I love Black people. I love San Francisco. Black people also love San Francisco, but unfortunately, this adoration suffers a Lombard Street like asymmetry. Through all the startling beauty, footing on the road is temporary, gravity always wins, and any attempt to ascend the heights results in breathtaking exhaustion. Is

When was the last time a night out felt special? Not just leaving the house to do something but, as my dad would say, “stepping out on the town.” Well, for the next three weeks, Honey Art Studio, in collaboration with Walking Cinema and Minnie Bell’s Soul Movement, is giving

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

Anyone who currently works in, or has previously worked in, the hospitality industry would admit its strongest pull is the environment. There is a duality of childishness and maturity where we weave between food and drink knowledge, levels of service, and also cracking silly jokes or exchanging laughs and banter over things any office job would deem “inappropriate”.

Why the mention of Whiteness? Well, for us Black and Brown people we’ve seen these concepts and scenarios far too often. We know the stench of White privilege. It reeks. We know the masquerade of White mediocrity-as-excellence, we’ve been told we don’t work hard enough, and we’ve heard the preaching of bootstraps and hard work and merit. It’s a myth.

When you grow up you buy a home, they say. Work hard and save up; it’s a great investment, they say. By they, I mean our parents, but unfortunately for us, in this instance, this is not their generation. Our parents generation was: go to school, get a degree, get

When you listen to the average person discuss Thanksgiving, or Thanksgiving week, it rarely sounds pleasant. You’ll hear the wails of forced smile-and-interest conversations, hiding your thoughts, opinions and yourself, horrid traffic, the chaos of Black Friday – it goes on. It’s some kind of weird vanilla-play-cuckold-gleeful masochism and, despite

Mr. Barry Jenkins, One day, several years ago, I found myself on Twitter following a discussion about Indy Black film and the title that popped up a couple times and mentioned by the more hip of the Twitter tastemakers, Medicine for Melancholy. I love that title. I was interested and

Being the last black man in San Francisco seems farfetched. Of course it does. This is intentionally absurd, obviously satirical. Of course it is. It should be as ridiculous as it sounds, but when we bring ourselves further into the numbers, perspective and emotion, it’s more bleak reality than artistic