Most of my friend’s teenage years are emblazoned with memories of family vacations, family reunions and getting their licenses. Mine are not. Mine are filled with waking up with the taste of St. Ides Special Brew in my mouth and walking three blocks to reach the gun-metal blue, dilapidated wood shack

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