"It's like the rec center in fucking college or something," Scafidi added. I think there's something, like, nostalgic about it." "I actually love the term 'dive bar,'" she said. I was a little nervous to drop the word "dive" when speaking with Ruland, but she embraces the association. His CV is similarly wackadoodle: painter, cook, sailing instructor, afterschool teacher and, wait for it, "tickle porn actor" - a different article for a different time, I suppose. He swore off all motorized vehicles for nine years (minus two trips in cop cars) and lived a thousand lives in Maui, Hawaii New Orleans Marfa, Texas New Jersey Oregon and probably a dozen other places. I have a theory that the vibe of a dive bar emanates from the energy of its bartenders, and this particular power source is bright, hospitable, and wrapped in a layer of gentle snark and street smarts. He's instantly likable and obviously in flow with his role as unofficial cruise director. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. The cat is a sweet and welcoming touch - a fuzzy animal sauntering through a sea of half-empty pint glasses and beer bottles in search of the perfect human to claim for the evening.
"'Is Kitty Kitty OK? Is she staying? Does she need a home?' And I'm like, 'No, she's staying.'" "When the bar changed hands, I got more emails, texts, phone calls about Kitty Kitty than about the bar," Ruland said. Kitty Kitty "came with the bar," according to Ruland, and justifiably has the run of the place. Eyes were closed (the cat's, not my pal's) and, just like that, a friendship made.
"She usually picks one lap a night, and it looks like you're it," quipped the bartender, Andy James Scafidi, as the cat settled onto my companion's lap. But the bar's most notable feature may be the ubiquitous presence of the aforementioned bar cat, Kitty Kitty. Things get slightly more bespoke with drink combos like the Dew Bomb (Mountain Dew and Absolut Pears, obviously) and a giant Connect Four game. In many ways, it presents like something directly out of Dive Bar Monthly: pool table, popcorn machine, patrons' photos on the walls, phone booth-size bathrooms oozing funk and graffiti scars. Located blocks from the commercial center of the Winooski speedway - aka the traffic circle - the Last Stop is tucked unassumingly in the middle of a residential neighborhood, "a sus bar on the other side of the tracks," one regular explained. They renamed the bar after a Dave Matthews song, pulled up the carpets (!) and gave the place what Ruland called "a woman's touch." "I immediately called her and was like, 'Well, why don't we do it? Like, we've already been kind of doing it,'" Ruland recalled. Garrett and Ruland both worked at CK's when an opportunity arose to buy the place. That brings us to the current incarnation, established in 2017 by Shannon Garrett and Shayla Ruland, whose brother-in-law was a previous owner of CK's. New ownership in 2011 begat CK's Sports Bar, and while the name above the door may have changed, the regulars have served as ballast. It eventually morphed into the Trackside Tavern, which took over the building next door and garnered a reputation as a good place to procure substances less than legal. The Last Stop Sports Bar has had many lives as a local pub, beginning in the 1950s in only half the space it currently occupies. "It's not a bar to me it's more like a family situation." Shayla Ruland tweet this "Oh man, the Last Stop in Winooski," he replied. Rugg's Tavern), I called my pal Johnny, a noted man of the people, and asked where I could track down an authentic, weird-ass dive bar. Hoping to go beyond the Burlington-area standbys with which I was already passingly familiar (Esox, the Other Place, the Old Post, the Olde Northender Pub, T. Thus was born a new series, "Deep Dives." The goal: to explore weird and wonderful local watering holes throughout the Green Mountains, meet the folks who populate both sides of the bar and, just maybe, figure out what the hell makes a dive bar a dive bar anyway. But after 20 minutes of easy bullshitting with my new tatted buddy, the path forward was clear: Green Mountain dive bar crawl, here we come. Despite my being a relentless explorer of many things Vermont, the neighborhood bar scene wasn't my beat. This adventure began when I stumbled into a humble Colchester bar for lunch earlier in the week and immediately was taken with the atmosphere - convivial, accessible and disarmingly regular. This was my third solo dive bar mission in as many days, and I was just easing in, my otherness apparently palpable.
I mean, technically, my house was only four miles away, which should qualify as "here." But perhaps spiritually he was onto something? "You're not from around here, are ya?" My interrogator, sporting a sterling silver grill and a cluster of stick-and-poke face tattoos, wasn't entirely wrong.