A Drinker's Lament

Those of you who have been reading along this past month know the sadness I have felt over the demise of my favorite bar, The Stoned Crow. As a 20-year patron about to lose his watering hole, I feel the need to share this pain as a means to reaching catharsis.
As one enters the Stoned Crow, on the side street of Washington Place in Greenwich Village, they are immediately greeted by a large, long bar to their right, surrounded by posters and photos from TV and film from the last century. After buying a drink, they move to the back, where up a few steps sits the best bar pool table in New York (Sorry, Barfly denizens) , with more posters lining the tall ceiling and tables and chairs scattered about. A single cushioned chair stands alone by the table, at times filled by the bar's owner, Betty, who at times oversees and directs the flow of pool traffic and the implementation of bar rules. She does this with curmudgeon-y grace, screaming at new drinkers to "Get their beer away from her table!" and "Don't jump the ball!".
I returned to the Stoned Crow last night to say my goodbyes, and for a short while, accompanied by a few friends who feel the same as I do, there was something familiar about the bar; something which many of you feel about different bars which you frequent. We silently, fondly remembered the last 15-20 years where we grew up together, laughed as we injured ourselves physically and emotionally. We played pool and drank shots as if we owned the place, scowling at the loud hippie who accompanied the newer regulars who had replaced us years ago. We counted ourselves lucky for the friends we made and will keep for our waning lives, and those that we had lost, and had a drink in their behest. And then it was all gone; we were slowly being ushered out the door because Betty was tired, Donnie was annoyed that Tom, the shittiest bartender of recorded history, was still working, though his shift had ended 4 hours earlier, and I almost murdered that hippie fuck. What the bar had become was obviously foreign to us now, and we were glad to leave it as a fond memory.
To you drinkers out there, let this be a cautionary tale. If you love your local bar, embrace it fully, drinking its wondrous filth from the floor as if it were your essence. Change will infect it, and bars come and go, so hold onto your friends and memories that you garnered along the way, for they will travel with you until your dying day, keeping the good times alive. But above all, cherish your local until that day comes, for bars like the Stoned Crow are getting rarer. Happy New Year.