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Approaching Mars Bar, you might notice young punk couples leaning against the wall, making out; inside, you might notice graffiti sprayed all over those same walls, letting you know who is promiscuous and who isn't. The glass bricks, once windows to the outside, are now instead canvases where cuss words come to meet in varying mediums: Sharpie, spray-paint, sticker. The room itself is a tight hallway housing a damaged wooden bar with doodles carved into it; the slashed stools have bits of foam falling out. Mixed drinks come in a smaller-than-usual glass (though there's always more gin than tonic), and beer only comes in a bottle or a can. The bar's exterior is a perpetually changing mural that once read, "The East Village Is Dead." Perhaps not.