It's easy to drive by this bar: the building is squat, non-descript and the sign is so small, there's no way to read it from the road, leading one of my friends to argue that the name was "Detention Center" while I firmly maintained "Prison Camp." The Slammer is just as good, even if the bar looks paradoxically like a Norman Rockwell painting from the window. I've been to bars with a minimalist take on draft selection, but this was bad. PBR was my first choice amongst Bud, Coors Light and Bridgeport IPA. The jukebox pumped mostly groan-inducing selections such as Viva, Las Vegas and Back in Black, while the food looked only a step above 7-11, but that's only because I couldn't see the mystery meat in the crock pot just over the counter. Fortunately, the pros to this place fit a niche: the bartender seemed cool, and it felt like the sort of place that would be good for a quiet afternoon beer.