Named after one of the alleged JFK snipers, Dallas-area watering hole Lee Harvey’s lives up to its subversive moniker. I live 200 yards down the street, appropriately enough, in Jack Ruby’s old building, and can walk there at any time and feel welcome. Part lake house and part junkyard, the converted old home is full of cheap wood paneling, ripped vinyl seats, and antique beer signs. I have bellied up to the bar with characters of every shade: other local artists, oil rough necks fresh off the job, bankers in suits, the women’s roller derby team, and someone’s grandparents. The patrons know my pursuits, my projects — and even know I am writing this story. It is the only bar in the world where they know my name. And though the gravel from the outdoor beer garden may occasionally get stuck in my shoes, the smoke from the fire pits may burn my eyes, or the toilet may be overflowed in the bathroom, there is a friendly communal atmosphere here that makes me proud to be a part of the neighborhood, and proud to call it my backyard bar.