When I was in high school, I used to write down what I wore to school on my calendar. Every outfit. Every day. This routine continued for four years, all the way up until I won the best-dressed category during the senior superlatives. Sure, my regimen was extreme (I probably

If your other half is anything like mine, he or she hates contests like this. Because if you win, it means they’ll have to turn off “Operation Repo,” spray some Febreze on a button-down, and watch people dance around on a stage while resisting the urge to stuff dollar bills

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

Call me unAmerican, but I’m tired of handing over my hard-earned cash to the government so it can make my financial decisions. As a new small-business owner, this is the first year since I started working way back in the mid- to late-1990s that I haven’t received some kind of

Swear to God: Last Sunday, His Holy Highness spoke to me through a piece of wheat toast onto which his face was burnt. He said, “Mr. Rox,” – the J-Man is very formal like that – “unless you want to get manhandled by a priest, you should stay in bed

Though the title of this post is in third-person, I cannot tell a lie: That’s me and my fiance right up there, and we need your help. Ya see, about six weeks ago – the day we got engaged, in fact – we entered this little contest. We thought it

As a kid, I was picked on a lot. These things happen when you’re frail, freckle-faced and a tad effeminate. Pair that with “Little Ronnie Howard” red hair and an overbite big enough to make Mr. Ed envious and, well, you’re destined for years of torment and teasing. I was

After brunch one day last spring, I took a sunny stroll along Amsterdam Ave. on the Upper West Side. A brightly colored shop immediately caught my eye; the window was filled with hand-painted pottery and a sandwich-board-sign promise that I, too, could create a work of art. I stepped in,

How do I know spring has sprung? The son-of-a-bitch birds explode with an endless array of cheery chirps outside my window every God-forsaken morning. It’s like clockwork. An hour before my alarm goes off! And there’s one ballsy little fucker – a male cardinal, or as I like to call