I would have opened with the “first they came for the Jews” reference, but that would be as tacky as my friend who always laments having to make a tough decision playing cards as similar to Sophie’s Choice. So I’m not that tasteless and overly melodramatic in the face of what is nonetheless a tragic loss to my manufactured sense of identity and personal history.
The
Gas Station became a Duane Reade. Save the Robots became a series of depressingly obvious clubs (I don’t even know what the latest incarnation is). The lot on Attorney Street, where you would watch two dozen frozen ice vendors cleaning out their cars with water pilfered from a fire hydrant has become, well, it became a NYCHA facility, which isn’t so bad. Eric,
the quintessential EV bartender, has been demoted to working tables at a restaurant.
The more things change — maybe not. Anyway, do you know
this car? Well, you think you did. The two guys who came by every couple months to beat back the truly impressive weed festival that took place there got ambitious late last week, and as a result, the lot is picked clean, two clear scrape marks testifying to the battle this last real East Village landmark (oh, okay, it was an LES landmark, but having lived ten feet north and south of the putative border, I have to tell you, the difference is imperceptible, at least these days) put up before surrendering to a certain future of overstated luxury and long lines at Clinton Baking.
Where was the
Hungry Marching Band? The flyers posted from some hastily formed neighborhood association? The outrage at the injustice? No, this last stand took place in silence and anonymity, and the best we can hope for is that is was given a proper burial, at the
Sixth Street Garden (which, I hear, is going to become a Chipotle).
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Where is Landmarks West when you need them?
I would have opened with the “first they came for the Jews” reference, but that would be as tacky as my friend who always laments having to make a tough decision playing cards as similar to Sophie’s Choice. So I’m not that tasteless and overly melodramatic in the face of what is nonetheless a tragic loss to my manufactured sense of identity and personal history.
The Gas Station became a Duane Reade. Save the Robots became a series of depressingly obvious clubs (I don’t even know what the latest incarnation is). The lot on Attorney Street, where you would watch two dozen frozen ice vendors cleaning out their cars with water pilfered from a fire hydrant has become, well, it became a NYCHA facility, which isn’t so bad. Eric, the quintessential EV bartender, has been demoted to working tables at a restaurant. The more things change — maybe not. Anyway, do you know this car? Well, you think you did. The two guys who came by every couple months to beat back the truly impressive weed festival that took place there got ambitious late last week, and as a result, the lot is picked clean, two clear scrape marks testifying to the battle this last real East Village landmark (oh, okay, it was an LES landmark, but having lived ten feet north and south of the putative border, I have to tell you, the difference is imperceptible, at least these days) put up before surrendering to a certain future of overstated luxury and long lines at Clinton Baking. Where was the Hungry Marching Band? The flyers posted from some hastily formed neighborhood association? The outrage at the injustice? No, this last stand took place in silence and anonymity, and the best we can hope for is that is was given a proper burial, at the Sixth Street Garden (which, I hear, is going to become a Chipotle).