On a Changing

Fear not Jethro and Mary Sue Mae Ellen, I ain't a changin'.

But the bit about the old road is a rapidly changin’ … it sure be true here on The Island.

Now, I’d best clear something up first, ‘cause the last time I quoted Dylan, one of my most perspicacious critics (Hi Mom!) swiftly pointed out that I misspelled Dylan and misconstrued the true revolutionary meaning of the lyrics. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was quoting that clown that was doing the Jack Kerouac impressions in Beverley Hills 90210.

So having acknowledged the feedback from the critics, back to changing … and change is a constant here on The Island. And it’s been amusing to write about that.

And it’s a little disconcerting when the road you drove on last Friday suddenly has an extra lane and a new s-bend the following Monday.

And sure it’s a little annoying that renting a place into a quieter low rise part of The Island was a great idea (until the park on the corner turned into a construction site for a 20 storey condo).

And I can even get over choosing a place that is a handy few blocks from a small mall (it only has 5 levels) that has a large supermarket … which 10 months later was completely flattened to build a new and improved mall (10 floors – coming soon! Invest now!).

No biggie.

But on the way home last week, the whole change thing has hit a whole new level.

You see the line it is drawn.
The curse it is cast.

My local (for those new to this diatribe of tripe please look up “Claypot Frog”, circa July 2009 A.D.), it has been a closin’. Well it has a been closed.

It’s one thing to lose a local park (to be honest, I’d rather skirt around a 20 storey condo than risk stepping in a Chihuahua’s dookie). And it’s another thing to have to go to the city for eggs and milk. But it’s a whole new thing for me not to be sure whether I have a Local.

To be fair, there are hawker joints that serve enormous pitchers of Tiger beers (on the sidewalk) all over the place. But I’m not certain this constitutes a “Local”. So I need hit the books:

“Lo•cal” British Informal. A neighborhood pub.

(Neighborhood is way too many syllables, let’s look up one of the smaller words … )

“Pub” Formal: Public House. A building in Britain where alcoholic drinks can be bought and drunk and where food is often available.

(I think this is getting warmer, except I’m sure it is meant to read “where alcoholic drinks can be bought and you get drunk, and it is a bonus if you can get a countery”)

Clearly this bookish stuff ain’t working.

So we develop a new one. Crusty’s Law (#94): to qualify as a “local”, said venue must have in its name (or tagline) one or more of the following: alehouse, bar, barroom, beer garden, beer joint, bistro, boozer, brew house, brewery, cabana, cocktail lounge, Coopers, distillery, drinkery, establishment of drinking, hotel, inn, lounge, moonshine, pool room, public house, roadhouse, saloon, taproom, tavern, or watering hole.

And while I hunt for my new Local, I leave you to ponder the extraordinarily profound lyrics from Bob Dylan McKay, ah heck, I can’t remember which of them covered it – go get yourself the Clancy Brothers version:

I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler.
I'm a long way from home.
And if you don't like me,
Well, leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry.
And if moonshine don't kill me,
I'll live till I die.