Underpasses don’t generally lend themselves to good, wholesome fun. I, for one, experienced in a Dolores Park underpass an “Egyptian baptism” by a man wearing a gold turban and claiming to be King Tut in a previous life. He sprinkled me with bottles labeled “opium,” “sunlight,” and “holy water” that he carried

Her eyes roved across my face. “Upper lip wax,” she declared – a statement, not a question. “Uh, actually, I just want a haircut,” I replied. She silently looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and I caved. And that’s how I walked out of Shear Image on Geary carefree and

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

At last year’s ABBS (Annual Big Book Sale, put on by the San Francisco Public Library), I was able snag a copy of Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Cancer,” whose scarlet cover and infamously graphic sex scenes both warranted me countless raised eyebrows on the bus. It’s a great book. But

I take a certain degree of pleasure in whipping out my ATM card. Shiny and gray as a sleek piece of steel, it reads “San Francisco Fire Credit Union” across the front, a fact that occasionally gets me a double take. I look nothing like a fireman. I look nothing

Even (or maybe especially) the brokest of asses need an occasional escape from the daily grind.  It’s times like these dreary, seasonally ambiguous ones that can inspire major ennui (symptoms: sighing in cafes, fixating on the idea of frolicking along Norwegian fjords or across sun-drenched Spanish plains).  And what could

Like any cheap Chinese restaurant worth its copiously sprinkled salt, Shanghai Dumpling King has a hilarious and somewhat unsettling menu. You’ll find such mysteries as “vegetarian goose” (quotation marks theirs) right next to more matter-of-factly stated items like fish head casserole. Sliding your eyes a little to the right, you’ll notice most

Despite being on the hardest night of the week to roust yourself out of your cozy, crusty den of ramen and Reese’s Pieces, Madrone Art Bar’s weekly Motown on Mondays could easily become the gem of your week. It’s pretty self-explanatory: they play Motown, and they play it every Monday.

I live right by San Francisco’s Little Russia but have never really believed in it. Yeah, there are those huge gold onion domes on the Russian Orthodox church and the occasional sign in Cyrillic. The ratio of scarf-wearing little old ladies to anyone else might be a good indicator, but