SFBG Blogs

A nuclear lottery

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In today’s New York Times Magazine, two smart writers, Stephen J. Dubner and Steven D. Levitt, make a really stupid mistake when they talk about nuclear power. The piece is called “the Jane Fonda Effect,” and it argues that the reason the United States doesn’t have more “clean and cheap nuclear energy” is that the 1979 movie “The China Syndrome” , combined with the accident at Three Mile Island, , irrationally scared the public away from this otherwise wonderful source of energy that doesn’t contribute to global warming.

“The big news is that nuclear power may be making a comeback in the United States,” the authors, who write the popular column “Freakonomics,” note. “Has fear of a meltdown subsided, or has it merely been replaced by the fear of global warming?”

To find that answer, they cite the work of Frank Knight, a legendary U.S. economist who first defined the different in the behavior of people faced with risk (which is quantifiable) and uncertainty, which is, well, uncertain. Here’s the drill: You have two boxes filled with red balls and white balls. Box one has exactly half of each; box two has an unknown mix. You want to draw a red ball; which box do you pick?

Oh, the humanity

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Camera, action – Cinematic Orchestra

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Under the radar of nearly everyone, during this busy, dizzying week, is Cinematic Orchestra, stopping before their performance at Royal Albert Hall in November. Like the sound of the rich, silky orchestrations on Ma Fleur (Domino)? Listen softer to the tones of guest vocalists Fontella Bass and Patrick Watson.

The UK ensemble makes a rare US appearance at Bimbo’s 365 Club on Saturday, Sept. 15.

Today’s Ammianoliner

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Bush misses resignation deadline. (On the answering machine of Sup.Tom Ammiano.) B3

Why Women are for Obama

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By Sarah Phelan

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Photos by Charles Russo

Last week I witnessed presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama’s deliver a very powerful speech at the Women for Obama event in San Francisco. Obama spent a lot of time talking about his opposition to the war in Iraq and his plans to withdraw all combat troops by the end of 2008, as well as other issues that women really care about like health care and equal wages for all.

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Obama still had his toothy, crinkly edged smile and easy going style, but a fierceness came into his voice when he talked about the cost of the war to the troops and their families. And I wasn’t the only military mom in the house who appreciated Obama’s honest talk about Iraq.

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Up on stage with Obama, alongside San Francisco District Attorney Kamala Harris, was Kim Mack. Mack, who is executive director for Sacramento for Obama, talked about why she is for Obama–and one big reason was her 23-year old son Bobby, who has been serving in Iraq for a year.

Record labels, quit playin’ games with my heart – hurry up and release these CDs over here already

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Sweet on unreleased-in-the-US Candie Payne.

By Todd Lavoie

Look, I know America is supposed to be the land of infinite choice and all – y’know, 287 types of toothpaste to choose from in the supermarket aisle, right next to the avalanche of deodorants eagerly waiting to cripple you with consumer-paralysis – but sometimes we really seem to let a lot of the good stuff slip clean out of our nets, don’t we? Take chocolate. Sure, we’ve got all sorts of lovely nibbles on offer in this country, but why, oh, why must it take a small miracle to track down a Crunchie Bar in Cheneyland? It shouldn’t be so hard for this young buck to snuff out a sticky-sweet choco-honeycomb yummable when he’s got the hankerin’ somewhere over yonder in the Heartland, should it? Say what you will about British cuisine, but they make some f-f-fine candybars – too bad you can’t find the damn things in Peoria. What did Mick and Keith say? “You can’t always get what you want.” Oh, yeah. So shut up and eat your Hershey Bar.

Now, if that’s not enough to wet my eyes, how about this sad state of affairs: here we are, with hundreds of record labels between our coasts, and yet some of the finest albums of the year come from artists who don’t even have American record deals! Or, in some cases, if they do have an American label, they still have to wait an eternity for its release. Case in point: my beloved Super Furry Animals, who I will get to later.

I could go on about the priorities of record companies, et cetera, but honestly, who cares? Economics bores me. Macro, micro – can I stifle this yawn? Me, I’ll take art, thanks. Too bad the music labels don’t always seem to feel the same way.

So, what I’ve done here is cobble up a humble list of noteworthy 2007 CDs that have yet to see the light of day here in the U. S. of A. It’s a low-down dirty shame that these little gems are import-only when the cut-out bins of every blue-polo-shirted, name-tag-requiring “music retailer” across the country are groaning with the latest round of Fall-Out Boy/Good Charlotte knockoffs that exited Hindenburg-style upon release. (Goading behavior, you say? Never!) And while I recognize that the Guardian may not move and shake in the same earth-shattering directions as the mighty-mighty Pitchfork.com in molding public taste – yet – here’s my bidding for making things right. Record execs, if you’re out there: take note. Folks need to hear this stuff. Record geeks, write these suckers down. They’re worth the extra cash.

1. Candie Payne, I Wish I Could Have Loved You More (Deltasonic) Do you swoon for Dusty Springfield and her bewitching white-girl soul confessions? Do Portishead’s spy-movie tearjerkers still give you the post-cocktail blues? Liverpool’s Candie Payne slinks and sashays somewhere in between the two, shimmying her simple – but elegant – see, pop can still be elegant! – blue party dress under a canopy of flute trills, soundtrack-worthy-string and brass arrangements, and some deliciously moody-ass organ. While she may not carry the same emotional devastation as Portishead’s Beth Gibbons – but who can, honestly? – Payne can be quite disarming with her sweetness, cooing away gently while sending an unequivocal kiss-off on the slow-shuffle of “Why Should I Settle For You?’ Another highlight, the Sandie Shaw/Petula Clark-informed “One More Chance,” is perhaps one of the most sweetly sincere baby-come-back songs I’ve ever heard. Or how about this video for the title track, in which you get every possible camera angle of Payne’s head? Oh, and she’s so tough on the eyes, too, poor thing:

Illegal bike behavior

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In my opposition to this blog’s recent attack on bicyclists, I should probably muscle up and address the most sensitive point of attack: illegal behavior by cyclists.
I am guilty of such behavior. I blow through stop signs, run red lights, and gleefully take part in Critical Mass as often as possible (and, like many of us, I’m particularly excited about the 15th anniversary ride coming up on Sept. 28). And you know what, I don’t apologize for the vast majority of my behavior because, like many of us, I ride according to a morally defensible code of conduct.
I try to never take the right of way from another vehicle, which means I’ll stop at stop signs when another vehicle arrives first in order to let it proceed, but not at signs where my ignoring the sign doesn’t impede anyone’s flow or usurp their rights. On a bike, where momentum is important, that’s a logical way to behave and how most bicyclist behave every day in this city and others. It’s so logical that Idaho has laws that reflect that reality (bicyclists there must treat stop signs as yield signs and stop lights as stop signs). We should adopt that law in California (along with drug law reform and other changes that comport with common, victimless practices) if we are ever going to foster a healthy respect for the law and convince motorists that they must share the road.

Farewell, fingerpainter

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Intern Amber Peckham remembers outsider artist Jimmy Lee Sudduth.

As a sixth grader on a field trip to Washington DC, I was fortunate enough to see one of Jimmy Lee Sudduth’s works, Fantastic Building, on display at the Smithsonian Institute. It was the only painting that lingered in my mind on the long drive home, simultaneously conjuring up fond memories of sand castles and horrific daydreams of prisons and boarding schools.

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Fantastic Building, c.a. 1970’s, Smithsonian Institute

Intrigued, and mildly bored once summer came, I decided to further explore Sudduth’s work and was amazed by the depth of his innovation. To keep his mud paint from crumbling off the plywood he used as canvas, Sudduth mixed it with sugar, honey, and even diet Pepsi, and to color the mud he used herbs and flowers from the woods around his home, where he spent most of his youth in the company of his medicine-woman mother. He painted using only his fingers and claimed to have discovered 36 different kinds of mud in his home state of Alabama.

Bikes are traffic too

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OK, so I’ll admit that my main reason for this blog post is to shove a certain irrational, poorly written, anti-bike intern’s post off our front page, where it will hopefully become just a bad distant memory (BTW, said intern, who goes by the pseudonym Lotto Chancellor, also goes by Chris Demento and can be contacted at cdemento@gmail.com). He’s a kid who’s still learning how to transform a petty, ill-informed rant into legitimate commentary, but after re-reading his piece and talking to him this morning, I do want to address a serious problem raised by his perspective and the flawed points he tried to make.
As one commenter noted, bicycles are traffic, as entitled under state law and local policies to that lane as cars are. We also occasionally take entire lanes because that’s what safety dictates — it’s just not safe to ride in the door zone of parked cars — not because we’re simply idiots or assholes. Our intern tells me that he’s scared to ride bikes, so he doesn’t understand these realities, and he’s not alone. That’s why so many of us feel a need to assert our rights, sometimes aggressively, because attitudes like his, and the driver impatience and aggression that flows from this attitude, threatens not only our lives, but also the attractiveness and viability of a form of transportation that — whether or not this kid thinks we’re being sanctimonious — really is one of the most environmentally beneficial simple choices that any of us can make.

Throw back the throwback “Brave One”…puleeze!

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Ms. 45 2007? Jodie Foster and her point-n-shoot.

You kind of want to like this film, because you appreciate Foster’s mini-genre of woman-alone-against-a-threatening-world;Terrence Howard’s twinkly, tear-eyed, shiny-jelly-bean cuteness; and the general ’70s-era throwback Ms. 45 tone of the entire outing. Nothing’s sexier than a gal with her gun.

But who knew Foster and director Neil Jordan were so intent on remaking 1976’s Taxi Driver for the ’00s? And how strange is it that so many of the once-grimy-Manhattan-based locales seem to be shot in Brooklyn? Thought-provoking that Foster and co. might re-imagine Iris, the child-prostitute character she so memorably played in Taxi Driver, as a prime-time radio-host cross between Terry Gross and Joe Frank who, after a traumatic encounter with deadly urban violence, finds herself reaching for her revolver again and again and again. But what next, The Warriors reset in Williamsburg? Indie-kid gangs with baseball bats rather than trucker hats?

Face it, NYC ain’t the scumpot – love it or leave it! – it used to be, making it frustrating for all Scorsese-ites who wanna revisit the bad ole days of Bernard Goetz. The Brave One blatantly references its inspiration’s Bernard Herrmann score. The initial bodega shoot-out is a dead-ringer for Travis Bickle’s initiation into gun violence in TD, with an abused-wife twist, and the final firefight cops Bickle’s bloody, uterine-like journey through the deep-red halls of a bordello. Could be intriguing, no? Except that this pro-vigilantism-in-the-guise-of-pro-victim screed really doesn’t find the complexity or lyricism of its gritty forebear. Or even the gore-hungry gutsiness of Death Wish.

P.S.: The most shocking part of seeing The Brave One at a Sundance Kabuki preview screening had to be the bookish yet blood-thirsty audience that cheered every time Jodie blew away bad guys. Shades of that recent Western Addition father-son vigilante shooting-runover nearby.

Ed Jew For Wine and Food

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By Sarah Phelan

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OK, so “Ed Jew Legal Defense Fund For Wine and Food” probably isn’t what Jew meant when his team sent out this pulp fictionesque style invite (pictured above,) but the wording sure makes it look that way.

As the info on the inside of the “Support Jew’s speedy trial” envelope notes, City Law does not allow Supervisors to set up “legal defense funds” per se. Instead it allows them to raise $100 per source for “post-election legal proceedings,” in addition to the regular $500 in campaign funds.

That means if you already chipped in $500 to get Jew elected, you can add another $100 dollop . If not, you can give the whole $600 enchilada. Readers will doubtless remember that Jew’s legal problems began after he took $40,000 in cash from the owners of a tapioca bubble drink chain. So, we couldn’t help noticing that Jew’s fund raising event at Pier 33 is being hosted by Seafood Suppliers. Not that we’re saying that any of this sounds fishy, or anything.

Ethan Miller’s mixology: Comets on Fire/Howlin Rain vocalist passes round online mixtape, heads out with Queens of the Stone Age

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Howl on, Howlin Rain.

Mixtapes/CDs – the DIY-DJ, hardcopy joy of giving that has been overlooked in the digital scramble to trade music online. Wha’ happened?

Well, Oakland howler, guitarist, and all-around noise-maker Ethan Miller of Comets on Fire and Howlin Rain found a way. He clued me to Spot DJ where folks can make comps of their very own. Listen to Miller’s workaday/beer-drinking mix right here. He describes it as “an eclectic Saturday night kind of vibe. Watch out for moments of guitar shredding and some illegal fusion – though it’s mostly beer o’clock jams.” Rawk.

In other Ethan-esque news, he tells me he’s wrapping up the new Howlin Rain album, titled Magnificent Fiend, due in Jan. 22, while Comets takes some down time. The new ‘un will be out on CD and vinyl, and a vinyl version of the first LP is in production as well. Otherwise Miller will be on the road with HR shortly, playing with the ever-popular Queens of the Stone Age on the southeast leg of their September national tour. The Miller guarantee: “These shows will be ragers!!!”

Here’s where they’ll be:

Sept. 15, La Zona Rosa, Austin, TX, with Queens of the Stone Age

Freddy Krueger: song-and-dance man

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Jason had a bigger knife, and Michael Myers got the trendy Rob Zombie treatment. But ol’ razor-hand had the best musical moments by far. The highlights:

Dokken, “Dream Warriors” – Is Patricia Arquette scared of Mr. Krueger — or Don Dokken’s fashion?

The Fat Boys, “Are You Ready for Freddy?” – Clad in striped sweaters, the Fat Boys are enticed to spend the night in “Uncle Frederick’s house.” Plus: Freddy raps!

There’s no YouTube video of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s “A Nightmare on My Street.” So here’s a truly bizarre karaoke version. Some context for this performance might help … though it’s kind of more amazing without.

Walk, don’t ride

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Intrepid intern Lotto Chancellor rants about city bicyclists who should ride better — or get off the road.

To the Idiot (not meaning every, just the Idiot) Bicyclist:

Congratulations. You’re blowing it.

You strike fear into the very heart of me when I have to watch you sucking around on that thing like an ignoramus, cutting off cars at intersection, drawling down 16th Street in the center of the lane, following whatever rules of the road seem useful at the time, because it’s all about you and your sustainable-coma commute—not about me or my post-wreck PTSD or my rented Malibu exploding your situation. The second-degree embarrassment I feel for you is also profound. Yes, like the public service announcements around town declare, your decision to buck the highway and cruise the green way saves us power, and proves you’re a great and verdant guy. It’s almost as bad as having to see some poor 27-year-old quarter-life crisis springing himself toward his death, the Financial District, “carving it up,” a yuck-yuck Tofurkey on a longboard named Brock.

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Awesome!

Newsom’s gleeful purge

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When Ken Garcia and Robert Haaland agree that Mayor Gavin Newsom screwed up, it must really be true. I’m talking about the mayor’s strange decision to ask for the resignations of every top official and appointee in his administration, which the Chronicle reports has made Newsom quite happy, although he’s about the only one feeling any joy over this.
Haaland correctly says the decision is disrespectful of workers and demonstrates a hostility toward government. And as I reported, it’s a power grab prohibited by the City Charter. But mostly, it’s just weirdly megalomaniacal, and one more sign that our young mayor is far more concerned with his own political ambitions than with simply being a decent human being who makes an honest effort to do right by this city, its employees, and its residents.

Phil Frank’s memorial today. Come to John’s Grill for an informal memorial ceremony from 4 to 6 p.m. today (Thursday)

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By Bruce B. Brugmann

A big chunk of San Francisco soul died today when two of his old friends flashed the word that Phil Frank, a great cartoonist, died Wednesday.

Lee Housekeeper, the worthy keeper of the flame who organizes these memorials on deadline, gave us a call this morning at the Guardian and then put out a news flash on his hotline:

IN MEMORY OF PHIL FRANK

Please join the Boy’s Night Out friends of Phil Frank today at John’s Grill, 63 Ellis Street, under our brother’s smiling picture, between 4 and 6 p.m. today (Thursday).

Carl Nolte, who announced Frank’s illiness and retirement in a splendid story at the top of the Sunday Chronicle,
did another splendid obituary on the SF Gate. Nolte wrote that Frank, who provided a bit of San Francisco soul every day in his San Francisco Chronicle cartoon strip, 64, and had been ill for months with a brain tumor.

Nolte ended his obituary by noting that Frank,a longtime Sausalito resident, was once asked about his idea of luxury. “Being on the crest of Bolinas bridge, he said, and “falling asleep on the hillside.”
Nolte noted that Frank did not get his wish but he was close. He died at an old friend’s house in Bolinas that his family had rented for his final days. It was within sight of the Bolinas lagoon and his beloved Marin hills and just up the road from the cemetery where the pioneers of the town were buried, Nolte wrote.

Frank started his local cartooning career by doing front page illustrations for the Guardian in the early 1970s. Using his comic skill of taking a tough subject and making it funny as well as edgy,
he drew a cartoon for our front page on Feb. 14, 1972, of Steve Bechtel as a baron sitting on a BART crag to illustrate a front page story headlined “BART Steve Bechtel’s $2 Billion Toy, a special Guardian probe,” pictured below.

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He also illustrated Nov. l5, l972 story, “San Francisco’s TAXICAB MESS,” with rumpled cab with a “Jello Cab Co.” sign, pictured below.

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My Frank favorite was a front page blast we did on March 14, 1974, on then Mayor Joe Alioto. Frank pictured Joe as a Roman emperor, sprouting a fig leaf, arms crossed royally, holding a banner reading “REX SOLE” confronting a horde of Roman San Franciscans giving him the thumbs down, pictured below.

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Frank was an unusual mixture as an artist: he was a great daily cartoonist and chronicler of the city and the era who could also perform on the front page with dramatic illustrations that sold papers (the Guardian was a paid paper in those days and his cartoon front pages sold papers).

And he had that marvelous subversive ability to sneak cracks and themes into his cartoon strips for the Chronicle that somehow the Chronicle family owners (and later Hearst) never caught on to or let go into print unscathed. He even got in some cracks against PG&E and in support of the two public power initiatives to kick PG&E out of City Hall. Quite a talent. I always wanted him to do some work again for the Guardian, but he was exclusive to the Chronicle. Anyway, he told me he could do more good for our issues in the Chronicle than he could in the Guardian. That’s saying a helluva lot, but that was Phil Frank.

P.S. Nolte emailed me a note in response to my blog about Frank. “Phil was a wonder,” he wrote. “He was not only fun and interesting but he was generous with his talent. A real historian too. Samuel P. Throckmorton, one of the founding fathers of Mill Valley, was his PG&E.” Samuel P. Throckmorton? Who in the world was he, I replied to Nolte. I told Nolte that Frank had entertained me for years about his yarns about how Hearst in early days had wanted to do San Simeon on the hills of Sausalito. I urged him to write the story, or cartoon it, and wondered if Nolte knew what had happened to the idea. Stay tuned for the answers. B3

Obligatory post-BM post: F*ck Techno

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By Molly Freedenberg

I used to wonder if there was some unspoken law about Burning Man that the only music appropriate for Black Rock City was electronica – as though somehow the magic would be lost if someone played Kiss instead of Kruder & Dorfmeister, or maybe you’d just get jumped by moon-boot wearing playa rats if you blasted the Descendents from your art car instead of DJ Ooah. And after six years of visiting the playa, I’ve noticed that there is some kind of symbiosis between the stark desert landscape and the driving, thumping, not-quite-earthbound beats of techno music.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve ever been fully converted. I can tolerate most electronic music. I even genuinely like some of it. But after a day or two being assaulted by ooncha ooncha from what seems like every goddamned corner of the earth, I inevitably find myself craving good old rock’n’roll – hell, I’d even settle for some whiny folk music – the way I used to crave real Mexican food when I lived in Portland (land of white cheese, black beans, and whole wheat tortillas. Good? Sure. But Mexican food? Hardly.)

Another thing I’ve been doing since my first Burning Man? Joking with friends about burning the man early. Or, even better, flying an airplane equipped with fire retardant over the man just as it’s about to burn, putting out the flames: biggest communal buzz kill EVER.

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Man, that guy’s DJ decks look a lot like drums.

Well, it seems this year two of my deepest playa desires were satisfied: Someone (Paul Addis?) burned the man on Tuesday – which, though I feel sorry for the people who had to do five days work in one night to build the man again by Saturday, I find hilarious and appropriate. And people played music with actual – wait for it, wait for it – instruments. Yup, you heard me. Drums. Guitars. A bass or two. Not simulated by computer programs, but stroked and slammed and banged and picked by human hands.

Democrats can end the war

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Photo from www.mindprod.com/politics/iraqwarpix.html

Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting (FAIR) today published an excellent analysis of how the mainstream media and Democratic Party are falsely conveying a sense of official powerlessness to end the war in Iraq. The reality is that the Democrat-controlled Congress could defund the war effort immediately if it had the will to do so, forcing the Bush Administration to pursue a new strategy (ideally something along the lines of the McGovern plan).
Unfortunately, Nancy Pelosi is more concerned with expanding her party’s power than taking a principled stand that would save thousands of lives and begin restoring this country’s image in the eyes of the Muslim world. And none of the presidential candidates (except also-rans Ron Paul, Dennis Kucinich, and Mike Gravel) are offering plans for Iraq that will substantially reduce the long-term U.S. military involvement in the Middle East. That’s a disgrace that is being compounded by the mainstream media and its campaign to disempower the average American and ensure that our imperial experiment continues unchecked and unquestioned.

Project censored — some new suggestions

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One of the bloggers at DailyKos linked to our Project Censored story, and the comments include a lot of other suggestions for stories that the mainstream media ignored. Check it out.

New blog in town

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The Thrillist is the latest national “ist” franchise blog to set up shop in San Francisco, debuting here today after establishing itself first in New York and Los Angeles (Chicago is supposedly next). But judging by its lame sole entry — praising a brunch and football spot in the Marina called Jones, which it covers using language that sounds like a bad advertorial plug — I don’t think the SFist (which has a plethora of local items everyday, compared to the Thrillist’s sole offering) has much to fear. In fact, SF’s average blogger in bunny slippers offers more and better content than these guys. Next.

Sucky thump for White Stripes

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By Ben Richardson

It seems that in the time since the White Stripes regaled their fans with a mind-bogglingly well-received one-note concert some weeks ago, the distaff half of the the perpetually color-coordinated duo has developed a case of “acute anxiety,” at least according to her publicist, and will be canceling numerous dates on their upcoming tour. Improbably reported in the FoxNews entertainment section, the story is sure to put the Stripes’ fanbase into an “icky” mood. But while Jack White’s hand has seldom strayed far from the rock-critic drool faucet since the release of the band’s first single, anyone with at least one functioning ear should have been able to grasp the fact that his faux-sister counterpart plays drums “like Steven Hawking with an arm cramp,” to use a simile coined by the waggish Fark.com submitter who brought this story to my attention.

So tell me, White Stripes acolytes (and you’re out there…by god, you’re everywhere out there): did Meg finally realize that she can’t play to save her life? That her role as a full half of one of the most lauded bands in the country lies somewhere between “gimmick” and “puppet”? That even with a purported musical genius guiding her every note, she struggles to keep time, and can barely manage anything other than most basic and boring quarter note walloping?

While it is certainly not nice to make fun of people with medical conditions, the absolute ineptitude of Meg White – and the deafening critical silence that accompanies it – renders this story fully mockable. As a drummer myself, it galls me to the core to see such a rank amateur feted around the rock clubs of the world, especially when said amateur can’t even manage the kind of improvement that you’d think international exposure and a dedication to a career in music might eventually bring. Call me an asshole, but I like to think that the band’s next three months of canceled shows are the direct result of Meg experiencing a kind of “suckitude epiphany,” in which the sheer incompetence of her fumbling attempts at percussion suddenly came crashing down on her. Maybe it was the fact that the new material was even more of a struggle than the old material. Maybe someone finally introduced her to a metronome. Maybe Jack finally snapped and said something extra-mean. Either way, Meg, grab yourself some Xanax and fucking practice already.

Rosh Hashanah newbie

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Fabulous intern Amber Peckham takes in the Jewish New Year tradition for the first time.

As a Wiccan, I often get mistaken for a Jew. The percentage of people who are unable to recognize the difference in shape (and the difference in doctrine) between a five pointed star and a six pointed one is a lot larger than any intelligent member of society would like to fathom. Therefore, the opportunity to live with my Jewish relatives in San Rafael when I came to the Bay Area from Indiana was one that both amused and excited me. Here, finally, is a chance to learn firsthand about the religion that I have been being asked about since I started wearing a pentacle at fourteen.

Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and the first holiday I will celebrate with my family during my stay. Since I am completely clueless when it comes to Judaism and its holy days, I decided to do some research into the historical and nutritional relevancy of Rosh Hashanah and its foods.

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Apples, honey, and shofar

Tattoo you: David Cronenberg on ultra-violent horror, insect opera, naked knife fights, and more

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David Cronenberg, right, and Viggo Mortensen field questions at the Toronto film festival. Photo courtesy of Yahoo News.

Body horror – that’s the cinematic genre tag that’s often been slapped on filmmaker David Cronenberg, who brushes it off like so much splattered gray matter before confessing, “I’m happy that some people think I invented my own genre or something like that. It’s kind of flattering and it’s OK.”

The engaging Toronto director took some time recently at the Ritz-Carlton to debate the reasons why he took on his latest project, Eastern Promises, discuss the dangers of directing opera, and speculate on the Slavic looks of “No Ego Viggo” Mortensen. For the first part of Cronenberg’s interview, go to “Written on the skin.” (For more on Mortensen, see “You go, I go, we all go for Viggo.”

Bay Guardian: Eastern Promises doesn’t seem like an obvious film for you.

David Cronenberg: After the fact, everything is kind of obvious, but it never is when you’re thinking about it. It had been languishing at BBC Films for some time, and it just got sent to me. I was immediately interested because it was really good writing by Steve Knight who wrote Dirty Pretty Things for Stephen Frears.

I loved the textures in the script and the characters and the sort of betrayals and the enmities – it was all very rich material, and when I read it I thought, well, Viggo would be perfect for this role of Nikolai. I’d actually thought when doing A History of Violence that he had a really Slavic look, a really Russian look, you know. He’s half Danish so maybe that’s where that comes from, I don’t know. A director spends a lot of time looking at his actors’ faces – not just on the set but in the editing room. You’re looking for each nuance, each tone, so you get to know an actor very well in a way that most people don’t relate to other people. It’s an unusual relationship.

BG: It’s the second film you’ve made with Viggo Mortensen – that’s unusual for you.

DC: Totally unusual. The only other time [was Jeremy Irons] and I don’t think it was back to back either. I’ve gotten along very well with all my leading men and women frankly – Christopher Walken, James Woods, James Spader, Ralph Fiennes, and Jeff Goldblum – we’ve all at certain points tried to do things together. But it’s difficult in terms of scheduling and even though you might be friends with an actor he’s got to feel like he can say no to a role that he just doesn’t want to do. You don’t do each other a favor by doing something just for a friendship when in fact you don’t really like the project. Likewise, I wouldn’t do an actor a favor by miscasting him just because he’s a friend.

Whee, Qui – and Big Daddy Kane and Colbie Caillat

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It’s all happening this busy, busy week in the Bay – and here are a few extremely disparate artists you might wanna look out for in the next couple.

Qui frontperson and ex-Jesus Lizard/Scratch Acid yowler David Yow blows a few more kisses – and a few more ear drums – live Wednesday, Sept. 12, at Cafe du Nord. Expect a loud lil’ preview of Qui’s new LP, Love’s Miracle (Ipecac). 9 p.m., $10-$12.

Big Daddy Kane, the old-schoolly that made turned so many SXSW-er’s heads, is on the comeback trail, opening for the Roots at the Fillmore, Thursday, Sept. 13. So do as the BDK asks and “put a quarter in your ass
because you played yourself.” 8 p.m., $40.

Soft-rock singer-songwriter Colbie Caillat looks like the femme counterpart to Jack Johnson – though I can’t swear by her board skills. Those who are feeling “Bubbly” about the scion of a Fleetwood Mac producer can see the MySpace star Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Fillmore. 8 p.m., $20.