Sometimes you just want a damn drink--not a green faux-tini, not a nutmeg-and smoke-infused microbrew--and you don't want to have to put on heels or a clean shirt, or even necessarily shower to go out and have one. Thank God Leadbetters remains a watering hole of little-to-no repute, where the fanciest beer you might want is a Sam Adams, and you can sit at a slightly dingy, albeit welcoming, bar and listen to bands and singers that range from rocking to ridiculous. And you know what? You don't care. Because you're shooting the breeze with Fons, the bartender, the walls look like they might crumble in a few days, the floor is swept with questionable frequency, and you're drinking a damn cold brew in a damn fine place, and you don't have to worry about impressing a soul.