Once the chosen crash pad of the legendary rocker, the infamous Jim Morrison Hotel Room in West Hollywood unfolds as an otherworldly visual spectacle—a pilgrimage essential for all aficionados of the enigmatic Doors frontman.
Our whimsical journey kicks off on the second floor of the wonderfully dilapidated Alta Cienega hotel, celebrated for its unapologetic "no upgrades/no frills/definitely no spa on the premise" aesthetic and approach.
But fret not, as intrepid seekers aren't here for a mint under their pillow; they've come to immerse themselves in the mystique and aura of room #32. And let me tell you, it doesn't merely deliver—it catapults you into the stratosphere of the holy-shit department.
So dazzling, so vibrant, so utterly lizard-kingy?!? It’s so much that you’d half expect Jim Morrison himself to saunter in, offering poetic musings on the psychedelic tapestry of the room while sipping a cosmic cocktail.
Prepare for a visual assault that'll roast your eyeballs and melt your brain like a tropical smoothie on a scorching day. If you're into photogenic chaos that looks like the aftermath of a bizarre cult ritual or murder scene, congratulations, you've found your peculiar shangri-la.
Amidst the visual bedlam, an obvious theme emerges—a glorious mishmash of Doors references, quotes, portraits (apologies, Robby Krieger, but Jim steals the show here), and song lyrics await your puzzled deciphering. Not a fan of the music? Think that doors are just a thing that helps you enter a room? No biggie! Just spend a mere five minutes surrounded by this mayhem, and you'll transform from a world-weary poseur into a Morrison soundboard, spouting obscure JM references like an overly-caffeinated parrot.
And for you completionists out there, rejoice! Every nook and cranny of the room's decor is a canvas, a victim to the mighty sharpie. From the shower, sink, lights, and tables to the TV, bed posts, and even the insides of drawers—everything bears the proud marks of rebellion. Heck, even the air conditioner is in on the anarchy, flaunting its own marker-inflicted battle scars.
Plus, you've got these inspirational messages scrawled across the ceiling.
Amidst the nihilism, in a twist both perplexing and peculiar, the toilet stands out as an untouched sanctuary in this den of chaos. Why, you might wonder? Does Jim, in the afterlife, cherish the room's porcelain goddesses, ready to curse any vandal daring to defile them? Perhaps his ghost graciously wipes it down after each guest? Regardless, this pristine throne, standing tall amidst the jungle of disarray, poses a greater mystery than the Mama Cass ham sandwich theory.
The room has a charming touch of mustiness, a fitting ambiance for a space once inhabited by a man who rocked the same pair of leather pants for a whopping two years straight.
Now, the burning question: is this room haunted? If so, it's less the spirit of Mr. Morrison and more the ghostly vibes of money on fire, given that suckers like me willingly shell out $200+ a night for this modest space. Or, for the thrifty ghost enthusiast, a brief (monitored, with no photos) sneak peek is available for the low, low price of $20! What a unique business model! Mr. Morrison would be proud.
Setting aside economic considerations, this room unquestionably delivers and is a must-see even for the most casual Doors fan. Up in the celestial realm, imagine old Jimmy lounging in his Parisian bathtub, possibly sloshed on a cheap bottle of Boon’s Farm, reveling in the spectacle—or, perhaps, rolling his ghostly eyes at the consumerism and exploitation below. Who knows? The afterlife is full of surprises.
