It was bad enough when Marriott Corporation occupied the Algonquin Hotel, plundering the historic and charmingly tatty lobby in a blitzkrieg the result of which was cluster-fuck of disturbingly cheesy and tacky matchy-match, faux-leather-y-naugahyde banquettes, glass-topped tables, and carpeting and upholstery of such gargantuan, repugnant bad taste that it must have been discovered in some Indiana warehouse after having been forgotten (and understandably so) decades ago when some demented Elsie de Wolfe wanna-be gay-uncle type designed over a lost weekend. All you need do is look at the chandeliers to know this is true; clearly he also stored his anal beads in the same warehouse and they were mistaken by Marriott for lighting fixtures.

The Algonquin-Marriott's anal bead chandeliers
The Algonquin-Marriott’s anal bead chandeliers

I rest my case. If only Dorothy Parker could rest, but, alas, this plundering no doubt has her turning over in her grave and screaming for a drink. Pray dear that no one brings her the cocktail the Marriott has concocted and named for her, an overly-sweet concoction with no zing. Or gin. Blasphemy.

And now I read that Denny’s – DENNY’S?!?!? – is opening in New York City. Read it here in The Gothamist.  At least they’re serving alcohol. The only good thing that could possibly come from this is that all Denny’s would start serving alcohol. At least then there would be something on the menu worth ordering. My sole period of Denny’s patronization was necessitated by a friend’s lost-summer-breakdown episode and let’s just say the only tasty thing about the experience was the tattooed, pony-tailed, work-release waiter who briefly cheated on Bubba, his cellmate, with me by a fragrant dumpster under a gibbous moon. Ah youth. Or, well, last July.

Denny’s. New York. What next? Enough. I must off to enjoy my Labor Day plans which include, as usual, as little labor as possible and as much reclining and reading as I can squeeze in between bottles of wine.