It’s over! Well, for me, anyway — the festival rolls on through the weekend, but tomorrow I’ll be jetting back to SF, watching edited-for-content episodes of The Wire on Air Canada’s seatback television. I only had one spontaneous celebrity sighting (Wyclef, scampering into an SUV outside his hotel as I plodded past in search of breakfast this morning). But I did see some enjoyable movies these last two days, plus a few feh offerings.
Television
Cinemania
› johnny@sfbg.com
Mock Up on Mu Craig Baldwin’s latest opus, on rocket science and Scientology in California, with the director in person.
Sept. 2. Pacific Film Archive
Obscene A new documentary about Evergreen Review and Grove Press publisher Barney Russet and his many battles on behalf of free speech and real art.
Sept. 511. Roxie Film Center
Lost Indulgence and In Love We Trust A pair of films by up-and-coming Chinese directors Zhang Yibai and Wang Xiaoshuai.
Sept. 620. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, Wattis Theater, 151 Third St., SF. (415) 357-4000, www.sfmoma.org
"History Stutters: Found Footage Films" Bruce Conner’s John F. Kennedyassassination film Report (1965) and Ken Jacobs’ Malcolm X. assassination response Perfect Film (1984) is on the same bill; program also includes a movie with Ed Henderson.
Sept. 9. Pacific Film Archive
Leave Her to Heaven The 1947 Technicolor noir and ultimate swimmer’s nightmare returns with a demonstration of film restoration.
Sept. 12. Smith Rafael Film Center, 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. (415) 454-1222, www.cafilm.org
"MilkBar International Live Film Festival" Three days of experimental cinema, including more than 20 local short works.
Sept. 1214. Noodle Factory Performing Arts Center, 1255 26th St. #207, Oakl. (510) 289-5188, www.milkbar.org
"Unknown Pleasures: The Films of Jia Zhangke" At last, China’s vanguard contemporary filmmaker gets an extensive Bay Area retrospective.
Sept. 12Oct. 17. Pacific Film Archive
"The People Behind the Screen" Local programmers contribute to "Bay Area Now": Jesse Hawthorne Ficks presents girl rock; Stephen Parr of Oddball Films shares a giddy taste of his mega-montage project Euphoria; and kino21 puts together performance cinema; Peaches Christ, Queer Women of Color Media Arts Project, and DocFest also have nights.
Sept. 13Oct. 18. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
Shatfest Thrillville’s tributes to the one and only William Shatner continue with his 1968 spaghetti western White Comanche.
Sept. 18. El Cerrito Speakeasy Theater, 10070 San Pablo, El Cerrito. (510) 814-2400, www.thrillville.net
"Taylor Mead: A Clown Underground" The legendary wit Mead visit for screenings that showcase his best starring roles (1960’s The Flower Thief and 196768’s Lonesome Cowboys).
Sept. 1821. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
Forbidden Lies The Roxie is distributing this look at con artist Norma Khouri, which gets a theatrical run after a successful trip through the festival circuit.
Sept. 19. Roxie Film Center
MadCat Women’s International Film Festival Ariella Ben-Dov’s fest turns 12 with eight archival greats (including one by Samara Halperin) and silent films with live rock scores.
Sept. 19 and 23. Various venues. (415) 436-9523, www.madcatfilmfestival.org
"Psychotic and Erotic: Rare Films by Tinto Brass" Ass-fixated erotica that includes talking animals and naked cannibals.
Sept. 24. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
"How We Fight: Iraqi Short Films" Kino21 kicks off a series with Argentine director Mauro Andrizzi’s feature-length compilation of short videos shot by US or British soldiers, Iraqi militia members, and corporate workers.
Sept. 25. Artists’ Television Access
"James Dean Memorial Weekend" Come back to the five and dime, or failing that, the Castro, and be sure to wear your red windbreaker.
Sept. 2628. Castro Theatre
Film in the Fog Gene Kelley is singing in the rain and the Presidio fog.
Sept. 27. Main Post Theatre, 99 Moraga, SF. (415) 561-5500, www.sffs.org
The World’s Largest Shopping Mall The debut or preview of a film by Sam Green and Carrie Lozano is at the heart of a program devoted to psychogeography.
Sept. 27. Other Cinema
Deathbowl to Downtown Coan Nichols’ and Rick Charnoski’s look at the history of NYC street skateboard culture, narrated by Chloë Sevigny.
Sept. 29. Castro Theatre
"Bette Davis Centennial" She’ll tease you, she’ll unease you all the better just to please you.
Sept.Oct. Castro Theatre
Dead Channels You can never get enough weird horror and fantasy.
Oct. 25. Roxie Film Center
Mill Valley Film Festival The major fall Bay Area festival turns 31.
Oct. 212. Various venues. (415) 383-5256, www.mvff.org
Rosemary’s Baby and The Devils Double the demonic hysteria!
Oct. 3. Castro Theatre
"No Wave: The Cinema of Jean Eustache" The series includes 1965’s Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes, his 215-minute masterpiece The Mother and the Whore (1973), his hog-slaughtering documentary shades of Georges Franju? The Pig (1970), and a 1997 doc portrait of him.
Oct. 422. Pacific Film Archive
"Rediscovering the Fourth Generation" The post-Mao cinema that laid groundwork for directors such as Jia Zhangke gets a SF showcase.
Oct. 430. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, Wattis Theater, 151 Third St., SF. (415) 357-4000, www.sfmoma.org
Vertigo The greatest San Francisco movie ever maybe greatest movie ever gets the outdoor screening treatment from Film Night in the Park.
Oct. 4. Union Square, SF. (415) 453-4333, www.filmnight.org
"Spirit of ’68" and "Know Your Enemy" A pair of programs compiled by Jack Stevenson
Oct. 5. Oddball Films, 275 Capp, SF. (415) 558-8117, www.oddballfilm.com
Manhattan and Muppets Take Manhattan Mariel Hemingway, meet Miss Piggy.
Oct. 79. Red Vic Movie House, 1727 Haight, SF. (415) 668-3994. www.redvicmoviehouse.com
"French Cinema Now" A new minifestival from the San Francisco Film Society.
Oct. 812. Various venues. (415) 561-5000, www.sffs.org
"Superstars Next Door: A Celebration of SF Amateur Sex Cinema from the ’60s" Stevenson looks at that time in SF when everyone would take off their clothes for a camera with film in it.
Oct. 911. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
"Midnites for Maniacs: Back to School … in the ’90s" Jesse Hawthorne Ficks serves up Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1991), Romeo and Juliet (1995), and Starship Troopers (1997).
Oct. 10. Castro Theatre
"Envisioning Russia: A Century of Filmmaking" The expansive 16-film program extends across eight decades.
Oct. 1030. Pacific Film Archive
"Protest-sploitation" A lecture-demo by Christian Divine looking at six "youth" films made in 1970, along with a screening of that year’s The People Next Door.
Oct. 11. Other Cinema
RR James Benning’s train film finally reaches a Bay Area destination.
Oct. 14. Pacific Film Archive
Arab Film Festival The festival turns 12 this year.
Oct. 16Nov. 4. Various venues. (415) 564-1100. www.aff.org
DocFest IndieFest’s doc extension turns seven this year with a slate of at least 60 films.
Oct. 17Nov.6. Roxie Film Center and Shattuck Cinema, 2230 Shattuck, Berk. (415) 820-3907, www.sfindie.com
Leslie Thornton A three-program SF Cinematheque series devoted to the director behind Peggy and Fred in Hell (1985present) and other experimental works, with Thornton in-person.
Oct. 1926. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
United Nations Association Film Festival Environmentalism is the focus of the festival’s 11th year.
Oct. 1926. Various venues. (650) 724-5544, www.unaff.org
"I Love Beijing: The Films of Ning Ying" Ning and her acclaimed Beijing trilogy which spans from the Peking Opera to dogs, cops, and taxi drivers visit the Bay, capping things a screening of her 2005 "Chinese Sex and the City" feature Perpetual Motion.
Oct. 2327. Pacific Film Archive
The Werewolf of Washington The president’s speechwriter is a lycanthrope in this Nixon-era flick.
Oct. 31. Pacific Film Archive
"The New Talkies: Bollywood Night" Kino21 presents six works of live narration to Bollywood film scenes.
Nov. 1. Artists’ Television Access
"Occult on Camera" Erik Davis charts out the Aleister CrowleyKenneth AngerLed Zeppelin triumvirate-of-evil what does Jimmy Page’s appearance in the closing ceremony of the Olympics mean?
Nov. 1. Other Cinema
Louise Bourgeois: The Spider, the Mistress and the Tangerine The SF premiere of a new documentary devoted to the sculptor.
Nov. 23. Red Vic Movie House, 1727 Haight, SF. (415) 668-3994, www.redvicmoviehouse.com
Ghosts Nick Broomfield’s excellent first non-documentary feature, about the abuse of Chinese immigrants in the United Kingdom.
Nov. 713. Roxie Film Center
San Francisco International Animation Festival The burgeoning fest and showcase turns three with a program that includes the Cannes favorite Waltz with Bashir.
Nov. 1316. Various venues. (415) 561-5000, www.sffs.org
Luther Price New works by one of the more scathing and harrowing filmmakers on the planet, presented by SF Cinematheque.
Mid-November. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
New Italian Cinema Will it include Matteo Garrone’s Cannes critic’s fave Gomorra?
Nov. 1623. Various venues. (415) 561-5000, www.sffs.org
"Films by Martha Colburn" A night of kinetic works by the collage creator, presented in conjunction with a show at Berkeley Art Museum.
Dec. 2. Pacific Film Archive
Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy Thrillville stuffs your stocking with a gem from 1957.
Dec. 11. El Cerrito Speakeasy Theater, 10070 San Pablo, El Cerrito. (510) 814-2400, www.thrillville.net
James Hong A sneak peek at the local director’s expose on Japan’s rewriting of history, Lessons in the Blood.
Dec. 13. Other Cinema
"At Sea" Peter Hutton’s At Sea (2004-7), about the life and death of a colossal container ship, is the centerpiece of an oceanic SF Cinematheque program.
Dec. 14. Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
ARTISTS’ TELEVISION ACCESS/OTHER CINEMA
992 Valencia, SF
(415) 824-3890
CASTRO THEATRE
429 Castro, SF
(415) 621-6120
PACIFIC FILM ARCHIVE
2575 Bancroft Way, Berk.
(510) 642-5249
ROXIE FILM CENTER
3317 16th St., SF
(415) 863-1087
YERBA BUENA CENTER FOR THE ARTS
701 Mission, screening room, SF
(415) 978-2787
Vamp camp
STRAIGHT-TO-DVD REVIEW These are dark and bloody times for vampires. The Mormon-made young adult series Twilight goes multiplex in December. Next month brings the premiere of True Blood, an HBO drama about our fanged frenemies, created by Six Feet Under‘s Alan Ball. And at the vanguard of the iron-deficient-creatures-of-the-night revival is Lost Boys: The Tribe (Warner Premiere), a long-delayed sequel to 1987 teen vampire classic The Lost Boys.
Twenty years have passed since the Emerson family moved to Santa "Santa Cruz" Carla, when young Sam (Corey Haim) tacked up that sexy poster of Rob Lowe and met the Frog brothers (Haim ex-BFF Corey Feldman and Jamison Newlander); older bro Michael (Jason Patric) partied down and pounded blood with overbite sufferer David (Kiefer Sutherland); and the mulleted, steroidalicious dude from Tina Turner’s band with the oily slip ‘n’ slide torso hoisted his sax aloft, sang "I Still Believe," and forever ruined the good name of Santa Cruz’s music scene. The back cover of The Tribe refers to the sequel as a "modern remagining" of the original. Does she mean to imply an imagined TV show or film name? Given how far downhill the national culture has slid over the past two decades (think, oh … The Two Coreys), it should come as no surprise that the straight-to-DVD sequel is figuratively as well as literally a suckfest.
A new pair of Emerson siblings, orphaned brother and sister Chris and Nicole (progeny of Michael? Sam?), move to a beachside town called Luna Bay and soon begin knocking heads and other body parts with a gang of meathead surfer vamps (the Poison look: definitely out). Having left behind his parents’ comic book shop, mysteriously solo vampire slayer Edgar Frog (Feldman) has taken up residence in a creepy trailer. A talentless half-brother to Kiefer Sutherland named Angus has been dredged up to play head bloodsucker Shane, who takes a shine to Nicole and slips blood in her drink, roofie-style, at a party.
Saddled with a mind-boggling script and actors of ill or no repute, the filmmakers attempt to distract us by upping the trash quotient. Picture a Dumpster after a six-week Sunset Scavenger strike. Or rather, picture a crapstorm of severed heads, entrails, impalements, fountains of blood, tits, alcoholic beverages poured on tits, ass, not one but two girl-on-girl makeout scenes, and many, many money shots of vampires midfeeding frenzy. Suffer through the closing credits for The Two Coreys reunion as painful as anything you’ve seen on the A&E Television Network or YouTube. Suffer through the extras for a pair of equally Corey-tastic alternate endings, an Edgar Frog featurette on the tools of the trade (carbon fiber stakes, holy water balloons), and a depressing video in which a "Cry Little Sister" remix is performed for an audience of downmarket extras taking a stab at vampire chic.
Bona fidelity
PREVIEW Lots of people want to be rock stars, but life usually gets in the way, and one day they wake up as midlevel managers commuting from suburban Milwaukee. While Joe and Suzy Chief Purchasing Officer may not have fame and glory, they definitely have disposable income, and now they can buy their high school dreams for a day.
Since 1997, Rock ‘n’ Roll Fantasy Camp founder David Fishof has recruited bona fide rock stars from Roger Daltry to Slash to act as counselors to wannabe musicians, helping them perfect their instruments and perform as a band at the end of the session. "It’s almost like the television show where they do an extreme makeover on a house and they only have one week to do it," said former Megadeth bassist David Ellefson, laughing. He got involved during last year’s 10th anniversary show in Las Vegas. "I find it’s really a fun challenge. You basically get to accomplish in one day what most musicians take 20 years to do."
One day at the camp costs $1,999. The five-day tour package fetches a cool $9,999. Some think the cost is worth it. Vancouver surgeon-guitarist Bill McDonald, 56, will attend his fourth camp this summer. "In my line of work, it’s a very high-stress profession, and the music allows me to escape that for a bit," he said. McDonald’s tour goes from Phoenix to Los Angeles, with a stop here at the Fillmore where his wife and teenage children will watch him perform.
Fishof won’t reveal how much counselors get paid, but insists that the enterprise, now his full-time job, is not particularly lucrative. "I do it more as a labor of love," he said, noting that he’s looking into turning the camp into a reality show. "I love getting letters from people saying, ‘You changed my life.’ People call me and say, ‘My husband doesn’t have road rage anymore.’"
ROCK ‘N’ ROLL FANTASY CAMP Opening for Extreme and King’s X. Mon/25, Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. For details, call 1-888-762-2263 or go to www.rockandrollfantasycamp.com
Cava22
› paulr@sfbg.com
If, like me, you occasionally succumb to the temptation to judge a restaurant by its name, you might suppose that Cava22 is some kind of champagne bar … all right, a cava bar, cava being the word the Spanish came up with to describe their méthode champenoisestyle sparkling wines. And you wouldn’t be completely wrong; the place, opened last winter by the Valle brothers (Ramón and Samuel) and Roger Magaña in a cavernous Mission District setting that had previously been the home of Bahia Restaurant, does offer a token selection of sparkling wines, including a rather wonderful espumosa de muscatel from Reymos ($7 a glass): a bit on the fruity-sweet side, but not cloying.
But despite the name, the big deal at Cava22, booze-wise, isn’t the selection of cavas and other sparkling wines. The big deal is tequila, of which several dozen varieties from the different age groups (blanco, reposado, añejo) are offered to purists and aficionados by the (shot) glass, mostly for less than $10 each. At least in this sense, then, Cava22 is the Mission’s answer to Tres Agaves in ballpark yuppieland. And since non-aficionados can be found all over town even writing pieces like this one the drinks menu also includes an array of margaritas and infused tequilas, along with a smattering of concoctions made with other liquors. Or you can simply turn the sheet over to find a nice selection of beer and wine. Many of the wines are from Spain and Argentina, several are available by the glass, and all are reasonably priced.
If I’m making Cava22 sound like a gigantic bar, this is because in many respects it is. Certainly it’s gigantic, a box with a high ceiling supported by a line of wooden pillars marching down the middle of the room. And certainly there’s a bar, lit by a line of bordello-red ceiling lanterns and complete with a television mounted over the door so bar patrons can watch fútbol matches on Telemundo. But there’s also chef Roman Beltran’s food; it’s good food, a sort of Spanish-Mexican amalgam, and fairly priced. That, plus the drink, plus the large number of tables, means that Cava22 is a good place to know about if you’re flying out the door by the seat of your pants, hoping to indulge one of the great pleasures available to the urban diner: that of just drifting along with friends until a suitable place presents itself, complete with an available table.
The guacamole ($5.50) disappointed me, I must say, notwithstanding the generous allotment of deeply crisped tortilla chips. It was too oniony. (I have been making guacamole often in recent weeks, and my version includes, in addition to avocados, just some minced garlic, a pinch of cayenne, a squeeze of lime juice, a pinch of salt, and some chopped cilantro. No party-crashing by onions!) On the other hand, we loved and devoured a plate of roasted garlic cloves and fig compote ($6.50) a clever variation on the classic Spanish quince paste known as membrillo suitable for spreading over grilled bread spears with some cambozola cheese. The cloves themselves looked a little drab, like old rubber fittings the plumber might be replacing, but roasting gave them a mellow sweetness and an almost buttery spreadability. Cambozola cheese, incidentally, isn’t as fancy as it sounds; it’s an industrial German product, with a manufactured name meant to make us think of two of its more storied relations, camembert and gorgonzola. Still, it’s tasty enough and a good value. It’s also vegetarian-friendly, as are the empanadas ($6), a pair of corn-dough canapés filled with squash and peppers and napped with a sharp-edged tomato sauce.
But this is not a vegetarian restaurant. Meat is the motif among the main courses, although there is a paella on offer along with a sizable list of seafood dishes. Typical of the meat possibilities is the Argentine milanesa ($11): thin slices of beefsteak that are breaded, fried, and served with beans and rice. The name refers to Milan, of course, Argentina having substantial Italian ancestry. In a small irony, the Italians themselves call breaded, fried filets (usually of fish or veal) "all’inglese" "in the English fashion." So, fingers pointing in every direction here. Cava22’s milanesa steaks are profoundly breaded and fried indeed; by the time they reach the table, they’re nearly geological in their earthy crispness and twisted shapes.
Camarones à la diabla ($12), also known as prawns in spicy sauce, is one of those preparations you see on menus all over the place. Here the shrimp are peeled, which is certainly a blessing for the person eating them, and the tomatoey-looking "devil" sauce packs a real wallop. I can’t recall having a more boldly chilefied sauce in any restaurant, and I liked it. Seafood dishes include a choice of sides beans, rice, roasted potatoes, a few others and these are on the good side of ordinary.
Service is knowledgeable and efficient, although the dining room is so big that sitting at one of the window tables is like being near the end of a bus line: it takes some chugging to move things from kitchen to table and back again, and you can see your server coming from quite a distance. Luckily the table linens are well-starched and the street spectacle is unending: a human parade dressed every which way and heading in every direction, with many posses making stops at Papa Toby’s Revolution Café across the street, possibly to make inquiry as to the whereabouts of an interesting new tequila bar and restaurant they’d heard about.
CAVA22
Dinner: Sun.Thurs., 510 p.m.; Fri.Sat., 511 p.m.
3239 22nd St., SF
(415) 642-7224
Full bar
AE/MC/V
Noisy
Wheelchair accessible
Exposer
REVIEW Some early Bay Area figurative painting, wrote Peter Selz in 2002, encountered "the human figure by means of the physicality and the gestural performance of abstract expressionism." More explicit figures later emerged from this abstract cauldron. Ana Teresa Fernández, however, would rather start with the explicit body and work backward. Fernández, who grew up in Mexico, isn’t a figurative painter, performance artist, videographer, feminist, or Latina artist although she assumes all of these roles from time to time. The best work at her 2008 Headlands Center for the Arts Tournesol Award exhibition, "Tela Araña Tela" (a mirroring of the Spanish for spider web), is so powerful, the movements in her work so difficult to look away from, that she acts as a detective, an intuitive investigator of the emotions embedded in human muscle tone and media complacence an exposer of the skin-tight, commonplace untruths of so-called manual labor.
By meticulously documenting stills from her own performance work which uncovers, overstimulates, and ironically decapitates familiar images of femininity and the female worker Fernández manages to blend forcefulness and stillness into her brand of revelation. The two large, untitled paintings depicting her body in muscular heels, beset I don’t know how else to say it by laundry on a clothesline, show no human face. The face has been smothered, disappearing into a wavering white sheet. The even larger painting shown here between those two, Untitled, a documentation of Jennifer Locke’s 2007 Artists’ Television Access performance in which she covered her body in glue, reveals a lattice or an amorphous web around Locke’s face, making it hard to tell if it’s the skin or the glue that’s melting. The works on paper displayed here also performance documentations lack the forcefulness of the paintings. But don’t miss the video installation, where balloons are popped like they’ve never been popped before.
TELA ARAÑA TELA Through Aug. 9. Wed.Sat., noon5 p.m., and by appointment. Luggage Store Gallery, 1007 Market, SF. (415) 255-5971, www.luggagestoregallery.org
Bad taste?
RANT Judging by Google hits alone for "I hate Sandra Lee," Sandra Lee might be the most reviled cooking show host in America second to Rachael Ray. And while Ray’s golly-gee-whiz style is the most frequent target of her detractors, few people would actually dispute that her 30-minute meals are the products of real cooking. Lee, however, tests the very limits of cooking itself. Her Food Network show, Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee, runs on a calculus of deception whereby you get to take all the credit for whipping up gourmet-tasting fare out of 70 percent premade food items and 30 percent fresh ingredients. Lee is the perky, blond antichrist to the gospel of local, sustainable, capital-F Food as proselytized by Michael Pollan, Alice Waters, and Eric Schlosser. She knows how to package herself, and comes not bearing peace, but Cool Whip. And I love her. What follows is a brief encyclopedic list of what makes Cooking such incredibly addictive and stomach-turning television.
Brands: Lee’s pantry unrepentantly swears brand allegiance to all that is processed, preservative-packed, and additive-filled. Her online recipes name-drop Velveeta, Knorr, and Hormel at the same frequency Kanye West rattles off designer labels. There are no substitutions.
Cocktails: Lee’s menus always call for booze, and she shares her Applebee’s-worthy libations in a regular segment called "Cocktail Time." Remember, anything can be made classier with the suffix -tini and the bluer the liquor the better.
Diction: In the world of Cooking, food or objects can be "beautiful," "delicious," and/or "easy." These words are frequently modified by the adjective "super."
"Kwanzaa celebration cake": This is Lee at her finest. Nothing screams multicultural sensitivity like stuffing angel food cake with apple pie filling, slathering it in chocolate frosting and sprinkling popcorn, pumpkin seeds, and corn nuts on top. In the words of one Internet reviewer: "An embarrassment to desserts."
Power matching: Lee performs her alchemical transformations of leek soup mix and chicken breast tenders into "chicken scaloppini" on a country kitchen set whose background wall of bric-a-brac not only changes with each show, but is frequently color-coordinated with and thematically matched to Lee’s outfit.
Tablescapes: The cliché is that we eat with our eyes first. Lee’s tablescapes (her neologism for table settings) practically blind you with their baroque density; so intense is the horror vacui of her aesthetic. They are gesamtkunstwerk assembled entirely from craft store bargain bins, with centerpieces often so cumbersome as to transform the entire table into a parade float.
www.semihomemade.com
Squatumentary: A Q&A with Hannah Dobbz
By Liam O’Donoghue
Hannah Dobbz’s Shelter: A Squatumentary screens at 8 p.m. tonight at Artists’ Television Access. A 45-minute exploration of squatting in the East Bay between 2004 and 2007, it shares a bill with Sabrina Alonso’s self-explanatory 28-minute Mischief at 16th and Florida. I recently discussed the the pros and cons and politics of squatting with Dobbz, a freelance writer, editor and filmmaker.
SFBG What is your definition of squatting?
Hannah Dobbz Squatting could be using an abandoned building for a project or just for sleeping. It could be using an abandoned lot for gardening. Generally speaking, squatting is utilizing any unused space.
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Hannah Dobbz
SFBG Is there anything that could be described as a “squatting scene” in the Bay Area?
HD Hard to say, since it’s so secretive and clandestine. If people are squatting, they usually don’t want everybody to know. They might need to sneak in at night and leave early in the morning. Not all squats can be used as community spaces.
The most well-known squat was probably Hellarity in Oakland, which is featured in the film. Another squatter featured in the film is Steve DiCaprio, who is working on Banana House and another house now, but that’s more of a private project — not really part of a scene. There is definitely a community of people who would consider themselves squatters (former or current), but using the word ‘scene’ is not really applicable.
Bittersweet symphonies
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Indie culture tends to romanticize dog-eared production as a sign of authenticity rather than one of limited means. When I interviewed Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang last winter, they emphasized how they strove for professionalism designing Galaxie 500’s epochal album sleeves and then laughed when we talked about how younger bands try to recreate their so-called handmade quality. Phil Wilson suffered an altogether nastier shock when fans of the June Brides rejected his attempts to expand the scope of the band’s singles from tattered nursery rhymes like "Every Conversation" to the more poised pop songsmithery of "Josef’s Gone."
Of all the casualties of indie capriciousness, the Junies seem to have had especially rotten luck. Originally formed in 1983 by Wilson and schoolmate Simon Beesley, the June Brides quickly swelled to accommodate trumpeter Jon Hunter and John Caleinspired violist Frank Sweeney. The group was a staple of Alan McGee’s Living Room venue, but McGee didn’t sign the Junies to his ascendant Creation Records, purportedly writing the band off as too obvious a choice.
The Junies’ slapdash discography of postcard singles and a mini-album all collected on Cherry Red’s essential 2005 anthology, Every Conversation: The Story of The June Brides and Phil Wilson was par for the era, but the outfit had several brushes with something more: an NME cover story, opening slots for the Jesus and Mary Chain at their infamous Ambulance Station shows, and taking Morrissey’s vote as "best band of 1985." But before they could get their footing, the combo got caught in an unenviable snare of nostalgic fans and a press backlash toward the twee bands associated with the C86 (Rough Trade/NME, 1986) compilation.
Alan McGee did invite Wilson to record solo material for Creation after the Junies split up in 1986, but after a couple of tender, country-tinged singles didn’t sell, the singer-songwriter extricated himself to a career in civil service. A new four-song EP, Industrial Strength, released by Oakland indie-pop aficionados Slumberland, picks up the quirky folk-rock vein he left off with on "10 Miles" and "A Jingle." Wilson’s voice is a bit less herky-jerky than it once was, but he sounds refreshed on the jangly opener, "Neon Lights." The best song of the set, a hypnotic swirl of dream-pop called "United," shows he still has a knack for making a ecstatically romantic lyric sound a little anxious.
In the past, Wilson used to work the opposite way, dabbing forlorn verses in his quicksilver melodies and soft-curving arches of verse-chorus-bridge. Bittersweet pop doesn’t come any more delicately folded than the vocalist’s gorgeous goodbye to the ’80s on the Caff Records’ 1989 "Better Days"/"The Written Word" single. The flubbed notes and flat harmonies of the early June Brides singles are endearing, but Wilson’s later efforts with the band see the glitzy panache of "Just the Same" show that the singer-songwriter was drawn to Brill Building polish as much as Television Personalities scruff.
This was a solid decade before it became fashionable for indie-rockers to mine baroque pop à la Pulp and Belle and Sebastian an English association that could easily be expanded to put the Junies in the same league as American melancholy artists like Yo La Tengo and Sebadoh. Wilson won’t be netting a check for his California mini-tour comparable to the one the Jesus and Mary Chain got for headlining Coachella last year, but his songbook remains ripe for rediscovery, this summer or any other.
PHIL WILSON
With Magic Bullets and the Mantles
July 23, 8 p.m., $10
Rickshaw Stop
155 Fell, SF
(415) 861-2011
Charo gives a pluck
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My first exposure to Charo was in a high schoolera Christmas gift from my parents, The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste. There she was: strawberry blonde Pebbles hair framing a face that defined pert, a guitar poised scepter-like, and an impressive décolleté shrink-wrapped in enough sequins to cover all of Carnaval.
I think Charo would laugh at being included in such a Who’s Who, which also included Liberace and Chesty Morgan. The singing, dancing, and "cuchi-cuchi!" spouting Castilian sex kitten that pratfalled with the best of 1970s television, the Vegas institution who wound up in that sub-A list purgatory The Surreal Life, is the Charo America knows and loves. But according to this 40-year show biz veteran, the other Charo a classically trained musician with serious Spanish guitar chops is just getting warmed up. A Pride celebrity grand marshal, she’ll be riding on a parade float full of Charo look-alike drag queens, followed by a show at the Herbst Theatre.
SFBG How does it feel to be coming back to San Francisco after three years?
CHARO I call it Planet San Francisco because it’s different from everything else in this country. And I am honored and very glad [to be a Pride grand marshal], due to the fact that all my life I have detested oppression, dictatorship, and discrimination. ‘Cuz, you know, my early learning years were under the fear and dictatorship of [Gen. Francisco] Franco. I was surprised when I came to America that people used such titles as black, fag, skinny, Catholic, yellow. None of this exist in my education.
[Being a grand marshal] is also perfect timing because I am introducing my new single, "España Cani," as remixed for the dance clubs! It’s the best thing I have done in my career, and it’s just destined to make people live for 10 minutes and feel the passion of flamenco. That will be playing on the float with my flamenco dancers dancing around, and I will be with several look-alikes.
SFBG Are they going to be the same drag queens you judged at the Trannyshack Charo night back in 2005?
CHARO That was a hot-hot-hot evening! But I think this time they will be different. I think that one is better-looking than I am, and I am pissed off because that means I have to have to put a lot of push-up to have bigger tits. And he’s a 30-year-old boy!
SFBG Your publicist told me that you lost a Charo look-alike contest in Puerto Rico.
CHARO That was the lowest point in my career [laughs]. I made a big mistake since I dressed like a look-alike. I had a big, big wig instead of my natural hairdo, and instead of dancing like me I tried to copy them. The idiot judge said, "Number 3" which was me "needs more practice!"
SFBG What can we expect from your new show at the Herbst?
Charo: The show is faaabulous. I am going to play as much [guitar] as the audience can take of the new me. I will do it until they ask me to stop. I am a musician in high heels [laughs]. I even sleep with high heels, in case I have to run and the fire department guys can’t find me. I am 5 feet 3 inches, and I wear heels all the time. But the bottom line is that I am a musician. I am an entertainer number second.
SFBG When you started making TV appearances it was all "cuchi-cuchi!" all the time.
CHARO Yes. When I was on Johnny Carson and he starts talking to me in English, I just kept saying "cuchi-cuchi" to survive. And the rating was so big that I keep coming back. But the TV producer said if you want to play guitar, do it in your own time.
SFBG On a few of the episodes of The Love Boat your character April Lopez plays guitar for the passengers, no?
CHARO I went to producer Mr. [Aaron] Spelling and said, "OK, in this episode can I play a little of the guitar?" And he said, "OK, but don’t be too good. Don’t destroy the character of April, because April is a wetback and she’s not supposed to know so much music."
SFBG It’s just so funny because here’s Madonna trying to play guitar on tour and she’s pretty terrible, but right of out the gate you were a classically trained guitarist who could also write hit dance singles.
CHARO [Laughs]. Yes, Madonna used to be my neighbor. But then she moved to England. I would be very happy and this is not bragging, because I like Madonna to say to her how to play the guitar. I think I could help her with "La Ilsa Bonita."
THE RETURN OF CHARO AND HER LAS VEGAS SHOW
Sun/29, 8 p.m., $40$100
Herbst Theatre
401 Van Ness, SF.
(415) 392-4400, www.koshercomedy.com/charo
Burned: Lisa Fernandes
TV EYED "Yeah, girl power!" This from likely one of the most hated women on television, Lisa Fernandes, the seeming near-winner on the latest go-around of Bravo’s Top Chef. Yes, the fourth season was estrogen-centric: it anointed perpetually fretful nice-girl/good-chef Stephanie Izard with the Top Chef toque, a first for a show that reflects its traditionally male-dominated field. And intriguingly for this machismo-dappled reality contest, women fed the most charged subtexts of the series.
Izard’s womanly counterpart turned out to be Fernandes, whose newly resurgent feminism in the June 11 final competition episode wasn’t what turned viewers off: Fernandes was the arrogant aggressor to the self-doubting Izard. Petulant in response to criticism in contrast to Izard’s near-tears, Fernandes exuded an arms-folded, rageaholic-like ‘tude for the last seven weeks as she blamed others for cooking mistakes and lashed out at her competitors in front of the judges. Perpetually lurking amid the middle of the bottom-feeding worst cooks seemingly each week, neither abysmal nor better than most, this chef who specializes in Asian food also managed to ruin her rice and stay in the competition as more adept cooks like Antonia Lofaso and Dale Talde who regularly won or placed high in quick-fire challenges went on the chopping block for a single mistake or for being too ambitious.
The surprise was that Fernandes came on so strong at the end, while the likeable Izard seemed to squeak through in an apparently very subjective win, because Fernandes was the chef viewers and fellow cooks loved to hate. Witness the cool-headed, faux-hawked Richard Blais voicing his irritation, leading one to think that Fernandes’ cockiness got to him in more ways than one. Sure, she made so-called great television: Fernandes was cast by the producers as the clear villain of the piece as she acknowledged to the New York Daily News. It was easy to scapegoat her in this, the straight-male-dominated yang to Project Runway<0x2009>‘s femme- and queer-centric yin. Her brand of simmering butch surliness didn’t quite mesh with the more customary displays of male rage.
But were the shows’ makers aware of how much Fernandes’ continued avoidance of Padma Lakshmi’s moist-eyed "Please pack your knives and go" damaged the credibility of the judges? One began to wonder, why shouldn’t past wins count? Has a point system been considered? Viewers’ intense dislike of Fernandes probably kept them tuning in, waiting to see her eat it, elimination-wise. But one couldn’t help but believe that the judges were in league with the producers to keep Fernandes in the show for dramatic effect. And one began secretly imagining different scenarios: wouldn’t it be a great subversive move on Fernandes’ part to throw a splashy hissy fit, quit, and dive-bomb the narrative arc?
But who is Fernandes to disappoint by serving up anything but her self-described "spicy" personality? Likely, during this week’s final reunion episode she’ll reliably call out kindred contestants for hating on her. Next course: just desserts?
Mr. Miserabilism
Some of Michael Haneke’s early made-for-TV movies are showcased in the aptly titled mini-retrospective "Bitter Pills" at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. In them, Haneke’s now-characteristic austerity long static takes, cryptic narrative omissions is yet undeveloped. But his nihilistic take on society is already present.
The four-hour 1979 Austrian miniseries Lemmings maps out disillusions among the embittered, hypocritical generation of Austrians who "lost" World War II and their suffocated teen offspring. Parent-child relations are toxic. Bonds between peers are no less fucked. Encompassing suicide, infidelity, auto-abortion, vandalism, and joyless full-frontal nudity, Lemmings‘ tragic first part, set in the 1950s, is self-contained. The second part, which takes place years later, finds new ways to rain consequence on its cheerless protagonists and their children.
Black-and-white and Fassbinderesque, 1984’s Fraulein coughs up another fine mess. A German soldier returned from a lengthy Russian POW camp internment finds his family members have long since embarked on brave new paths which range from sell-out capitalism to Elvis-imitative juvenile delinquency. The overall picture is surprisingly quasi-lurid. Today’s Haneke would never allow his miserablism to be diluted by such relative zest.
Adapted from a novel by Joseph Roth, 1993’s The Rebellion is quite different. Mixing archival footage with new material in color and faux-distressed sepia, it chronicles the downward spiral of a one-legged WWI veteran (Branko Samarovski). The whole thing is a classic Teutonic tale of a naive hero efficiently destroyed by the system. Then, as now, Haneke had a gift for making even the bitterest life-lesson pills curiously, even compulsively edible.
BITTER PILLS: MICHAEL HANEKE MADE-FOR-TELEVISION
Thurs/12 through June 19, $6$8
Yerba Buena Center for the Arts
701 Mission, SF
(415) 978-2787
Genetically modified mouthpieces
OPINION In 2003, when I was working as an anchor for a San Francisco television station, newscasters and reporters across the country were asked by the White House to refer to the Iraqi invasion as Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF). We were asked to call the war in Afghanistan Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF).
With press releases in hand, journalists repeated genetically modified words as if their DNA depended upon it.
Genetically modified language is when propaganda wins, journalism sells out, and the public loses. It’s when words are twisted and massaged and spun until an entire suit of lies is woven to cover the guilty and cloak the truth.
The genetically modified language, in the case of Iraq, was full of false bravado and moral superiority, wielded in attempts to turn lies into honorable causes our dear children were willing to go to war for.
Nothing caught on like the phrase "the war on terror." It was a White House propaganda bonanza. Whole networks built their news around swirling "war on terror" graphics and anchors began stories with "Today in the war on terror," while most of the world considered Americans the terrorists.
That’s when I pulled up lame and refused to dance the destructive dance. Most of us who complained are now gone.
The fourth estate, as the media is called, was created to watch the government and anyone else using lies to gain power and profit at the expense of the safety and security of the American people
Thinking journalists can now see that using the White House’s genetically modified language with unquestioning devotion is one of the many reasons why we lost the public trust five years ago.
I propose that journalists stop repeating genetically modified White House language, and go a step further.
On the very day it was leaked that Scott McClellan’s book reveals the country went to war based on known lies, the sweetest, shiniest, dimple-faced, airbrushed Bay Area Murdoch girl began a broadcast by announcing: "Another American has given his life for his country today."
I was once that girl. Today I know that soldier was one of thousands who bravely believed in what the president said and died believing a lie the press helped promote.
What if this anchorwoman and hundreds of others like her, all of whom I imagine to be nice people read instead: "Another American has died in Iraq today. He was a beloved brother and child, and he was number 4,084."
Then perhaps follow that with the number of wounded Iraqi veterans: 30,329.
In an attempt at truly unbiased journalism, they could end with the number of Iraqis who have lost their lives: 1,217,892.
If this war, as McClellan says and dozens of other experts have pointed out, was based on a great lie, let’s honor those soldiers who were willing to believe the lie by bringing them home alive. Let’s stop repeating genetically modified words that glorify a conflict American journalists could have helped prevent by putting their pom-poms down.
Leslie Griffith
Leslie Griffith is a writer, award-winning television reporter and former KTVU news anchor. You can find more of her work at lesliegriffith.org.
A touch of Warren Sonbert
Over the past month, Konrad Steiner of Kino 21 and I have presented two programs of films by Warren Sonbert. For me, it isn’t an overstatement to say the experience has been a revelation, and not just because opportunities to see this SF filmmaker’s work are rare.
The third and final night of our Sonbert series takes place Thursday, June 5, and it unites the complex montage and silent focus of the first program (Sonbert’s 1971 magnum opus Carriage Trade, which screened at SF Camerawork) with the musicality of the second program (“Pop Witness,” which connected Sonbert’s early Warhol- and Anger-inspired ‘60s films to his magnificent and distinctive return to sound over 20 years later).
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Warren Sonbert
“Narrative Vertigo” has two parts. The first half belongs to the 1983 silent work A Woman’s Touch, where Sonbert takes inspiration from two mainstream Hollywood directors he especially loves, Douglas Sirk and Alfred Hitchcock. The second half brings 1991’s Short Fuse, a sound film completed four years before Sonbert’s AIDS-related death in 1995 at the age of 47. Sonbert had a flair for two-word titles, and Short Fuse is a poignant example: he crams a life more vibrant than most people’s dreams into 37 minutes.
Come see it with me if you’re free.
Kino 21 presents
Films of Warren Sonbert: “Narrative Vertigo”
Thursday, June 5, 8 p.m.; $6
Artists’ Television Access
992 Valencia, SF
www.kino21.org
Slamdance elegance
"Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?" Rock critic Simon Reynolds opens his recent survey Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984 (Penguin, 432 pages, $16) with that famous piece of invective, courtesy of Johnny Rotten from the stage of San Francisco’s Winterland. Rotten sneered those words during a Sex Pistols show. Tellingly, they arrived at the end of an American tour that contained both a zeitgeist and its own annihilation or so it seems from Lech Kowalski’s documentary D.O.A. (1980), one of four features comprising the Pacific Film Archive’s "Louder, Faster: Punk in Performance" series.
Even before the blowup, Rotten’s question had already been answered first by the art school oddballs and city poets who pre-dated then capitalized on punk’s groundswell, and later by the younger acolytes who reclaimed the false prophets’ call for "louder, faster" with their authenticity-obsessed rebel yells. Punk was made to be photographed Sex Pistols guru Malcolm McLaren ensured that much but the spirit of the frame depended on who was doing the shooting. The same three-chord assaults could make for social documents (1978-’88’s Target Video) or hipster scrawls (1976’s Blank Generation). They might inspire science experiments (Bruce Conner’s 1978 Mongoloid; Graeme Whifler’s 1978 Hello Skinny), or lyrical love streams (1979’s Deaf/Punk).
Blank Generation is the earliest punk film essay, a given since its New York milieu was already codified and oozing latent celebrity before punk moved to the provinces. Directed by Patti Smith bassist Ivan Kral and future No Wave saint Amos Poe, the film’s chapbook portraiture is heightened via a Hollis Frampton-like use of non-synched sound. Grainy black-and-white 8mm footage floats over the skips and starts of the soundtrack’s mix, creating a jilted effect perfectly suited to the push-pull of Television and the Talking Heads, as well as the tense erotics of Smith and Blondie.
Crappy audio and video smears aside, Joe Rees’s Target Video compilation reveals Bay Area post-punk in full bloom as it moves between Black Flag’s pummeling hardcore and Flipper’s art-damaged sludge to Devo’s proto-Teletubbies weirdness. The austere, one-camera setups anticipate a billion YouTube transmissions. I’ve driven by San Quentin Prison dozens of times wondering how Johnny Cash scored his famous gig there, but that was before I saw Rees’ footage of Crime at the same site thrashing away in mock police uniforms under the harsh glare of the afternoon sun.
Before it is art or communion, punk is permission. For a zenith-like picture of this freedom flight, one should look no further than John Gaikowski’s modest short Deaf/Punk. Gaikowski’s film uncorks a long-forgotten performance at San Francisco’s Deaf Club, using slow motion to revel in punk’s limitless potential energy. This music wasn’t designed to be elegant, but I can think of no better word for Gaikowski’s shocked vision of a singer standing in repose among a small crowd of daydreaming slamdancers.
"LOUDER, FASTER: PUNK IN PERFORMANCE"
Thurs/5 through June 26
Pacific Film Archive Theater
2575 Bancroft Way, Berk.
(510) 642-1124
Faith-based initiative
› a&eletters@sfbg.com
REVIEW The Contemporary Jewish Museum was founded in 1984 as the Jewish Museum San Francisco, and "starchitect" Daniel Libeskind’s building design, which seemingly bursts out of an 1881 vintage brick facade opposite Yerba Buena Gardens, began taking shape nearly a decade ago. But for all intents and purposes, the CJM’s opening this week marks the launch of a new art space that must affirm its brand identity on our cultural landscape. The folks behind this identity-based museum aim to instill a sense of belief in the place as a meaningful institution and to lure repeat visitors Jews and non-Jews alike. With a prominent public location and what could be a decent café the odds are in its favor.
Other factors might continue that momentum. The building itself is a bold yet restrained move by an architect whose Jewish Museum in Berlin tends to overshadow its contents. The CJM, however, succeeds in feeling both formidable and intimate. The spaces balance form and function: they look good and seem like they can accommodate and contextualize the works within. Still, the programming itself should be the primary element in attracting viewers.
The opening offerings include a delightful survey of work by the New Yorker cartoonist William Steig, organized by the Jewish Museum, New York, and a sound series selected by John Zorn. But the centerpiece exhibition, "In the Beginning: Artists Respond to Genesis" an ambitious, CJM-organized conglomeration of newly commissioned installations and historical and contemporary artworks and artifacts is a clear sign the admin is taking the museum’s challenge seriously and thinking big.
The show is designed to offer entry points to a range of viewers, its biblical foundation rooted in the Old Testament volume of Genesis, which speaks to Christians and Jews and allows the concept of creation to relate to art, religion, and science. The curators museum director Connie Wolf, deputy director Fred Wasserman, and assistant curator Dara Solomon abide by an imperative not to restrict exhibited works to pieces by Jewish makers. "In the Beginning" unfolds in a hallway antechamber with a flat-screen monitor displaying a grainy video of images of the Earth and the moon as seen from Apollo 8, television footage widely seen on Christmas Eve 1968, with audio of the astronauts reading the opening verses of Genesis. The inclusion points to a curatorial openness to pop-cultural artifacts as part of a contemporary art dialogue.
The seven commissioned installations are the headliners in the expansive temporary exhibition space, and they’re by a deliberately diverse group of artists. There are pieces by Matthew Ritchie and Trenton Doyle Hancock, artists who set down complex personalized cosmologies that essentially are their own elaborate creation myths, and both manage to create works with visual appeal. For a piece titled Day One, Ritchie uses a couple of gently angled walls for a graphically ornate mural that accommodates orb-shaped projections of roiling, animated landscapes, sun flares, flocks of ambiguous black shapes, and a soundtrack of the artist pondering existence and creation. A more rambunctious spirit pervades Hancock’s In the Beginning There Was the End, in the End There Was the Beginning, which is set against dizzying cartoonlike wallpaper and depicts a mythological narrative involving characters called Mounds and lowly Vegans.
The exhibit’s inspiration is literary, and text appears frequently, as in the somewhat vertigo-inducing animated work by Shirley Shor, an ex-Bay Area resident who swirls projections, in English and Hebrew, of Web-gathered references to Genesis down a wishing-well structure. Ben Rubin contributes God’s Breath Hovering over the Waters (His Master’s Voice), a sound sculpture inspired by an antenna developed by Bell Labs physicists in the 1960s that, according to the artist, led to audible evidence of the Big Bang. A Kabbalistic-inspired work by Mierle Laderman Ukeles is the show’s most spiritual, and involves layered audience participation including forging a personal covenant with the artist, the public, and the self.
Filmmaker Alan Berliner adds a more crowd-pleasing form of participation with Playing God, a satisfying interactive, seven-channel video one for each day of creation installation that emulates a slot machine as it generates phrases with words from Genesis. Audio-visual jackpots can be had, and pushing the glowing buttons quickly becomes addictive.
The show’s inclusion of historical and archival material is a riskier gambit. While designed to enrich the exhibition themes, adding objects such as a 15th-century biblical manuscript page, a Tiepolo drawing, Tom Marioni’s shadowbox assemblages, and Barnett Newman’s 1948 painting Onement II starts to seem cluttered, or, as they say in Yiddish, ungehpotchkeyed. Still, the "something for everyone" approach clearly stems from a gracious perspective or brand, not an obfuscating one. And that’s a curatorial position worth a return visit.
CONTEMPORARY JEWISH MUSEUM
Opening exhibits include "In the Beginning: Artists Respond to Genesis," Sun/8Jan. 4, 2009; opening events include "Dawn 2008," Sat/7, 8 p.m., $10-$15 with Dengue Fever and Jonathan Safran Foer; grand opening Sun/8, 10 a.m. ribbon-cutting, 11 a.m. doors, free.
Contemporary Jewish Museum
736 Mission, SF
(415) 655-7800
Beers With Violet Blue
While we’re on the subject of Violet Blue, we figured it’s time to post Justin Juul’s recent interview with the sexy local celeb. Read on!
Violet Blue is one of those people who builds robots, dreams about cupcakes, and has twelve phones. You know the type. They usually write about porn and sex on their award-winning blogs and you can pretty much count on them to release about three books a year. They often pose semi-nude for well-known photographers, write columns for daily newspapers, and make appearances on national television shows. Wait. I don’t know anyone that cool, or at least I didn’t until I met Violet. The Guardian recently had a few beers with Ms. Blue to try to learn the secret to her seemingly impossible career and life.

SFBG: So whatcha been up to lately?
Violet Blue: Well, one new thing I’m working on is a series of interviews for Kink. They’ve really been stepping up their production lately so there are more big-name porn stars coming through. I’ve been interviewing all of them.
SFBG: Who have you interviewed?
Blue: Oh, I’ve done tons. I’ve been gathering them for weeks and I’m just writing them up now. I’ve got Ariel X, Flower Tucci, and a bunch of other famous people. I like doing the interviews because I’m kind of outside the porn industry. So instead of asking them how big their boobs are, I’ll maybe ask them if they have names for their boobs, which I actually did ask a couple girls.
Why is PG&E attacking Leno on education?
It’s not like schools are their business – at all. But the $13 billion utility company is the big money behind recent television ads depicting Mark Leno as a foe of children and schools.
“San Francisco Assemblyman Mark Leno claims that he’s for better schools,” the ad informs, according to a transcript provided by the California Teacher’s Association. “Yet in 2004, it was Leno who joined Republicans, and with one vote to spare, cut $3.1 billion from California schools.”
Actually, said CTA in a news release, “It distorts Leno’s support for a state budget in 2004 that temporarily reduced some funding for schools. The budget was approved by the Legislature with bipartisan support in that financially difficult year for the state.”
CTA, which represents 90 percent of the state’s educators, endorsed Leno in the District 3 State Senate race, and held a rally today in Mill Valley to affirm their support and criticize PG&E.
“Why is PG&E behind this?” CTA’s Mike Myslinski wondered when we spoke to him. “Leno has a strong education record and parents and teachers are very disturbed by this ad.”
The ad was attributed to a political action committee called “Protect Our Kids,” which late independent expenditure filings [PDF] with the CA Secretary of State show is heavily funded by CALIFORNIANS FOR A CLEAN ENERGY FUTURE, A COALITION OF ENVIRONMENTALISTS, TAXPAYERS, AND PACIFIC GAS AND ELECTRIC COMPANY. [PDF]
Looks like the San Francisco Police Officers Association, as well as a couple of out of state companies, also kicked in to cover the $100,000 in cash that’s been spent on anti-Leno propaganda that has nothing to do with energy – clean or otherwise. But, as CTA points out, “The PG&E-funded ad comes at a time when one of Leno’s opponents in the Senate race, Joe Nation, is being criticized for his huge financial support from business interests. PG&E is a supporter of Nation.”
It wasn’t all that long ago Leno was shaking hands with PG&E over at the LGBT center.
Played-out Bill O’Reilly: the no spin zone
Play us out already: The original O’Reilly footage of the man flipping out.
By Laura Mojonnier
By now, you have undoubtedly had the pleasure of seeing Bill O’Reilly go ballistic on an old Inside Edition outtake that resurfaced online earlier this month. The clip spread like only viral videos can, and within days, O’Reilly himself addressed the mini-controversy on his show, joking that the taped meltdown was only the tip of the iceberg. “By contractual obligation, I have to create a few dramas every year for the amusement of my coworkers,” he said smiling, exuding an alarming degree of humility, perspective, and self-control that certainly did not win him his contract at Fox.
Inside the back pedal.
O’Reilly’s attempt to put the matter to rest was futile, however. The footage is just too damn good. I’ve already incorporated his best outbursts into my everyday conversation (“Fuck it! Do it live!” and “Fucking! Thing! Sucks!” are my favorites). The clip is the first video that pops up when you search his name on YouTube, and as of press time, it has garnered more than 1.3 million views. I am clearly not alone.
O’Reilly meltdown: the dance remix
But the real story here, I think, is not the meltdown itself – everyone knows that O’Reilly is a barking, chauvinistic blowhard – but rather the dance remix. Nothing hits the spot quite like watching O’Reilly on loop, rapping, “I don’t know / I don’t know / I don’t know / Fuck!” to the sweet techno beat. I can basically recite the entire song by heart. And in light of the remix, the original footage seems a hollow shell of its former self. It no longer possesses the same power to shock and titillate. Why not? The dance remix, in all its repetitive hilarity, shows O’Reilly’s freak-out for what it actually is: a sadly predictable confirmation that his television personality is not an act.










