I mean, in the same hotel, that is.
I was throwing shade at the sassy check-in boys and instead of catching too much attitude, they upgraded me to the "Club Level" in my hotel. Sweet!
Or not so, actually. More on that later.
Back to my new sleep-mate Jessie Jackson. The boys at the front desk let the cat out of the bag. I was thinking as I walked around Manhattan at 11:30pm (trying to find a steak... an impossibility, I learned) that, you know, Jessie Jackson was witness to one of the most tragic assassinations of our time. I am not sure Jessie would appreciate knowing that security was so lax here as to let just anyone know that a minor political personality was here. Then, I realized, Mr. Jackson would have to still be politically relevant for there to be any concern for his security. (I know, I know... based on the last few posts, I have alienated my blond readership, my Jessie Jackson base, and all Chicagoans. Whatever will I do???)
Ok, back to this snacky hotel. I used to blast the Hudson Hotel for being little more than a youth hostel with booze, but knowing that it's just a few blocks away, I am tempted to switch hotels. Even this "Club Level" to which I have been promoted is pretty fucking tacky. It's the kind of place where you're afraid the vaccuming effort was so half-hearted that you're about to step on a toe-nail shard (and not your own, this time). Yikes.
Oh New York. Although I battle you, at times, I do love you. More than you know.
Better blogging tomorrow... I will recap my day of shopping at John Derian, Aedes de Venustas, and wherever the little Pumas take me.