Monday, April 07, 2008

Sid & Nancy & Me & You & Everyone We Know

The Chelsea Hotel (the Hotel Chelsea? I'm never sure which way is wrong and which way is pretentious) is one of those places that you think you won't really care about being inside until you're there, and then you think that it won't really feel weird, but it does, and then you think you're just being nuts, but you're not. It's completely one of those places where the history (or your idea of the history, or the idea that you got from watching Sid and Nancy and also that endless Bukowski documentary) is way louder than the present, like answering your phone in a car with the radio turned way up.

Edit: That was written before I found out that the party I attended there on Saturday night was held in the room where Nancy died. I am 100% creeped out that I was by myself in that bathroom. And that we played the Sex Pistols. And that all of the stupid fortune-telling readings we did ended in divorce and terrible accidents, so much so that we gave up on the cards because it wasn't even fun. And that we all had the a vague tragic feeling about the party all week, even my slightly psychic friend who didn't come. And that that room was motherfucking creepy. And that it wasn't supposed to be our room. Sorry, Nancy.


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