The quintessential dive bar among dive bars. My introduction to the night-time scene of Plaza Midwood happened here many years ago. When you roll up in one of those 10-person bar-cycles to a tiny hole-in the wall like this you know you're in for an experience. Motorcycles and leather-gilded bearded blokes line the outside of a building in a yellowish color that only appears from years of wear and dis-concern. Valspar doesn't make this color of paint.
The muddy crush-and-run lot is appropriate. The sign seems to perpetually hang precariously over the door. When will those letters fall? Perhaps the opener always re-hangs it when they start the day. Every day. Inside you'll find a cacophony of furniture slapped together to accurately match the litany of strange wall-hangings. Who cares about a theme? The theme? No theme, just stuff.
The bar is always full - usually with the riders and their honeys. Reach through and toss a few bucks on the counter for a PBR. Make it a tall-boy. Carry it to some open space - the tables will be full but chairs a-plenty in a variety of sizes and disrepair. Slap some change in the jukebox. Play something your father used to roll with in his 80s S10 pickup. Or what your mom liked to jive to on the record player. Even better when they cram a country-grunge band in here. It gets loud. The good loud. Visit the restrooms to get an idea for what move you might pull in the bedroom next time (with permission). Drop a stack of quarters on the edge of a pool table and kick back for a chat with one of the many regulars. I've met many a drunkard (no offense intended) that thought I was their best friend here. Frankly, everyone is best friends here. It's a dive. Intimate. But intimate with all.