For a tap so landlocked, the«sailors» sure are salty here. By sailors, I mean, testosteroneous men in sweatshirts navigating their way through seas of cheap beer, and the women who tolerate them. The F word flies like seagulls across the sea(directed harmlessly, only at the television), and then«HTFITP! HTFITP!» one guy shouts at a television screen. «Hit the f%*!$^ in the p%##&,» he explains. Got it. This bright, fluorescent-lit place has a somewhat southern feel– Skynyrd on the juke, Louisville football on the tube, bartender with a Duke shirt. Goose Island Green Line, *two* kinds of Budweiser Shock Top on tap, and lots of cheap bottles. No pretensions of being anything other than a bar.