Archives For June 2013

Review: This Ain’t No Holiday Inn

This Ain’t No Holiday Inn: Down and Out at the Chelsea Hotel 1980-1995

By James Lough


New York’s Chelsea Hotel has a special place in American culture. It has surely been a home, or a home-away-from-home, to more influential artists than any other building in the nation. To list the famous names in American art and literature that have stayed there would require more words than can be devoted to one book review, and would serve as an encyclopedia of the last hundred plus years of U.S. history.

While these names have included veritable superstars, the hotel did tend to attract the more Bohemian elements of the culture. As such, it has played home to numerous characters associated with the Beat Generation and subsequent counterculture movements. Jack Kerouac is rumored to have written part of On the Road there, and Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs also stayed at the Chelsea when visiting Manhattan in the fifties.

The focus of Lough’s book is not a general overview of the hotel’s colorful history; consequently, he passes over many of the famous names in favor of those who resided there in its final decades, and avoids recounting stories – such as the death of Nancy Spungen  – which have been told countless times before. Instead, after many years of painstaking research, Lough has managed to piece together a wonderful picture of the lives of some of the hotel’s famous latter-day guests. Of particular interest to the Beatdom reader will be the stories involving Herbert Huncke and Gregory Corso, parts of which were excerpted in issue eight of Beatdom. (For issue twelve, Beatdom contributor and author, Spencer Kansa, conducted an interview with Huncke at the Chelsea.)This Ain't No Holiday Inn

Throughout the book, Lough provides some wonderful descriptions of the building itself, which has come to mean so much to so many people. He refers to it as a “monstrous red brick eco-system of creativity.” The stories of artists sharing ideas and work with one another attest to this poetic phrasing. In these rooms, the exchange of songs was common, as poets and musicians drank and took copious amounts of illegal substances in one another’s “houses” (the rooms, Lough informs us, were more commonly referred to as “houses” despite their diminutive size).

Lough’s attitude towards the Chelsea’s owners – the Bard family – is somewhat negative, despite their fostering of artistic talent. Seemingly showing a phenomenal awareness of future trends, Stanley Bard famously accepted artwork in lieu of rent, yet Lough is quick to observe that much of what Bard accepted was worthless; and the hotel’s famous art-decked lobby is home to some truly awful pieces of work. He calls the collection “Awkwardian.”

In 2011, the Chelsea finally succumbed to the gentrification of New York and closed its doors to artists, gangsters, and Bohemian types, instead charging extortionate rates to more sophisticated clientele. Lough is scathing of this and appears to tie its demise to that of American Bohemia, and to a wider decline in creativity and culture throughout the Western world.

Despite this lament for the death of art, and the end of an important and productive era, Lough’s writing belies a true passion for this “beautiful old whore” of a building. His research is clearly a labor of love, and the book, while informative, is incredibly readable, thanks to his wit and a liberal dose of amusing stories that have otherwise been lost to history.


Buy the book: 



“Imagine,” he said with a look of genuine sadness, “all the billions of people who’ve lived through this mundane life without having ever been retweeted by someone famous.”

Melissa stared at him, jaw agape.

“I’m serious. Look at these poor saps.” Carl gestured around the bar, which looked just like any other bar in any other city in America. “To think that even ten years ago they’d go through their miserable existences without the possibility – I mean, like, a real possibility – of interacting with a celebrity.”

She looked down at her phone for a few seconds and tweeted:

“Imagine all the billions of people who’ve lived through this mundane life without having ever been retweeted by someone famous.”

No room for a good hashtag. Simple and to the point. It’d be good for a few retweets, and maybe half as many favorites.

When she gave him no reply, he asked her, “Did you just tweet that?”

She thought about saying, “Check your phone, Carl,” but instead just nodded.

“That’s what I’m saying. Exactly. We live to tweet, live to talk about the most minute fucking details of our life.”

Melissa looked him in the eye and said nothing.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, not at all. As you well know, I enjoy it as much as the next guy. It gives meaning to our lives where there’s nothing else. And why? Do we really give a fuck about what our friends think or some random fucking guy? Maybe, but we care a hell of a lot more about fame. That’s what it is, Mel. Fame.”

Melissa looked him in the eye and made a “bleh” face. Then she looked back down at her phone and tweeted:

“Is fame all that matters?”

A stupid tweet, yes, but with 3,678 followers, someone was sure to answer, and their followers would see the answer and follow Melissa, and somewhere down the line they might buy one of her paintings. Stranger things had happened.

She looked at the previous tweet and saw it had been favorited twice and retweeted five times. Not bad. Maybe it would go viral and she’d sell a ton of paintings.

“It’s like, why do you tell the world what you have for dinner? Why bother with the witticisms and puns that would get you a slap in the nuts if you’re out with your friends? Why? It’s the lure of fame. That’s what it is, I’m telling you.”

After again getting no verbal reply, he continued: “It could – theoretically – happen to anyone. They could just blow up now. It’s not like it used to be. You could post a fucking picture of your dog and the next day you’re Justin Beiber or that Korean dude.” He took a sip of his beer, waiting for her to name Psy, but she didn’t. “I mean, of course that’s the big dream. That’s like when you used to call in after a TV gameshow and try to get on and win a million dollars or something. But it’s so much more obtainable. I mean, scale it down, and what’s in reach of the average guy, without bothering with the long odds?”

Melissa tweeted:

“Haven’t heard Gangnam Style in a while. Feel pretty good about that.”

The “billions of people” tweet was approaching double figures for both retweets and favorites.

“Validation. That’s the word I’m looking for. People can get validation and they can get it so much easier than they used to. I knew a guy who tweeted at an A-lister – a fucking A-lister! – and she tweeted him back. It was just like ‘Thanks,’ or something, but that’s big, Mel. That matters to people, and they can get it. We’re not talking rubber stamp autographs or a typed message from a publicist or assistant. This is actual communication with the gods. This is prayer but real and with answers.”

11 retweets, 9 favorites, and only 4 minutes old. Melissa, pleased with herself, kept the ball rolling:

“Tweeting celebrities like speaking to your god and actually getting an answer. #barwisdom”

“You used to have to move to Hollywood for that shit. You had to move heaven and earth to meet Brad Pitt or someone, and now you just get on your phone. I mean, it’s total bullshit and everything. Like they give a shit except that it makes them look like they care. And they don’t have to risk getting stabbed by some psycho.”

“Psy,” Melissa said. “That ‘Korean dude’ is called Psy.”

“Yeah,” he said, spurred on by what he mistook for enthusiasm. “That guy has like millions of followers. If he tweets your name or, better yet, retweets you, that’s big. That’s visibility. Even the minor celebrities or people who work for big magazines and stuff, they have a lot of people reading their shit, following their every word. They have power, man, and that power is within the grasp of everyone that uses it. By proxy, you know. They can make you one of them.”

Melissa tweeted:

“A tweet can, with luck, make you a superhero. #barwisdom”

Carl looked disappointed that Melissa was staring back at her phone and smiling at it, rather than at him, but he persevered. “Okay, so that’s unlikely… I mean, that’s the dream for these people. I got a retweet from Neil Gaiman a couple weeks ago for some charity drive. The guy has almost two million followers and only one more started following me immediately after that. It shows that the reality isn’t so glamorous, of course, but still they dream.

“It helps when you see these people talking to or about each other. Like, Zach Braff tweeting the other guy from Scrubs. His friend, the black guy. They’re friends in real life and when they tweet each other you can see that and interject your own opinion, and they’ll reply to you sometimes, like one in a thousand times, and you’re actually – literally and legitimately – a part of their conversation. I mean, can you imagine your grandparents like walking up to Frank Sinatra and I don’t know, one of those actresses – like Marilyn Monroe or something – and just talking with them out of the blue. Interrupting their conversation and becoming a part of it? Changing the course of the dialogue?”

Melissa tweeted:

“Tweeting @zachbraff today’s equivalent of starting conversation with Frank Sinatra. #barwisdom”

With only 12 retweets and 9 favorites, the momentum was dropping and Melissa knew her words were not about to go viral. In the coming hours she might gain a follower or two, and the numbers would slowly increase, but she was not destined for stardom just yet.

“It’s amazing. It takes so little effort.” He paused and sipped his beer again. Melissa was politely flicking her eyes up from her phone but now she looked depressed, whereas before she had smiled periodically. Had he really said “the black guy”? That wasn’t cool. He decided that was why she now looked so upset, and tried to put a more positive spin on things.

“I mean, this could really help people if they only knew about it. I mean, a lot of them do, but not everyone. You could probably prevent a suicide by having Kanye West thank them for their support or something. Get celebrities to reach out and speak to more of their fans, and get those depression hotlines telling people to reach out to their heroes for support. Mel, I think this is a killer idea. I gotta write this down.”

Carl patted his pockets mindlessly and looked around for a pen and paper. He was silently chastising himself for having said “Kanye West” as such a deliberate attempt to make up for the “black guy” remark.

“Use your phone,” Melissa told him, embarrassed by how drunk her date looked, as he wobbled atop his barstool.

“I’m doing this ‘no phone’ thing at the moment,” he explained.

“You’re kidding me…”

“No, I’m serious. I mean, I think we use this stuff way too much and this reliance upon technology probably isn’t that healthy. It’s just an experiment really, to see what happens. Actually I quite enjoy it. It gets inconvenient sometimes – like now – but mostly I find myself looking around at the world more, like thinking about stuff instead of just playing Candy Crush, and talking with people. It’s liberating.”

He had her attention now, that was for sure. Melissa was looking Carl in the eye, waiting for him to continue. He knew it was because he’d talked about Twitter all night and seemed like a hypocrite for not having his phone with him.

“I mean, I’m not saying that phones are a necessarily bad thing at all, or any other form of technology for that matter. It’s just a personal thing. An experiment, like I said. I want to see if it helps me grow as a person.”

Melissa lost interest again and her eyes dropped to her phone. Carl retreated into his beer and planned a way salvage the conversation, while she checked and saw that her latest tweet had earned her a retweet by Zach Braff. Her face lit up and she told Carl, “I want another drink. I’m buying.”

Shocked out of his deep, drunken thoughts, Carl stared dumbly at his date and for the first time that night was speechless.

Melissa ordered another round and then told Carl, “I’ll tweet your idea to you. Then you can work on it in the morning. Unless it goes viral in the night and someone steals it.”

He laughed as their drinks were set down in front of them. “I don’t even remember what I was going on about exactly,” he admitted.

“I do.”

Summer Beat Reading

The summer of 2013 sees the release of yet more promising contributions to the field of Beat studies. In Beatdom #13 we will be reviewing each publication, but here is a little information for those of you who’re too eager to wait. Two of these books were written by Beat contributors, so we’re doubly excited about their release.


This Ain’t No Holiday Inn: Down and Out at the Chelsea Hotel 1980-1995

by James Lough

“During its heyday, the Chelsea Hotel in New York City was a home and safe haven for Bohemian artists, poets, and musicians such as Bob Dylan, Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, Janis Joplin, and Dee Dee Ramone. This oral history of the famed hotel peers behind the iconic façade and delves into the mayhem, madness, and brilliance that stemmed from the hotel in the 1980s and 1990s. Providing a window into the late Bohemia of New York during that time, countless interviews and firsthand accounts adorn this social history of one of the most celebrated and culturally significant landmarks in New York City.”

Read our review:


Text and Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll: The Beats and Rock Culture

by Simon Warner

“Text and Drugs and Rock’n’Roll explores the interaction between two of the most powerful socio-cultural movements in the post-war years – the literary forces of the Beat Generation and the musical energies of rock and its attendant culture.”


American Hipster: A Life of Herbert Huncke, The Times Square Hustler Who Inspired the Beat Movement

by Hilary Holladay

“American Hipster: The Life of Herbert Huncke, The Times Square Hustler Who Inspired the Beat Movement tells the tale of a New York sex worker and heroin addict whose unrepentant deviance caught the imagination of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs. Teetering between exhaustion and existential despair, Huncke (rhymes with “junky”) often said, “I’m beat, man.” His line gave Kerouac the label for a down-at-the-heels generation seeking spiritual sustenance as well as “kicks” in post-war America.”


Scientologist!: William S. Burroughs and the ‘Weird Cult’

by David S. Wills

“Scientology is largely overlooked in major texts about the life and work of William S. Burroughs, author of some of the most notorious literature of the 20th century. Its importance in the creation of the Cut-up Method and Burroughs’ view of language as a virus is undermined by the omission of details regarding his interest in the religion over the course of a decade – certainly the most creatively fertile period of his life. Instead, biographers and critics tend to focus on his other obsessions in the realm of fringe science, and on the period during the early 1970s when Burroughs left the religion and began a public crusade against it.”


Ha! Sunflower


I’m as good a farmer as tea growing Lee,sunflower farm

which is to say, no farmer at tall

Glass sky majoun town penthouse

Starry night twinkles, silver moon sleeps in bay

Lived I in puffy clouds, watched ocean ships glide out

Next door

Red brick abandoned factory

Broken old glass windows boarded

Planted seeds in city dirt

Ah! Sun-flower in weeds

Sunflower sutra, artus, trasu, rastu, ustra

The sunflower’s wide open face, made of seeds

Its own dada mask

Yields Blakean visions

And tall Jack-in-the-bean stalk

walks the walk

Flowers grew tall

Vincent’s paintings on wall

But filled with black wormy worms

And I was attacked for good deed of beautifying neighbor

By sneaky poison ivy

I, city waterfront girl

Didn’t recognize green snake in garden

Venomed me hardened

Summer snow doesn’t last


(Please visit Robert Graham [USA] “Innocence and Experience” a song for William Blake.)

Big Punk

punk on 5th
“Punk: Chaos to Couture”
Costume Exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, New York
(The exhibit runs until August 14, 2013.)
“…I, Jackie Duluoz,…big punk…” Doctor Sax
Punk was anti-fashion, so the notion of punk couture is absurd. Punk was one of those labels such as “beatnik” that those from within didn’t like. (Yes, Legs McNeil the founder of Punk coined the term, but who went around referring to himself as a punk or member of the Punk Generation?) Nonetheless, the big “Punk: Chaos to Couture” exhibit is now at the MMA and a big best-selling book (arts and photography) is being sold with it. On display are some beautiful couture gowns by Dolce & Gabbana, Moschino, and Versace—created years after “punk.”
However, punk (for lack of a better word—really it was downtown New York rock’n’roll, attitude, and a look) had a fashion sense and the leader of the pack, the best dressed of the downtown set was Johnny Thunders of the Heartbreakers. He spent time and money putting his look together. He didn’t wear ripped T-shirts with safety pins. He wore hip suit jackets, trousers, and leather shoes. His clothes were cutting edge without being outrageous and he didn’t look stupid. He traveled to the UK and abroad and got some of his clothes there and his Sicilian background played into his somewhat continental air, even though he was all New Yawk. Part of his look came from his sad Sicilian soul. He wasn’t tall, but it didn’t matter; he looked cool, kind of dangerous and gangsterish, in a beat, punk, Italian-New York street way, mixed up with lots of reckless rock’n’roll. Maybe I missed it, but I didn’t see any trace of JT in the exhibit, only a few (two?) photos in the book.
Richard Hell was taller and thin and he looked good, too, but in a simple black jeans and T-shirt style, more American, with white city skin, pallor that never sees the sun.
Patti Smith fashioned herself in the Richard Hell style, simple and unadorned, androgynous.
Debbie Harry was the opposite: lots of makeup, bleached hair, trashy clothes, but her beautiful face made her stand out.
It was hard to ignore the Ramones. How could you ignore four young non-smiling urban guys in black leather jackets?
Then there were American bands that didn’t look cool or good. No names mentioned, but they wore spandex tights and dog collars and safety pins, not at all attractive on man or woman. A dog collar is for a dog, safety pins were once for diapers, and tights are for ballet.
British punks were a whole other thing, appropriate for the time and place, as British youth faced slight prospect of employment or opportunity, and that was their anarchistic political anti-everything protest, so, yes, bring on the rips, tears, safety pins, dog collars, the Doc Martens and all that, but it didn’t quite work on this side of this pond.
William Burroughs of 222 Bowery wore a suit. (“I am no punk and don’t know why anyone would consider me the godfather of punk.”) Good for him. He looked and spoke like the highly intelligent man that he was.
And Frank Sinatra, who was insultingly called a punk, and all those great jazz cats always dressed for the occasion. (Thelonious Monk wore a suit—even to lie in bed all day with the door closed not seeing anyone—good for him, too. The man had style … and hats.)
Even big punk—and there was no bigger punk—Sid Vicious donned a white dinner jacket to perform Sinatra’s “My Way.” Just for the record, Sid Vicious could have been a nice looking young man, but as Jack Kerouac said, “I’m not Frank Sinatra.”

Our Cover Collections

Since 2010, Beatdom has been publishing books in addition to the literary journal. So far we’ve out out five books (3 fiction, 2 non-fiction) with one more coming soon, and big plans for after that.6covers copy

Poetry of Roller Coaster in Ocean

roller coaster
Hurricane throws roller coaster in ocean
Breakers crash
Turbulent foam
Roller coaster stands in cold mid-Atlantic
Ultimate seaside water ride
Water slide
High tide, low tide
Twisted metal
Open sky
Roller coaster big twisted spider lace monster
Ocean is bigger
On deck of big, big ship
Octopus black ink night
High, high up
Winds scowled and howled
The ship was big, so big
But salt ocean, bigger
The sea is my brother
Big brother, so big, powerful, unknown, deep brother
Biggest brother, Bing Crosby
Roller coaster ride, cowboy, go, go, gone coaster
(Jack Kerouac visited Edie Parker’s grandmother’s house in Asbury Park, New Jersey, and Allen Ginsberg played on Belmar, New Jersey, beaches as a boy. )

(photo: Seaside Heights, NJ. Thanks, Drew Flatley.)

Shanghai Wishes Allen Ginsberg a Happy Birthday

Today, June 3rd, is Allen Ginsberg’s birthday. All around the world, people are raising a glass or otherwise celebrating the life and work of this great man.

In China, a country not known for its freedom of speech, Ginsberg’s epic poem, “Howl”, will be given its first bilingual public reading. There aren’t many English language links for this event, but here’s one. And here’s the cool poster to accompany it:

Ginsberg Shanghai PosterThe Chinese social network, Sina Weibo, has a lot of information and translations of Ginsberg’s work in celebration of his birthday. Check out this post by Beatdom editor, David S. Wills, for more information.