So, today, I had to go down to a boutique way,way,way down into the bowels of the East Village. I'm talking past where Andy Warhol's factory used to be, way past the empty lot where all the skinheads still hangout, and way beyond Canal Street Jeans and Astor Place. Like the true depths. Where the strung out rock and roll wannabe's score crack. And let me tell you something--it's now disgusting. Where it used to still be relatively cool when I first would go in and hang out in my late teens and early 20's, it is as if, since then, it is the section of the city that has been forgotten. Businesses are empty, the streets smell of garbage and patchouli (yuck) and the once 'cool' heroin chic kids, look anorexic and wasted. I hope it gets it together and experiences some sort of Renaissance. It kind of bummed me out to see the charm so faded away.
Still, I did have a moment where I did wax nostalgia. I found myself, as I was crawling up Avenue A, behind a young, in love couple. He was tall, lanky, with a bolero hat, glasses, a Ramones T- shirt and high top black Converse. (the cliche uniform, right?) She was all long hair, nose piercing , sun dress, but rather than paired with sandals, she rocked that dress with Doc Martens. Good girl.
They were sharing a hand rolled cigarette, and the the only thing missing from the picture, was a copy of "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac tattered and rolled up in the guy's back pocket. The little beatnik couple. And it reminded me just exactly of me at 21. It was almost too familiar. But, just before I got too gooey with memories, they turned to go into 'Trader Joes', to buy their organic wine and brown rice and soy milk, I'm sure. Using the last 40 bucks they had after paying the exorbitant rent on the 10 floor walk up they shared.
I realized as I got back on the subway uptown, how I did mot miss those days a bit. How sorry I felt for anyone that had to actually LIVE in a city that I can barley work in. You can keep it.
