There was a time long in the past when I was young and ever so punk rock. To be young and punk rock meant to live in New York and in the East Village. I lived on a shady block on even shadier street 'round the corner from Tompkins Square Park. It was E. 7th St between Avenue B and Avenue C. Older New Yorker's called it Alphabet City. It was down and it was out was but if you were 23 and ready to go it was nirvana. Everything one needed was between Avenue C and the subway at Astor Place. Going uptown meant crossing 10th St and anything south of Canal St was an adventure. The neighborhood was so alive, filled with excitement and energy. Bars and shops were opening and closing everyday. There was always someplace new. A must do thing was always happening. I lived in an old brownstone that's facade had long since been removed. It was then painted a sort of matte black. The windows on the street level were hidden behind layers of security mesh covered in coats of gloppy black paint. The most distinguishing feature of my building was the word "fuck" in sliver spray paint on the door. The landlords try as they may could never completely remove the graffito. They would paint over the offensive welcome and within a day or two it would reappear freshly painted. These were the good old East Village days when junkies and winos still frolicked together in Tompkins Square Park. Ukrainian diners and dark bars lined the streets around the park. On the prime corner of 7th and Ave. A was King Tut's Wah Wah Hut. It sat proudly on it's corner welcoming the kooksters, riff raff and occasional uptown thrill seeker.
A fast jaywalk across the street was the Pyramid. Always loud and crowded the Pyramid rocked every night with bands and performances that defy description. The crowd was beyond eclectic. My personal favorite regular was a 4 foot tall drag queen who would dance with a parasol. Around the corner on St. Mark's place was the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. The Holiday opened around 9 in the morning and closed at 9 at night. The gruff old bartenders put up with the Mohawks and Goths their money was as good as the popeyed drunks that spent their mornings there for years. Last call was 8:45 and doors closed at 9 sharp so drink up and get out.
Then you would meander up the street shopping for shoes on the sidewalk and records at St Mark's records on your way to The Aztec Lounge or maybe CBGB's. Shops were open until 10 and if you knew someone who worked there you could have a beer or a glass of crap wine while you were shopping. If you were hungry there was 7A cross from the Wah Wah where speed freaks ordered and played with salads or maybe the Olympic Diner for a greasy order of eggs and golabki.
These were the salad days of the East Village. What was once a squat is now a luxury loft above a purse boutique. CB's is a John Varvatos store and the Wah Wah just a memory.
My East Village is no more. Bits and pieces still exist extant but those too could go at any moment. They are endangered species. So much and so many things and people are now extinct; there is no 8BC, no Ethyl Eichenberger. They are long gone. The Bowery is chic and Klaus Nomi is dead. On the top floor of a walk-up on 5th St my friend Jaqui lives rent controlled. She has thought about moving, "but where would I go?" Thirty two years and 100 bucks later she is still there. Sometimes it depresses her but she has seen it all. The changes have come and eventually overwhelmed the neighborhood. The cube is still turning at Astor Place, bars still come and shops they go but it isn't the same. The black building is now sand blasted clean and chic. I'd love to go to Wigstock again and then have a beer at the Wah Wah Hut. It's not going to happen. Lady Bunny is on TV now and the squats no more. My East Village is gone.
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