More Than a Building Gone After Old Pink Burns in Buffalo
Buffalo’s soul has dived. A city whose pastime is sitting at a long flat table on which it’s customary to rest drinks lost its favorite to flames. The city will mourn indefinitely following the unsparing blaze which claimed the prototypical dive bar officially named the Pink Flamingo and unofficially called the Old Pink by everyone. Regulars had nowhere to drink while coping.
The beloved living museum of filth had always been there, at least for those under 200 years old. Buffalo’s been a city since 1832 and had the same building on Allen Street for a huge percentage of that. A house-like structure from the mid-19th century took on a life of its own thanks to those who essentially lived in the bar. The quantity of amendments more than doubled as it held its ground.
An icon from the Civil War era was gone before the Battle of Antietam wrapped up. I hate to use devastation as a reminder of life’s impermanence. But we’re presented with a deflating quantity of examples.
An empty space only starts with physical absence. The gap nobody alive’s seen before looks like how a void feels. Demolition crews created sense of emptiness at a vacant lot that we’ve only known to be filled with much more than wood and brick.
Even those who never indulged in the grime appreciated the value of the Old Pink’s existence. A magically debauched gathering center benefited teetotalers, home bar aficionados, and nightlife participants who preferred places where the bathrooms got cleaned. Decliners of the option to patronize were nonetheless lucky to reside somewhere with a public house of such limitless character. The whole area enjoyed vibes emanating from one corner tavern. It doesn’t have to be your church to appreciate worship.
You could have an adventure without even changing stools. A site for unhinged revelry is a crucial part of civic life. The chance that the evening could turn slightly menacing at the Old Pink was part of the deal. Some thrill junkies might even find it exciting. There was no better way to pass the time while awaiting daylight. Congregating for merriment provided something to do while waiting to see the sunrise.
Certain addresses inspire vivaciousness. The fun places are not assigned randomly by the cosmos, although certain mystical factors come together at locations that can’t be controlled. Take the dearly departed underbelly epicenter, whose customers occasionally ventured outside to share stories of their excursions there so crazy that they had to be true.
This particular infamously rowdy spot hosted seemingly unreal adventures nightly. Ask any Buffalonian for an Old Pink story, and you yourself will have one to tell based just on hearing the outrageousness.
The only thing faster than than the flames were updates about them. A search classifies the business status as “Temporarily closed” which I crave to be true as much as I want the city’s pro teams to each win their respective postseason’s final game.
The desire to replace what’s lost is as innate as it is challenging. Thirsty Buffalonians dream of a literal replacement while never being able to figuratively replace what’s lost. A rebuild can’t capture personality. It’d take dedicated work by degenerates to bring back the dank. Accumulate band stickers just in case. And keep Sharpies on red alert.
A fantasy about putting the band back together is the first thought following a breakup. Things might not feel the same even if blueprints miraculously survived in the basement to allow replication. The presently unplanned New Old Pink would rely on the same eclectically chaotic convergence that has forlornly departed. A venue that strives to attain similar stature would come about organically It’d be just like the original becoming legendary because awesome weirdos instinctively willed it into a destination for welcoming in outsiders.
There’s no written recipe to recreate a singular ingredient mix. Trying to recapture the energy of what burned is not the primary concern as debris is still cooling. But yearning for things to be like they were Sunday night is the most psychologically obvious method for coping upon experiencing sudden loss.
A place that sold Pabst without irony was not a technically family member. But unofficial relatives chose to wade into a preferred contaminated gene pool. Most guests would rather have had a steak sandwich on Thanksgiving there than a turkey at some regrettable aunt’s.
The Old Pink naturally oozed authenticity. Set designers wish they could create atmosphere that slapped anyone who crossed the threshold. Yet delightful rot was just the beginning. A fire can’t take what humans created with their unique respective presences. The clientele made a room with shelves and seats what it was.
Allentown’s Mos Eisley Cantina featured a cast of characters to match the impossibly dingy ambiance. After all, they created it. A petri dish where one must drink to immunize from omnipresent bacteria is a place that makes a city what it is and specifically this city. The Old Pink was a place to call home while avoiding one’s residence. The ferocity of sudden destruction can’t consume what Buffalonians created.
