Abilene, my temptress.  Every time I have something to go home to, I find myself going home to you instead.  You are so warm, inviting.  There are so few bars that I feel uninhibited going into alone – and you, Abilene, are one of them. After a long day, I

Right now, I’m sitting at Black Sheep, drinking a surprisingly decent three-dollar glass of wine while five other two-person groups/couples (still trying to figure out if the two girls sitting across the bar are lesbians) talk quietly, and/or watch sports going on somewhere behind me.  My friend is sitting next to me, behind

I’ve got some awesome news! We received a grant from the Civic Joy Fund to put out a literary magazine celebrating SF and acting to counter the stupid “Doom Loop” narrative. It’s a gift to the people of San Francisco. And after months of working on this project it’s now available

To sustain any healthy relationship you have to pump love, commitment and money – lots of fucking money.  I incessantly go beyond my means when it comes to dating, which is fine, when it’s just dating.  But when the warm bowels of a relationship come calling, there’s no way around

Come to Franklin Park this Monday at 8pm for High Voltage, a FREE reading put on by Electric Literature.  If this is the first you’re hearing of Electric Literature, here’s their beautifully simple mission statement: Electric Literature’s mission is to use new media and innovative distribution to return the short story to

Botanica is a safe haven.  There’s no better way to describe it.  It sits like a bomb shelter on the south side of smoky Houston street, two blocks away from the undulating sea of Soho shoppers and opposite the building-size advertisements that pollute the north side of the street.  After

In the age of oversharing, who’s to say where the line is?  I mean no one cares that you are going to bed or that you really want a sandwich, but you tell us on Facebook and Twitter anyway.  So rather than sharing the mundane parts of life, why not

There are goddamn sandwiches everywhere in NYC.  Each bodega has their own interpretation of what a sandwich is.  My bodega seems to think a sandwich is slimy meat with shredded lettuce that dissolves into rusty water, and I’m pretty sure the bodega across the street uses the deli cabinet to hide drugs.

I know you’re probably having your third serving of ramen this week and laughing at the title of this article because your broke-ass and “museum membership” don’t belong in the same goddamn sentence.  I thought the same thing.  My friend was like, “oh, I’m a member” and I wanted to slap