The Snuggie is an interesting phenomenon, not because of its similarity to the standard stable blanket, nor its druid-inspired aesthetic.  A huge, fleece blanket with sleeves and a hood just makes sense. No, it is interesting because of the fan culture of the product and its decimation of its competitor

Standing alone, a dinner or drinks can be manageable, but combined…well, that’s just stupid.  It’s like fighting two bears.  I can’t do that. Budgets begin to implode.  Enter BYOB restaurants – places where owners are lazy, poor, or philosophically aligned with drinking malt liquor with your dinner. I hardly ever

Hump Day sounds disgusting, always has.  “Bumping uglies” sounds gross too.  I know people who hate the word “groin”.  “Crotch” is crisp and tight to me, but friends find it equally unappetizing.  One of Stuart’s friends has a website called The Fart Party.  That leaves a very unpleasant taste in

Sway feels cool because it hasn’t altered the outdated sign of its predecessor McGovern’s, has good music, and an attractive crowd (reminder: low light, dark backdrops and highballs make a lot of things attractive). Hell, attractive people can make anything look cool from old school American Gladiators to modern runway

  The black tarpaulin outside of the The Continental reads “5 Shots of Anything $10: All day/All night (yes, we’re serious)”.   And there really is no catch.  No limiting “happy hour”, no restricted access to only the worst gut rot brewed in an industrial bathtub, no cutting down a

Only a deep man love for Stuart – you’re ok too –  can explain the effort of getting this out this early on Saturday. I’ve only slept a few hours in the past 2 days and some of those were in the backseat of an Echo on St. Mark’s and

This is what it sounds like when I write about myself in third person:   Broke-Ass Stuart has been called ‘œAn SF Cult Hero’ (SF Bay Guardian), ‘œBest Local Writer’ (SF Weekly) and “The Chief of Cheap” (Time Out New York) but to those familiar with his work, he’s just ‘œthat douchebag

Some of my earliest memories are that of lying on the grass in my grandparents’ front yard above Lincoln Heights, Los Angeles, surrounded by decaying Christmas lights and rusting buckets turned into plant containers.  My Nana was roasting some immense side of pork in the monstrous, fire-breathing barbecue contraption they