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SCENE: Nightlife During Wartime
Last Wednesday we unleashed the first issue of our new quarterly glossy supplement SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour to thunderous approval and only a few (disappointing) howls of protest. I want more protest dammit! Where’s freakin’ Fox News when you want ’em! My nails are too long to dial the right-wing media up. Lord, I need a special dialing wand .
With fashion and photography contributed by House of Herrera and art direction by Mirissa Neff, SCENE took on Nightlife During Wartime. Go ahead and read my intro essay Emergence exits: Getting crazy in a time of crisis — if you dare.
More pics and articles after the jump!
Extra Virgin Spring
40-Year-Old Virgin:
55-Year-Old Money-Guru Lesbian Virgin:
Big new pianist
I know this should technically go in the Noise blog, but I didn’t want it to get lost in our upcoming blizzard of SXSW coverage, so here goes …. I LOVE YUNDI LI!
Last night at Davies Hall, the SF Symphony accompanied this teen sensation in Franz Liszt’s Piano Concerto #1, and it was a storm of fiery pyrotechnics — fingers flew, strings broke, spirits soared, and everything sounded so beautifully complicated and romantic that, at the finale, the audience sprang to its feet and cheered (if you haven’t noticed, standing ovations in this town are very few and far between — too showy, maybe?)
Associate conductor James Gaffigan cut an archetypal “wild romantic conductor with wild romantic hair” figure (guess MTT was in Miami for the Winter Music Conference, heh), driving the symphony to ecstatic heights.
Nuts to laundry!
Divine intern Sam Devine gets soapy:
Laundry day will be different today. I’m using a new hippy product from Santa Cruz to clean my clothes: Soap Nuts, the soap that grows on trees.
Soap grows on trees?
Yeah, turns out Soap Nuts are the dried fruit of the Chinese Soapberry tree. According to a letter from Maggie’s Pure Land Products, people have been using the cracked apricot looking little bastards to wash clothes for thousands of years.
Now, what I could really use are some laundry quarters grown on trees, but I’ll settle for soap.
Jean Baudrillard is not dead.
Ah, the ecstacy of pomo French theorizing: it feels like sandpaper, tastes like mint, and never leaves the cold bathroom. Sometimes it’s a bloody butterfly. Other times it’s a tongue on vinyl. And always the future conditional pluperfect leotard. Ce ca?
And yet, the gulf may exist.
Fuck Baudrillard. Fuck Foucault. I’m going home to lie under the covers with a flashlight and review my hand-stitched limited edition of XEROX now. I hated the Matrix. Or did I only think I hated it?
No. I did hate it.
Smells like art
I knew I was in the right place. I could smell it before I even got in the building. The brazenly pungent aroma emanated out the glass doors, down the yellow walls of the entrance corridor, and out into the San Francisco Art Institute’s scenic courtyard.
It was a smell both foreign and familiar. The fragrant notes of beef stew, rich with clove, onion and rosemary, coupled with the sour musty smell of cognac, wine, and time.
Inside, behind a large black curtain, a dark gooey brew bubbled from within a deep silver pot atop a gas stove, while various vegetables and spices rested on a butcher’s block next to it.
However, the cook, Jean-Baptiste Ganne, is not a chef. And he won’t be feeding his creation to any group of hungry foodies. Instead the French photographer and artist hopes to speak to something different. For this exhibit, titled “The Cookist, a very informal seminar on the question of work,” Ganne prepares a traditional French dish called la daube, cooked over a three-day period solely to produce a smell. There is nothing to eat, and little to see, making the exhibit particularly unique, as the fragrance can be experienced only by those present at the moment.
A party pooper’s thoughts on ‘Inland Empire’
by Jason Shamai
Sitting in the theater the other night, it was with both great relief and great sadness that I realized I felt zero obligation to work out what was going on in David Lynch’s Inland Empire. The movie practically dares you to be stupid enough to try, so I didn’t. At first all I felt was the relief — what a pleasure to let the movie’s New Orleans funeral procession of words, sounds, images, and performances roll along without having to ask the left side of my brain to do anything. By the halfway point, though, I was starting to feel cheated, either by my lack of a certain kind of attention, or whatever was missing from the film that justified that lack, or both.
Hey Lynch — Shamai has you on notice.
You really need to go
Fried chicken, hot boys, and DJ Derek B. Oh, and that Oscar thingie.
PS — you MUST check out Juanita’s New Pornographers vid
How Weird is on — probably — for one last year
By Steven T. Jones
The How Weird Street Faire, which had its permits denied by city officials a couple weeks ago, won a bittersweet victory this morning at an appeals hearing before Department of Parking and Transportation administrator Bond Yee. “It’s clear to me this event is popular, and that’s a good thing, but that’s also a bad thing,” Yee said after hearing from supporters of the event and neighbors who complained that it’s just too big and loud. So he cut the baby in two by agreeing that it was too late to find a new venue for the May 6 event and awarding its permits for this year, but attaching several restrictive conditions (most notably, cutting the music off at 6 pm rather than 8) and ruling that this is the last year the event can be held in the Howard Street neighborhood. “It’s my opinion that the event is too big for this venue,” Yee said. Yet even if event promoters can meet Yee’s conditions, they must still meet pending requirements from the San Francisco Police Department, whose commander for the region, Capt. Dennis O’Leary, spoke against the event at the hearing. “I support the community in this matter and I hear their voices. They don’t want it to happen,” he said. Yet event organizers submitted a petition signed by 100 people from the neighborhood that support the event, whereas those complaining about the event number less than 10, although many are quite upset about having up to 10,000 descend on their neighborhood for the day. Last year’s event almost got canceled after police tried to double their security fees from the previous year, although higher-ups intervened and they were brought back down to reasonable levels. Asked by the Guardian about his apparent bias against this event, O’Leary said he wouldn’t be unduly harsh with How Weird promoters: “That’s not my reputation. I’m very fair.” Yet he also said, “I haven’t made up my mind as to staffing levels.”
Stay tuned.
Sagacious and audacious: Kiyoshi Kurosawa talks about Letters From Iwo Jima
The Academy Awards lumber toward us, and Clint Eastwood’s Letters from Iwo Jima is up for some big ones. In this week’s Guardian, Taro Goto, Assistant Director of the fast approaching San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival, writes about the reactions to Eastwood’s film in Japan. Goto also recently interviewed the director Kiyoshi Kurosawa (Cure; the Japanese version of Pulse; Bright Future) about Eastwood. While Kurosawa’s love of the films of Don Siegel is well-known, fewer movie maniacs might be aware that he’s also a great admirer of Siegel student (and star) Eastwood. When I interviewed Kurosawa around the time of Bright Future‘s release, he cited Mystic River as the most fascinating film he’d seen in some time, and confessed he’d only glimpsed Eastwood from “a ten-meter distance” when both directors had films premiering in the Official Section at Cannes, because he’d “been a fan of his for such a long time” that he “didn’t feel like changing that.”
In this written exchange, translated into English by Goto, both he and Kurosawa and Goto make some great points about cinema and how it relates to the world.
Getcher steaming hot Valentine’s Day get-your-hate-off bake-off right here…
Guardian film intern Matt Sussman reports on the best Valentine’s Day party idea ever:
Contrary to popular belief Valentine’s Day is not for lovers. It’s really for the haters.
Nothing brings folk together like seething negativity, and nothing hardens hearts more than the perceived enjoyment of those “fortunate enough” to be in the throes of romantic bliss. The only sweetness encountered at the “Valentine’s Can Fuck Off Bake Off” — an annual house party/ baking competition — was chocolate and lots of it.
Let me count the ways: vegan chocolate decadence cake topped with strawberries; pink peppercorn and balsamic reduction chocolate truffles; too many brownies; the chocolate sprinkle pubes atop the giant Rice Krispie Twat; and me and my baking partner’s concept-heavy entry: a vegan chocolate black pepper cake in honor of pepper-spray carrying, adult diaper-wearing psychonaut Lisa Nowak.
For the hungry, bitter masses huddled outside the kitchen door, “Let them eat cake” must have sounded from the depths of Marie Antoinette’s grave as a clarion call, an injunction on the primal level of the zombie’s insatiable need for brains. Never mind that the hot dish and vegan hot dish entries (including a divine mushroom and tagliatelle pasta salad with the punny title, “Mycelia, you’re breaking my heart”) had already been scooped up by the (love-)starved who had been smart enough to park it in front of the entrée table. Making good on the bake-off’s title were the dildos of varying dimensions handed out as prizes for each category.
Silicone lovin’ and a sugar high: just the cure for that V-Day Hallmark hangover.
Make your own toothpaste in Iowa, shave your armpits in San Francisco
Tonight’s episode of ABC’s Wife Swap pits Iowa farm family the Haigwoods (apocalypse-fixated and obsessed with raw food, they even eat raw meat; the kids are home-schooled and spend all day working on the farm; they don’t clean their home because they think germs are helpful — and that manure can cure cancer) and San Francisco sophisticates the Hess-Webbs (neat freaks who eat out several times a week and put great emphasis on their clothing and appearance).
Naturally, the sparks (essential in Wife Swap, which teeters on culture clash and conflict) fly like it’s the Fourth of July.
Hamburger Eyes epicenter kicks it
Hard-partyin’, hard-workin’ Hamburger Eyes photo collective threw a grand opening party – on Valentine’s Day, Feb. 14, of all days (love those dudes!) – for their photo epicenter, 26 Lilac, off 24th and Mission, SF. The collective promise that a spot for pro color and B&W darkroom rentals, custom printing, digital production, and classes. Joe Pennant checked out the party and took these pics of the bash.
Dave Potes grins and wears it (a tie, that is).
If the walls could speak…
Is that you, Ray Potes?
Cherry, baby.
A q&a about v.o.: talking tearooms, movies, Morrissey, and melancholy with filmmaker William E. Jones
Parts of Peter Berlin’s and Fred Halsted’s bodies of work are now a part of William E. Jones’s body of work, thanks to the recent 59-minute video quasi-mashup v.o.
Still from v.o.
But the bodies in gay porn pioneers Berlin’s and Fred Halsted’s movies aren’t what interests Jones. More than bodies, he scouts cities — through the eyes of those directors and others (and the voices of countless other filmed and taped sources) v.o. cruises spaces now gone or under surveillance, often doing so with a prophetic sense of doom. It’s one of many Jones works which reveal that the most fascinating aspects of movies, and of life, often dwell on the outer edges.
Born in Ohio and now residing in L.A., Jones currently has two handsome websites, one devoted to his films, and the other, Shiftless Body, focusing on his photographs. In conjunction with an upcoming screening and a feature in this week’s paper, I recently interviewed him via email:
Heaven strikes the Miramax thief: A talk with the director behind Tears of the Black Tiger
What can I say about the movies of Wisit Sasanatieng that could do justice to the images in the movies themselves? Really, to persuade you to see Tears of the Black Tiger this weekend, all I should do is show you a bunch of outrageously gorgeous stills from the film. So, that’s what I will do. I’ll intersperse questions by me and answers from him, in case you care a jot about what one or both of us has to say.
A sad day
Indeed, the boopsy one has passed. I’ve been hoping against hope that this is just another publicity stunt — perhaps gone horribly wrong. Meanwhile, here’s our makeshift tribute altar.
Photo by Joe Pennant
Farewell, Anna Nicole Smith. May you bring TrimSpa to the angels.
Sunday Bloody Sunday
After Sunday morning’s half marathon (no, I didn’t run it. But do I get any points for watching a friend do it?), there was nothing we needed more than a good breakfast and a strong Bloody Mary. And though our usual favorite, Ti-Couz, is famous for both, we weren’t in the mood for crepes — or an endless wait. So we took a chance on a new (to us) restaurant in Cole Valley: the also French Zazie.
The choice was almost perfect: The space was both cozy and classy, the staff friendly, the wait berable, and the food fantastic (definitely try one of their poached egg options, including one with eggplant and chevre sauce, and the potatoes, which come with whole roasted garlic cloves.)
But the Bloody Marys…
A good Bloody Mary is like a meal in itself: spicy, complex, and comforting. But a bad Bloody Mary is like the liquidy catsup that comes out of the bottle if you don’t shake it up first. And the Zazie version is pretty bad. It’s not, as you might think, because of the Soju — which I think is a perfectly acceptable vodka substitute, by the way. It was because of everything else. The cocktail was bland, watery and missing all of my favorite garnishes (any one of olives, pickled green beans and pickled okra would have been fine). The best part was the celery stalk, but it certainly wasn’t worth the $6 I spent on the drink.
The conclusion? I’ll definitely return to Zazie for French Toast made with challah bread and Eggs Benedict made with crab. But when it comes to beverages, next time I think I’ll stick with the orange juice.
Li’l Louie Bowl
Who else freaked out when they saw international house god Lil Louie Vega of Masters at Work and his Elements of Life orchestra giving up the salsa music (his original score) with Cirque du Soleil for the goddammed SuperBowl pregame show? In a bear suit no less?
Well, I didn’t — see it that is. I was too busy polishing the floor at the EndUp — where Mr. Vega will be entertaining us Sunday after next (2/18) at Super Soul Sundayz with David Harness. Real House Music has blown up officially at last? As my friend MR said about the whole thing: “Ms. Vega is now gonna sashay in and demand her damn green M&Ms” — starpower!
I Think You’re Crazy … Just Like Me
Oh, Crazy Sushi. 
You’re so…well…crazy. Getting us all liquored up on beer and sake (Unfiltered! In stylish glass decanters! Who could resist?), letting our rowdy 30th-birthday-bash bunch take over your whole restaurant on no notice, and priming us for a night of debauched revelry with your naughtily named Lesbionic Roll (Didn’t I try that in college?) and your Black Magic Woman (Crab, BBQ eel, avocado, cucumber, black caviar and that special spicy sauce, all to make a devil out of us…). 
I’d like to blame you for the way we bulldozed through The Transfer after we left you, for the horrific game of pool I somehow managed to win, for the “What? Are we 22?” after-party that went way too late.
But I can’t. Because it’s probably thanks to you and your insanely good food that we didn’t end up even worse off than we did.
So thank you, Crazy Sushi. You saved our (aging) asses.
(Molly Freedenberg)
Smoove and Patricio bring the Love
By Steven T. Jones
Someone has posted a video on You Tube of DJs Smoove and Patricio (two rocking local DJs who also happen to be good friends of mine) dropping the bass at the Anon Salon float at last year’s Love Fest. Happy people, fun times, City Hall in the background…nice! Bonus points to readers who can find me in the clip.
Bavarian cream: Herzog blogged
I’m sure you Herzophiles have been languishing for days now, waiting for the rest of this interview (the best niblets made it into the paper here). Here are the ready-for-blogging-goggles portions. A veritable, unsugary feast of Bavarian whimsy.
SFBG: There are some awe-inspiring landscape images in The Wild Blue Yonder. Where were they shot?
Werner Herzog: That was in southern Venezuela.
SFBG: How would you describe your relationship to the land – I hear you’re a big walker?
WH: Not a walker I travel on foot once in a while. When it comes to essential things I would travel on foot. But I’m not a hiker and I’m not a backpacker. I am an outdoors person when it comes down to it, but when you say “walking on foot,” I’m not walking leisurely. I’m traveling, and I’m not into the business of backpacking. And I’m not in the business of jogging.
Mama Jonez is in the house
Our new Assistant Culture Editor, Molly Freedenberg, may have just gotten to town, but she hasn’t wasted any time finding other media professionals — or free booze. Here’s her account of Tuesday’s Mother Jones shindig.
Bay Area old-timer Mother Jones is making an effort to be known as something other than, well, your mother’s leftie magazine (or, even less accurately, as a magazine about mothering.)
And last night’s celebration at Minna Street Gallery was a good start -stylistically, at least. There were almost as many fresh-faced, hipster, intern types as there were “grown-ups” (as referenced by the fresh-faced bouncer). The tattooed coat check girl, hoodie-wearing bartender, and grommet-eared busser were a good contrast to Mother Jones’ hemp-and-henna image. And though neither the DJ nor the tables of MoJo memorabilia were enough to override the shortage of both hors d’ouevres and personal space, (I’ve never been jostled so much at such a mellow party. I guess being socially aware doesn’t necessarily mean you’re spatially aware.), I do feel inspired to see what the mag’s been up to since my parents shed their Birks for Crocs. So I suppose you could say MoJo’s new mojo (ha ha ha) is working …