On the edges of Chinatown and North Beach there’s a basement gin joint that takes a secret pass code to enter. Once past the fake door of the sham clock repair shop, you find yourself inside a gambling den and cabaret that’s been filled to the brim with bathtub hooch. Outside, Prohibition has cleaned the streets but you’re a member of the 1930s social elite — low on morals and high on strong cocktails.
I write to you, dear reader, from Fremont Street in Las Vegas, Nevada. Here at my hotel – the Golden Gate Hotel and Casino – I wait out the extreme midday heat, letting my somewhat brackish lunch digest. The room is decent; the bathroom is functional. Smoking is allowed so
Golden Gate Fields: Where the Bay Comes to Play… Last weekend I was so broke, anxiously awaiting payday on Monday. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to spend my money on this… Dollar Day at the horse races at Golden Gate Fields in Berkeley. I
I wish I lived in a salon. Inspired by Sarah’s guide-to-cutting-your-own-hair post last week, I went digging in my really old and disgusting clear closet organizer thing where I knew an aging pair of shears were buried somewhere. See, I used to have bangs, and I would always cut my
When I was in Las Vegas last weekend, the thing I could not stop obsessing over, apart from the buffets and 99-cent margaritas, was alllll the breast implants. It was like a breast implant convention. And I guess most of America is used to this, but I was somewhat alarmed.