The Statler Hilton Hotel

In 1954 The Statler hotel family was facing an unwanted takeover bid. In response E.M. Statler's widow accepted an alternative offer from Conrad Hilton to keep the Statler properties with "hotel people". The $111,000,000.00 deal became the world's largest real estate transaction and made Hilton the largest hospitality chain in the world. It was decided that such a momentous achievement needed a symbol of success. That symbol would be built in Dallas.

Designed to be the flaghip hotel of the new Statler Hilton chain, The Statler Hilton Hotel in Dallas built in 1956 was unique. The hotel was designed by the renowned architect William Tabler, who introduced several new and exciting construction techniques and materials. Using a cantilevered reinforced flat slab system, Tabler was able to create a soaring building while significantly reducing the obstructions of regular support columns. Outside he opted for colorful porcelain enameled steel and glass, making the Statler Hilton Hotel the first glass sheathed hotel in the nation. When completed at a cost of $16 million, it was hailed as the most modern hotel in the world.

Built with a thousand rooms, convention facilities, showroom and 2000 seat ballroom, the hotel offered unheard of amenities for it's day including a helipad and televisions in every room so you would not have to miss a single episode of GE Playhouse, Ed Sullivan or The ALCOA Hour. Not into television? No problem! Enjoy the rooftop pool, the Empire Room showroom, or just sway to the music in one of the first elevators in the nation to have music piped in for your relaxation.

Opening Day was a glittering four day event with Hollywood stars and politicos

entertained by the dancing Hiltonettes sporting elaborate headdresses representing "the ingredients of Dallas" (Can't you just see a scantily clad woman in an oil derrick hat topped with an ostrich plume "gusher"?). Too fabulous.

Over the years, the Statler Hilton in Dallas hosted headliners like Elvis, Liberace (who had $25,000 worth of jewelry stolen from his room over Valentine's weekend 1974. The thief was caught.), and Robert Clary. Remember Robert Clary? You know, Lebeau from "Hogan's Heroes"? Well, before that he was a Broadway star and had an award winning nightclub act that was booked for a three week engagement in the Empire Room in November 1963.

On November 22, 1963 former Vice President Richard Nixon was attached to a law firm representing Pepsi Cola. He was attending a bottlers convention at the Statler Hilton in Dallas and was enjoying Robert Clary's show with Joan Crawford and her husband who was at that time Pepsi's CEO. I'm afraid any conspiracy rumors connected with JFK's assassination a few blocks away the next morning are nonsense. Or are they? I've always been suspicious of men in berets.

Of course the dems were well represented at the hotel in those early days, too. On March 11, 1962, Vice President Johnson and Lady Bird attended a brunch hosted by the Texas State Society in the Imperial Ballroom where the Cherry Blossom Princess for 1962- Miss Lynda Bird Johnson was presented.

Time marches on. The hotel was subjected to countless "refurbishments", "modernizations", and ill-conceived "re-modelings". The vibrant neighborhood around it decayed and business travellers began frequenting more suburban hotels. In 1988, Hilton Hotels sold the property to Hong Kong investors who re-named it the Dallas Grand. Under their ownership, it really was not so "grand". The hotel grew more seedy and in 2001 it was closed for good.

Enter downtown revitalization! In 2003, the parking garage was razed by the city in order to build the upcoming Main Street Gardens park. The main building was spared and optioned to a California developer who was interested in turning it in to pricey loft style condominiums.

Oops! Remember when I told you that the structure of the building featured "reinforced cantilevered slabs"? That means the ceilings must remain a mid-century modern standard 8 feet high. They can not be raised or cut away without tremendous expense and the risk of collapse. Fine with me, but not so fine to overpriced condo developers.

Ironically, it was the decay of it's neighborhood that caused it's fall and it is now the gorgeous revitalization of it's neighborhood that puts it in imminent danger by increasing the value of the property on which the hotel sits. It seems however, that Dallas doesn't want to give up on her yet. Offering up to $15 million dollars in tax credits and replacement of the razed garage with underground parking, the City Council is trying to get investors to look at the hotel's potential for moderate income housing. The University of North Texas is also in discussions to use a chunk of the building as Student Housing for their new downtown Law School (Having a husband who went to law school during our early years, I can attest their income can not be any more 'moderate').

Despite all these exciting ideas, the building is still very much in danger of demolition. For those of us with a soft spot for the old gal, great news came today. The National Trust for Historic Preservation officially designated it on their 2008 list of the country's most endangered historic places. While an NTHP designation can not guarantee the safety of any building, it is extremely rare when a designee is actually lost. If you would like to see some amazing photgraphs and learn more about this historic Dallas landmark, click here.

With Coffee In My Left Hand and a Book In My Right, I'm

Congratulations to Jess Riley of Riley's Ramblings and The Debutant Ball. Her debut novel, Driving Sideways was released for sale today! I have been panting expectantly for this book and am tapping my foot impatiently waiting for my copy. This excerpt that I totally lifted off her amazon page should get you panting too:

CHAPTER ONE

I am alone no longer.

It’s strange how much you can change in just one year. Twelve months ago, I’d have laughed in your face if you told me I’d be packing for a road trip this morning. Not rudely, of course, but because traveling anywhere remote was a remote possibility for me at that point. I’d have sooner believed you if you’d said, “One year from now, you will become a Scientologist, learn the pan flute, and join a Bay City Rollers tribute band.”

But I’ve had a change of heart. Well, kidney, really. I’m leaving for Los Angeles this morning, about to do some things long overdue. My Saturn is idling in the driveway, stuffed with suitcases I’ve never taken anywhere but to hospitals. I feel as if I’ve just discovered that the cure for cancer is dark chocolate followed by two orgasms. I think I’ve forgotten to pack my toothbrush, but I don’t care. I can buy one on the way. The thought thrills me.

“So you’re really doing this,” my brother, James, says from behind me, sending me out of my skin.

I jump, making a hair ballish–noise like aak, and spin around to face him. He crosses his arms and fixes me with his practiced stare: one part condescension, two parts disbelief. It’s the same look James gives the paperboy when the Fond du Lac Reporter misses the welcome mat on the front porch by an inch or more. I lean back into my car, pretending to check my cooler of snacks and bottled water while trying to regain my pretrip composure. As my surrogate parent for the last sixteen years, James has always been able to sneak up on me—catching me in an innocuous act like reading and still making me feel as if I’d been caught stealing from a quadriplegic. “Yes, I’m really going.”

“Does Kate know?” he snipes.

“She will,” I reply. I shut the cooler and turn to face James.

“Leigh, why do you even care? She’s such an asshole. She’s a footnote.”

“I just do, is all.” Kate is our mother, who developed the curious conviction when James and I were younger that she would one day become a great actress. The morning she left us for Hollywood, she crouched next to me and whispered absently, “Never settle. Take big risks.” Then she stepped into her Ford Pinto and lurched away from the curb, her silver bumper glinting in the sunlight, the scent of Charlie cologne mingling with exhaust in the air. I was five years old. I sat on the curb waiting for her until Sesame Street came on, after which I returned to the curb to wait for her return. Twenty-three years later, I’m still waiting.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” James walks around my car and stands directly in front of me. He looks spooky without having had his first cup of coffee, a little like a B-list actor with an emerging heroin addiction. Not that James has ever done heroin. James actually times his alcoholic beverages—one per hour—to ensure he never “loses control.” Eighty percent of my friends have had a crush on him at one point or another. Even the guys. They all want to be him, until they spend more than an hour in his presence. “When’s the last time you even talked to her?” he continues.

I ignore him and pretend to examine my kayak, which I’ve secured with bungee cords to the roof of my car. Exhaust forms a foggy pool around my ankles. I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell him Kate has no idea I’m dropping by. Or that the last time I talked to her was about seven years ago.“And how well did that conversation go?”I ignore him some more. If I ignore him long enough, James usually gives up.

“Leigh, be reasonable. You’re in no shape for some . . . road trip . . . that will just disappoint you.”

His tone makes my stomach contract into a fist. “I’m in fine shape. Dr. Jensen said so last week.” I adjust my kayak one last time. Why couldn’t I have just gotten up ten minutes earlier? I suddenly hate the snooze bar. I wish I could think of something clever to say, but the best I can do is, “Besides. I’ve been reasonable my whole life. That’s the problem.” James rolls his eyes: Give me a break. Even now, he knows exactly how to make me feel like a twelve-year-old who still can’t read a clock.

“People wait for years on kidney transplant lists. . . . You’re lucky enough to get one, and all of a sudden you’re Peter Fonda in Easy Rider?” He shakes his head, almost knocking me down with a sonic boom of disappointment. I think he’s more upset by the fact that I’m growing as a person—his little sister is changing from un- assuming, vanilla Leigh, with a spine like a warm Twizzler stick, to independent, empowered LEIGH, with a firm handshake and excellent posture. I once was lost, but now am found, thanks to a kind stranger named Larry Resnick.

But more on him later.

“James,” I say, “Peter Fonda had a motorcycle filled with drugs and money. I’ve got a Saturn with a kayak on the roof.” I also think of asking James if he would prefer I join a convent and sew my lips shut, but instead I say, “I’m tired of living vicariously through everyone else. I want my own life.” And really, that’s the meat of the matter. I want a life. I try to sound rational and convincing as I explain this to James, but I know if this conversation goes on much longer, my voice will grow higher and tighter until it sounds like I’m sucking helium. As the person who used to sign my report cards and once met with my ninth-grade principal to discuss the lewd cartoons I’d drawn in my math book to amuse friends, James has always had that power over me.

“What if you get sick again,” he says, challenging me. “Then what?”

“Then I find a hospital.” Simple logic, right? I think James is just afraid of change. Either that or being left behind with his wife, Marissa, who makes hot tuna casserole every Tuesday and leases a new beige Volvo every year. As if on cue, Marissa opens the back door. In a gauzy lilac robe, her hair in purple rollers, she looks like she’d be much more comfortable had she been named Mimi or Lady Bird.

“Everything alright?” she asks timidly.

James crosses his arms and glares at me. “Leigh still thinks she’s going to California.”

Marissa appears confused. “Oh?”

“I’m just taking a trip. People take them every day,” I say, trying to sound calm. Would James ever just let me breathe? I feel chest-deep in a vat of pudding and sinking fast.

“Leigh, you are not going alone.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m only going for two weeks,” I insist, but I don’t sound too convincing. I’m growing claustrophobic and sweaty, so I decide to just take action before I change my mind completely. “James,” I say with as much finality as I can muster, “I’ll call you from Sioux Falls.” With that, I slide into the driver’s seat, shift from park, and begin my journey. It’s one of those hyper, surreal moments where you might escape after all, where you think for a minute that you’ve actually convinced the Jehovah’s Witnesses peering through your front window that you’re not home, even though they clearly saw you streaking through the living room and diving behind the couch wearing nothing but a towel.

I leave James looking hurt and perplexed in the driveway, and suddenly I feel guilty. But not guilty enough to stay, and not guilty enough to quash my excitement.

I’m really doing it. Two left turns, a series of intersections, and one long graveyard on my right (which I drive past holding my breath, to add a day to my life), and I’m leaving Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Good-bye, Tucker’s Hamburgers, Gilles Frozen Custard, Lakeside Park, and the Miracle Mile, where a dozen people bought winning lottery tickets and thousands more bought losing ones. I wish I had a convertible, so I could wear Jackie O sunglasses and a scarf over my hair and carelessly toss something fluttery and symbolic into the wind—maybe a love letter from an old beau, or ancient to-do lists, or just bundles of money, because if I had a convertible and Jackie O sunglasses, it stands to reason that I’d have a much more exciting life involving a surplus of inherited or ill-gained money.

I turn my stereo up and Jefferson Starship assaults me: “We built this city . . . !” I rush to find something that won’t trigger my gag reflex. (Ah, yes: “London Calling,” by the Clash. For some, not just a band, but a way of life.) I suppress a delirious giggle. I’m really doing this. I begin to sing along and ease onto Highway 23. My MedicAlert bracelet glints in the sun, looking much more like a sterling silver Return to Tiffany™ heart tag bracelet than the old-school stainless steel plate the kid with diabetes wore around his wrist in fifth grade. Humming down the highway with the rising sun at my back, I snake a hand down my side to touch my scar. I can almost feel my new kidney jouncing around in me. It feels less like an alien jelly bean and more like an old pal. I decide to name it Larry. After its namesake. I am alone no longer.

Betcha after reading that, you're hooked too. When my pre-ordered copy arrives (glance at my wristwatch, tap my foot even more furiously), I will be sure to post a review and give away another new copy to one of my readers. With writing this good, I gotta share the love.

Bad Fences Make Bad Neighbors

I loved my next door neighbors on the West side. They bought their home just after us and we were fairly close, sharing barbecues and card parties and gardening tasks. I even helped her plant a rose garden opposite to mine that is still lovely and thriving. Last fall they decided to build a home out in the country for their growing family and they sold their home to a retiree.

As much as I missed them, I wanted to give the new guy a chance. Today I've made an official decision on the matter. I hate my West Side Neighbor otherwise known as 'The Misanthrope" or "TM". While I was pruning the roses he came by to tell me he is going to tear out his garden, put gravel down and build a six foot privacy fence between our yards and by the way, you won't mind if I build on your property line, right?

If there was ever any doubt as to my Southern origins, it was put to rest as I smiled, and said "Won't that be nice?" while trying desperately to remember where the property line diagram is stored in our office so I can file an injunction. Now to be clear, it is not the idea of a fence that I am opposed to, it is the type of fence TM is proposing and the manner in which he approached me about it.

Item One:

We are not talking about a back yard fence. This fence would be visible from the street. A professionally installed iron fence would be attractive and blend well into an automated driveway gate like many of our neighbors have and be in keeping with the neighborhood. TM wants to install a wood privacy fence and driveway gate he builds himself "that will keep these nosy people on our street from looking in my yard". The ham fisted piece of junk he is describing to me will not only be an eyesore, but it will block all the sun to my beloved rose garden.


Item Two:
TM put the fur on my neck right up with his "nosy neighbor" comment. And who would these nosy neighbors be? The retirees and parents of well behaved young children that surround us? Who does he think would call the police for him, or bring him food or help him with his lawn if he were ill? I LOVE my nosy neighbors. I'm proud to be one of them.


Item Three:
He tells me that he is yanking out his roses (that I helped to plant) and putting down gravel in anticipation of the new fence. "What kind of moron puts bushes by a driveway?" Duuude. It is so ON.


For now I watch and wait and get my ducks in a row. Here's my plan of action:

• First I'll wait to see if he really does go through with it.
• Next I'll rely on my city's extremely strict building code for fences. I think it's a safe bet that he will try building without a permit. Being the good citizen that I am, I will of course need to report him.
• If he actually does apply for a permit, I'm sure he will not be up to code. Uh-oh! Time to call the city again!
• If all else fails, I'll just have to take him to court for property line infringement. Somehow he doesn't strike me as the type to go to court over a fence (even if he is a mean old misanthrope).

My Spouse's plan of action? I believe it will be something along the lines of refilling his scotch glass and turning up the volume on the tele to try and drown out my grumping. Men just can't recognize an imminent crisis unless it's brought to their attention. Repeatedly. Don't you agree?

Dinner With Friends

Last night we went to a nice couple's house for dinner. It was a very informal affair, just us in our summer play clothes on the patio. Our host grilled enough food for a small army and our hostess was charming as she gave me a tour of her new home while simultaneously keeping all our champagne glasses filled to the brim. Dinner was spectacular and I ate entirely too much. In fact, with the exception of our teeny tiny hostess, I would say that everyone over-indulged because the progression of fine wines and the rich food were so good.

The beautiful weather and my general comfort level had me a little perplexed when our host requested that we join him inside for dessert and espressos. What? You feed me heavy food and heady wine and then want me to lift my rump and move? Say it isn't so! Regretfully, I did indeed lift my self and tagged along into the house where we settled into the world's cushiest, comfiest, most snuggle wonderful chairs for our coffee.

There was some discussion about board games and then our host announced that it was time for television. I checked the clock on the mantle and saw it was too early to begin hemming and hawing about time to go. Spouse was still only halfway through his coffee and our hostess was very enthusiastic that we watch a particular video on their home theater extravaganza. Ah well, when in Rome...

So I settled in to the big cushy couch with my warm solid Spouse as our hostess dimmed the lights and I savored the hot delicious meal and the friendly comfortable conversation and the yummy plentiful wine and enjoyed the hum of the television and their companionable little dog breathing slowly in my lap and snnnnnxxxxx...

Well, OK I didn't really fall asleep, but I do have to admit to many stifled yawns before we made our way to the door with much hugging and promising to do this again soon. But next time? I'm having Spouse bring smelling salts, because if the evening were any more pleasant, that's what it would take to revive me.

Jen-A-Palooza 2008

What a doll! Here my Spouse and I are with Jen Lancaster (in pearls!) a moment after I assaulted her. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself here. First let me tell you what led up to the assault.

My Spouse, who thinks her books are as much of a hoot as I do, volunteered to drive me to the land of the nouveau riche otherwise known as Northpark. Now I know that you know about Northpark Center. It's the place where Farrah Fawcett filmed her famous fountain scene in Dr. T. and the Women (a much better book than movie by the way). Anyway, about an hour before the signing we arrived at the bookstore which was directly across the street from the mall and it was very New Yawk-like. Think soaring tray ceilings and glittering glass and chrome abounding. So far so good.

Up the escalator we flew and then oh no! There were about two dozen chairs set up for the book signing and all of them were taken. Down the escalator I flew, seeking Elaine, the gal in charge (real Jen stalkers fans always come prepared with the name of the gal in charge of her store appearance). I let her know that there were about 80 people at Jen's DC appearance and about 125 at the Atlanta one (real Jen fans know these things) so we would be needing way more chairs, thank you. Oh and the sales tables and kiosks? They'd better be moved out of the way, too.

Then up the escalator I flew and waited for my throne folding chair to arrive and sent Spouse in search of a venti latte with nutmeg, thank you. True to her word, Elaine supervised the setting up of a couple dozen more chairs, then glanced nervously at the crowd of bleached blondes in pearls and twinsets beginning to gather and instructed her minions to move the fixtures back from the aisle (told ya). She then pulled out a pad of post-it notes and a roll of carnival tickets and gave each of us one numbered ticket and a sticky note with the name we'd like our books personalized with. We shall meet Jen in an orderly fashion! I'm really starting to like Elaine.

At about 6:45, there was a general gasp and countless hushed murmers of "Oh, what a cute purse!" "Did you see her purse?" "I love the Prada purse!" "Did you see her shoes?" By the way in case y'all didn't know, Texans never say handbag or pocketbook, it's always "purse". Jen had arrived. Elaine assured us she would return and then whisked her off while her minions continued passing out tickets and post-its.

At exactly 7:00 on the dot, my idol floated up the escalator to thunderous applause. She was beautiful, she was charming and she had very exciting news. While in Dallas, she was told that Such A Pretty Fat had debuted on the New York Times Best Seller List. Upon hearing this news I may or may not have crunked my fist over my head shouting "wooof wooof".

After a reading from her book, she opened the floor for questions. I took the opportunity to do a quick head count. There were about 200 people give or take (Dear publicists who wanted her to skip Texas, ha!). Some questions from the crowd were funny, some were inane and one was downright idiotic. Attn: Idiot Woman who prefaced her question about where Jen shops on-line with the statement: "Dallas doesn't have any good stores..." Girl, the women around me were talking lynching. Seriously, you could feel the mass hatred in the room well up around her. Why not just accuse us all of being barefoot hillbillies? What a twit.Never disparage a Dallas woman's barbecue, bleach job or shopping options. That's free advice.

Next came the part I'd waited for all evening. It was my turn to meet Jen! She was absolutely lovely about taking time to make conversation with everyone who wanted her book signed. I won't tell you what she wrote in my book, but I will tell you that when I asked to have my picture taken with her, I told her I wanted to post it on my blog. She asked me what my blog name was and to her credit, I only saw the tiniest flicker of fear in her eyes before she told me that she knew me and gave me a great big hug. It was at this point that I assaulted her.

That is to say, I put down my giant Andy Warhol & Edie Sedgwick banana bag for the picture and when I straightened back up, I clocked her with a tremendous banging of heads. Look how sweet she is smiling in spite of the pain. Everybody who told me that I would love her in real life was wrong. I absolutely adore her. Thanks for coming to Dallas, Jen!

Did She Really Say That?

I can't believe the things that have come out of my mouth this morning. For instance:

"I love my 1962 faux brick linoleum tile floor!"

My kitchen floor is the world's ugliest, discolored, hole ridden mess you have ever seen. In 1962 when our home was built, I know it must have been absolutely elegant. I know this because my mother has both Julia Child and James Beard cookbooks with photographs of them cookin' up French delicacies in kitchens with the exact same floor (and cupboards and stove before we replaced it).

This morning we had thunderstorms and the dog panicked. It took six beach towels to soak up the urine from my kitchen floor (ah, the joys of Great Dane bladders). As I was mopping up with disinfectant and looking over at the white carpeting in the hallway, and the gorgeous (but perhaps not so easy to clean) slate flooring samples in the living room, I just had to say, " I love my nasty old floor!"

"I can't wait to get on the Dallas North Tollway during rush hour!"

Check out my sidebar, folks. Only a few more hours until I get to see Ms. Jen Lancaster, squeee! OK, yes I know I've been instructed to never say 'squeee!' again, but in this case, I just can't stop myself. Now I just have to figure out how to have her inscribe my copy of Such a Pretty Fat: One narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big or Why Pie Is Not The Answer.

Here are some ideas:

To Poppet, Who tells everyone that I briefly followed her Twitter updates, therefore we are close personal friends. Please return the boots with dog poo on the bottom that you stole from my porch. Best, Jen

To Poppet, Who claims to be my older, fatter twin sister and has filed to have her name legally changed to Jen 2.0. Thank you for the photographs of yourself in bathing suits that you keep sending to my publisher. I think we have enough now. Best, Jen

To Poppet, Whose Spouse has asked every night this week, "When is Jen coming? Are you sure she's not bringing her hubby, Fletch?" and whose children will be forced to make their own dinner tonight so she can stalk me, I am happy to meet someone who has her priorities in order! Best, Jen P.S. Don't bother taking down my license plate number, it's a rental.

Yep, that tollway is going to take me to see my idol tonight. If you see a woman driving north in a two door Cavalier with flashing lights and a snow plow attached to the front for pushing slower cars out of her way, that'll be me. See you there!

The Pinking Shears

About one hundred years ago, there was a little girl who was very sad. Her mother died before her her fifth birthday and her father and much older brothers were violent and cruel. She spent most of her life cooking, cleaning and cowering from them. One day without warning, her father brought home a new stepmother. She was older than her father and a woman of independent means. She did not let anyone beat her or her new stepdaughter.

Although the worst of the violence stopped, the little girl was still treated badly by the men and longed to escape. As her graduation date came closer, she dreaded it knowing that she would no longer have a safe place outside of the house. Her stepmother ignored the wishes of the girl's father and arranged for her to attend secretarial school in another town. She told the little girl that no one is helpless if they have the right tools.

The girl took her training to a large city where she enjoyed a successful career. When she was in her thirties she met a good man and decided to marry. She told her stepmother that she did not think she would be a good a wife because she did not know what she would do with herself at home all day while her friends were at work. Her stepmother told her that her hands and her mind would never need to be idle if she had a giving heart and the right tools. She gave her a sewing machine and taught her how to make everything from slips to slipcovers for her home and for charity.

Some years later, the girl adopted a baby. Her stepmother asked her if she needed any help or advice. The girl told her that she thought she would be able to muddle through. "After all", she said, "you are the one who gave me the right tools to raise her".

The years passed. The mean father and brothers died and drifted away. The stepmother and her stepdaughter remained close and visited often. The stepdaughter's baby grew up and adored her grandma. When the stepmother passed, her sewing kit came down to her stepdaughter who used it daily. When the stepdaughter passed, bits of the sewing kit came down to her daughter. Now that she no longer sews, some odd bits and a pair of pinking shears have come down to the original owner's great grand daughter and namesake.

Yesterday I took my great grandmother's pinking shears to the man who sharpens scissors. When he was done, he kept saying, "These are very special scissors, most unusual." I certainly agree.

TCB, Baby

I just wanted to show off the Mother's Day Gift my best friend K sent to me. Behold "The King of Cutting Boards"! It's a mosaic portrait of Elvis made entirely from fruits and vegetables. Note the eggplant sideburns. Hilarious.
I hope everyone had a good weekend. I'm off to download "Viva Las Vegas" and dance like Ann Margaret while I wait for the electrician.
*TCB? Taking care of business just like Elvis did, in a flash.