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Club 57

Club 57 was born in the basement of the Holy Cross Polish National Church on St. Mark’s Place, back when there were fewer than a hundred pointy-toed hipsters skulking around the East Village streets and a boy could get the shit beat out of him for dyeing his hair blue. Girls fared a little better. We could parade about in our rockabilly petticoats, spandex pants, and thrift-store stiletto heels and get away with just a few taunts (“Hey, Sid Vicious’s sister!”) from a carload of Jersey assholes.

That was in the late ’70s, when the Bee Gees ruled the airwaves, Brooke Shields peered down from every billboard in town, and the nefarious isle of Manhattan still had a wild side to walk on.

We were suburban refugees who had run away from home to find a new family, a family that liked the things we liked—Devo, Duchamp, and William S. Burroughs—and (more important) hated the things we hated—disco,

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