Address: 184 High St.

By seven o'clock, the line at dueling-piano-bar Howl at the Moon is around the block, with a wait of over an hour for the rest of the night. Why? Because douchebags love girls wearing light-up penis hats. Howl at the Moon is bachelorette party city; expect at least eight different gatherings on any given night. And it would be wrong to ignore the suburban cougars occupying the other tables—they’re terrible, too. Even the alcohol-poisoning-proof punch served in generous buckets isn’t enough to distract from the off-tune singing by the clowns on the pianos. Contrary to popular belief, the performers are in fact professionals paid to publicly ruin popular music for a gang of idiots drinking to ignore the future.