The Old Pink

  

The Old Pink
My Old Pink story starts in the early 80s at the establishment next store— Mulligan's Brick Bar. It's when the Old Pink was still The Pink Flamingo or, as we called it, The Pink. The Brick Bar became a thing when my friend and fellow Brockport State washout Kevin McNamara started working there. Not only did he work there, but he quickly rose to the rank of manager—no one could ice up a case of OV Splits like KevMac. Of course, as it is a best practice of the most effective managers everywhere, he used his elevated position to hire all of his friends, including me—the worst White Coat/Bouncer in the history of the Brick Bar.  

Remember the White Coats? We used to circulate through the packed bar, witnessing a thousand broken dreams and missed connections as we picked up and disposed of dead cases of OV Splits, beer bottles, and spent glasses of vodka and iced tea. We also had a secondary function of keeping the peace in the bar.  
While the Brick Bar atmosphere was always festive, the music from the DJ booth was so loud that conversations got reduced to single-line questions like: "ARE YOU HOLDING?" Or great pickup lines like: "HEY BABY, YOU SHOULD CALL A DOCTOR BECAUSE THAT ASS OF YOURS— IS SICK!!!" Given the inability to communicate adequately, misunderstandings often occurred, thus requiring White Coat intervention. Also, there were instances where miscommunication had nothing to do with it—lots of times, guys (and it was always guys) were just assholes. 

Despite having been given that White Coat, I should mention that I was never cool or tough. In high school, I had a brief moment where I was on the fringes of being popular, but that probably was just some leftover charisma from my legitimately popular older brothers that accidentally fell to me. After that moment passed, I would become a bit aimless, a little drunk, and very self-conscious as I tried to figure out what to do with my life. Cool and tough were never part of this quest.  

So, one Saturday night, with my deficit of coolness and lack of toughness on full display, I’m gathering up glasses and bottles from the wooden rail just below the giant stuffed elephant head jutting from the wall—yes, in 1984, a stuffed elephant head wasn't abhorrent like it is today—and KevMac calls me over from behind the bar. He's kind of pissed, which is hilarious because Kev has this perpetually optimistic demeanor like some Ferris Bueller wanna-be. But there he is, trying to draw a Clint Eastwood scowl on his dumb Ferris Bueller face. He points to some nondescript guy with a bad porn mustache halfway between the bar and the rail where I was picking up spent drinks and says: "Kano, take him out." 

I don't know what this guy's crime is, so after making my way through the crowd to talk to him, he tells me that he doesn't want to leave. At this point in my life, I'm not a great problem solver and don't know what to do. I yell to KevMac: "HE DOESN'T WANT TO GO." Kev rolls his eyes at me and motions to the guys at the door, and they come over and drag him out. Needless to say, I wasn’t long for the bar business and the Brick Bar in general. 
 
The Brick Bar was a party bar for the newly initiated when a night out was mostly about getting all blotted and being in with the "it" crowd. The migration to the Pink came in a couple of stages. It started as an escape from the Brick Bar's high school atmosphere. Though the Pink had a punk ethos, it was relatively calm and dark, smelling of equal parts piss and Mr. Clean. A welcome break, nevertheless, from the high school pep rally environment of the Brick Bar. You could get a drink and a steak sandwich and never hear the pop stylings of Whitney Huston unless it was called for in a moment of irony. 

By 1985, KevMac and other Brick Bar mixologists had graduated to work at the Pink, and it became our go-to place as we inched through our twenties. I was still aimless, a little drunk, and self-conscious, but I also had become more sophisticated and observant. Along with other freaks and mutants, it was obvious that The Pink was also the go-to place for Buffalo's musicians, artists, and other trendsetters. I remained among the severely uncool in my golf shirts, jeans, and baseball caps but never felt out of place there. There was this kind of joyous indifference to whoever walked through those doors. Though pretty caucasian, it approximated the melting pot we falsely congratulated ourselves for being in the U.S. But in old segregated Buffalo, that still was something. 

Another component of The Pink was the music. Except for the short-lived WuWu 107.7 FM and Buffalo State’s WBNY 91.3FM, which you could pick up within a mile or two of the school, sleepy Buffalo radio was either stuck in the '70s or going to lite rock. It was the same time Jon Bon Jovi was getting his business plan together to take over America. But The Pink had a diverse mix of sounds. In fact, the eclectic, cutting-edge sounds were one of its main draws for my friends and me. You could hear Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Stranglers, as well as Neil Young and Crazy Horse—my apologies to Terry Sullivan for that night I was kind of bombed and kept asking him to play “Everyone Knows This Is Nowhere,"  Club DJ's never get recognized for their patience in dealing with drunk assholes who want to hear "Everyone Knows This Is Nowhere," but they should. At any rate, the music at The Pink was such a revelation, and it remained that way, I'm told, to the very end when it was the Old Pink. 

If you're lucky and aware enough, you can sometimes stop the world for a second or two and be in the moment. As a kid, I remember feeling like I was in the center of the universe skating at the outdoor rink at Caz on cold winter nights. Another moment came in the car with my daughter, who was hating high school, and we bonded to The Mountain Goats, “This Year” (I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me). And lately, walking in the park with my dog on a blustery fall morning, seeing the wind snake through the burnt red and orange leaves. I always felt that way at The Pink—like it was the center of the universe. 

Kev Mac, Me, Rich Hannotte

The last time I was in the Brick Bar was KevMac’s last shift in 1985. Same with The Pink in 1989, which would soon become The Old Pink. KevMac went on to create the whole Chippewa Street phenomenon when he went to work at the Third Room with Rich Hannotte. I would become a little less aimless, drunk, and self-conscious but remain as uncool as ever. My days of going to bars or having a go-to bar ended with The Pink over thirty years ago. Still, the live shots of it burning on social media were heart-wrenching. To be alive is to lose things—family, friends, classmates. Here in Buffalo, we've also had our share of collective losses, but instead of feeling cursed, which is often the go-to in this town, I'm going to remember the fun we had there and how The Pink welcomed me and a thousand other freaks without judgment or enmity.  

If only in our heads—long live The Pink Flamingo, The Pink, and The Old Pink.