The Old Pink in Buffalo burned down early last week. If there is any sign that the end of the world is near-this is mine.
I think I was naturally drawn to how ugly the building was. The yellow-green flames against the deep indigo background were severe in a neighborhood known for its respectable softly gentrified arts district aesthetic.
There was a versatility to The Pink that showcased the character of Buffalo. In the city’s most authentic form, it is a gritty, economically disadvantaged but spiritually resilient, occasionally ridiculous (looking at you Bills Mafia1), beautiful hot mess of a place. The Pink was where every slice of life drank side by side in a cramped windowless bar.
It was never clean. The walls were covered in tags stickers and the hieroglyphs of generations of young and not so young party people who decided to scribble a romantic partner’s name, a phone number, a favorite band, on a bathroom stall, a sticky bar-top, or a pool table.
To enter The Pink was to be welcomed by either a wall of drunk revelers shouting over a Harvey Danger track or a silent and sporadic mix of Allentown locals staring into their Labatt Blue cans illuminated in the dark red glow.
It was not the bar you began your evening at, but it was always the place where you ended the drinking journey. You knew when your night was almost over when the lights would start flickering at 3:30 am.
The damage to the building was estimated at 1.25 million. It’s always strange when life imitates art–a building decorated with flames and clouds of thunder snow eventually succumbs to the real disaster of being engulfed in fire. During the blaze a dispatcher claimed they overheard someone on the scanner shouting “you can’t put a price tag on the Old Pink Flamingo.”
Every Buffalonian under 50 (and quite a few above) has at least one Pink story. For me it was a third place, from a period of my life where going out and having fun was more important than documenting the evening on social media (thank god—I don’t want to see any of those pictures).
Sure, I had my fair share of bad nights there. Nights where I drank too much and left with my head hanging out of a car like a dog. However, it’s also the place where I solidified relationships with people I now consider old friends.
It was never a boring time. You may have had a bad night at The Pink but that was probably because the evening was too eventful. There was always an interestingly dressed person, a peculiar conversation, or an amazing DJ set, which justified suffering through the layers of pheromones, sweat, urine, and stale beer smell that permeated the nostrils.
I will always be indebted to Allentown’s unofficial and now defunct drinking society for the strange, the unusual, the slightly terrifying and the normies. So thank you. You were the greatest bar in Buffalo-a real cultural institution. And you will be missed.
the Buffalo Bills fandom single handedly may be my biggest reason for leaving the city