There are hundreds of fake grape clusters hanging from the ceilings, red and white checkered tablecloths, “That’s Amore” playing loudly in the background. Wine is served in huge quantities. Paunchy, beaming waiters slide steaming pizzas in front of their patrons. Gaspare’s, I’ve realized, is pretty much exactly where I would

After the FREE, sun-drenched, mimosa-warped glory that was Hardly Strictly, 15 bucks may seem a lot to pay for a concert. But unlike Hardly Strictly, the fourth annual Frisco Freakout is not thrown by a billionaire. It’s thrown by my downstairs neighbor, and is by all accounts awesome. The all-day,

Now that I may have worn out my welcome at Shanghai Dumpling King thanks to a overly rowdy birthday party (one attendee was dressed as a handjob), the news that similarly cheap Outer Richmond restaurant was opening sounded like manna from heaven. The fact that it would be serving chicken

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

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