This originally appeared in my Broke-Ass City column in the SF Examiner.   For many, bars are sacred spaces. People go to them to make memories, and to forget. They visit them to unwind, and get revved up. They hang out in them to catch up with old friends, and

Imagine finding a high school love letter 20 years after you didn’t have the balls to send it. What would it say? Would you jump back into the same (most likely overly-angsty) emotions or find it funny? Would you be proud of teen you or just plain mortified? For Dave

In every “I quit!” fantasy, there’s the part where you unleash a string of expletives at your boss, at your co-workers, and even at the intern who can never get your coffee order right (Laura). But what if you could be as profane and as in-the-face of everyone as you

Hi GUYS! It’s been a second. Sorry about the delayed finale to this series, but I’ve been travelling/hungover most days in the past month and I just really didn’t feel like doling out recommendations to you because there’s a part of me that thinks maybe I should clean up my act and calm down and put a halt to this raucous, unstable, indulgent, satanic party of a lifestyle.

Last week I briefly discussed a few reasons why I have found the great city of New York to be superior to the whitebread County of Orange. But last weekend I had beers with a kid I know who is moving back behind the Orange Curtain after being in NYC