Frank Sinatra's Got Lousy Taste

First, I would like to apologize to my loyal readers (all both of you) who have been eagerly awaiting my next post while I was out frolicking on the idyllic shores of Atlantic City. I was in a house without internet all week, but assure you that I have been blogging where it counts - on the inside.

And it's a good thing I went away too. I've been running out of material. But no longer, thanks to Chelsea Manor.

Chelsea Manor. Sounds glamorous, no?
I mean, it's a house with a name. That sleeps 26. And once had a speakeasy in the basement where Frank Sinatra used to hang out.
How could this house not be the funk?

I'll tell you how. 40-odd years of neglect and drunken orgies.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.

We had 20 friends staying at the Manor this past week, spread across 9 bedrooms and one creepy gothic "library." And every single one of us shared the same sentiment, "If I had money, I would fix this place up and make it awesome." It's too bad the current owners don't feel the same way.

The main floor boasts a large entryway with a stunning inlaid Formica in mauve and tan. To the right, lies the dining room, complete with green felt table covering and china cabinet full of Southern Comfort hurricane glasses and creepy hand-painted cherubs donned with hot-glue-gunned lace. Beyond the dining room is the pool table, surprisingly clean and functional, against a backdrop of faux stained glass windows.

To the left of the foyer is the living room, where you can get a glimpse of the past by cowering in the corner amidst sunflower seed shells and cherry pits preserved from the Sinatra era. The bar in the back of the room includes a non-functioning sink that buckles under a 10-pound bag of ice. But fear not dear ice user, the Astroturf stapled to the bar will preserve this beauty for many years to come.

Beyond the living room is the sun room with poker table and 3 legged chair. At the back of the sunroom is a mysterious door that leads down a short flight of stairs to an unattached dungeon. Had we not been scared out of our wits, I'm sure we would have unearthed some animal bones in this cozy annex.

In the back of the house, the modern kitchen includes a stovetop range and dishwasher on an island that moves when leaned upon. I am quite suspect of the cooking / cleaning power of major appliances on wheels.

In the basement, the Sinatra speakeasy has been replaced by a large water stain and 300 variants of mildew. There is also a ping pong table and a craps table that features semen stains visible to the human eye without the benefit of CSI-grade luminal.

On the second and third floors, we come to a maze of bedrooms and bathrooms that would satisfy any Scooby-Doo chase scene enthusiast. The bedrooms are all fairly disgusting, but none is creepier than the "dollhouse."

The "dollhouse" is about 250 square feet (I think that's a generous estimate) with 2 bunk beds and plenty of pink floral wall paper. The ceiling slopes down against the far wall, cutting off the room from above and making the top bunk a very dangerous place for anyone over 3 ft tall. On the far wall is a tiny little door that went ignored for the better part of the week, and wisely so. When the door was opened, we discovered a closet, lined with pink silk, and completely empty except a solitary chair. Needless to say, no one slept in the "dollhouse" after that.

All in all, the Chelsea Manor was both much less and much more than we expected it to be.

Had the house been immaculate, we would have had much less to talk about all week. But then again, I may have gotten some because my husband would not have feared for the health of his genitals.