Bob Dylan turns 64 today, but I’m not going to do an extensive blog about his relationship to the Chelsea because, as they mentioned in yesterday’s New York Time’s article, "he is a shill for Victoria’s Secret."  Instead, I’ll dwell on his cat Smoke who either ran off or went up in smoke, depending upon…

Coming back from the deli, a bag of muffins in one hand and a tray of coffees in the other, I rounded the corner to the elevator just as it was opening. There was a man in a black leather jacket in the back corner of the elevator, head down, slumping forward, on the nod. …

We used to have a doctor in the Chelsea.  I needed a flu shot one fall, and, since I had seen his fliers in the elevator, I went to his office, on the first floor.  It was eleven in the morning.  It took him a long time to answer the door, and when he did,…

The ancient, groaning elevator is one of the best places in the hotel to meet interesting people.  In fact, you may get to know them better than you’d like to, if, as occurs with some frequency, the elevator breaks down between floors.  One day last week I was in the elevator with Maurice, a classical…

Sunday’s quiet was interrupted by two aged bohemians who resorted to fisticuffs to settle a dispute over elevator access.  The P.A. was already on the elevator when the B.P.  attempted to get in, along with his bicycle.  The P.A. blocked his entrance and told him to wait for the next elevator.  (The elevators take forever.) …