Each year, Tilda and I celebrate her birthday by holing up for a night of pushing boundaries. This year, we decided to invent a Sid and Nancy scene: we’d take a room at the Chelsea Hotel, enjoy some murder and mayhem, and see if the tabloids picked it up.
We wound up in Thomas Wolfe’s former digs, Room Eight Twenty-nine. No screaming headlines; still, I’m not sure we can go home again.
I was inspired to do some writing.
