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It’s Always Xmas at The Continental: 5 Shots for $10
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
Creme Brulee on Wheels
The sun is out and the people are shining vibrant shades of pink. Nice days in San Francisco mean mainly one thing for the denizens of the Mission, Noe Valley, and The Castro: fucking off all day in Dolores Park. I was walking through DP yesterday when I ran into
FREE (death?) Ride on the Cyclone!
There a thousands of iconic photos of Coney Island from its epic reign through its Post-War deterioration into a dere-lict “my balls” trashy-ass scene, so I applied rigorous standards and ended up with this one. Coincidentally, there are breasts. I hope the tasteful, impactful photo is titillating enough (excuse the
Saturday Solutions: FREE Parrots, So Co, and Coors if you play your cards right
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
YSL, Warhol, African Diaspora and Nick Cave — You damn right its all free on Saturday!
While the banks in our country are struggling to stay above water, there is just one last chance that you can stick it to them for not playing their cards right and get something for free. Saturday is the last chance to be apart of the Bank of America Museums
Come to my “Fuck the Recession Party”, I’m buying beer!
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
Roll Out the Barril! – FREE BBQ and $10 all you can drink
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
