J O
Google
This is my second time, maybe my third, at this shelter... looks like a mortuary from the outside. And inside? It's like a red neon light bulb having a nervous breakdown. John F. Kennedy error decore, whatever the hell that means, and a pool table sitting in a room upper floor, and a other room full of cancer stickers, just sucking away. But the real gem? The horseshoe bar. It’s got that charm—old vinyl seats so sticky they’ve been there since ‘52. Hell, they’ve probably got a history of their own—at least one that might kill you faster than the booze.
This isn’t your run-of-the-mill dive bar. Oh no. This isn’t where the neighborhood normies come to cry into their beer. This is more like a quest—a place you stumble into when you’re sick of all the polished, cleaned-up bullshit of the world. Like you’re supposed to experience something here. It’s not pretty, it’s not classy—but goddamn it, the drinks are strong. And the people? They’ve got good energy. They’re a mixed bag: old, young, wrinkled, unwrinkled—every goddamn shade of life’s leftovers.
Now, this building? They say it was designed by Arizona’s first female architect. When I look around, I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or a curse. But who gives a shit about the architect? It’s all about the history. History’s the real thing here. You can feel it when you sit at the bar. You feel like you’re hanging out with Grandpa’s ghost, somewhere back in time when things were real—before divorce became as common as breakfast, when diapers had character, and the world wasn’t just an endless string of sanitized bullshit.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s the history of a place like this, the souls that lived in it, drank in it, fought in it. It’s dirty, it’s dingy, it’s everything that’s been forgotten by the clean-living, rule-following masses. But goddamn, if it doesn’t make you feel alive. Even if it’s just for a moment.
That's what we all need, right? A little dirt. A little history. Something that doesn't try to cover up the ugly.