The Spoke dies from the inside

I'm a little depressed tonight.

Friends from the old skool bring word of a terrible event. Our beloved Spoke has become a wannabe Starbucks. So now instead of a bar, it's more of a coffee shop. The bar remains open, but there is only a very teeny tiny drinking room too small for the squash team, let alone football's defensive line.

This is bad news.

Singing along to Rick McGhie's "The Gambler" with a latte is simply wrong. But what's more wrong is that Rick isn't even on the calendar, which leads me to believe Wednesday nights are McGhie free? The man may be creepy but Western without Rick McGhie is no Western at all.

I'm miles away from London, but I find myself longing for the familar smell of stale beer and those dirty of beer bottle-lined booths. It was ugly, but it was home and the latest change to a cleaner, more sterile Spoke proves that although change is inevitable, it's not always for the better.

Link:
"Not ready to be a Spoke in the Wheel" — the final column I wrote at the Gazette that touches on some of the reasons why the Spoke has a special place in my heart.