Like those bars in swingers without the signs

Take a right. It's just there on the right, can't remember the street name right now off the top of my head. Place has got basically a non-existent sign. The best indicator that you're in the right place might be the smell of stale beer and cigarettes when you get about 30 feet from the door. Watch out for the indie kids coming up, you're not as cool as they are. Wow, khakis and a BR sweater are not going to go over here well. Unless dressing preppy is so uncool that it's cool. Hopefully that's the case. You walk in this place and it smells like every other bar you've been in. The bartenders look basically the same as any bartender you've ever seen. They look probably ten years older than they are. Cigarette smoke, dehydration, alcohol, late nights and recreational drugs have aged these truly amazing and patient people. Scraggly facial hair if they're male, low cut jeans if they're female. It reminds you of Nowhere Bar, but not of Nowhere Bar as much as the people you used to hang out at Nowhere Bar with. There are a couple of differences. Nowhere Bar has pool tables and the juke box plays almost exclusively Drive By Truckers. Outside of that you could transport the place to East Clayton or Washington or maybe even off the beaten path on Prince. You could put the people from back home in the bar, take away the pretentious indie kids, keep the new law school friends, and you'd be back in the Classic City. That's the way things could have ended, that could be the story of your life right now if you had wanted it to be. But thankfully that's not how the story ended.
To top things off, your night is surely to end with a not fun conversation with somebody you care about. These types of conversations blow regardless of the circumstances and they can never, ever be fun. You try and be nice, try and keep you feelings in check. Externally, you do a wonderful job of putting forth this facade but internally you just make yourself sick. That conversation will be interrupted by a call from the same people that you would put in the bar from back home. The night will seem like a big trick played on you and will be capped off with a really fun walk home from the Red Line in the fucking freezing cold. I swear, the El ride and the walk home is like God's way of sending you to timeout to think about what you've done. But when you think about it, you really haven't done anything. Just tried to be a really good guy. If you were slightly cooler, you would go home and put on some Miles Davis until you fell asleep. If you were more of an alcoholic, you would pound the rest of the gin you've got until you passed out. If you were more rational, you'd take a quick shower and hit the sack. Instead, I ate leftover Thai, listened to the Walkmen and bitched about my night in this irrational and poorly written post. Sorry guys.
Lyric
"I'm waiting on a subway line
I'm waiting for a train to arrive
I'm thinking of a dream I had
Maybe you're right"
-The Walkmen Thinking of a Dream I Had