In some ways, it's a neighborhood bar for a South Philadelphia that's long gone. No one has bothered to replace the burned-out bulbs in the sign above the door. The walls are clad with the same wood paneling as in Skinny Razor's day. The barstools are probably the same, too; after I nearly fall off a wobbly one, someone calls over to me, "The ones at the end are better, dear." Sometimes, high school kids stop in to snap pictures of the curious contraption in the corner known as a pay phone.