I said, walking into my bedroom and pulling up the blinds. Lisa groaned and squinted against the light flooding the room. “What the fuck?” she said. “I’m on vacation. I should be allowed to sleep in.” “You did sleep in,” I said. “It’s one in the afternoon. Your flight leaves at ten. If we...
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Here I was, draped on Andy Warhol’s arm, being swept up the grand staircase of the Chelsea Hotel. The lobby had taken my breath away. The walls were covered in exquisite artwork; on one wall was a Herbert Gentry abstract, the people in the painting looking like blue snowmen; on another was a Roy ...