Tomorrow is my final day of owning The Phoenix, my first boutique hotel (really a motel) that I created nearly 40 years ago. Some remarkable lyrics have been penned in this rock ‘n roll hotel and we’ve had some epic parties including my 65th birthday party three months ago captured in this video as an ode to one of my first loves. The owner of the land (we had a 39+ year land lease) will continue to operate this iconic spot…I sure hope he understands this place’s legacy. I know the legacy it has in my life as an entrepreneur.
There once was a hotel called The Phoenix,
Where the weird and the wired would convene us.
With a pool full of lore,
And a staff loved even more,
It made misfits feel suddenly “seen-ish.”
David Bowie slipped in like a ghost,
Low-key cool, barely asking for toast.
He stayed thin, stayed strange,
Left the world slightly changed,
While the lobby just nodded—of course.
Faye Dunaway arrived with a stare
That could freeze all of Eddy Street bare.
No nonsense, all flame,
Our bellhop knew fame
Was a force you approached with a prayer.
The Chili Peppers splashed loud in the sun,
Socks optional, chaos begun.
Flea leapt in mid-air,
Someone lost underwear,
And the pool thought, “Well, this should be fun.”
Then Nirvana rolled through, barely there,
With a sadness you felt in the air.
Kurt stared into space,
Like he’d misplaced his face,
While the world hadn’t caught up to his despair.
Pearl Jam showed up earnest and kind,
With a fury that sharpened the time.
Eddie spoke soft, sang loud,
Told the suits they weren’t proud,
And the Phoenix just nodded, align.
Across the way, Miss Pearl’s Jam House glowed,
Where the after-hours truths overflowed.
Stories sticky with rum,
People touching each other’s bum,
And off to a guest room they “goed.”
Then came the Celebrity Pool Toss—
Pure spectacle, ego, and loss.
Stars airborne in suits,
Shrieking legends mid-boot,
Proving dignity’s always a toss.
Rockers, writers, and sinners alike
Found refuge beneath neon light.
No pretense, no gate,
Just a come-as-you-are fate,
Where the real beat the curated and trite.
Now the keys change hands, seasons turn,
But the soul? That’s a harder thing to earn.
This wasn’t just beds—
It was lives overspread,
A place where you crashed and you burned.
So here’s to the Phoenix, that scrappy old bird,
Every whispered and screamed, sung and slurred.
Though the chapter may close,
What it meant—everyone knows—
Some eras don’t end. They’re absorbed.
-Chip