Watercolor black cats by Endre Penovac. I love ’em.
Archive for May, 2015
May I call you Andre? Fantastic. I have zero complaints about your hotel except that I have to leave it eventually. I’m sure I will be homesick for room 24 for the rest of my life, which is a very dismal fate if you think about it. I’m sure someone has suggested this to you before, or perhaps you’ve even done it, but I do think you should consider having a writer-in-residence, which is a very trendy thing to do these days. A few examples of places where they’ve recently had writers-in-residence:
1. Heathrow Airport
2. AmTrak Trains
3. The Betsy Hotel in Miami
4. Governor’s Island, NYC
#3 I participated in last year, and I begin a residency at #4 in about a week.
Now I get that you and your venerable institution are likely above trends, but hear me out: despite being mostly poor, writers are terribly cool, and, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said (somewhat despairingly) they “can cause trouble like no one else can.” Take me, for example––I am fantastic both personally and professionally, and if you’re thinking it’s sort of gauche that I just came right out and said that, let me assure you I can back it up. I’ve been python hunting in the Everglades, serenaded by Tony Danza playing the ukulele, and written about Anne Sexton (poet, suicide)’s long lost rock band. I’ve lived in a bookstore in Paris, written for [redacted], and composed hundreds of letters like this, in which I laid bare my foolish heart, full of lust for old hotels.* I’m obsessed with religion but I write a mean snarky blog post. I have no social media. Most likely an intern will read this (I’ve been there, my unpaid friend!) and scoff at my stupidity, but this pool, with its trees full of fat lemons, has an Elysian quality to it, which means that if this residency doesn’t work out, I’ll perhaps get a chance to come back here when I die.
*As regular readers you will notice that I have only about five good stories, which makes me uncool, but Andre doesn’t need to know the truth.
The below happened at the Hollywood Roosevelt, but I think everyone should know that I’ve officially died and gone to hotel heaven, which for me means: Chateau Marmont.
I am reading Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget, by Sarah Hepola, poolside around 4 PM. Techno is booming. A pale guy sitting on a lounge chair diagonally across the pool spots my book, and when he catches my glance, says sorry.
Pale Guy: We were just admiring your book!
Me: Oh. Yeah. It’s good!
Pale Guy: Is it a galley?
Me: Yep. Are you in publishing?
Pale Guy: Nope. But I am an alcoholic.
The other night I had a dream that my iPhone screen cracked in a million places, and I was super upset about it, and I realized (mid-dream) that it might be the modern equivalent of dental problem dreams?
A few years ago, we got lottery tickets at work as Christmas gifts, and I was really convinced for a bit there that I Was going to win the lottery. Herewith, what I planned to do with my earnings (and my former coworker’s list, because #2 is really funny):
1. Donate to the Help WOD Quit His Job fund.
2. Pay off my student loan –– in one fell swoop
3. Dry clean all my fancy clothes
4. Buy tickets for upcoming trips I would like to take –– to Utah in January and Miami in February (other locations tbd)
5. Get a cleaning lady to come to my house on the regs
6. Pay the $15 I owe to my roommate for spotting me for laundry one day
7. Buy a new apartment, maybe?
8. Take boyfriend to India or something –– on a trip to some place he’d like to go
9. Get all my random pictures framed
10. Buy this rug
1. Charitable donation to ID, obvi.
2. Quit my job and buy 2 bulldogs, named Steve McQueen and Ted, and hang out with them like all goddamn day.
3. Buy a sweet-ass house in some place that isn’t NY. Maybe Cali or Texas. Said house will have a pool and a bowling alley and a movie theater. Unless that gets too expensive. So maybe it won’t have all that stuff.
4. A metric shit-ton of records.