Five Secret Bars That Only Real LA Hipsters Know About

Five Secret Bars That Only Real LA Hipsters Know About

There are secret bars, and then there are secret bars. Bars so secret that it’s as if they were created simply to drive the most adventurous alcoholics mad – these are those bars, so drink up you lush.

 

1. The Knick Knack Shop

The owners of this Ventura hole in the wall say that they’re just a souvenir shop, but they’ve never kicked me out for drinking tall boys near their collection of antique nutcrackers.

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False Flags

I’m in Reno, Nevada the sight of the most recent false flag operation by the U.S. government. Or at least that’s according to my guide, Ben Thurber, an ex-Coast Guard trainee who wears a pair of mirrored aviator shades throughout our conversation while clutching a stack of manila folders that he claims hold information about every false flag operation perpetrated by the U.S. government dating back as far as the ‘90s.

When I tell him that I don’t remember anything happening in Reno in recent weeks he simply says, “Exactly.” I offer to buy him a cup of coffee on the magazine’s dime if he wants to talk about what may have or may not have happened in Reno and he agrees, “but only if the coffee shop uses water without fluoride.”

Claims of false flag attacks have become more frequent as spree killers become the norm. Patriots like Thurber claim that the killers aren’t killers at all, and that their victims don’t even exist. They’re all actors putting on a show as a means to push stricter gun control laws. To my knowledge these false flag attacks have yet to pass one gun control law through the House or Senate.

We spend 30 minutes looking at Yelp, trying to determine if there’s a coffee shop in the area that uses rainwater. As I scroll through the list of coffee shops I ask what happened during the false flag attack in Reno. “It was bad, real bad.” When I ask how a false flag attack can be bad when everyone is acting I don’t get an answer. I ask again. Nothing. I look up and he’s gone.  

Have I just become the victim of a false flag interview? Is there actually a “Ben Thurber?” Or are there multiple Thurbers giving false interviews to journalists across the country? I never find a coffee shop that uses rainwater in Reno, Nevada.

An Excerpt From Spider Log 189

To read the full article you gotta buy the mag!!! Get it HERE!

Being a web slinging super hero isn’t as easy you’d think. A ild case of the beer shits and alack for real human connection come standard with the job. It’s 11:30 and my phone won’t stop ringing. Kill Pretty wants an interview with the greatest protector this city has even known and I can’t find my fucking pants. Not feeling up to going under ground without being elevated, I down two tall cans and smoke a spidey joint before carring on with my endeavor.

I ride the train for free because this city owes me. There are countless citizens I’ve saved from the clutches of monotony while strolling down the boulevard with nothing to stare at but souvenir shops and hobos pissing in the corner. When I arrive at the Highland/Hollywood station there’s a crispness oin the air with a hint of desperation, and maybe rat poop. No sign of Megatron, Iron Man, or Silver Spray Paint All Over his Face And Suit Man. They must be upstairs saving society for dollar bills like modern day mercenaries who you hire for your shitty tourist pictures hen family comes to visit you and… oh shit I blacked out for a minute.

I might have drank too much… or maybe I’m still just drunk from the night before… or maybe this weed is laced with some other shit ‘cause mother fuckin’ kids are lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of drunk asshole instead of the hero they all worship. They’ve made movies about me god damnit! I’m givin’ out thumbs ups tellin’ kids not to do drugs knowing that’s their only escape from reality unless they get bit by a radioactive spider like me… Shit, I’m doing it again. Okay I just gotta find Nacho and that bearded bastard from last night that agreed to meet me here and get this over with so I can return to my web.I’m 45 minutes late ut I know they wouldn’t leave a spider hanging…

Wanna read the full article!? You gotta buy it HERE!!!

An Excerpt From Who Is Montezuma And Why Does He Take Revenge On My Asshole?

To read the FULL article you gotta buy the mag!!! Buy it HERE!

I’m standing in line, waiting, on my way home from the bar, subtly swaying back and forth with my feet planted like cinder blocks at the bottom of the lake. It could be a minor pee-pee dance or just something to keep me distracted from the spins – I’m not entirely sure at this point. I’m just trying to maintain my composure. It’s almost my turn to order. I’m watching the couple in front of me, their arms intertwined with each other’s bodies as they order their food by numbers. They complete the transaction and move aside. It’s my turn.

 I step up. I watch the hair on the cashier’s upper lip dace as he moves his mouth, but I can’t make out the words he’s forming. “Chalupas,” I say, leaning on the counter, jamming my first in my pocket to scrounge up the loose change.

 He rings me up and I step aside. Transaction completed. I’m next to the Siamese couple, the one interlocked by tentacles of appendages. They’re laughing, talking, kissing. Hissing in each other’s ears like writhing snakes in a hotel bar. They’re in love; I envy them. They get their food and just like that they’re gone.

The cashier tells me my order is up and I take the bag. I sit down and eat immediately because if I don’t I’d probably pass out. What Taco Bell has so cleverly dubbed “fourth meal” is my first meal of the day. Food, if anything is hardly a convenience. They say it’s a necessity of life, but I’ve found you can get by without it. I’ve adopted an alternative list of life’s necessities. Then, if I can afford, it’s hard to make room in the budget for the human desideratum.

 The tacos go down as smoothly as spoiled milk. With every bite, I think about that story of the lady who hatched a herd of cockroaches in her mouth after eating Taco Bell. I swallow the last of the poor-grade meat and sour cream squeezed from a tube and play basketball with my wrappers and the trashcan shouting “Kobe” upon release, missing entirely.

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