If you know me, you know I’m famous for coming up with really, really bad ideas.  Like watching the trailer for The Human Centipede alone while eating three-bean chili.  Or going to Hard Knox Cafe for dinner after a 15-mile bike ride in the sweltering heat (which, by San Francisco

I can’t help but think about my grandfather when I hear the name Farmer Brown.  Though he’s been retired for a long time, he was a dairy farmer in the El Paso, TX area for decades.  Since his name is Bob Brown, he was of course, Farmer Brown. But anyways,

Um.  There will be beef jerky here. If, for some inconceivable reason, you need more convincing than that to go to the third installment of the SF Underground Farmers Market on Saturday night, how ’bout I  add pulled pork, fried chicken and andouille sausage gumbo, foccacia, homemade fresh ginger beer, Hawaiian baked

I can’t quite attest to the quality of Popeye’s, as that when I have that fast food fried chicken itch to scratch, I generally pay a visit to the colonel. I have noticed, however that Popeye’s fans are ardent in their loyalty to the one-eyed mariner’s chicken shack, extolling the

I’ve recently moved to the Richmond, which, among many SF purists, isn’t in ‘œThe City.’  I too used to be one of these loveable douchebags that thought there was nothing worth a damn past 19th Avenue.  But I’ve gotten over it, especially considering that my cheap rent, chill neighbors, huge