Pantsless Man At Wit's End

As proprietors of the Chelsea Hotel blog, people call us from near and far with various odd requests related to the hotel.  One woman was writing a book on Valerie Solanis and asked if we had any choice tidbits (we did), while some Japaneses documentarians wanted to know about an obscure recording that Harry Smith had made of Allen Ginsberg singing his folk songs (news to us!). Several Brits lately have been asking about Quinten Crisp.  Most frequently it's journalists asking for general info about the hotel, like the number of rooms, or else for details concerning the ongoing political situation (new manager soon).  And everybody wants Stanley Bard's phone number (don't have it!)
     But a voice messsage we received last night takes the cake:  "Hi, I"m _______ and I need to get in touch with either Debbie or Ed.  The front desk referred me to you because I have a pair of pants at the tailor next door that I need to pick up."
     Why, not to fear, we've stored them neatly pressed, in our hall closet with the rest of the unclaimed clothing.  Actually, the Balabanis closed their shop a couple of weeks ago due to rising rents, and moved back to Greece.  Since I doubt they would have taken any sewing projects with them back to the Old World I fear that your pants, like the ardious rule of BD, have been consigned to the dustbin -- or at least the sale rack of history.
     So, no, we don't know what happened to your pants, but if we ever find out, we'll be sure to pass aong the information.  Maybe you should ask David Elder as he's the one who gave the Balabanis their walking papers.