Marke B.

Calling All Dip-Shits: Deja Poo Needs Your Help

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By Justin Juul

Deja Poo, San Francisco’s first dookie-themed art show, is looking for new talent. The people who’ll be throwing the event –in their living room!!!– are sick and tired of dealing with bullshit and are actively enlisting the help of complete strangers. The show will feature poo-shaped snacks, shitty deejays, “mud” wrasslin’, open-mic poo stories, and a bunch of other dumb shit. I’m only writing this because I don’t have enough time to whip up a mini-mural of the final scene from 2 Girls One Cup. The idea is all yours if you want it, though. Just reply to this ad and get to work.

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Deja Poo
Saturday, Feb 2, 6pm – Midnight
The Art Alley Gallery
10 Heron ST.
FREE

SPORTS: The return of C-Web is a bad idea

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By A.J. Hayes

Thomas Wolfe may have been exaggerating when he wrote “You Can’t Go Home Again.” But in the case of basketball player Chris Webber that phrase should be taken as gospel.

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Chris Webber, earlier

Especially when it comes to a possible return to the Warriors, Webber’s initial NBA club. When Webber forced his way off the Warriors in the fall of 1994, he just didn’t leave the franchise and team’s dedicated fan base in the lurch. He dumped a gallon of gasoline on the shag carpet and lit a match.

But here we are more than a dozen years later and there is serious talk of a Warriors and Webber reunion. But before the Warriors make that move we implore Golden State to take Amy Winehouse’s advice and say “No, No, No.”

The current Warriors, with Baron Davis and Stephen Jackson leading a “shoot-and-ask-questions-later” barrage are currently the most entertaining and only winning pro sports team in Northern California. But today’s W’s still have a ways to go in matching the excitement level generated by the Warriors clubs of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Led by fish-tie-wearing Coach Don Nelson in his first tenure as Warriors coach, those Warriors reinvented NBA basketball in the Bay Area. Led by Timmy Hardaway, Mitch Richmond and Chris Mullin (AKA Run-TMC), those Warriors clubs put on awesome scoring displays every time they took the hardwood, selling out the Coliseum Arena on a nightly basis and winning a couple of league scoring titles in the process.

Warrior’s fans ate it up like popcorn, or more accurately free pizza, which they won every time Golden State scored 120 or points in a game, which was frequently.

Despite a high entertainment value, the Warriors of those days lacked the presence of a great big man to move them deep into the playoffs. But that all changed in 1993 when the Warriors managed to draft Webber, the collegiate superstar who led Michigan to the NCAA championship game in ’93.

Product overload! The latest MacWorld post ever

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Yeah, yeah, this is like two weeks late — we were drunk(er), and our minds were still struggling to encompass the sheer overwhelmingness of it all. Guardian assistant art director Ben Hopfer toured MacWorld. Here’s his report.

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12 iGalaxies

Ah MacWorld, the one place in the world where I can completely geek out and still not be the biggest dork in the building. I’ve been going to MacWorld for almost 10 years now; originally because I got to talk my dad into buying me a bunch of cool computer shit I couldn’t afford myself and now so I can play around with a bunch of cool computer shit I still can’t afford. Never less here’s my quick and dirty breakdown of this years’ event.

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Mac me in slick Louis

My first thought this years MacWorld was where are all the computers? It seemed like every booth was either for speakers for you iPod, a case for your iPod/iPhone, or some fancy smancy bag for your laptop. Now at one point I had a nice rubber case for my iPod, but all it was useful for what getting dust and grime on itself. Now I know there’s millions and millions of iPod’s out there, but how can one product spawn so many companies wanting to wrap it up on rubber and plastic cases? Haven’t we hit critical mass yet?

The same can be said for all the companies trying to sell speakers for the iPod. It seemed like every other booth had something you could stick your iPod in. I mean being able to listen to your music without the need of earbuds is awesome, but do they all have to look so ridiculous? I mean until recently I was just using a cheap pair or battery powered speakers to play my music, do we really need a toilet paper holder with built in speakers so we can listen to music while we take a crap?

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iWipe

Klubz: Sub Static tour electrifies Love It! Wednesdays

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Grab your undergroundish dancing shoes and head to Icon Ultra Lounge this Wednesday for, really, something that’s worth heading to Icon Ultra Lounge: fab weekly Love It! Wednesdays, this week the featuring currently-touring minimal-techno-electro-what-have-you geniuses behind one of Berlin’s great labels, Sub Static. Label heads Michaela Grobelny (aka MIA) and Falko Brockseiper will be on deck (with MIA performing live!). Love It!’s pretty fun on its own (although the crowd can be pretty dressy), and with a turboboost of breakin’ Berliners, this maybe the humpday of the year so far …..

MIA in action on tour

Sub Static tour
at Love It! Wednesdays
Weds/30, 9pm-2am
$8 b4 11, $12 after
1192 Folsom, SF
www.myspace.com/loveitwednesdays

Brownout! rolls through the rain

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Turn that umbrella upside down and smile to the warm Latin funk (with an edge of oh-so-nasty) of Austin’s Brownout!, who’ll be drizzling driving grooves, conga section included, through that undersung cumbia-and-get-’em hot spot, El Rincon this Saturday. They’ll be playing a live set with DJ Chicken George, guaranteed to shelter you from the storms.

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The eight-piece ensemble’s work can be found on Freestyle Records, and its sunny, tequila-soaked appearance here is brought to you by the kids from rad soulful weekly Afrolicious (Thursdays at Elbo Room), accompanied by funky drimmers LaMalaMaña and DJs Señor Oz and Pleasuremaker. Check it!

Brownout
Saturday Jan/26
10pm-2am
El Rincon
2700 16th Street
(between Folsom St & Harrison St)

Video Mutants: Rave damage

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>>Click here to read Marke B.’s interview with Ryan Trecartin

› superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO "Hey Skippy, PattyMay is here. In. This. Room."

"Oh god, it’s true! PattyMay is in this room."

"Yes! Tell him I am here. I am PattyMay, and I am in. This. Room."

"Did you say PattyMay is in the room?"

This is the Guardian‘s video art issue, and anyone who’s recently hung out with a certain brand of cued-in, mid-20s clubber knows that the neon-splattered, inverted Internet psycho-vids of Ryan Trecartin are the new now. Those who’ve not hung out with such can plug directly into any enervated crackles and eyeball quivers lingering from their tab-heavy rave days — a tweekend back in K-land, courtesy of capital A — with a quick scan of the Philadelphia-based 26-year-old’s YouTube channel, WianTreetin.

There — and in several big-time art exhibitions throughout the world — you’ll find one of the most mind-bending glosses on getting ready for a night out, and actually going out, that’s ever been burnt to digi, A Family Finds Entertainment (2004). This half-hourish doozy begins with a gothic drag specter clutching a bottle of generic hair spritz and trying to pull a little girl into a bathroom closet. It ends with a boy who’s been run over by a ghost car rising from the dead, kind of, as a gender-clown version of himself gets reborn in a kiddie pool after a house is destroyed by an underground indie rock dance orgy. (Cue fireworks.)

In between is what one character calls "nonlinear trash, with color!" and the wickedest toss-off line in the universe, "To the dark side — I party alone." Also: a chipmunk remix of Sophie Ellis Baxter’s awful "Murder on the Dance Floor," a spastic impersonation of infernal fiber-optic networks, liberal quantities of ingested toner, confused plans shouted through butcher-paper walls, and the partially imaginary dream girl PattyMay, made somehow realer by several incantations of her name. All this and more, plus an overload of kitten star wipes.

What? That’s not your typical night out? Honey, call me.

Mapping the plots of Trecartin’s hyperactive, live-action phantasmagorias is so beside the point it’s next to it. Part of the posted synopsis of his 2006 short Tommy Chat Just E-Mailed Me: "Takes place inside and outside of an Internet e-mail…. Tammy prints stuff and confronts Beth. Beth does a Google search for ‘fun’ and finds ‘ugly,’ so she phone calls her dark dream girlfriend Pam who has communication problems, a dead computer painting, Apple OSX, and their lesbian communal baby prop."

And although the look and feel of his episodes — Microsoft-blue papier-mâché interiors, vine-sprouting ceilings, fluorescent-dipped skin tones, looped asexual voices, ominous snippets of warped bubblegum pop — are definitely wiggy, drug analogies come up obvious and short. Trecartin’s created a hilarious and horrifying — hilarifying — open-source code for the nightmare side of contemporary life, with its inflatable technological chaos, zombified discount shopping, and endless idiotic yakking. Wild club nights and the ancient rituals of rebirth they tap into yield a central theme — actual physical activity among streaming virtual selves.

In 2007’s I-BE AREA — basically what the invisible thing that sneaks up behind you when you’ve been online too long looks like — the main gist is the soul’s fate in a world of obnoxious social networking, one that reduces individuals to quasi-emotional ADD outbursts and illogical catchphrases. It’s life aboard the MySpace Death Star, and everyone had better fill up their blogs, crop their pics, broadcast in a perfect urban patois, and be their own friends. "Look, I think I just saw a highly advanced, 3-D text message of my future self giving me the middle finger," main character I-BE, a.k.a. Trecartin, says snootily.

I-BE AREA zings off on a million paths in its quest for authenticity — names become other names, twins melt into clones, characters switch places with their avatars and turn clairvoyant. There’s a jaw-dropping tap dance sequence featuring orphaned kids recorded on Adoption Audition Tapes. At one point a woman who looks like she wandered off the set of Dynasty identifies herself as the Head-PArent and drops a hypothetical blow-dryer into a hot tub full of hippie ghouls. Later a noodle-eyed tranny ectomorph called Pasta kidnaps a baby.

Near the center of it all is the Wood Shop — a real wood shop, with band saws revving and lumber strewn precariously. It’s also the perfect joke on a mainstream gay dance club (or online hookup site). "Exotic" black go-go boys writhe frantically on tables, fractured machinery noises sub in for lame-ass techno, and an obnoxious, pig-tailed faggy avatar screams "What?" into her brick cell phone. Then everyone prances around lewdly and breaks windows. Just like real life!

www.elizabethdeegallery.com/artists/view/ryan-trecartin

www.youtube.com/WianTreetin

Video Mutants: Ryan Trecartin streams/flows into onlive timeslot, TOtal nowhere emotion expansion

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In this week’s Super Ego nightlife etc. column, as part of our Video Mutants issue, I handheld display my growing obsession with young artist Ryan Trecartin, who somehow squares club culture and diverts the neon identity parade into a tributary of parodied obnoxion (with Internet hyperquotes). By which I mean, “Damn! I think I just got dissed in a nextdoor dimension, but I like it that way.”

I-BE AREA (Double Jamie, Ramada Omar, and Sally Man Pause)

Ryan – who’s represented by the bigtime Elizabeth Dee Gallery in NYC – has a total Pro Tools grasp on irreality and its obverse reality, what’s beneath people performing, and his video work combines Mardi Gras parade giddiness (he spent time living in New Orleans), Web 2.0 blank paradise, and head-trip introspection with way incredible about me’s. Electronic ghosts, phased identities, realtime spots and trailers .. the online is performed in trashy afterlife/live/death here, and it wears a sparkling wig. Plus, Ryan does fabulous things with windows. JK/JK

I like to think there’s a deep current of nightlife reference running through feature-length works like A Family Finds Entertainment and I-BE AREA. Although who the hell knows? Ryan’s worked with at least one local beloved club presence, Patrik Sandberg — of ‘90s-flashback pirate radio show “Cobain in a Coma” and “drugged out goth shoegaze dream pop party” Spaced, at the Knockout — who plays space-waif gift-giver Craig Ricky in I-BE AREA and tells me that Ryan’s “holding a mirror up to a generation that lives a significant part of their lives online, in a way that makes fun of but also adores it. Not only that, I can’t stop quoting him.”

OK Agreed. And more than guilty above. So, yeah, I freaked and zoned and freaked again when Ryan agreed to answer some art critic avatar agenda questions over one whole e-mail about his digital video mental.

SF Bay Guardian: In I-BE AREA, the Wood Shop is like the most nightmarish gay dance club I’ve never been to. I dream about it a lot. How did you put together the Wood Shop scenes?

I-BE AREA (WoodShopBoys Ramada Omar and Jamies Band)

Ryan Trecartin: It was a three shoot workout, in a space called The Woodshop Drama Room one of three rooms that make up Jamie’s Area which is a conceptual part-Cyber-hybrid Platform that obeys and functions with in both laws of Physics and virtual-non-linear reality and potential in Web 2.0/ultra-wiki communication malfunction liberation flow, add-on, and debate presentation. The main structure is the character Jamie her self- a total control damage freak with independent log-ins, muse extension people, and live-links. The Wood Shop is a situation stage where pho-male-cyber-gays login to over posted anti-productive decisive message board dead-end faggoting activities. Jamie has a composer status in this scene during another timeslot using her saw and wood dictating with wireless momentum control and influence over her haters at work, while mirroring in Dark Jam Band form, on cell-phone with Ramada Omar in Class Room separated by a closed Window (3 time slots being viewed). The Wood Shop Fags search-out wanting a free channel edge and perform a permanent Window opening on Ramada Omar Freeing it to an independent Multi-tasking shape shifting reality pool. The actual shoot was really fun. It had a script but was the most abstract shoot of the whole movie-lots of improvisations and an everyone talked at the same time, making a don’t be quiet on the set situation. Like planed home video- script-destruction theme over goal. My favorite part is when Solomon (black hair pig-tale mall goth wig) has a brick ready for the Break Down, in cell phone placement and says nothing about someone calling him on his phone an “Said”, over and over like it’s a presidential victory speech with supporters and reason promoting a total nowhere emotion expansion with self eating content, saying… what?—don’t use hotmale log out to log In father fucker.

SPORTS: Where’s Tiger Woods?

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And why isn’t he speaking up against golf’s racism?

By A.J. Hayes

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Tiger’s not talking

For a sport that demands precious silence from its gallery , why is it that pro golf’s shot callers behave like a boisterous drunks every time they are faced with the fact that the sport just might be a tad lacking in racial tolerance within its infrastructure?

The latest racially charged calamity to soil the sport began about two weeks ago when an obscure Golf Channel announcer named Kelly Tilghman proclaimed that the only hope young golfers have in beating the great Tiger Woods was “lynch him in an alley.”

While it was a bizarre statement to make – who uses the term “lynch” so casually in regards to an African-American? – most people, including Woods himself, gave Tilgman the benefit of the doubt that didn’t make the statement with race in mind.

After she apologized she was given a two week suspension.

Then last week, Golfweek magazine joined Tilgman in the sand trap when it ran a picture of a noose on its cover to illustrate a story about the Tilgman. The cover line read: “Caught in a Noose: Tilghman slips up, and Golf Channel can’t wriggle free.”

Of course anyone who isn’t submersed in the world of golf 24 hours a day would know how blatantly offensive such imagery is. Eventually the real world caught up with the magazine and a change was made in their editorial hierarchy.

This fiasco is just the latest racially charged episode to hit golf. If it isn’t the controversy over golf course that holds the Masters Tournament that forbids women from being members, to the racially insensitive remarks about Woods made by golfer Fuzzy Zoeller, golf has a real problem with race.

Compounding the problem is, it never seems to learn from its mistakes.

Bark if you’re psychic

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My furry fourlegged friend is a 17-year-old former dog clothing model and lives in a loft in NYC (the bitch made it as a model in Manhattan and left me behind! America’s Top Meanie!) Back when she was young, we’d huddle together, homeless, in shells of buildings in Detroit and Pontiac, MI. She never got the royal treatment until she was discovered by a talent scout who took one look at me and sniffed — and I’m not sure how she’d respond to this:

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Oh yes, it’s real. And it gets better. This CD was “created by Skip Haynes and Dana Walden of the L.A. based Laurel Canyon Animal Company (the only record label that creates music about, for and with animals), who utilized the talents and expertise of intuitive animal communicator Dr. Kim Ogden to translate for them,” according to the press release.

“Canine focus groups selected from over 250 dogs nationwide were assembled and questioned by Dr. Ogden as to their preferences in music and content. The dogs’ responses were then used as guides for the music and lyrics resulting in a CD of songs that dogs love. ”

The CD, apparently, has already yielded a hit, “Squeaky Deaky” — which is accompanied by possibly one of the best videos EVER.

People on YouTube have already posted vids of their dogs reacting to the music. Straight up viral woofiness?

Yo! Street art peaces out

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By Vanessa Carr

This Friday and Saturday nights, the internationally traveling “Yo! What Happened to Peace?” art show comes to San Francisco’s Jack Hanley Gallery. Started in 2003 in Tokyo by curator John Carr in response to the invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq, the Los Angeles-based show has been traveling to cities around the globe, most recently Stockholm and London.

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The San Francisco show, which opened last night, is a selection from the show’s total body of 250 handmade prints — mostly silkscreens, linocuts, and woodcuts — contributed by 130 artists worldwide with influences ranging from punk rock and hip hop graphics to the Chicano Poster Movement of the 1960s and ‘70s.

A pro-peace, anti-war art show in San Francisco may seem about as novel as a Charlton Heston fanatic at a gun convention, but “Yo! What Happened to Peace” should not be dismissed with a been-there-done-that yawn.

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While some of the pieces fall victim to tired “Fuck Bush” iconography, the majority of the work represents political printmaking at its best: exceptional graphic design, intense colors, expert production, and sharp political commentary.

Titties on fire, fashion aflame

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By Candice Chan

Flaming bras. Typically not my first apparel choice to strut about town, but after attending last night’s Hot Couture: A Fusion of Fire and Fashion, put on by The Crucible, I am seriously considering it.

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In its 9th anniversary show, the center combines work by local clothing and jewelry designers with impressive blacksmithing – fire-spewing tail spikes, anyone? – to create an incendiary spectacular which ensures that everyone gets a little somethin’ somethin’. Think Cirque du Soleil meets Hades meets fashion week in New York.

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Say w00t

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› superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good-bye, Ms. 2007. Don’t let the 404 error smack your red-soled Christian Louboutin–clomping, MySpace bisexual ass on the way out. And take your tired $500 embroidered jeans, Belgian sunglasses, Hollister panties, Affliction Ts, and fake Bape reeking of your mama’s Target fabric softener with you — you know, the one with all the circa-2004 Louis Vuitton rainbow logos on it.

Screw you, Marc Jacobs. Bite me, DJ Tiësto. Can it, rosé-tipsy lady on the dance floor who keeps smacking me in the back of the head with her knock-off Fendi glitter-enameled suede baguette. Arrivederci, neon-streaked hair-don’ts, shuffling texters, drunken Googlers, Killers remixes, Rihanna drag, and Red Bull breath. Au revoir, veneer of social networking. Sayonara, bump watch. Fuck off, gay-lined tweeners.

Heyz, Marke B.! Can’t we get a little more <3???

Totez!!11!one. I know it’s halfway through January, but I had to let my bitter 2k7 hens out — and the above are just so country. I’m zipping them into my lead-lined Hannah Montana backpack and tossing them — gracefully yet firmly, in one sweeping motion, with my profile turned toward the camera, chin up — onto the raging pyre of fashion victimology. ‘K? The new year has me feeling positively jagged with sophistication, deliciously complex, and I need a squeaky-clean slate to cut my witty lines on. (Best overheard club phrases of 2008 so far: "Are those pants or a skirt?" and "This bathroom smells like Fritos and cum!" and "From the top you looked like someone else, but from the front you look like yourself.")

Also: fuzzy resolutions. It’s time to get more worldly, more intel, more funkily interconnected. Time to put the pow in MIA, the wise in dubwize, the balls in global. Everyone on the scene’s been snugging on their knit Sherpa thinking caps, braiding all of their international musical tastes together, and letting them hang down cutely over their ears. The fractured bass lines pumping through the multiculti underground are raising the roof of the world.

What the hell am I talking about? My secret favorite forward-thinking monthly of the past year: Surya Dub. I need to pack my glass bong up and hit there more on the regular.

Rocketing toward its first anniversary at Club Six, Surya Dub’s one of the few joints in San Francisco where the crowd is truly interdenominational, where representatives from all of the latest club contingents — Balkan lovers, Bollywood dreamers, rave revivalists, stoned dubsters, ancient househedz, indie cosmopolites, post-hyphy hoppers, grime gawkers, ragga ragers, and eager sublebrities — meet in a kind of United Nations of Nightlife, getting off to a tuneful mulligatawny of pan-planetary styles.

Resident and cofounder Maneesh the Twister describes Surya’s sound as "dread bass music." "There’s not really a genre that fully encompasses what we do," he told me over e-mail from Southeast Asia, where he was breaking for the hols. "Obviously there’s a heavy bass component which is the foundation, and a prominent dub influence, but one of our main goals is to bring seemingly disparate music styles and communities together. Hence our vision to bridge the gap between organic styles such as reggae, bhangra, and other global beats and more electronic styles such as dubstep, glitch, breakbeat, and drum ‘n’ bass."

Maneesh, who also resides at the fab Dub Mission weekly (www.dubmisionsf.com), went on to name-check some of his favorite regular parties — Surefire Dubstep, Grime City, Nonstop Bhangra — and a few Surya-friendly up-and-coming music makers, like Roommate, Juju, Process Rebel, and Matty G. But his bass-loving heart really pumps for his own Surya Dub Crew, which includes DJs Kush Arora, Amar, Ripley, Kid Kameleon, Jimmy Love, Ross Hog, and Neta, along with MC Daddy Frank and VJ Ohashi.

"For our anniversary celebration we’re presenting a huge coalition of local artists called the Bay Area Dubwize Soundclash, featuring J-Boogie, the Antiserum, Sam Supa, and Emcee Child," Maneesh wrote. "We wanted to book some UK and European guests, too," he added sheepishly, "but they’d rather be earning euros. Can’t say I blame them, really. Underground music here is a far ways from being as economically viable as it is in Europe."

Maybe the International Monetary Fund oughta launch an underground-nightlife development program.

(Click here to read my full interview with Maneesh, plus Surya Dub’s Top 10!)

SURYA DUB ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY

Jan. 26, 9 p.m.–4 a.m., $10

Club Six

60 Sixth St., SF

(415) 863-1221

www.suryadub.com

Taste the dub: Surya Dub steps to

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In this week’s Super Ego I dump out all the 2007 trash and ring in the new with tribute to one of my fave clubz, Surya Dub. Surya hits its first anniversary on Saturday, Jan 26 at Club Six — be there y’all! — and in honor of the gloriously woozy-dub, bhangra-bangin’, wacky breaks occasion, I asked resident DJ and cofounder Maneesh the Twister a few choice q’s.

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Maneesh — ain’t he cute?

What would you categorize most of the music you guys play/host as? It seems to be so much more than dubstep/bhangra …
Well we call this music “Dread Bass Music” because there is not really a genre that fully encompasses what we do. Obviously there is a heavy bass component which is the foundation and a prominent dub influence, but one of the main goals with Surya is to bring seemingly disparate music styles and communities together, hence our vision to bridge the gap between organic styles such as reggae, bhangra, and global beats and more ragga electronic styles such as dubstep, glitch, breakbeat, & drum’n’bass. And as a result this brings together different communities of people from more commercial reggae/dancehall crowds to more underground club culture and Burning Man folks to some of the global beats crowd.

A Bit of Surya Dub

Any comments on the state of San Francisco club music at the moment?
Well I have to say that it has been more refreshing this year than the last few years which def seemed like a slump for underground music of all styles from club culture to indie rock. There def is a nice bubbling energy of creativity again and I think everyone is feeding off of that. I really have enjoyed some of the Surefire Dubstep events, Grime City, and NonStop Bhangra and if I may be biased, dub mission. Some Bay Area artists pushing boundaries and really making a mark in my opinion are Roommate, Kush Arora, Juju, Process Rebel, & Matty G.

The power of iMarketing!

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Yes, even almost more amazing than the fact that one of the spandex-clad New American Gladiators is indeed a gay porn star — no duh, that’s like, totally hot, yo —

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Photo courtesy of Fleshbot/Colt Studios

and also even almost more amazing than the fact that he’s not yet been implicated in a steroids/HGH investigation, is that fact that mere moments after Steve “Not The Fake Blogger” Jobs unveiled the “ultrathin, ultraportable and ultra unlike anything else” MacBook Air (please please tell me that there’s gonna be a MacBook Air Jordan Apple-Nike crossover!), I received a notice in my inbox about it. That’s the power of people. That’s the power of marketing.

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Just do it?

PS — still waiting on that iTunes Movies marketing push, Appleteers! iGet on it!

SPORTS: Are the A’s history?

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If MLB is serious about contraction, Oakland could lose its team

By A.J. Hayes

Several seasons ago, before performance-enhancing drugs started dominating baseball’s off-the-field news, an equally troubling situation was starting to take hold in the perpetually hand-wringing sport – contraction.

In 2001, back when team owners claim they had no clue about baseball’s growing steroids problem, Commissioner Bud Selig floated his scheme to eliminate two major league clubs – his choices at the time were Montreal and Minnesota – to help stave off baseball revenue problems.

For any number of reasons, the contraction plan fizzled and has rarely been heard from since.

But now in 2008 don’t be surprised if talk returns to putting one or more of the game’s 30 clubs on the chopping block – if for no other reason than to divert talk from exactly what pharmaceutical products were injected into Roger Clemens’ buttocks.

Friday fluff: Possibly the cutest thing ever

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What with tiger attacks, sonic booms killing off arctic life, and leopard and bear near-escapes at the SF Zoo — not to mention another oil-laden barge crashing into another bay bridge! — we turn our attention to the Tiergarden Nuernberg zoo, where this little fuzzy wonder popped out.

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Sure, it had to be removed from its mother for fear that she would attack it, but we love nature anyway. Here’s more.

Little chocolate disco rocks me

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All I know is, someone recently dropped this little goodie off on my desk (thanks, Chocolate Elf!) …..

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… and it’s freakin’ delicious. The instructions on the back of this “Taza Disco” say: Break one piece chocolate into one cup steaming milk or water and whisk until frothy — but I just ate the dang thing whole and now I’m the one who’s frothy. Sweet lord, organic stone-ground Taza Chocolate rules!

Bye bye, mai tai: Trader Vic’s no more

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Alas, along with the dispiriting news that people keep getting shot and jumped outside nightclubs, that the police are pushing to “more directly” regulate bars and clubs, and that perennial underground jam palace the Gingerbread Warehouse finally got busted on New Year’s Eve, comes this awful fact of 2008: The San Francisco branch (the original) of Trader Vic’s is no more.

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Trader Vic: Rolling in his rum-soaked grave?

The bar-cum-restaurant — a 2006 Best of the Bay winner — had opened in fancier digs (where legendary resto Stars once was) after relocating from the spot where Le Colonial is now, after residing there for 12-odd years. Trader Vic’s is now an international chain, so you can still hit up one of those giant cocktails in a bowl to share with friends in Shanghai, but it was built on the reputation of amazing local Victor J. “Trader Vic” Bergeron, who invented the mai tai. No reason has been forthcoming about the closure.

I really liked their space! What will they do with all those antique dugouts hanging from the ceiling?

Oh well, bottoms up. (Also closed in recent weeks: the Washington Square Bar & Grill and the delicious Patisserie on 18th Street. )

Clubz: Please nuke the gayz of Williamsburg

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I knew it! I knew that once that trashy pole of nightlife fakulousness, Misshapes in NYC, closed, all the raunchy club kidz it spawned would either run for corporate cover (you can now hire the famous Misshapes DJs for corporate events — will they displace Michael Bolton at next year’s Oracle convention?) or hit the tragic talkshow circuit. Or hit the tragic talkshow circuit AND start their own “rap” band. Well, Johnny Makeup (aka Scotty Mouthbreather) is hitting that last option hard. Watch and wince, darlings:

PLUS: He — along with the rest of his “V.I.P. Party Boys” will be featured on the Tyra Banks show this Wednesday discussing “how sex and drugs get tangled with fame.” Um, don’t you need to be famous first? Good luck to all!

PS: I’ve just received sad word that the other trashy pole of fakulousness (but in a seriously good way), Hot Dog in LA has closed. I’m hoping Mario Diaz, possibly the hottest promoter in the world, will now be free to lodge himself firmly in my Dumpster. Even if he did go a little too far into go-go boy territory at the end with his club …

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Hi Mario! Call me, k?

Film: Def + Black + sweded

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I know that Science Of Sleep, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and umpteen hyperreal, DIYish music videos director Michel Gondry is just SO DAMN PRECIOUS, but his new movie Be Kind Rewind, planned for release on February 22 looks like a real hoot.

In it Jack Black’s brain gets mysteriously magnetized (if only that could happen to his screen persona, heh), and erases all the videos in Mos Def’s video store. hijinks ensue — including Black and Def (best duo name ever!) having to re-record all the movies in the store, including Ghostbusters, Robocop, and Driving Miss Daisy. They do this, pathetically hilariously, by “sweding” the films, which Jack Black’s character Jerry explains in the movie means “Taking what you like and mixing it with some other things you like thing to make a new thing.” Actually, Jerry, that’s called a mashup — or, really, the process of art in general.

Sweding, in fact, seems more like remaking something on a shoestring budget, and Gondry et al seem to be hoping that it will become a viral phenomonon (or at least provide a name for what everyone seems to be doing on YouTube in general, currently collected under the ephemeral umbrella of “video responses.”)

You can find a few fun swedes here. Now make your own and let the clever viral marketing begin!

Supreme Court: Go, dykes, go!

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Today the US Supreme Court refused to consider the extremely odd request by a Dublin lawyer to strike down the trademark “Dykes On Bikes,” awarded to the San Francisco Women’s Motorcycle Contigent (you know, the many miles of hot revvin’ lezzies that kick off the Pride parade each year), because the trademark was “hostile to men” and that the phrase was “immoral and disparaging.”

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Ride on, sister girlfriend

When reached by the Chron, the lawyer, Michael McDermott, described Dykes on Bikes as “an anti-male hate riot.” Ha! A higher appeals court had rightly ruled earlier that the phrase “had no effect on men.” I would give my left Christian LaBoutin to read those court transcripts.

This is actually an odder story than one would think: I seem to recall that the Dykes on Bikes actually made a concerted effort to be referred to as “The San Francisco Women’s Motorcycle Contingent” a few years back, right around the time that the US Patent Office declined its request for a Dykes on Bikes trademark, because the patent office found the term “dykes” to be disparaging to lesbians. The patent office later rethought “based on reviewing more evidence” (like maybe thousands of dykes telling it not to tell THEM what’s disparaging), and awarded the trademark.

I love the Dykes — I tear up every time they pass. And they can call themselves whatever they want (they’ll always be known as “Dykes on Bikes” no matter what happens, anyway.) But, while proud, I do have one beef. Do we really want the Pride Parade being led by a cloud of carbon exhaust fumes? When will Pride go green? (I am SO gonna get my gay card revoked for suggesting such a thing, but hey — it’s 2008. And I’m a member of the Mikes on Bikes contingent.) It’ll be interesting to see if the “green” in Pride remains the beer sponsorship money.

Meanwhile, gun it for freedom, hot dykes of the world!

UPDATE: I have just been informed by a dyke in the know that her bike gets 41 mph, and that participants are very respectful and don’t rev up until the parade is officially starting. Vroom!

Cockmeat sandwich, anyone?

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It’s soooo stupid! But yes, I’m totally wetting my pants over the new trailer for Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay. As a swarthy gay arab who once got called “Osama” in Ohio (and “Apu” in Utah), I feel it’s my honor-bound duty. Plus I’m kinda hot for both of them.

Alas! I’ll have to wait until April 25 to see it in theatres. Counting. Every. Second.

Get your ’08 FLOAT on

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By Justin Juul

Doesn’t it sometimes seem like the world is working against you? It’s bad enough those days when you wake up feeling like shit for no reason, but it really sucks when things just get worse from there. And it’s always their fault, isn’t it? The dickhead at the liquor store forgets to stock your brand of cigarettes. Some yuppie in a fancy car nearly runs you off the road. Your manager fires you, your landlord evicts you, your friends diss you. Sometimes other people are just too much to bear. Don’t you wish you could just make them all disappear for a while? Or better yet, don’t you wish you could disappear?

I mean let’s face it, even if you could temporarily get rid of all those other assholes, you’d still be stuck with the biggest asshole in the world: yourself.

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Keep reading …

When the wheel of contentment begins to rotate downward, most of us turn to drugs, go into workaholic mode or — for those who can afford it — go on a vacation. But all that stuff is too predictable and it often leaves us feeling worse. What if there was a way to temporarily disconnect from life without any of the usual consequences?

Well, if you’ve ever seen Altered States, you know all about sensory deprivation chambers, those weird water-tanks psychology students use to study brain chemistry or whatever. It’s supposed to be the coolest experience in the world, something like meditating on acid.

In a deprivation chamber you are utterly alone. Your body is suspended in warm Epsom-water, your ears are submerged so you can’t hear a thing, and it’s totally dark, odorless, and soundproof. After a minute or two in an isolation-tank, the entire world melts away and you’re left with raw brain waves. Outside of a bad ketamine trip, it’s the most detached experience humanly possible. Sounds great right? The only problem is that the tanks are hard to get access to unless you work in a medical lab or live in Spain or London where they’ve become fashionable for some reason. Not anymore.

The owners of FLOAT, an urban art gallery in Oakland, got their hands on some tanks a couple years ago and are offering their services to the public. A psychedelic dip in one of FLOAT’s tanks is the perfect cure for those post holiday-with-the-family blues. Just strap on some Speedos, shut your eyes, and forget about those assholes (and yourself) for a while.

New Year Package at FLOAT – 3 Floats for the Price of 2 ($140.00)
1091 Calcot Place, #116 Oakland
510-535-1702
www.thefloatcenter.com

Clubz: Calling all galactic zombies

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Yeah, yeah, we’ve all been bombarded with Italo Disco the past couple years in the clubs… BUT — what about Italodisco tracks laid down by an actual Italian? And a cute gay fuzzy one at that?

This Tuesday night at the Transfer, fabulous Paduan superstar DJ Giacomo, one half of Italo Disco/cosmic funk/hi-NRG production whizzes Disco Dromo, guests at weekly raveup Chilidog, in association with Honey Soundsystem.

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You can listen to one of Disco Dromo’s awesome mixes here (Galactic Zombies — mp3).

I first ran into Giacomo while waiting for a bus in Williamsburg on a rainy Thanksgiving vacation night. Later, in the musty, moldy basement of the Cock, Hunky Beau stuck a finger up a hole in his pants. So you know he’s game for anything! (I mean that in the most respectful way possible, Giacomo!)

“Honeydog”
Chilidog + Honey Soundsystem presents:
Disco Dromo
Tuesday January 8
10pm-2am
The Transfer
198 Church (at Market)
415-861-7499
www.honeysoundsystem.com