THE WEEKNIGHTER "It's all fun and games and whippings until the end when everyone is really drunk. Then it's just a bunch of wasted people rubbing their penises on things. That's when I go inside and lock my door." I was telling this to the bartender and a couple people sitting next to me. We were talking about the Folsom Street Fair.Read more »
THE WEEKNIGHTER I've never been hunting and I've only shot a gun on one occasion. OK, it was multiple guns on the same occasion in a shooting range in San Diego, but still I've only shot at things once in my life. I guess I did a good job of killing the piece of paper I was shooting at since my friend Josh told me I had good aim for a beginner. It was pretty easy considering the target just hung there and took the abuse.Read more »
Picture it: the Marina, 2000, a club called Trap Door playing goofy throwback hip-hop, shirty dudes and "woo" girls playing the heter-mating game with hetero-abando.
In strut a gaggle of rough and ready queers, me included, part of Guerrilla Queer Bar, to shake things up and sprinkle a little unicorn rainbow dust (and wig hair) on the proceedings. Web 1.0 was in full effect, queers were losing their spaces, and so we wanted to "take it back" by invading "straight" neighborhoods and wreaking a little lavender havoc -- you know, to even things out and have fun. It was kind of the original flashmob, spread only by the limited social media of the time (i.e. email listservs).
FOOD AND DRINK If you've ever tasted a fine mezcal, you know it's a special thing. Bright, complex, spicy, smooth, smoky, minerally — mezcal is a spirit bursting with character. So it's no wonder that after more than four centuries of distillation, it's picked up its share of catchphrases. "Para todo mal, mezcal; para todo bien, también." (For everything bad, mezcal; for everything good, the same.") "Sip it, don't shoot it." "You don't find mezcal; mezcal finds you."Read more »
THE WEEKNIGHTER Sometimes it happens. PR companies take me out, feed me, and get me boozed up. All with the hope that I will write about the place that's feeding/boozing me. Sometimes I write about the place, sometimes I don't. I make no promises other than I promise to consume the food and booze that's put in front of me. I imagine I've had worse lifetimes, but I wouldn't know.Read more »
THE WEEKNIGHTER How is it already eight years ago that Nick and I were eating pupusas at Balompie Café (3349 18th Mission, SF. 415-648-9199)? It was the beginning of the World Cup in 2006. At least I think it was. It's hard to remember this far out, but there was soccer on and excitement was in the air about a sport that, most of the time, Americans don't give a shit about.Read more »
THE WEEKNIGHTER I was hanging out with Steve Jones. I'm pretty sure it was the first time just the two of us were kicking it, even though I'd known him for years and he'd been my editor at SFBG for at least six months. There was supposed to be some kind of Mixmaster Mike event at a loft in the Dogpatch, and when we arrived, there was nothing. So we did the next best thing. We got some drinks.Read more »