Review: Hotel Gansevoort

I like beautiful design. I like whimsy. I like it when someone comes in and cleans my room every day. So why don’t I love the Hotel Gansevoort?

First up, it’s got that whole Sanitized Manhattan thing going on. It’s in the center of the meat packing district, which used to be a desolate no-man’s-land with nothing but Florent and puddles of meat runoff. Now Florent is going out of business because they raised the rent.

And the neighborhood is populated with extremely high-end designer shops, like Alexander McQueen and Stella McCartney, and places with names like this:


Did “Sex and the City” destroy the world?

Next, there’s a view of the Empire State Building (which I love), but it’s only from the roof and this is all you get:


The view, such as there is, of the Empire State Building

Okay, so, there’s plenty of other stuff to see. It’s right by the river, so the sunset must be fantastic. Guess what: there’s another building, right in the way:


Excuse me, would you mind removing your top 11 floors?

Now we get into the really annoying details. The purple elevator buttons:


Somebody made this decision

And the incredibly annoying video monitors in the elevators, depicting nerdy guys performing comical dances:


Damn, have some self respect, man!

This gets us to our final criticism, one that will not be true for everyone, but this is my own personal blog, after all. There is a rooftop pool, and in it, there are hotel guests. And those guests underline what I could never love about this place: it attracts mostly people who are much more attractive than me.


I ain’t getting my suit on, that’s for damned sure

I mean, come on! I work in an airless, windowless office all day! When I come to New York, I want to spend my time with pale, unattractive people! It’s bad enough going out to dinner in Los Angeles! Even my wife is taller than me! I work with the Wayans Brothers, and nothing makes you feel shorter, fatter, or whiter than working with the Wayans Brothers! So for God’s sakes, couldn’t there be just one Ernest Borgnine-looking jerkoff checked into this place?

Plus, those dancing guys in the elevators. I mean, really.

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