Steel Plates Forged in Satan’s Oven:Threaten to Snuff Out Creative Lifeforce of the Chelsea

Could it be part of Born and Drukier’s diabolical plot to deprive us all of the last shreds of our already tenuous sanity?  The cars rattle by, one by one, like fully-loaded freight cars over a rickety old railroad bridge.  Minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, the cars roll by, clackety clackety clack over the steel plates as my patience flows out like sand from the (blasted, noisy) hourglass of the days of my life.

Am I making any sense at all at this point?  On Saturday we were awakened early in the morning by construction crews jack-hammering up the pavement.  Oh well, it is New York; time to get up anyway.  The racket went on all day.  Still, about standard.  But the workers left the road torn up, the long hole—stretching from 8^th Avenue to the hotel--covered by a hastily placed series of steel plates.  And they haven’t been back since.

            One sleepless night was bad enough, but that second one was torture, and as I write this we are bunkering down for a third!  We’ve called 311 repeatedly, as have any number of hotel residents and others on the street.  We listened incredulously to their response: “we’ll send somebody to look at it in 10 days” (!!!!!)

Now, we’re no fools.  We know they can secure those steel plates better than that.  Better yet, maybe they can get back to work and finish up whatever it is they’re doing.

Our only suggestion to those of you who are suffering with us: Call 311 again if you haven’t already, and keep calling.  That’s the only solution I can think of.  Perhaps someone else knows another place to call and complain (like, whatever city department they are from).  If so, don’t hold back on our account.

All joking aside, this has got to be bad for BD as well.  An unsuspecting tourist checked into the room right next to us this afternoon—looked like a businessman—and all I could think was, oh you poor soul, you have no idea what’s in store for you.  He’s probably from someplace quiet like Kansas too,   He’ll no doubt be down at the front desk at 2 in the morning asking to be moved to a room on the back of the hotel.  And if he doesn’t get it he’ll be asking for his money back.  You can’t rent somebody a hotel room where it’s impossible to sleep.

So what about it, Born and Drukier?  You guys are some real big shots and high rollers and all.  Can’t you grease some palms or call in some favors or something?

In conclusion—literally--does anyone in the hotel have a revolver?  I’ll generously spring for the ammunition, since I know we’re all going to be ready to blow our brains out before the sun rises again over our fair 23^rd Street. -- Ed Hamilton