Isn't at all cool, but always throws events like Trivia Nights and 80s Nights to stay relevant. Usually has weird older guys hanging out in the corner, eyeing underage butt meat. Don't be surprised if the bartender laughs at you when you ask about drink specials. Everyone knows at least one girl who thinks she might have been roofied here. Even though it's closer than any other bar to where you live/work, you gladly bypass it after enough nights spent feeling awkward in your own skin.

Three steps into this bar, you're drowning in a sea of oxford blue button-downs and close-cropped haircuts. You made the mistake of venturing to Stone Street with a friend, and you're going to pay. A lot. Everything 30% more expensive than usual, and every cocktail on the board is made with vodka. Weird. Tables are occupied by varying combinations of 24 year-old guys, each of whom has two Blackberries neatly laid out in front of him (one for work, one for personal matters, of course). Girls at this bar are either gold-digging girlfriends from college who work in "marketing" to pass the time while they wait expectantly for a ring, or androgynous, hyper-motivated finance-business management double majors from a state school who have no time for casual conversation. You feel very stupid because you've never owned a Victorinox messenger bag.

Sometimes a combo of Ivy or NESCAC schools, but just as common is a stronghold of displaced Ohio State or Notre Dame fans. Overwhelming quantities of throwback school-spirit gear abounds, as do the overweight diehards who eagerly grill new arrivals about the state of the old fraternity back at school. Girls will feel uncomfortable here for one of two reasons: either they went to a different school, and are therefore shunned by all other girls, or they're ten (15) pounds heavier than they were at graduation and can't land any former classmates. Get ready for pennants, Miller Lite, and reruns of the '96 Orange Bowl.

Led here by a Blackberry-wielding chick you vaguely knew in college (but now hang out because neither of you know many people in your city yet), you've been trying to get a drink for twenty minutes. Turns out "knowing the bartender" meant that she's friends with him on Facebook and received his invite to this event at this stupid bar, the one he sent out to every single one of his friends. It's loud, crowded, and everyone seems to remember each other from high school on Long Island. You want to flee, but you don't know where, so you get a drink and sit by yourself—periodically pretending to be engaged in a captivating text conversation—until it seems like a not entirely pathetic hour to go home.

The low-rent Russel Brand behind the bar looks at you like a piece of shit when you ask him for six of his finest Red Stripes in a bucket, and informs you that this "isn't that kind of place." You forge onward and make it to the "gallery," which is really just the back room of the bar with some carpentry lighting set up to illuminate the "pieces." For laughs, you pretend you're interested in the art, which looks as though it was all done with the mosaic filter in Photobooth. The DJ repeatedly insists that he doesn't have anything by Waka Flocka Flame, which you verify by commandeering his MacBook Pro and combing through five "Recently Added" Tim and Jean songs and an Iron & Wine album. As you walk out, Russel Brand tells you not to come back. You won't.

Close-knit patrons hate foreigners more than that douchebag War Child in Point Break. Any night of the week, some 90-lbs., sweater-wearing, thrift-store-shopping ghuy is in here drinking one PBR and writing haiku on his iPad. Dim interiors lit only by candles on the table make you wonder if maybe this is a speakeasy, but then you realize they just keep it dark so you can't immediately tell that everyone in the place is ugly as sin. Bartender doesn't like your "mainstream" face, so expect the outsider's price. Tell the table next to you that their mothers ride non-fixed gear bikes, and you'll have an old-fashioned bar fight on your hands. Watch out for oversized watches and flying Moleskines; these fuckers fight dirty.

Seems normal – if a bit swank – from the outside, but as soon as you walk past the bouncer, you realize you're the only member of your ethnic group in the house. Usually everyone else is Indian, and they always have more money than you. Enjoy your well gin and tonic while the anthropomorphized hair gel behind you pour a magnum of Belvedere out on the waiter's head because it isn't cold enough. If you want to fit in, wear something with a gray-on-black bold pinstripe and open-toed Prada loafers. On second thought: find another bar.