Every man needs a home bar. Every man needs that place he can slouch into, order a Shiner or a Maker's on the rocks and retreat into its dimly lit recesses to hide from Dallas' summer hellscape. The Windmill Lounge is that place. Once you park in the gravel lot behind the building and pass through the red door, you may notice that The Windmill exists in a state of perpetual night, which is by design. Don't give a man bright and airy. Wrap him in a cocoon of low lighting and blasting air conditioning. Give him a black vinyl couch that runs the length of the back wall, where he can continue slouching. Give him tiny, one-man-operation bathrooms scarcely big enough to turn around in. And, most important, give him a jukebox with a puzzling assortment of soul and soundtracks from seminal films like Clueless, Grosse Pointe Blank and The Wackness. That, friends, is a place just seedy enough to be a man's home bar. God bless our happy Windmill Lounge.