Several readers have forwarded me a link to a Broke-Ass Stuart post titled Fuck the Mars Bar ... an excerpt:
If you’ve never been there, Mars Bar is pretty much the last of the old East Village/Lower East Side punk bars. It smells like shit, the walls are completely covered in graffiti, the jukebox only plays punk, the shots are poured huge, and the patrons are old, surly or both. These are all good things that help make a respectable dive bar. But when you ask the bartender for some soap (because some big punk fucker licked your friend’s face, uninvited, and she wants wash off the gross saliva) and the barkeep answers, “This is the Mars Bar man. There’s no soap in the Mars Bar,” that’s when you know the place has become a parody of itself.
Really dude? Are you fucking kidding me? There’s no soap because this is the Mars Bar?