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Rumors that this former rock dive was becoming a sports bar have proven alarmist—true, bands no longer thrash at the back, where expansive, leather banquettes have replaced the stage, but the sole plasma screen doesn’t draw any more attention than the pastoral Budweiser ads illuminating the paneled walls. Even after a slight makeover (that has, it must be noted, dutifully preserved the stench of the bathrooms), the Continental isn’t the “Land of Sky Blue Waters” the animated Hamm’s sign insists. Instead, dirt-cheap drinks spell paradise for crusty, burly regulars. (Is that G.G. Allin at the bar?) “At these prices we can’t give buybacks,” a sign behind the bar apologizes, and for good reason: Everything served, including frozen mudslides and margaritas, is under $7; tap beers can get as low as a buck on certain nights. So what if moshing is missing? The song remains the same: cheap drinks, cheap drinks. — Daniel Maurer