I have lived, worked, and otherwise meandered around the corner of Bathurst and Queen for 10 years now. It looks a lot different than it did 10 years ago, especially since Thursday, when what was once the Big Bop building re-opened as a giant furniture store. There are already several furniture stores in the area and they all sell similar-looking furniture. The apartments around here are not that big. I can barely fit a bed in my apartment, which is why I sleep on a pullout couch.

The Big Bop looked like a flophouse for Grimaces. I can’t deny that bright windows and restored brick look nicer. I’m not necessarily lamenting the loss of the venue, either, although it would be nice if the Big Bop had become, say, a produce market, like the one at Manning that is now a cafe. There are roughly three times as many cafes around here than there are furniture stores. If you went on a cafe crawl in the Bathurst and Queen area, your heart would stop and you would die.

But that’s neither here nor there. My point is that the new Big Bop building marks the intersection’s gradual transition from shithole to exactly like the rest of Queen Street. Here are some things I may or may not miss about that intersection.

THE OWNERS
One beautiful day in early spring, I stepped out of my old place at Markham and Queen to run a few errands. Returning home minutes before dusk, following a tiny brook of melting ice into the alley from which I accessed my apartment, I espied a man taking a shit in a coffee can.

There was a lot of human shit in that alley. My dad once stepped in it. The only reason I didn’t step in it was because I became adept at identifying human shit. People need to shit, no matter where they live, and lots of people lived in and around the alley. Some of them came from the corner, where I once walked by a naked woman receiving oral sex. Others kept to themselves, like “Mason,” who got his nickname for muttering “Sorry, I don’t speak Mason” at an accoster. Mason would wander through the alley drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonades. Sometimes he would stand outside our door for hours.

I didn’t like having to pass him on my way out, but it was his alley before it was mine.

AMATO’S
When I was in junior high, Amato’s pizza was a reason to go downtown. Of course, buying iron-on patches was a reason to go downtown. Spotting “Spare Change 4 Weed” signs was another reason to go downtown.

Now that I’m older, I know that there are better things to do downtown, and in general, than eat Amato’s pizza. Things like drink stale draught beer and go to the bathroom outdoors in a coffee can. Still, Amato’s was a great hangout for people who were too young to get into bars, but didn’t want to go home at 10:30 pm.

My fondest memory of Amato’s is winning a trip to the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City from a Pepsi cap. I couldn’t believe I had actually won, so I threw the cap away. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

GOTHS
Back in the day, Queen West was full of goths. They walked between their darkraves and their fried tofu plates at Java House in five-inch platform boots and black dreadlocks. (Can someone explain to me how dreadlocks become a goth thing?) They painted their faces until their skin took on the look and texture of unglazed ceramic. They wore underwear over their clothing and clothing made from PVC. Once, outside of the Big Bop, I had to contend with a goth classmate in PVC pants. They were too short for his legs and too tight for his penis, which disturbed me because his voice was incredibly high.

There was a time when I thought goths were really cool. They came from a mythical place called The Sanctuary and had sex I didn’t understand. One of my goth friends had cerulean blue hair and lived in a homeless shelter. Another wore her hair in straw-like pigtails and made me sing “Doll Parts” with her in public. She had sex with all the goth guys I had crushes on. I lent her all my Hole CDs and she never gave them back.

So fuck goths. I’m glad they’re getting run out.

BOHEMIANS
The higher the rents, the fewer the bohemians. When I say “bohemians,” I mean people who think jobs are stupid and that only sheep work jobs instead of writing poetry in public and walking around all day. There used to be more bohemians around Bathurst and Queen, and, from my teenaged point of view, they all seemed pretty horny. One guy in his forties insisted on giving me his poetry zines, which included sex poetry. Another guy once sidled up to my table at Java House and asked me if I was an existentialist.

I told him no, because I wanted him to leave me alone. But I probably am an existentialist. I still think it’s important to have a job. Rent’s expensive.

THE BIG BOP BUILDING
The Big Bop was like an amusement park for high school kids. The Kathedral hosted scammy battle of the bands nights where teenagers had to sell their own tickets at prices no teenager could really afford, vying for record contracts they would never really get. The Reverb booked actual bands and held occasional all-ages shows, as well as a weekly night called “Indie Blast” where I once saw my math teacher play in a band called The New Math. He didn’t seem very happy to see me. Holy Joe’s was basically someone’s attic where you could go if you were stoned. I saw a lot of good shows at the Big Bop, even though it looked and felt like someone’s damp pocket.

The Reverb had a little hidey loft next to the stage, where you could hang out with your friends on ratty couches if the bands sucked. When I was a teenager, I thought that’s what living downtown would be like: a big loft full of friends and couches. It’s not, and the Reverb is now a furniture store.

Alexandra Molotkow drinks tequila & soda and writes this here Minutiae column (not always at the same time). Follow her on Twitter: @alexmolotkow.