I’m pretty inured to NYC’s cottage industry dedicated to donning sack and ashcloth and bemoaning the loss of yet another obscure place I somehow never heard of in 35 years of living in the city. By now, those supposedly beloved holdouts are the last dregs of a city — I mean Manhattan — that lost its cultural force 20++ years ago. That’s FINE: cities and times come and go, and NYC’s real energy is alive and well in the outer boroughs. But dressing up Manhattan’s demise as something else is NOT fine: it’s huffing nostalgia out of some beat-up Tiffany’s bag to pretend away the nightmare of real estate run amok. Let’s be clear: landlords, not Covid, are what’s been killing the city — for decades now. Even so, this…this is just sad. I haven’t been to the Pyramid in forever and a half, but the fact that it somehow remained was a comfort. It’s hard to think of a place that’ll leave a stronger ghostly presence when it’s been replaced by a succession of what WTF ever. CB’s. And, like, Gray’s Papaya if the bastards ever manage to get it.