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Death of a Dive Bar: Muldoon’s Last Call
There are bars you go to, and then there are sometimes dive bars that quietly– and unexpectedly– become part of your life. For nearly half a century, Muldoon’s Saloon was the latter for many here in Central Florida.
Tucked away on Aloma Avenue in the Goldenrod area of Winter Park, a nondescript building, apparently originating from 1928, which closely resembles someone’s brightly lit house, became a real home to a variety of patrons and entertainers alike. Often being referred to as “the musician’s bar,” characters from all walks of life learned to make this bar their second home. As it evolved over the decades from residence to bar and grill to the currently cozy Muldoon’s, which generations had come to know and love. It always retained a sense of permanence; a feeling to people that it had always been there, and always would be. Sadly, that is no longer the case.
On December 15, 2025, the announcement was made on social media. A solemn confirmation of what many longtime bar-dwelling ‘Dooonies’ and extended ‘family’ feared, but hoped would never come to pass. Muldoon’s Saloon would officially close its doors at the end of the year.
No rebrand tease or even the threat of a ‘bar takeover’ (often done by upscale cocktail bars). One final karaoke standing ovation with absolutely no encore. Just the end of a long, stubborn, and beautifully imperfect run. A swan song, one final last call.
If you never had the privilege of visiting, Muldoon’s itself is a direct reflection of its beloved ‘Doonies’ patrons. It never chased trends or tried to reinvent itself every few years, like many other downtown crawl spaces, just to survive. It didn’t need to pretend to be upscale, ironic, or meticulously curated to death repeatedly. It was a bar that knew precisely what it was—and stayed that way.
Until now.
“That little building is bursting at the seams with the memories of times enjoyed, music played, friends made. Truly a memorable legacy that seems to reflect, for many, simpler, more carefree times,” Jeff Donnelly stated. “Haven’t found a place quite like it before, now, or presumably again. Seems silly to say, maybe, but this news seems historically sad.”
If you spent enough time at Muldoon’s, chances are you didn’t just hear music there—you just about devoted parts of your life to it. Bands loaded in through the same side doors for decades, and karaoke nights blurred well into mornings. One such musical patron, Justin McLeod, came upon the bar randomly in the early 2000s for an open mic night he had heard about, presumably by word of mouth. “I didn’t realize how life-changing that night was going to be for me and the friendships and memories that I was going to make over the next decade. I have gotten to share a stage with some of the most talented musicians in Orlando and made friendships that will last a lifetime.”
On their closure post on Facebook, people continued to recall their first kisses, lost loves, favorite band gigs, last drinks, post-shift spirits, and happily unplanned reunions that have all unfolded under the same low smoky lights. “Muldoon’s will be missed,” Johnny Strohl recalled with a smile. “This is where my wife was working when we first started dating.”
“I’m at a loss for words… “ Vanessa Fielder writes, “As someone who hosted events and performed at Muldoon’s for the last 6 years, this is devastating in many ways. This is so sad, and my heart goes out to everyone who made this local bar into a community.”
Muldoon’s was never about perfection. It was about presence. It was ‘mindful’ before hipsters and desperate social media influencers thought it was cool. It just was.
You really just showed up as you were. And for that crowd, that was enough.
“I remember, just last summer, going to see a really emotional show at the nearby Breakthrough Theater Company,” another casual patron remarked anonymously. “I admit I was a little shaken up, and Muldoon’s, oddly enough, was where I went to collect my thoughts. Not only did I run into some long-time friends, but the whole world melted away. Who knew a little dive bar could do all that?”
What mattered were the bartenders who remembered your drink and set it down in its familiar spot once you’d finished making your rounds. A place where everyone knows your name, and if you needed to be signed up for the night’s karaoke list.
Then there were the real regulars, who became fixtures that were sturdier than the now-removed dartboards. In fact, long beloved patrons who found themselves leaving Earth before ‘Last Call,’ were also thought of fondly by the remaining patrons and bar staff alike.
With the looming New Year’s Eve moving close, I felt as though I had been made an honorary ‘Doonie,’ a true-blue community that passed beloved stories down with affection and laughter. As I made my rounds through the bar, I listened to tales of brilliant characters like “Danno,” a well-loved, self-proclaimed barback whose apparent reliability made him unforgettable— someone you could always count on, whether for a good story or for moving a heavy chair. Vicky White and Larry Gray were also beloved regulars who, at first glance, could seem a little gruff—but still had a way of stealing your heart completely, if given the chance.
Even Pulp City Magazine’s own Jodi Renee Thomas’ stepfather found his way there when he came to live with her after the passing of her mother, his wife. It became a refuge for him, and later, a perfect gathering place for remembrance. So perfect in fact that after his passing, the doors were closed for a time, opening only to those who came with something kind to say about “Uncle Gary”—the cherished barfly who was so devoted to his seat at the bar that he was often there waiting, even before the doors opened.
In an act of quiet generosity, the patrons and staff pooled together funds to cover his overwhelming tab, just as they so often did when someone in the Muldoon’s family was struggling. In fact, regular events were frequently organized to raise money for those injured in motorcycle accidents or facing serious health challenges. Everyone would come together to plan events and anything else they could think of, just to help a friend in need. Another outstanding example is Dolly Sharrow, who for more than a decade hosted Toys for Tots events, drawing a crowd united not just by tradition, but by a shared commitment to care for those in need.
Who the hell does that these days, WITHOUT the need for major social media coverage or fame? ‘Doonies’ never did.
Muldoon’s was just a place where regular, everyday people showed up for one another– not because they had to, but because they cared.
Even the musicians who called it home for ‘one night only’ on and off for decades. Justin McLeod continued, stating, “As someone who makes a living strumming songs in bars, I’ve been in many. None of them have what Muldoons has, at least for me. I have a family there. People who mean the world to me, and it breaks my heart that the place where we all gather is coming to an end.”
Muldoon’s was an institution that didn’t belong to just one person—it belonged to everyone who passed through it and stayed a little longer than they planned.
When Muldoon’s closed its doors, Central Florida didn’t just lose a beloved dive bar—it lost a kind of place that’s quickly becoming harder to find. A place that didn’t need reinvention. A place that lets people exist without spectacle. And that’s why it will be incredibly missed.
Muldoon’s was never trying to be legendary— It just was.
Doonies don’t say die— they just move on.
Additional 2025 Losses
In a year already heavy with goodbyes, we’d also like to mention the recent closure of Post Time and Tanqueray’s closure, respectively.
These further mark the quiet unraveling of an era for our Central Florida nightlife. Post Time officially closed on November 2, ending a run of over three decades, with its roots tracing back through earlier incarnations of the space in the 1960s and 1980s. A place woven into generations of local memory, gone faster than your favorite draft beer. Tanqueray’s, meanwhile, rang in its final countdown on New Year’s Eve before closing its doors on January 1, just months shy of what sadly would have been its 37th anniversary in March. Together, their departures represent more than the loss of beloved bars; they signal the fading of spaces that prioritized music, misfits, and the community at large—places that shaped nights into stories and strangers into friends, now slipping quietly into history.
To all the regulars saying goodbye to their bars: may you soon find your favorite drink, poured cold, and faces that feel like home again. Cheers.
