try to make reservations today...notice i say try.  i called the number provided on the website and was quickly redirected to the "front desk", the "front desk" told me "just a moment" and i am still on hold....i have been on hold for five minutes.  now i'm just holding on to see how long they leave me on hold....going on seven minutes now.
does the chelsea hotel not give a f*ck about guest reservations?

i hung up after 8 minutes and 12 seconds.
promptly called back, asked the lady who answered if anyone was taking reservations, she asked "for when" i said december, and that i had just called and they put me on hold for almost 10 minutes....just told me to hold on....placed me on hold, and then disconnected me. 

okay...so i went online and it quoted me a room for 3 nights at $169...i FINALLY spoke with some guy (who sounded like he could give a shit) who put me on hold again...when he came back he told me the only rate he had was for a junior suite at $609 a night.  seriously...are you fucking kidding me?  so i told him that it quoting me $169 a night online...he said well you won't have a bathroom, you'll have to share.  i said, well it says here online that i WILL have a private bathroom.  so what gives?  so he says, well...we're all sold out of those.  so i respond with...then why the hell is it allowing me to book this online?  and he says...well it says we are all out of those rooms here.  so i ask, well then what the hell does that mean?  it's letting me book a standard room online with a private bath and you're telling me you don't have them? does that mean i get there and you've booked me for a room you don't have?  he says, well book it and i guess they'll have to find you a room when you get here?

wtf?  i mean seriously....is this a joke?  what the hell is going on there?

who wants to go in to a trip and stay there with that kind of first impression?   i'll be booking somewhere else.

Sid's Room

Today is the 29^th anniversary of Nancy Spungen’s brutal murder in room 100 of the Chelsea Hotel. Whether or not you believe Sid killed her, the spirits of this tragic, doomed couple continue to haunt us here at the Chelsea.  When the elevator stops mysteriously on the 1^st floor, the door opening upon an empty hallway, resident’s joke nervously that it’s Sid’s ghost getting on.  But we are haunted by their lingering presence in other, more insidious, ways as well.  This video, shot in 2006, tells the story of punk rocker Dee Dee Ramone’s disturbing late-night encounter with the shadowy trace of the horrific event that occurred in room 100 way back in 1978.
Credits: Snap Films, Legends of the Chelsea Hotel

Keeping The Dream Alive, One Friend at a Time

i've been planning my first trip to new york for what seems like forever. i live in dallas, and am a music hound. i've done research, reading, etc. on the chelsea...i've always known when i finally make it to new york....this is where i would stay. picking up on a lot of negative press though, change in command etc. do suggest i still plan on staying? or look in to somewhere else? i really want to be in the les/chelsea area. i appreciate any feedback, as you seem to be most knowledgeable. Kelly

      Well, Kelly, I have both good and bad news for you.  The good news is rooms are cheaper than ever, as BD Hotels has slashed prices in an attempt to achieve a high occupancy rate. The bad news is they’ve done it by filling the place up with tourists who know nothing of the history of the building.   
     Add to that the fact that the legendary Stanley Bard is gone, replaced by a crew of kids with degrees in hotel management, and I’m sure you can understand why I say that the vibe has changed and the Chelsea is not what it once was.
     But you definitely should visit anyway – we need more people like you staying here – and if anyone at the front desk will listen to you, be sure to tell them why you chose the Chelsea, rather than some sterile, generic, corporate hotel.  And be sure to drop by Dan’s Chelsea Guitars, a part of the Chelsea that – for now – remains unchanged.  (It’s in a storefront that has been a music shop of some kind or other since the 30s.) -- Ed Hamilton

Check back tomorrow to find out if Kelly follows our advice.

Be Entertained And Support the Chelsea Hotel Artistic Community

Wednesday, October 10, 7:00 p.m. ($30.00)
Frequent Chelsea Hotel guest Country Joe McDonald takes to the stage to perform his tribute to Woody Guthrie. McDonald sings 13 of Guthrie’s best known songs.   Check out the video of McDonald performing one of his best known songs, "Vietnam Rag," back when he was known as Country Joe & the Fish.
Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St., NYC

Saturday, October 13, 5:00 – 8:00 p.m.
Opening Reception for “Sweetness in the Rhythm of Jazz: Herbert Gentry’s Inner Dance.” The exhibit will remain on view until December 14, 2007.
Gordon Parks Gallery, School of New Resources, John Cardinal O’Connor Campus, The College of New Rochelle, 332 East 149^th Street, Bronx, New York
IRT 5 to 149^th Street and 3^rd avenue.  Exit to street and walk west to campus.

Wednesday, October 17, shows at 8:00 and 10:00 ($20 cover, $10 drink)
Sathima Bea Benjamin celebrates her 71st birthday, and the reissue of the Duke Ellington-produced A Morning in Paris.  Featuring Onaje Allan Gumbs and Stephen Scott on piano, Marcus McLaurine on bass, and George Gray on drums.  (Read about last year's birthday show.)
Sweet Rhythm, 88 Seventh Ave, NYC



Thursday, October 18, 8:30 p.m. ($10.00)

  "Shaman's Journey," Film documentary by Julia Calfee  (32 min) - Misha Films

Ear to the Earth 2007 Festival, Presented by Julia Calfee, Host Mark Moffett, In the winter of 2001, Calfee accompanied a female shaman’s household of 9 people, 29 reindeer, 35 horses and 3 dogs on their annual 21-day migration through remote, rugged mountains, without compass or maps, from southern Siberia to summer grazing grounds near Lake Hovsgol in northern Mongolia. During this evening’s encounter, she will introduce and discuss her impressions of this intimate encounter with a female shaman and reindeer herder.
Judson Church, 55 Washington Square South, NY NY

Saturday, October 20, 8:00
Premiere of Dances for Piano and Others, a piano concerto by Gerald Busby.
  Unitarian Universalist Congregation at Shelter Rock, 48 Shelter Rock Road, Manhasset, NY. By train:  LIRR to Manhasset Station (Port Washington Line); 5 minute cab ride to 48 Shelter Rock Road.  (40 minutes from Penn Station)




Tuesday, October 23, 7:00
Ed Hamilton will read from Legends of the Chelsea Hotel: Living with the Artists and Outlaws in New York's Rebel Mecca
Barnes & Noble, 675 6th Ave. NYC


Wednesday, October 31, 10:00 ($20 with invite)
SUSANNE BARTSCH invites you to HALLOWEEN WITCHES BORDELLO co hosted by KENNY KENNY.  MUSIC: JOHNNY DYNELL, ALEXANDER TECHNIQUE  &  SURPRISE DJ hosts: JOHANNA CONSTANTINE, LADYFAG, AMBER RAY, MUFFIN, KIM AVIANCE,  RAINBLO, JOSEPH, VIVA, NICKY LONDON, JUN, BRANDON,  IGGY, MANTRYX, MANNY, AMANDA LEPORE & MORE

PERFORMANCE BY: DANGEROUS MUSE; door: andrea and adam

AVALON, 20 ST & 6 AVE

A Concerned Reader Writes:

I have lived in Chelsea for the past 11 years and have always wondered about the situation in the Chelsea Hotel. Do they still allow people to live there or is it as overpriced as everywhere else in the city. My friend used to work in the the 303 hair salon and I went to visit to see and explore this place because being an artist myself I have held the Chelsea in such high regard for what it apparently represents. It wasn't the best experience actually Stanley Bard told me to get out and that I wasn't allowed to look around, but that is besides the point. I could never afford to get a room there so I never stayed.  Chelsea as is NYC is becoming almost impossible to live in, we are actually moving soon.

Anyhow I guess I just wanted to see if people are still allowed to live there full time and if artists are welcome and what was it like in the past. I saw a wonderful documentary on it with Quintin Crisp and Jobriath with his pyramid apartment (is it still there?). Judging by your blog it might as well be the Maritime Hotel, but I figured I would ask anyhow.  Best

Well, it’s not as bad as the Maritime yet, thank God, though it does seem to be moving swiftly in that direction. We’re working as hard as we can here at Legends to forestall that trend. In answer to your question, there are still a large number of permanent residents living at the Chelsea, but the sad thing is that the new management company, BD, is not allowing any new comers to become permanent. It’s a damn shame for a number of reasons. For one thing it alters the edgy vibe of the hotel, which has always been a mix of old Bohemians and energetic new blood. But by far the most regrettable consequence is that it destroys the beautiful dream of the Chelsea, which is the dream of New York itself: no longer can a young artist with little money move in and work to achieve a name for himself in his chosen field. New York (and now the Chelsea) to young artists: Drop Dead.

We’re sorry NYC is losing you: All the wrong people are moving out. The pyramid is still on the roof, though Jobriath died of AIDS. The hair salon, April Barton’s Suite 303, is still here, though will probably have to leave when its lease is up. Sorry about Stanley too: he’s very protective of the hotel and perhaps it was just a bad day. On a better day, he might have proudly shown you around the place himself. -- Ed Hamilton

Lothar Troeller Needs Our Support

Lothar Troeller, long-time Chelsea resident and husband of Linda Troeller, is hospitalized in critical condition as a result of injuries received in a motorcycle accident late Friday. 

You can write to Lothar with cards etc.
LOTHAR TROELLER
University Hospital
SICU, 150 Bergen Street
Newark, New Jersey 07103

Watch Your Back BD

     It looks like, while you were sleeping, Vikram Chatwal bought the Covenant House building right behind your Maritime Hotel.   Now, come 2008 or so, you won’t have the only nautical-themed hotel in New York, or even in the meat packing district for that matter.   This has got to hurt, as there must be a very limited demand for high-priced hotel rooms with portholes for windows.
     At least for now you seem to be controlling the Bohemian hotel market, but did you know that Stanley Bard owns the building right behind the Chelsea.  Maybe he’ll paint it red and open a competing Chelsea Hotel on 22^nd Street.  Better watch your back, BD. – Ed Hamilton

Don't Take A Cheap Buy-Out

Just to give you an example of what this hotel has come to under BD management, the other day I was walking through the lobby, which was filled with the usual crew of lobby-sitters, when a tourist walking past me said, “What are all these weirdos doing in here?”  BD is filling this place up with people who have no idea of the history of this place. 
     Sadly, we lost a couple more of the creative types in the past few weeks, as two long-term residents packed and moved.  We don’t know what kind of deal BD made with them, but this represents a blow to the integrity of the building, as they were in rent stabilized apartments that BD will now presumably be able to rent by the night as transient hotel rooms – to people who don’t know what this place is.
     So, to all our fellow residents, if you are in a situation where perhaps you owe a little back rent, say something to somebody.  No matter what BD says they can’t just evict you.  And even if you want to take a deal and move out, you may be able to get a better deal if you talk to a lawyer or someone else familiar with the rental laws.  Don’t try to go it alone. -- Ed Hamilton

A Beachbum Out of Water

According to the New York Times, commenters are the new blog stars.  Damn, and we thought we were the stars! Anyway, this gives us an excuse to take a look at some of the comments left at Gawker when they linked to "Meet the Man Behind the Memos," which has become, unexpectedly, quite a popular post:

HAMBURGERHOTDOG 10/01/07 05:13 PM I wish St. Louis would stop sending their Eurotrash here and send them off to Kansas City where they belong.

MATTGAYMON AT 10/01/07 05:15 PM How many 26 y/o eurotrash beachbums from St Louis can one city take? Blasberg better watch his back.

GENERALMILLS 10/01/07 05:17 PM St Louis is the sixth Balkan.

BY GORGEOUSGEORGE AT 10/01/07 05:18 PM  As a laid-back East Asian white guy from Sandusky, I wish those European Missourians would stick to their side of the fence! And don't even get me started about the Australians from Cedar Rapids. They're even worse than the Belgian Wisconsinites.

BY DONLAFONTAINE AT 10/01/07 05:37 PM 

I wonder how many speedballs I would have to send over to Hotel Chelsea to have this poseur end up on floor, flatlining and surrounded by transsexual hookers a la Lapo "Constructor of Design Forward Shares for Twats" Elkann ...

BY TRAMPOLINE AT 10/01/07 05:58 PM  @Intern Lauren : as it happens, I am a beach bum from St. Louis . For years, I was labeled Eurotrash, but all confusion was allayed when I came out as gay.

But I'm a lot older than Mr. Chelsea 2007 and I hate hotels, travel, drinking and above all, friends.

BY HOWNOWBROWNCOW AT 10/01/07 06:24 PM  How can one be a beach-bum from St. Louis? How is that even possible? Unless mudfront property within a stone's throw of a riverboat casino counts as beach these days. . .

BY PANDORASPOCKS AT 10/01/07 08:06 PM Dylan and Ginzberg used to pay their Chelsea bills in poetry and/or joints. Edie almost burned the place down, twice, and the Ramones would've just pissed all over this new guy and kept on walking.

I know it's all meant in the spirit of fun, but really now, who are you blog stars to question this man's self-defined identity? It smacks of trashism, and pseudo-europhobia. I think your new-found fame has blinded you to what is reallly important in life, which is that -- the gigantic pink cupcake is gone from 23rd Street!

Alfred Russell 1920 – 2007: Painter Who Repudiated Abstraction

The Chelsea Hotel community was saddened by the recent passing of long-time resident Alfred Russell. A part of the early abstract expressionist movement, Russell exhibited along side such well known painters as Willem De Kooning, Jackson Pollock, and Mark Rothko in Paris and New York in the fifties.   Becoming disillusioned with abstraction, he then turned to figurative painting, looking to the classical world for inspiration.  He taught art at Brooklyn College from 1946 until his retirement in 1976.
Russell’s first wife, painter Andress Descharnes, died in 1976.  Russell is survived by his daughter Elsie.  His second wife, Joan Silverstein, an author and classical scholar, still lives at the Chelsea.  (Source: http://www.parnasse.com/alfred.htm)  Photo of Alfred at the Chelsea by Claudio Edinger.

From the Annals of Trashpicking: A Curious Joan Crawford Letter

Several years ago I was walking on West 15^th Street in Chelsea when I saw a bunch of workers hauling out bags of trash and heaving them into a huge green dumpster.  I knew they had to be throwing out something good, since there were already several people in the dumpster rooting around, and even more had gathered on the sidewalk to sort through what those inside were handing out to them.
            It quickly became apparent that an elderly woman, until recently living in a nearby building, had either died or been sent to a nursing home, and now the workers were clearing out her apartment. Obviously the woman must have been a serious packrat, on the order of the Collyer brothers (though wealthy and literate), because the dumpster was about a third full with papers and various junk, and more was being added by the minute.  Unable to resist, I jumped inside, found an old suitcase, and commenced to fill it up.

            It turned out that the people standing around were paying homeless people to climb in there and find stuff for them, so I had a lot of competition.  What people were mainly after turned out to be the letters (they wanted the stamps, actually), and the albums (the woman had compiled very neat albums of little paper mementoes from all over the world, such as holy cards and wine labels, etc.), but I found her and her husband’s passports (they had traveled extensively, to put it mildly), her high school yearbook from 1927, old photos of her ancestors(including a tiny album of miniscule tintypes), and, most bizarrely, a little box containing a carefully wrapped slice of mummified wedding cake.

And the letters.  There were so many letters that, even with all the competition, I managed to scoop up hundreds of them, some dating as far back to the early years of the 20^th century.  I glanced at a couple from the 1950s: in one, the woman’s mother bitches about a relative who won’t get a job; in another, the woman’s son, away at boarding school, warns his little brother to stay out of his room or he’ll throw out all of the little brother’s toy’s—including his train set!—when he returns.  I found out that the woman had once been an aspiring actress, and that her husband was an executive for PepsiCo.  I figured it would be a worthwhile project to read through the letters and attempt to reconstruct the lives of the old woman and her family.

And that’s as far as it went.  I put the suitcase in the back of a closet and left it there for four or five years, until recently, cleaning up the apartment, I came across it.  I still didn’t have the patience to read all the letters as I had planned, but I went through and tidied them up, and in doing so, a blue envelope caught my attention due to it’s color.  Printed with the name JOAN CRAWFORD at the top in all capital letters, and dated January 8, 1959, the typewritten letter reads:

Darlings, R. . . and T. . .,

   Bless you, and thank you so much for your good New Year wishes and your thoughtfulness in sending the cablegram to us.  This is the way the cable turned out, and we are sending it back to you for you to see.

   Incidentally, it was the greatest “Jew Year jet” we ever had, and we hope you are having the same.

   We adored Puerto Rico, and stayed an extra week, coming back here today – all tanned and rested.  The Dorado Beach Hotel has the most magnificent stretch of beach I have ever seen, and it’s so peaceful and quiet.

   God bless – and all of us send our love to you.

                                                   Love,

                                                   Joan and Alfred

As promised, the cablegram was included with the letter; though the date is illegible, it reads:

MR AND MRS ALFRED N STEELE HOTEL DORADO PUERTORICO WE WISH YOU FOR YOU THE FULLEST AND MOST FRUITFUL JEW YEAR JET

R. . . AND T. . . M. . .

Naw, it couldn’t be that Joan Crawford, I thought.  But, thanks to the internet, it didn’t take long to determine that the famous actress had indeed been married to Alfred Steele, at the time Chairman of PepsiCo, and that furthermore, Joan had served on the board of PepsiCo after his death.  Several of Joan’s letters were reproduced online as well, all on the blue stationary that she used throughout her life.

I had got myself all dirty and sweaty rooting around in that dumpster in the heat of summer, had myself mistaken for a homeless man by the more respectable members of our community, endured the opprobrium of my girlfriend for bringing home trash, and sacrificed valuable closet space to a dubious project, but this weird little insight into the life of a great actress whom we’ve all admired from afar for so long, and which had been buried for 48 years (and which by all rights should have been lost for eternity) somehow made it all worth it.

Which still leaves one question unresolved: was the misspelling an honest typo, or was a rogue telegraph operator attempting to send Joan Crawford an obscure anti-Semitic slur?  At this late date it’s probably impossible to determine with any degree of certainty.  -- Ed Hamilton

BD Hotels Lose a Loyal Chelsea Customer

A formerly loyal customer and lover of the Chelsea writes:

I recently stayed at the Chelsea for the first time since the management change.  I've stayed at the Chelsea multiple times over the past five years and cherish the eclectic nature of the establishment and it pains me too see the state of affairs today.  I had a run in with Glennon Travis over a discrepancy in my bill which has blown up into a skirmish involving my bank, lawyers, and BD Hotels itself.

On the morning of Sept. 21st, at around 7:30 AM, I arrived at the Chelsea Hotel.  I proceed to the front desk to check in.  Once I gave them my name I was informed they had expected me too check in on the 20th.  I replied 'No, there must be some mistake, my reservation is for the 21st until the 23rd'.  The gentlemen behind the counter said 'No problem. The room is available now if you'd like to go in early.'  I paid the bill for two nights, $661.31, and went to my room.

Fast forward to Sunday, Sept. 23rd.  At noon I started to check out, at which time I was handed a receipt for $331.17 and was asked to sign it.  After inquiring why I was being charged another $331.17 I was told the 20th was still listed in the system and it was coming up as a NO-SHOW.  I refused to sign it, explaining to them what had happened when I checked in.  This fell on deaf ears however and I was informed there was nothing they could do about it.

Monday, the 24th, I contacted the Director of Operations, a Glennon Travis.  My initial conversation with him began okay, but soon turned sour.  Travis was short and frankly rude.  He claimed there was nothing he would do to rectify the matter.  The call ended abruptly with 'thank you for staying with us, goodbye' at which point I was hung up on.  Over the next six hours I contacted this man repeatedly, on the hour every hour.  Each time the story changed.  First I was being charged for the NO-SHOW, then I was being charged for the fact I went into the room early.  Finally, as if the Director realized the error that was made, I was offered a free night in a suite which is valued at double what I was erroneously charged.

The Chelsea at one time was a bastion of creativity and artistic vision.  Now it appears to be nothing more then a soulless vessel for two New York fat cats to make some money off of. -- Alex Cook

Now, I sincerely doubt that Alex will return to stay at the Chelsea.  Good job BD!  Alienate those loyal customers willing to pay $331.00 a night.