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If there is a place
with Mr. Hipster written all over it, it's this serious den of unpretentious
pretension. All tatts and indie/punk/out-there music, Max Fish is
the kind of place where it's okay to order an ice cold Bud (not in
the construction worker kind of way) and chill in your jeans, ratty
t-shirt and Pumas. The crowd ranges from your lower eastside hipster
to your low-rent runway model (if there is such a thing) to your burned-out
forty-something former guitarist for a NYC cult band. There is no
holier-than-thou attitude, but there's still a strong anti-dork vibe
about the joint. The space itself reminds me of a horrible multi-camera
shoot we did in college, with our flats leaning at thirty-five degree
angles, overly-bright lights, and whatever artwork we could dredge
up from the prop room adorning our saggy set. It can certainly get
crowded at times, but come early, plug some cash in the juke and you'll
be in dive bar heaven. [MF]
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