The sign is a mouthful—of what, we cannot yet determine, but if Peychaud’s is involved, it might not be half bad.
San Francisco trying on the coat of another coast. Cut’s nice, but it’s just not you.
Nearly every Sunday, once upon a time. Pancakes, usually. No need to bother with water, that’s what coffee—especially this coffee—is for. You do it for the neon, for the fact that May asks your name again, says come back, see you. And you wonder if you’re the first wave of the gentrification.
Four years later, you were no pioneer.
Idea: Old Masters paintings done with fry grease.
March comes in like a lion.
Miracle chairs of the Tenderloin.
Lays it on a bit thick, doesn’t he?
That’s a resolute negative, good buddy.
The sky above the cars below and a 8-bit tree to bind them.
The Tenderloin, more beautiful with every passing day.
Many hearts, only so many sleeves.
Our name is no lie, we are as much a documenting force as the National Geographic Society. How so, you ask?
Here we document Tenderloin Squirrels searching for a cache of nuts. Must have been a rough winter.
When Wonka Walks a Dog.
Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac
Gangsta whitewalls, TV antennas in the back
You may not have a car at all
But remember brothers and sisters
You can still stand tall
Just be thankful for what you got.