As a young man, I had my numbers read. The fortuneteller predicted that I would be a great success at my first line of work and then go on to a different calling at which I would become equally successful. I’m sure you can guess at how accurate those predictions

I am a workingman. My alarm goes off at 7:30 am. I’m ready to start work by 9am. At 11am, I hit the gym for an hour then eat lunch. Afterwards it’s back to work until 6pm. I am a workingman. Sometimes I have deadlines and my keyboard rattles rhythmically

As 2024 winds down, we’re reflecting on another incredible year of sharing the stories, art, culture, and nightlife that make the Bay Area so unique. BrokeAssStuart.com wouldn’t be what it is without you—our community of readers, supporters, and believers in independent media. This year, instead of asking you to join Patreon

Theater kids. They’re weird. Every time you hang out with theater kids, it’s all inside jokes about stage-fight workshops and terrible British accents. Once, as a child I was roped into an acting class. We spent an hour “learning” how to fall down. I never returned. Thus, it was with

Grab your jorts. Grab your girlfriend. Grab your boyfriend. Grab your lawn chair. SummerScreen is back. That’s right. After an exceptional 2011 season, SummerScreen is returning this week with a showing tonight of Cruel Intentions featuring Sarah Michelle Gellar and that other dude who was in all those teen movies

As a starving, malcontent, narcissistic New York City writer, you have one of two options: writing in your apartment or writing in someplace that is decidedly not your apartment. The former is a simple premise. If you’re having trouble with it, you might consider giving up writing in favor of

I hear you. You need music on Saturday afternoons. Otherwise your weekend would be a total bummer. You also can’t afford another cover charge because you’re broke and you need lunch money for when you go to that job that doesn’t pay you enough. Well never fear, Guided By Voices

Yesterday, I quite literally had nothing to do except stare at my most recent bank statement wondering if somewhere in the Charles Schwab building there is a little room, marked with my name, with three pennies lying on the floor. My only alternative was trolling political forums about the healthcare

When you picture your ideal Saturday afternoon, do you dream of a kaleidoscopic music, art, poetry, and philosophy festival? If so, you’re in luck. If not, start dreaming, ‘cause this festival is going be the bees. It’s called Eleven Hands Clapping. And it’s happening at Vaudeville Park (Bushwick – totally