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The TVs no longer show porn, but little else seems to have changed over the twenty years this gay dive—with a salacious reputation—has been around. The narrow, two-level bar exists as a sort of cheesy house party until midnight, when the place suddenly fills up and things get serious. Chick-power ballads blast while a G-stringed muscle boy dances on the bar; a handshake for strangers becomes a pinch on the ass. The infamously active downstairs pissers don't seem large enough to use even for their intended function, and there's often an older gent camped on the bench just outside, like a rustler inspecting passing cattle. Décor includes anti-drug signs and a stack of ancient VHS porn tapes with names like Depth Charge 4. — John Metcalfe