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Finally, a bar with
no pretense. Collins Bar doesn't try to pretend to be anything but
a neighborhood watering hole that attracts after work, messenger bag
folks and the occasional soul patch dude. There's no fuckin' Galaga
tabletop game or, even worse, plastic beer sign announcing the Hell's
Kitchen Mad Bar Crawl. Instead, we have your typical narrow bar set
up, with one comfy booth up front, a wall lined with wooden tables
and a long bar that seats ten happy patrons along its welcoming, worn
siding. While relaxing with one of many beers available mostly in
bottles, your ears won't be assaulted by some retarded drum 'n bass
freak or yodeling foreigner (unless you include Oasis in this category),
but soothed by the familiar bar sounds of our friends Pearl Jam, David
Bowie and Elvis Costello. I must say I was skeptical the first time
I walked up 8th Avenue, past all the awful storefronts and porn theaters
with their "we no longer have live girls" signs, but this joint is
certainly an oasis in an otherwise god-awful mess of humanity. [MF]
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