The fact that this multipurpose bohemi-haven is named after Stardust Memories -- a film championed only in the innermost circle of Woody Allen cultists -- is your first clue that iconoclasm is nearly an official religion on the bifurcated premises of Stardust. On the north side is a walk-through display of video and DVD boxes that lay out innumerable options for an indie-head’s chosen viewing. What the warehouse-like layout lacks in glamour, it makes up for in efficiency: Titles are filed into such helpful categories as "Blaxploitation," "Jim Jarmusch" and "Women in Prison." If you’re inclined to stick around a spell, stop at the front counter and pick up a latté before proceeding on to the south-side parlor area. Within its tastefully cavernous environment, idlers may partake of old-fashioned, cranium-dilating activities, like playing chess or reading in public. On some nights, the tiny stage quakes to the sounds of experimental music and/or spoken-word poetry. The walls are often given over to art exhibits that lean toward the avant-garde, e.g., coat-hanger collections and paeans to fictitious busboys. But even when nothing in particular is scheduled, enough members of the hipster elite can be counted on to occupy the sofas -- or just hang out in the parking lot -- that "going to Stardust" is taken very seriously as a stand-alone entertainment option. Let’s face it, there aren’t too many places in this town where you can find someone to laugh at your Noam Chomsky jokes. -- Steve Schneider