This nondescript geek came in search of a musical haven and found it at this no-frills bar with modest tables and photos of Danzig, Dio, and Peter Criss on one wall. With “Where Is My Mind?” as background music, co-owner Kelly Comstock, bartender Carlos, and I were discussing whether a Pixies reunion tour would end with Frank Black telling Kim Deal she “would fucking die.” Once your lips stop burning from Carlos’s mean Bloody Mary (made from scratch, $5), anyone’ll shoot the shit over whatever’s playing. The B-side special (a can of Rheingold—the new Pabst—and a shot of whiskey, $5) wets the tongue and warms the belly, encouraging sing-alongs to the jukebox’s canon of glam rock and punk (the Clash, Black Sabbath, Love and Rockets, Bad Brains, Fugazi, and more!). The pool table, the Who’s Tommy pinball machine, and 3 to 8 p.m. happy hour (two-for-one drinks or a $4 baby Bud with tequila shot) raise the comfort level. Outside, I overheard someone yell, “You’re an ‘Orgasm Addict’! like a Buzzcock” and dropped eaves on a guy explaining how “Shake It Up” changed his life. I knew I had found my people.