There's something magical about the Bikini Lounge--magical in the way a particularly strange shade of fungus might appear to you at three in the morning. You sort of stare, unable to fully comprehend what it is, but you know it is disgusting and somehow it cheers you up.
Bikini Lounge is the very definition of a dive bar. It's small, dark, cramped and full of cheap booze and loud patrons. There's dancing, some nights, with DJs who may even refuse to play dance beats. The bar tenders are generally helpful, though there is one woman who will more likely punch you in the face than serve you drinks, and there's a cluster of leather-clad, denim-soaked biker guys gathered around the single solitary pool table, scowling at each other while hipsters smoke cigarettes right outside.
This place isn't for everyone, not at all. Its for the people who like to skirt an edge--what edge, I can't say, but an edge, a precipice, and just a slight misstep will send you toppling over it, but here, in the balance, there's a sense of strange equilibrium.
What I'm trying to pretentiously say is that the Bikini Lounge is the perfect dive bar. The drinks are cheap, the atmosphere is thick, and its a paradise of filth and grime and tacky glitz and faded glamour. Its old, its inviting, and there's rarely a dull moment. This is a bar to come to if you want an adventure, and in a way, is there anything more you could want out of a bar?