Kyle and I decided to deuce the night before last to check out the Slabtown. We knew it was going to be packed full of indie shirts and 100 dollar haircuts, but the popularity of the searches for the place on our site peaked our interest. The place wasn't half bad. Four big screens lit up the North wall and the open window seating made me think I was in Louisiana celebrating the This Land we call Fucking Dixie festival.

Having prior plans I really couldn't stay out late so I announced we pull a sprint , which is really a bad idea if you have something else to do later on. We finished our well and cokes and headed to the Marathon, which we thought was somewhat appropriate. That and their fucking gyros are straight from the grease pits of Greece. I don't think you can find a finer cut of lamb this side of the fucking Atlantic. It was a shame we couldn't just fuck it and stay for a round of tri pool, but overall the underwhelming evening could have been worse. I could plant my face in the dirt, sprout have my ass in the air and buy nothing, I guess?