The words “Evolution” and “God” don’t often go together, but if you read this site enough you know that the words “FREE”, “Beer”, and “Wine” often do.  Loyal reader and person of extreme awesomeness Liz Wu has dropped a dime on yet another FREE boozy event. At 8pm on Tuesday,

    I just got back last night from 10 days in the Yucatan Peninsula.  It was mostly spent reading on white sand beaches in the Mayan Riviera, and truthfully it was Plan B.  The original idea was for my lady and I to visit Cuba, smoke some cigars, drink

Step into a world of adventure with the San Francisco Beer Passport. There’s no better way to explore San Francisco than to literally drink it in. This passport is amazing! Each one contains 27 coupons to buy one beer, get a second beer FREE at 27 of the finest locally

Once a week we present Broke-Ass Porn. It’s visually stimulating material for the financially impaired. If this shit doesn’t get you going, you’re not as broke as you thought

When you’ve been in the city long enough, one begins to live in routines, sometimes only frequenting the same neighbourhoods, food joints and bars on a day-to-day basis.  Sometimes you need to change things up or entertain someone whose visiting.  It goes without saying that, with few exceptions, places like

For all you that didn’t make it to the Fuck the Recession Party, you missed out big time.  But no worries, you can still feel like you were there.  Just go to the fridge, grab a beer, come back to the computer and turn on some Richie Cunning or Sugar

The HANG Art Annex is throwing a party on Saturday where you can watch art being made live, while drinking FREE beer.  Also, all the art created that day will be sold for $50 per piece.  That way those of you who still haven’t decorated your room yet after living

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

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