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Blue-collar types and Prattsters are loyal like dogs to this dusty, downstairs dive that refuses to upgrade with the neighborhood. And with uncomparably cheap, stiff drinks, $1 mugs of Bud, and not many other options around, why wouldn't they be. In the summer, a chalkboard outside touts the air conditioning: no mention of the bare, peeling mustard-colored walls, omnipresent layer of grime and the bar stools held together by duct tape. In the front room, local guys line up at the bar to hoot and holler over the game on a single, mounted TV, while others cheer on the often highly competitive pool games. A harshly lit, graffiti-marred back room (apparently, "Joe Done Did It") provides extra seating and a study escape from the Talking Heads and Top 40 rock on the strangely contemporary mp3 jukebox. Art students can hone their irony on a nearby Big Buck Hunter III videogame; out the back door, smokers compete with cobwebs and the bar's garbage for a spot on the shady, latticed deck. — Elizabeth Cline

There's no phone, but rest assured, the bar hasn't gone anywhere.