Johnny Thunders — the stories I could tell…

I moved into the East Village in NYC in the mid Eighties; and like a dope (no pun intended) I’m, incredibly, still here. Junkie rock was still in full swing back then, and Johnny Thunders [December 2022] was its reigning monarch.

I owned a clothing store on storied St. Mark’s Place — ground zero for the cultural madness that Manhattan exemplified. While no one but bodegas (remember those?) opened until noon (the kids who worked the clothing, record and chachka shops in the neighborhood couldn’t make it in any earlier than that after a night of debauchery), I opened my store at 11 a.m. because, hey, you never know who could walk through the door. And one hot, sticky August morning at 11:15, that’s how I first met Johnny. The only guy on the street, fresh from copping dope in Alphabet City, came stumbling and staggering straight for my store, tripped down the four stone steps and crashed face first into my picture window. Holding himself up by his face, he dragged himself clear across the glass, leaving a smear of snot the length of the window, until finally running into the door jam. He made eye contact with me, said “Fuck you,” stumbled back up the far end of the stairs and continued on his way. While it was no fun cleaning off the glue-like smear left on my window, I couldn’t help but chuckle; I was just introduced to my childhood guitar hero. As I got to know Johnny over the next few years, my mind would often return to this morning and

I couldn’t help but think, how frickin’ appropriate.

You see, Johnny offended a lot of people, and I mean a lot. He truly didn’t give a rat’s ass. Eventually, though, like all the people you care about in your life, for better or worse you learn to excuse the bad moments and cherish the great ones. With Johnny that was particularly easy; all you had to do was listen to him play guitar. Thank you for the article.

— AndrewSteven Damsits, NYC