Wobbly barstools, musty stenches, and dingy, poster-covered black walls -ahhhh it was dive bar heaven. Add in some back-room random worn-out couches, cheap ass beer on draft, Charlie the "I could give a heaping, steamy shit" bartender, and you've got yourself a priceless afternoon within Oly's dive-y-est of dive bars. I met my new friend Sam, McCoy's seven-foot bohemian doorman outside. Then I offered him my lip-gloss; he politely declined, and then offered to show us where he worked: McCoy's Tavern. His influence got us preferential PBR treatment. We walked outside with Sam to the smoking area while he corrupted his lungs, and bravely endured the stare-downs from other faithful McCoy patrons. Sam showed us how to sneak in the back gate after being kicked out. Oddly, I was the only one in the populated smoking area who had a lighter. And I don't even smoke.