Warren's is a bar. You drink at Warren's. You don't watch the game, you don't pick up chicks. You have them pour you a stiff cocktail and you put John Lee Hooker on the juke and you smoke a cigarette. You look at the inevitable old drunk guy, and you make a toast to his liver. He belongs here, in this old, dimly lit, cozy corner of downtown. He belongs here as much as Warren's belongs in Houston. It's the polar opposite of the velvet-rope crap just down the street, and both the old drunk guy and Warren's will be there long after those clubs burn out. And, with any luck, you'll be there, too, lighting another smoke while Otis comes on. And this time, you'll say, make it a double.