Flaming Pablum

Goodbye to the Carriage House

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Alas, today is the final day to secure yourself a pint of Guinness at the Carriage House — or Old Carriage Inn, depending on which sign you prefer -- in Park Slope, which closes today after 35 years.

You may well indeed be wondering why an insufferable, dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob like myself would care about a Park Slope bar. It’s a fair question, but suffice to say, my wife’s family owns a brownstone in that `hood, so on many an occasion, my brothers-in-law and I would repair to the endearingly dark, dank and slightly decrepit confines of the Carriage House while our wives held court at home. Not being a sports fan in the slightest, I would devote most of my attention to the jukebox, while my brothers-in-law would shout obscenities at basketball and football players on the television screens. I do believe I was admonished for putting “Bringin' On the Heartbreak” by Def Leppard on one too many times (pickings were slim, you see). It was that type of place.

In all honesty, the boys and I did log a fair amount of hours in the Carriage House over the last couple of decades, usually around Christmas. I can remember many a intense familial discussion against that bar. We ducked in yesterday to say goodbye to the place and have a final few pints. Unsurprisingly, it was kind of depressing.

I saw the below tagged on the back wall and couldn’t resist a picture. That said, there’s a bit of irony to it. The hipsters don’t go to Park Slope, least of all to a dive like the Carriage House. If any demographic is to blame, it’s the stroller-pushing yuppies that drove the rents up, not Pabst-swigging LCD fans with comedy beards.

Pour one out for the Carriage House.

Where The Music Used to Live: The Reboot

As a tireless proponent of the physical manifestation of music , I have devoted what some might consider an inordinate amount of bandwidth on this here silly blog to eulogizing great, iconic and even –- in some instances -– frankly mediocre record and CD shops that formerly speckled the map of Manhattan. Today, if you’re trying to put your hand to a specific compact disc or slab of vinyl here in the city, suffice to say your options are pointedly fewer and shittier (especially if you refuse to subject yourself to the bowel-worrying indignity of shopping at shoddy purveyors of putrid offal like Urban Outfitters). Yes, you could, of course, order whatever it is online, but -– really -– where’s the fun in that?

In any case, following in the tradition of this post, herewith three quick additions to the roster.

I’ve already devoted a few posts to Freebeing Records (notably here, here, here and here), but I spotted this shot and thought I’d invoke it again. It was posted on Facebook and dated as having been taken in 1983, but that’s clearly incorrect, being that the sleeves for the Damned’s Phantasmagoria, The Mekons’ Fear and Whiskey and OMD’s Crush -- among others – are featured in the shop window. All three of those albums came out in 1985. Look a little closer, and there appears to be a Live Skull flyer on far right. In any case, it’s a cool shot. No idea who the dude is. Today, the space that was Freebeing on this stretch of Second Avenue is now a Mexican food joint called Tanqueria Diana

As mentioned elsewhere, before I discovered the fabled network of independent record shops way downtown, I used to routinely avail myself to certain midtown spots like Disc-O-Mat on Lexington Avenue, Crazy Eddie on East 57th and a few spots further down like the one I detailed here and this other one right near the Brooks Brothers flagship store on Madison Avenue (long, long gone). Additionally, there was Record Explosion on Fifth Avenue between 35th and 36th Streets. I have vivid memories of routinely hitting this outlet in the mid-80’s. For some reason lost in the mists of time, I immediately associate this place with the Paul Young’s 1983 cover of “Wherever I Lay My Hat (That’s My Home).” I want to say it’s because I remember watching one of the shop’s clerks emphatically “air-bass” along with that blue-eyed-soul ditty’s signature fretless bass line (played by the great Pino Palledino). In any case, Record Explosion is unsurprisingly very long gone, but see it below on the right hand side of the picture.  Today, I believe it’s footwear place called NYC Sole. 

The last one isn’t a photo but rather a business card. I spoke about Musical Maze quite a while back, notably the one on Third Avenue that was initially – according to Dean Wareham of Luna/Galaxie 500 – the shop where Lux Interior and Bryan Gregory of the Cramps allegedly worked (before the latter decamped to King Karol a few blocks to the north). That Musical Maze location later became a short-lived Crazy Eddie outlet staffed by Brian “Damage” Keats of Genocide and –- fleetingly -– The Misfits who I befriended in the mid-80s.

This card isn’t for that location, but rather for one that was formerly on Third Avenue between 22nd and 23rd Streets. True to the legacy above, this iteration of Musical Maze counted Peter Holsapple of the dB’s as an employee (as documented here). Not sure when it closed -– and I have no recollection of it, honestly -– but in more recent years, it was a venture called The Pizza Bar, and is now, if I’m not mistaken, vacant.

If you're excited by this type of ephemera, do please check out...

Don't Bother Lookin' For'Em: Great Since-Closed NYC Record Shops

Where the Music Used to Live

Where the Music Used to Live: Slight Return

Where the Music Lived: REMIX

 

Down Cortlandt Alley ... By Horse

As laboriously extolled in this post from 2016, I’ve always been a huge fan of Cortlandt Alley, that dark, thin canyon stemming south into TriBeCa off Canal Street. I love its slightly forbidding aura, its back history as the narrow strand of pavement that once led to the Mudd Club, a storied venue I was never old enough to attend. I love its periodic bursts of street art, its weathered exteriors and rough-hewn, industrial trappings leftover from bygone eras. In every season, Cortlandt Alley takes on a new vibe. I never find it boring or unpleasant to walk down, even if I’m hopscotching over random dollops of (human?) excrement, dead rats and pigeons flattened the night before by delivery trucks, or evading the suspicious eyes of furtive weed-smokers in its darker recesses.

And I walk down it a lot. After I drop my son off at school in the Gramercy neighborhood, I hop on a downtown 6 train and get off at Canal to walk the rest of the way to my office at the bottom of Manhattan, taking a hard left down Cortlandt Alley on each and every one of those commutes. I’m now so familiar with that particular strip that I practically notice each and every change to its topography on a daily basis.

As was seemingly inevitable, however, there’s been a recent uptick in renovation and refurbishment in the Alley (as I mentioned just last summer). Scaffolding appears and disappears with some regularity, as certain addresses endeavor to spruce themselves up. While a wholesale facelift of the stretch seems unlikely, certain patches of it are very definitely changing. At its southernmost segment between White & Franklin Streets, a pricey-but-seemingly-dormant condo vainly tries to keep up appearances. But the real big activity is happening on the portion between White and Walker Streets. A few months back, a series of light fixtures were installed along its easterly wall, decimating a bit of this byway’s signature gloom. Beyond that, there was clearly something brewing in that building. Sure enough, just last week, some signage went up. Evidently, Cortlandt Alley is now home to a new venture called the Au Cheval Diner.

Here’s how the official website describes it…

An eclectic diner hidden down Cortlandt Alley with a passion for eggs, Au Cheval elevates traditional diner fare. Guests can indulge in dishes ranging from chopped chicken liver and roasted bone marrow, to traditional sandwiches, egg-focused entrees, and griddled cheeseburgers. The bar program showcases strong, classic cocktails including the Negroni, Vieux Bonal, and Hemingway Punch. A robust draught beer list offers a wide range of neighborhood, domestic, and international selections. The dimly lit restaurant, pulsating with an eclectic and resonant soundtrack, features leather booths, reclaimed wood paneling and a zinc bar that wraps around the open kitchen.

If my high school French still serves me well, Au Cheval means “by horse” …. a particular species of mammal that very rarely graces Cortlandt Alley, these days. While I am wary of Cortlandt Alley becoming further gentrified, it’s a bit late to lament the damage of that particular tsunami in 2019. I do, at least, appreciate Au Cheval’s relative discretion. Yeah, they’ve brought a bit of polish to the pathway, but we’ll see where it goes. I’d be curious to hear what constitutes their “eclectic and resonant soundtrack.” I want to believe they’d play geographically-appropriate stuff like DNA, The Lounge Lizards, Teenage Jesus, The Cramps and the like, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Still, I might try to check it out. Watch this space.

Here's a bit of DNA playing just down the way from Au Cheval's front door. Today, this space is someone's doubtlessly well-appointed, private and expensive apartment.

 

"I Got Your Number On the Wall..."

The following anecdote was prompted by an invocation by my friend John Darnielle (of Mountain Goats fame) on Facebook. How’s that for name-dropping?

While my high-school listening habits were largely dominated by stentorian thrash metal, pugnacious punk, splenetic hardcore and histrionic goth rock, I was by no means immune to the charms of the pop music of the day. My favorite, go-to bands may well have been the Circle Jerks, Venom and the Lords of the New Church, but I was as versed in the sonic outpourings of populist favorites like Tears for Fears, Duran Duran, Thomas Dolby and Run-DMC as anyone, largely thanks to our collective fascination with the then-still-nascent MTV. I can safely say that the first few years of MTV’s video rotation burned themselves firmly into my cerebellum. I doubt I am alone in this assertion. I can’t remember whole volumes of bullshit I allegedly studied in high school, but I can pinpoint a fleeting, trivial bit of a Thompson Twins video without so much as blinking.

This is a true story. About fifteen years ago, I was sniffing around the Apple Store in SoHo (on Prince Street, above) trying to figure out how to buy a digital camera. My daughter had just been born, and for the purposes of sharing photographs of my newborn little cherub, I figured it was time to make the jump to digital. But, by the same token, I had no fucking clue what I was doing. So, I was perusing around the tables, and looking at different models and being clueless, but there was this guy next to me basically doing the same thing, with an endearingly equal amount of cluelessness. The weird thing, however, was that he looked CRAZY familiar. I found myself staring at him, trying to divine the reason why.

It finally dawned on me.

I tapped him on the arm. "Excuse me, man," I said. "This is going to sound SUPER weird, but are you the lead guitar player for Tommy Tutone? Like, not the curly-haired lead singer I always assumed was Tommy Tutone, but the guitar-player dude in the skinny tie & blazer in the video for '867-5309'"?

There was a long pause.

He looked me dead in the eye.

"Whoa .... you're good."

It was indeed Jim Keller, erstwhile guitarist for Tommy Tutone, who I recognized from a music video from 23 years earlier.

Meanwhile, I can barely remember my own social security number. 

Goodbye, Hell's Angels

Once again, I get all my news from EV Grieve.

I read with some surprise that evidently that Hell’s Angels are leaving their long-held perch on East 3rd Street. When the Hell’s Angels are vacating the East Village, that’s got to be a sign of impending apocalypse, no?

My interactions with the `Angels were very, very few. I did, once, happen upon their fabled Halloween street party several years back. That was fun, if memory serves. I remember frequently going the bar at the eastern end of their street, The Edge. I don’t remember much about the place beyond needing to examine any change the bartenders gave me, as they were supposedly notorious for brazenly skimming. They shut up shop in 2016, or so. Don’t know what’s there now.

I enjoyed the lore of the Hell’s Angels’ tenure on that street – how nothing happened without their knowledge and/or say-so. That seemed like a throwback to a bygone age. But I never had any altercations or bad occurrences or run-ins or anything with the fellas, …. not that I ever went out of my way to instigate any. Obviously, you were well served to leave them to their business (whatever that might have been).

That all said, there’s definitely one aspect of their alleged plan to depart the neighborhood that makes me sad --- their front door. That's it up top from the 90's. In more recent years, they had the painting touched up, making the skull-faced demon guy slightly more buff. See below.

Since I don’t know when, I’ve taken photo after photo after photo of their endearingly over-the-top entrance, usually appended with a comrade or two posing incongruously in front of same. In more recent years, it’s been a favorite spot for the kids. See below...

Like so many other things I took for granted, I will miss it when it’s gone.

"A Place to Dream?" Redux: The High Line ... Ten Years Later

Eleven years ago, my friend Sean penned an audacious op-ed for the New York Times — he was able to do those things — in advance of the opening of the much-feted High Line. In his article, he took the planners to task for their comparatively banal designs to transform the long-derelict strip of elevated railway into a public park. Sean had more lofty ideas, although few of them seemed especially likely — let alone practical — but such was Sean’s perspective on the world. Personally speaking, my biggest grievance with the High Line was that I’d never been bold enough to venture onto in during its less accessible iteration as a forbidding artifact of urban abandonment, tangled with wild overgrowth and street art. I’d had friends who’d done it, but I’d always wimped out.

Regardless, the High Line opened amid much fanfare and congratulatory backslapping in 2009. Touted as some kind of blow against the empire, the opening of the public park was seemingly perceived as a bold defense of art, beauty and history — a lovingly cultivated green space born of the obsolescence of a vanished industrial age. Enabling its visitors to reclaim the vestiges of an outdated era, one of the primary purposes of the ambitious re-imagined space — or so I was led to believe — was to provide new vantage points with which to view the surrounding city. Much Like Robin Williams’ rapturous lecture on the value of different perspective in “Dead Poets Society,” the core of the High Line’s original mission was to allow its visitors to experience the surrounding environs in a whole new way.

My children were still relatively tiny tots when the High Line opened, so — as detailed in this ancient post — I dutifully took them to the High Line for a look around. Indeed, it was a fun new spot for them to explore.

It’s funny how fast things change.

Ten years later, the High Line is essentially a complete atrocity. As Justin Davidson rightly pointed out in a recent article for New York Magazine, all the initial attractions of the High Line — that rarified new perspective on the surrounding sprawl, that placid green space of tranquility amid the hoopla, that reverent intermingling of the city’s past with the city’s present — have been basically reduced to a pack of fanciful lies.

In very short order, real estate developers seized upon the long-fallow opportunities the High Line enabled and almost set about ruining everything that was promising about the project from the get-go. Arguably ringing in a prurient new era of architectural voyeurism, buildings started sprouting up around the High Line with an accent on avaricious exhibitionism. High Line visitors were essentially invited to openly gawk into the vast windows of plush hotel rooms and sweeping, extravagantly appointed private apartments. This aesthetic was conceivably kickstarted by the Standard Hotel at the southern end that — it has been suggested — encouraged its guests to engage in panstless sexytime in full view of the park beneath, a trend that was swiftly adopted by the veritable emerald city of structures that sprang up like a gaggle of erections — sorry — in very short order. One or two buildings has since turned into a lustily impersonal gang-bang of wanton development, brazenly altering the cityscape the High Line was ostensibly supposed to complement.

To walk the High Ling now is simply to gaze at countless, prohibitively expensive living spaces that are either still in the throes of tireless construction or are finished but strikingly, noticeably vacant of any signs of life. Try to find a spot to stand there for a few minutes undisturbed (no easy feat), and you’re doubtless to hear someone exclaim something to the effect of “Who would want to live in an apartment on full display all the time?” It’s an entirely fair question, and one that sort of answers itself when you search for its willing participants.

Taking that a step back, however, “to walk the High Line” itself in any capacity has become a joyless chore. Like the wait for an overhyped ride at an amusement park, traversing the length of the High Line — in either direction — is all anticipation and zero fruition. There is no payoff. One is herded through it in a glum exodus of corpulent human cattle, waddling though vulgar monuments to the affluent. I cannot imagine why anyone — be they native Manhattanites or born-&-bred Pataskala, Ohio buckeyes — would derive any pleasure from the experience. But dutifully, they still come in hordes.

But beyond the High Line itself being ruined, the public park has played a greater role as ruiner.

The surrounding neighborhoods the High Line weaves through have all been affected, and rarely for the better. Longtime residents have been driven out by the escalating rents, and age-old businesses, landmarks, institutions and neighborhood favorites have been swiftly and mercilessly extinguished. Like a delicate eco-system grappling with the introduction of a virulent new species, large swathes of the Meatpacking District and Chelsea are wholly unrecognizable today, “re-booted” as uber exclusive enclaves.

My son and I found ourselves on the High Line on Saturday, naively thinking it was early enough to beat the crowds and that we’d be able to make our way downtown in a more direct manner. Suffice to say, we were laughably mistaken in that assumption. Much like finding oneself in the middle of Times Square, the experience was such a deeply irritating headache that I doubt I’ll ever voluntarily return.

Fuck the High Line.

Lunch with The Ramones

In one Facebook group or another I’m a member of, someone posted the above photo of the late brothers Ramone that I’d never spied before, prefaced with the question: “Where was Jone’s Diner?”

The diner in question is, of course, the former Jones Diner (curious apostrophe placement, though) that was formerly on the southeast corner of Great Jones and Lafayette Streets. I spoke about the place a couple of times here (notably here, here and here), but it was just one of a great network of endearing greasy-spoon joints that has since been all but wiped off the map.

Some might remember the Great Jones Diner from its cameo in the video for “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors. In later years, its metallic, railway-car-like exterior was removed, revealing a brick-faced edifice beneath. If I remember correctly, it was closed and then razed around the dawn of Y2K (remember that?). These days, there’s a giant new building erected over its former footprint that has yet to define itself as anything other than just another vulgar display of exclusivity and affluence.

Back to the photo, though, I find it striking how the Ramones have now fully crossed over into the realm of the practically mythological. I honestly used to see Joey Ramone walk around my neighborhood (he was hard to miss). I spied Johnny Ramone on Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village, once (I left him alone), and surreally sat across from Dee Dee on a Downtown 6 train (I left him alone, as well). For decades, you just took the Ramones for granted. My friend Rob B. and I had a long-running gag. “Should we go see the Ramones next Thursday?” “Meh, they’ll be back.” And they always were, until one day, they weren’t. And then they started dying.

With great respect to Marky -- and, I guess, C.J., Richie and “Elvis" --  the original Ramones are now all gone. We’re all so used to seeing their familiar stances on album covers, videos and in any number of celebrated photographs by shutterbugs like Bob Gruen, Roberta Bayley, Godlis, and Mick Rock (among many others), that to see a “new,” heretofore unpublished, lost or just plain ol’ less-well-circulated snap of them always stops me in my tracks. Yeah, we’re all used to seeing them pose like ….well, like The Motherfucking Ramones!… that to see them just hanging out or goofing around is just this great reminder that beyond being this iconoclastic, culture-informing unit, they were ultimately just a group of four guys, however dysfunctional.

Chelsea Mourning: Coda

While many were prepping for "the Big Game" (insert pungent, damp fart sound here) yesterday, the wife and I spent most of our Super Bowl Sunday attending to various errands of varying significance. Since our age-old oven range started literally belching smoke and flame last week, we had to bite the bullet and repair to the antiseptic confines of Home Depot on 23rd Street to begrudgingly procure a new one. Following that strenuously expensive undertaking, Peg headed east to take our 12-year-old to an arguably long-overdue haircut (Oliver's forelock was starting to look a bit Danziggian), while I was dispatched to the Apple Store in the Meatpacking District to replace an Apple TV remote rendered inoperable by my own zealous impatience. 

Along the way, I passed by the Chelsea Hotel (very recently invoked here), and appearances look unforgivably tragic. 

Farewell to The Half King

As I understand it, we officially lose The Half King tomorrow, vanishing from its place of almost two decades on West 23rd street, which is strange, `cos I feel like only yesterday, I read about its impending opening.

Arguably most famous for one of its founders, author Sebastian Junger, The Half King became a regular haunt of New York City’s robust legions of hardened journalists. I was unwittingly about halfway through my long tenure at the TIME Magazine news desk when the bar opened in 2000, so it indeed became a regular stop for many members of the team, and a particular favorite whenever a normally far-flung correspondent was in town. I have many fond memories of supping multiple pints in the company of those estimable colleagues there, and often feeling well out of my depth, but always welcomed. As I’ve mentioned many times, the TIME team was a tight, familial unit, and I continue to regard my friends and co-workers from those days with profound respect and admiration.

But in terms of The Half King, I have two specific memories of the place that rise to the top, and neither of them involve my career in journalism.

The first occasion was a reception thrown by the publishing company my wife was working for, at the time. One of her authors had just given a reading nearby at the Barnes & Noble over on Sixth Avenue that is now a Trader Joe’s, I believe. This was this young author’s debut, of a sort, reading from his first novel, which was semi-autobiographical, if I recall correctly. In any case, this young writer’s big Italian family turned out in force to proudly show their support and hear their guy do his thing. The drama began, however, when the author ended up outing himself by way of a passage in his book to the gathered attendees, much to the pronounced surprise of several members of his very large family. By the time the whole congregation had moved over to The Half King, what had ostensibly been conceived as a festive gathering had turned into a very different event indeed.

Initially, I’d just been along for the ride, so to speak, and was always happy to be included in any excursion to The Half King that would invariably involve a few pints. As it happens, I ended befriending the husband of one of my wife’s colleagues when it was somehow gleaned that we both harbored a fondness for early 80’s hardcore bands like the Circle Jerks, Kraut, Bad Brains etc.

This all culminated in a surreal scene wherein a large percentage of the room we’d all been herded into was occupied by a gaggle of excitable Italians wrapped up in the throes of very emotional discussions (all in Italian … with lots of raised voices and frenzied gesticulations), with my wife and her team trying to comfort the newly distressed author, while myself and this other dude sat in the corner pounding beers and talking animatedly about our favorite punk bands.

My other long-lasting memory of The Half King is more recent. It was the tail end of 2016, just after the election and tensions and apprehensions were, suffice to say, rather high, as you probably recall yourselves. Here in New York City, for the most part, the pervading mood was one of gloomy consternation and incredulousness. In any event, I’d been drafted to go pick up my daughter after some social event in Chelsea, and the wife suggested I arrange to meet up with a few of my fellow dads beforehand. Since it was in the same `hood, I suggested that the four of us meet up at The Half King and have a couple of pints before picking up our respective kids.

I remember walking in and meeting these guys – most of whom I knew pretty well, by that point, or so I thought – at the bar. A sporting event of one variety or another was on the television above the far end of the bar, and that commanded most of the attention. Talking sports with any degree of enthusiasm, let alone credibility, is not something I’m especially versed at, so I just drank my beer and only chimed in when I had something to say. As if on cue, the program cut away to a news break, and Donald J. Trump’s mug appeared on the screen, prompting a not-so-subtle hiss throughout the bar. I can’t remember what comment I made, but it was one that doubtlessly telegraphed my own misgivings for the results of the election. Suddenly, all three of my fellow dads looked at me quizzically. “Well, he’s gonna get this country back on track,” one remarked. I snorted and practically spat out my beer, assuming he was being facetious. He wasn’t. The other two were nodding in agreement. There I was, in the super-liberal capital city of a super blue state … surrounded by three unblinking Trumpublicans. Had I slipped through a portal into The Twilight Zone?

Now as much as I’m generally very happily game to burn a few bridges every now and again, the notion of starting heated political beefs with the fathers of my daughter’s best friends seemed ill-advised. I demurred from futher commentary, and we all went back to our beers, my big takeaway being that it is NEVER a good idea to assume everyone you’re with is on the same page politically.

Sadly, that bizarre instance was the last time I ever darkened the doors of The Half King. For a more authoritative and broader portrait of the place, check out this great tribute from The New York Times.

Pour one out. 

One More Chelsea Mourning

I’ve mentioned it before, but I’d love to say I was initially familiar with the signifiance of the Chelsea Hotel because of some of the more celebrated creatives, thesbians and bohemians who periodically resided within its hallowed walls, but much like probabaly most of my generation, I first came to know about the Chelsea because of one individual, and one individual only -- that being Sid Vicious. The now-very-late Mr. V notwithstanding, however, the Chelsea Hotel’s associations run an impressive gamut from literary icons like Arthur C. Clarke, Dylan Thomas, Arthurs Miller and Allen Ginsburg to musical luminaries like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Jim Miorrison, Edith Piaf, Janis Joplin to visual artists like Robert Crumb, Jasper Johns, Willem de Kooning, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Mapplethorpe and countless others from virtually every artistic discipline. This list of its more celebrated guests is a veritable “who’s who,” full stop.

As detailed in a few older posts, I was fortunate enough to attend a few parties at the Chelsea Hotel back in the `90s, enabling me to travel beyond its lobby to meander through its storied halls. The last time I was able to do so was in 2010, as detailed here. It was on that occasion that I had the fleeting foresight to have my photo captured within. That’s it below, with me posing portentuously on the stairs, trying to look like a sinister, leather-clad punk, but simply looking like an inebriated, portly dad (guilty as charged, your honor).

Only a couple of years prior to that evening, the Chelsea’s beloved manager Stanley Bard had been abruptly deposed and many of its longtime tenants evicted. Turnovers in ownership started to take their toll. A year or two after my final visit, the Chelsea became entirely impenetrable – its fabled lobby closed and its edifice encased in scaffolding. A new management company promised/threatened that the Chelsea was to be re-imagined as a newly luxurious, bespoke hotel. Whatever remained of the hotel’s old interiors were stripped and gutted as it entered a new chrysalis phase. Patti Smith, some might remember, played an invitation-only event, which managed to rub a lot of people the wrong way, somewhat understandaby.

I actually did return to the building in more recent years. In 2014, there was a Blondie exhibition in a space just to the west of the hotel’s entrance, followed by Dee Dee Ramone exhibit (himself another former Chelsea tenant) a year or so later. But the hotel’s new iteration was still a work in progress, at the time.

But fruition never came. Walk by the Chelsea Hotel today in 2019, and it is still cloaked in a seemingly perpetual state of painful transition. This week, Gothamist posted a lengthy update on the hotel’s long saga and current, sorry state, complete with a frankly heartbreaking slideshow. Click here to see that.

What happens next is anyone’s guess, but I’m very glad I got to spend those few evenings there when I did. It’s a damn tragedy that they couldn’t just let it be.