The record store is considering a marriage of convenience.

New Yorkers are accustomed to sharing things; that's the bargain of the city—the source of its energy and so many of its frustrations. We share our ceilings and walls, our commutes and our living rooms, the meals we eat and the relatively modest patches of green that constitute our nature.

Now, because of huge rent hikes throughout the city, our businesses might need to start sharing, too. New Yorkers have long mourned the disappearance of mom-and-pops, the stores and restaurants, dive bars and old haunts that gave the streets their chaotic splendor.

It has been a rough few years. The Mars bar disappeared, St. Mark's Bookshop spent most of last year teetering on the brink of death—requiring cash transfusion after cash transfusion as it desperately sought a cheaper home. Last month the Pink Pony went down, and last week the dirge began for Bleecker Bob's Records. The Greenwich Village icon announced that another tenant had signed the lease on its longtime home. The response turned into what could only be called caterwauling when it came to light that the new tenant would be a frozen yogurt shop.

The Observer sympathized. The Village's plethora of frozen yogurt shops is enough to chill even the most devoted dairy fan. Seeing the writing had been on the wall—physical record stores are increasingly anachronistic and frozen yogurt is obviously ascendant—did little to ease the pain. How much frozen yogurt could the NYU kids eat? Wasn't it available in their dining halls? And why did it have to supplant a local staple?

"Now i won't have to go into the west village anymore .. .it's a shame but the city is just a strip mall now full of big corps that will pay any rent to push shit on you," was a typical response on the store's Facebook page.

Even more confounding (if also comforting) was the news later in the week that Bleecker Bob's and the new fro-yo joint might just team up, sharing a storefront in a bizarre, vaguely Faustian deal. Forever Frozen Yogurt was desperate for authenticity, for preserving the "neighborhood feel" it was destroying, for what might be called a soul. And Bleecker Bob's wanted to stay, an option it obviously couldn't afford.

"We try to keep every store unique and different from each other," the yogurt franchise's CEO told DNAinfo. "It's about appreciating the neighborhood itself and the elements that are special for that neighborhood."

The CEO went on to describe potential plans for a counter with record store inventory and "decorating the place so it carries on the design of Bleecker Bob's."

We shivered when we read of the possible commercial cohabitation, but another part of us wondered ... rather than the endlessly ringing death knells and constant crowdsourcing campaigns, could taking a strange bedfellow be the last hope for Manhattan's beloved small businesses?

New York has long been a merciless place for an entrepreneur, but it has only recently become a harsh place for successful, long-established businesses. Having survived for decades with devoted customer bases, many run up against rent increases of thousands of dollars without a corresponding surge in business (Pink Pony's rent, for example, jumped from $14,000 to $20,000 a month—the main factor its owner cited in closing.)

So, what's wrong with a model that could potentially save our neighborhood institutions? Primarily, the possibility that these mergers might preserve nothing but the brand of the former business. We could find ourselves among many zombie businesses—dead things that continue to roam the earth, luring in naive tourists who can't tell the difference. This may well be worse than a celebrated small business dying a dignified death—a fear that Bleecker Bob's seemed to hint at when its general manager told DNAinfo: "It would be more [like] a yogurt-slash-coffee shop with a small space for music. In theory, it might be fine."

Not to mention that combination businesses can either be delightful or dreadful: a brilliant business ploy or a laughingstock. They can come off as completely natural combinations (the neon-lit, bulletproof glass-protected, 24-hour fried food emporiums that sell pizza, Chinese food, mozzarella sticks, hamburgers and fries: clearly a selection built from our raw, drunken desires) or charmingly wacky attempts to combine an owner's incompatible passions. Who doesn't love banh mí and jewelry shopping? Or a candy store with video rentals?

But they can also seem like (and often are) desperate bids to ward off death. Countless businesses have tried adding coffee shops or bars to give themselves a much-needed jolt of energy. Plenty of gyms have partnered with juice bars and the Wall Street Duane Reade has successfully integrated a frozen yogurt bar. But we have a feeling that a pairing between Forever Frozen Yogurt and Bleecker Bob's might not be a match made in heaven. If we were Bleecker Bob's, we'd be more inclined to take the combination recommendation of another Facebook commentator: "Buy an oven sell dollar pizza rent will never be an issue again."

kvelsey@observer.com

Hank Penza and Mars Bar, his saloon.

But what exactly were these violations? A Department of Health spokesperson told Runnin' Scared that the shutdown came about as a result of "approximately 850 fruit flies in various areas of the restaurant and in a bottle of alcohol." No doubt, that bottle was the ancient jug of Leroux Rock & Rye The Observer saw behind the bar a few weeks back. George, an old-timer who told us to go fuck ourselves, had taken a big swig of it a few days earlier.

Back to the official health violations—what, exactly, did the department find? EV Grieve alerted us to the report, and it's ugly. Let's take a look (emphases ours):

Sanitary Violations
1) Food Protection Certificate not held by supervisor of food operations.
2) Raw, cooked or prepared food is adulterated, contaminated, cross-contaminated, or not discarded in accordance with HACCP plan.
3) Filth flies or food/refuse/sewage-associated (FRSA) flies present in facility’s food and/or non-food areas. Filth flies include house flies, little house flies, blow flies, bottle flies and flesh flies. Food/refuse/sewage-associated flies include fruit flies, drain flies and Phorid flies.
4) Facility not vermin proof. Harborage or conditions conducive to attracting vermin to the premises and/or allowing vermin to exist.
5) Non-food contact surface improperly constructed. Unacceptable material used. Non-food contact surface or equipment improperly maintained and/or not properly sealed, raised, spaced or movable to allow accessibility for cleaning on all sides, above and underneath the unit.
6) Proper sanitization not provided for utensil ware washing operation.

You really don't need to be a hired Health Department hand to figure out there's filth and vermin at Mars Bar, but now we've got the official reason for the closing. But, really, flesh flies? Horrifying stuff.

Full report is below. Click to enlarge, if that's your thing.

Goodbye to Mars Bar?

A few weeks ago, The Observer spent a hell of a long time in Mars Bar, the storied punk-themed dive on Second Avenue, expecting it to close any day. Then, we got word of a grace period that could last up to six weeks. They wouldn't go out without a fight. Old habits die hard. All that good stuff.

But today, EV Grieve reported that Mars Bar's bottles of whiskey stopped pouring. Could the beloved tattered closet of a saloon be done for good?

We called, and it seems the time of demise is still up in the air.

"Hello," a man said when he picked up the bar's clunky plastic land line phone.

It's The Observer, we said.

"We're closed," he said.

What happened?

"Health Department shut us down."

So, is this the end?

"No," he said. "I have to go."

The stalwarts, then, insist the place will get its act together before the wrecking ball comes, but that date's just a few weeks away. Aspiring punk rock revivalists, start looking elsewhere. You better pray there's another charmingly rude rust den to serve you Leroux Rock & Rye because Mars Bar is done, dead today or dead tomorrow.

The Wall Street Journal's still-new restaurant beat directs its gaze some 50-odd blocks south of the News Corp. office. Verdict? The Lower East Side is changing!

"I'm looking for another space in the neighborhood," said Ulli Rimkus, owner of Max Fish, which opened its doors 21 years ago. Ms. Rimkus has lived in the Lower East Side for 30 years. "I've seen the changes, and it's hard," she said. "The neighborhood has kind of lost its color… I have a feeling that the intention is to make this like the meatpacking district."

Look at that, a neighborhood has new bars. What's the evidence that points to a glossing-up of these mean streets?

The hot ticket on the Lower East Side last week was the opening of Beauty & Essex, a multi-story bar where a bartender pours free Champagne in the ladies' room and a giant pearl chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

To be fair, while the Lower East Side has long been accused of fostering unwelcome gentrification, we stopped by the just-opened Beauty & Essex this weekend and the Journal's fear-mongering may be merited. The feel is unmistakably Lavo-esque, and what's worse, its lavish interior is half-masked by an ironic pawn shop.

Plus, our gender doesn't even qualify us for free Champagne. Thanks, Beauty & Essex, but no thanks.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Which makes this news especially crushing: Curbed is reporting that instead of "renovating" Mars Bar and the two tenements above it, the plan calls for full-fledged destruction. Taking its place will be an eyesore sure to riotously offend anyone with taste below 14th Street -- a blocky, too-sleek, 12-story apartment building that will rise up on the patch of Second Avenue where Mars Bar currently stands.

Though the new space will be three to four times bigger, the owner says, it will have to be incorporated into the same boring residential-cum-retail model that's infiltrated much of the area. So, basically, an extension of the Whole Foods that stands a few hundred feet away. We'll miss you, original Mars Bar.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

It's also is a bit of a sore thumb on Second Avenue. Mars Bar is garish and gross; it's on an street that's so clean you could have a blanket-less picnic with your tofu from Whole Foods, which is conveniently located right next door. Mars Bar is a loud, dirty and full of unapologetic malcontents, seemingly of another age; outside people pass by, quickly and looking down, on their way to buy a bottle of Riesling and some organic kale for the night's salad. Mars Bar serves up cheap whiskey and cancer; directly around the corner, Daniel Boulud serves up House-Made Pappardelle "Gourguignon" at DBGB. Mars Bar is not a nice place, and this is what makes Mars Bar one of the best.

It's a tragedy, then, that a decision by Community Board 3 would force the glorious filth hole to close for two years and remodel extensively, Eater reports from a New York Times story on proposed low-income housing on Second Ave. BFC Partners, the project's developers, will ask the board for approval tomorrow.

Mars Bar is clearly not the joint for everyone -- oftentimes, we've found it's a great place to take someone you don't really like, to scare them -- and many must be in favor of the closing. One of these people is Hank Penza, the owner and man who has to spend an unseemly amount of time there. He's confident he can stay afloat while the bar is closed.

“They won’t choke me,” Penza told the Times. “I didn’t get off the boat yesterday with a pound of spaghetti in my hand.”

But if the plans get approved we'll be pouring some out for Mars Bar. It will be a markedly different stroll down Second Avenue without the old drunken punks collapsing out the door, growling the words to a Germs song, and stumbling down the street.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

He paid a now jaw-dropping $150,000 for the condo. "The irony is that originally I moved here because it was so cheap, and now it's arguably the most rapidly gentrified part of New York City," Moby told the Post. Given the area's average sales price, his apartment would probably sell for at least 15 times what the beats-master paid for it, if not more considering the roof terrace and celebrity caché.

That he hasn't already cashed in is somewhat surprising, given this downtown dean's penchant for property. He has bought and sold a number of apartments across the city over the years, including a Stuyvesant Square spread and a sprawling duplex at the El Dorado. (Moby uptown? The horror!)

This spread no doubt holds a sentimental value beyond money, as Moby has produced many of his albums here, including 1999's Play, still the bestselling dance album of all time. He has just finished work on his latest: "It's all made with old drum machines and old synthesizers, so it has kind of a broken-down quality to it." Kind of like the apartment, which was fitted out by the artist's architect friend Nick Durrie with wood beams and skylights.

Moby said he misses the days when he could walk out his door and bump into the Beastie Boys or Iggy Pop on the street, though it was only a few years ago that he stopped living wild style. Until Moby gave up drinking for David Lynch-style transcendental meditation, he used to hang at the Village's still notorious Mars Bar, where he frequently invited everyone there back to his apartment. He would find people smoking crack in the bathroom, and, at least once, when Moby was looking for a pancake fix, he discovered his skillet had been used to cook up some Special K.

"Back when I drank, I didn't have the best judgment in the world," Moby said.

mchaban [at] observer.com | @mc_nyo