Open studio strolls are a great way to see a broad cross section of local art and down a wide array of  cheap beer and spirits.  I don’t need to tell you it can be an art-appreciating scavenger’s paradise.  So, I’ll tell a story instead.   Although I’m writing

I’ve recently moved to the Richmond, which, among many SF purists, isn’t in ‘œThe City.’  I too used to be one of these loveable douchebags that thought there was nothing worth a damn past 19th Avenue.  But I’ve gotten over it, especially considering that my cheap rent, chill neighbors, huge

When DayGlo was beginning to be manufactured on a large scale, you might have gotten away with describing it simply as a combination of particular dyes and resins that produce bright colors with the unique effect of glowing under ultraviolet light.   But, thanks to the freaky fairy fingers of  the

I finally came across the Amuse Bouche Guy that Allan keeps talking about on Mission Mission.  Along with the Creme Brulee Guy, and the Magic Curry Kart, the Amuse Bouche Guy seems to represent that good old American spirit of making something out of nothing.  Except he’s French, not American.

I have a bad taste in my mouth from last night, which I’ve narrowed down to extra durrrty martinis or the two double cheeseburgers I ate at 3 am at the Delancey/Essex McDonald’s where a drunk dude in a blazer almost got socked by the on duty Wo-manager for taking

  The San Francisco International Film Festival is one of the city’s great claims to fame. Known as the first of its kind in the nation, many films from overseas get their first premiere on our shores. Pretty exciting shit, since we are the first to see some fairly amazing films before

I’ve spent the past few days neglecting your pickled livers with posts about filmmakers, workshops, and literary panels so I guess I need to reel some of you back with a bucket of chum and a dash of glam.  The problem is, I’m finding free a little hard to track

  The good thing about class is that since you can’t buy it,  you can fake it.  It’s not like an apartment.  No un-roofied date will believe you when you say the junkie passed out on the stoop is the doorman and, ahem, his uniform is in the wash.  Or