Does anyone call it Hotel Chelsea? Very fortunate to have spent an enchanted youth there on it’s last legs of residency. Thanks to my buxom friend Alix and her baby sister Lauren. Their German designer parents were always out of the country for work, so they pretty much lived alone. Incredibly grateful for the major parties and memories, like the legendary artists before us.
The weirdest thing I’ve ever seen at the Chelsea Hotel? It was a chill night with a relatively small group. Liza, Gina, Derek and I were going in and out for various reasons, to gather adult provisions, smoke Marlboro Gold’s, and get food. Cut to we’re kekeing making our way down the hall, when an ajar door catches our eye. Lying on the floor, atop a bunch of spread out newspapers is a bespectacled, elderly white male, bald on top, with shoulder length gray hair, and absolutely butt naked. Stunned to silence is an understatement. He wore only a smile, enjoying the fact that we could do nothing as he watched us. Yes he was a pervert, but he was confined to his room, his privates hidden, his bare flaccid cheeks his only crime. Right on the brink, this guy was sick in the head. We made several trips, wondering each time if he’d still be there. Yup, he was, watching us lasciviously as we journeyed to and fro. I’ll never know who he was, nor what he got out of it, but I’ll NEVER forget him. Via: Lynn Goldsmith
