This venue is closed.
Later to you disenchanted publicists spooned into Sass & Bide jeans. So long to you wayward architects tricked out in Buddy Holly specs and Freitag bags. You might get mussed throwing darts at this chill, roomy dive where Paul Weller gets cranked up and a hanging chalkboard (which patrons are encouraged to write on) gets lit by a neon Guinness sign. A note taped to the outside window proclaims: "Please Respect Our Neighbors and Shut the Fxxk Up!" Inside, faux exposed brick is strung with twinkling blue lights. A Buddha paperweight meditates atop a pile of dollar bills near the cash register and two TVs are usually tuned to sports.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.