Obsessive collector types that own dog-eared copies of the Trouser Press already know that quintessential rock dump CBGB’s is in danger of losing its lease.

After 32 years of damaging eardrums and helping people have sex, the club could be gone forever by summer’s end. Though no one called it "punk" then, CBGB’s is where The Ramones and Television and Blondie and The Dead Boys and Patti Smith got started on the road to infamy. Owner Hilly Kristal’s unflinching rule that any band that play there must play their own music. So they did, and the world was never the same.

The end of an era, to be sure.

And maybe that’s OK.

Due to an accounting error, says owner Hilly Kristal, the club owes $91,000 in back rent. The landlord happens to be one of New York City’s most respected non-profit organizations, the Bowery Residents’ Committee. In August, the club’s lease expires. Kristal told The The BRC agency has taken the matter to court and wants to evict CBGB’s.

Am I sad? Sure. It would be like a hole in my mouth where a molar once was. Seeing the tattered awning always excites me. The history alone made being there a thrill, even if it was disgusting and the showcases they put on when I was there were packed with awful bands.

My point is, sometimes it’s OK to let things go. To say goodbye, before they outlive their usefulness. Which in CBGB’s case may have already happened.

Full disclosure: I worked at CBGB’s in 1990, so I know firsthand how iconic and totally dumpy it is. I had moved back to New York to be closer to my family. One wintry night I walked into the 313 Gallery, right next door to the rock club, to take in an improv comedy troupe and get out of the snow. That night, I met Kristal’s son, who took pity on my snow-covered clueless self. I told him I could use another job. He gave me a few shifts bartending at the art gallery, and in time I got cocktail shifts at the rock club.

The art gallery was nice. Classy, even. I remember gawking at Paul Simon, who came in to check out some Creole art. The scariest part was the cappuccino machine, which was as big as a lawnmower, and almost as loud. I could never get it to work. Fortunately, hardly anyone drank the stuff in 1990. Hilly drank wine when he came in. Once he yelled at me because I filled the glass too much. Not that he wanted the pours to be under; he just knew how much should fill a wine glass.

The rock club? Disgusting. There were roaches in the ice cooler, and people routinely had sex under the tables. I never used the bathroom in the rock club, and would run next door when I had to.

That was -- geez -- 15 years ago? I was practically an infant. Of course, I loved working there. Working in any bar is like having a built-in family and an instantly well-lubricated social life.

Important place in history aside, all the people offering to help save the club are maybe doing so to strengthen their own (limited) public images. MTV reported that candy company Chocolate Bar will roll out limited-edition treats in May, with all proceeds going to the club. The other unlikely savior is Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban, who told MTV News, "There aren’t a whole lot of places where you can go and know what it stands for. If I find something that is important to me that I thought I could help, I would."

Cool. Good luck. But maybe it’s OK to say goodbye.

-- Alex Richmond’s columns appear on Mondays and Wednesdays. She may be reached at arichmond@trentonian.com