Marke B.

The death of Passions

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Oh no! NBC just announced that everybody’s favorite warlock-drownin’, killer bee-stingin’, zombie-stranglin’, gay-monkin’ soap, Passions — is cancelled!

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Passionate no moooooore ….

While of course we were too busy to watch it on a regular basis, and it had grown tired recently, when it was in its prime we were positively glued: It stirred up primal memories of General Hospital during it’s whole “ice island” 1979 phase. Camp with a scooper. The real scary thing is that Passions was cancelled so that the Today Show could expand to four frickin hours!. EEK.

Hair o’ the Globes

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Fabulous intern Cara Cutter weighs in with her take on the un-wavy waifs of the Golden Globes — Marke B.

Star style at Hollywood’s big awards ceremonies tends to swing between old-world Hollywood glam and finely tuned ‘au naturale’. At last year’s Golden Globes the look was fresh, lightly tousled locks complemented by barely-there makeup. Screen sirens, such as Charize Theron, as well as television stars like Felicity Huffman, sported loose and breezy curls. This year the pendulum didn’t quite come full swing back to glam’s sculpted tresses, however there was a definite departure from free-flowing curls.

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Charlize: breezy

Your colon will gleam

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City Editor and all around thin guy Steven T. Jones weighs in with his experience on the new fad diet of the moment — Master Cleanse!

Mmmm, food really tastes good when you haven’t eaten any for more than a week. What? Not eating for a week? That’s crazy! That’s what I thought when I first heard about the Master Cleanse from friends who had done it: initially I was intrigued by the idea of cleansing my body of toxins using a mixture of fresh lemon juice, grade B maple syrup, and African cayenne pepper; then I was blown away to hear it involved eating no food for 7-10 days.

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Alix and Steve with “the bottle.” Pic by Luke Thomas

I’m a huge omnivore, but I have a jealousy-inducing metabolism that keeps me from gaining weight no matter what I eat (It’s true — I’ve seen him in a Utilikilt and not much more — Marke B.). So I wasn’t looking for some crash diet or hippy-dippy nutritional epiphany. Yet the idea percolated in my brain and the more I learned and thought about the concept of fasting, the more I was drawn to try it. My friends who had done it looked great and said they felt even better: happier, more energy, spiritually grounded. So my sweetie, Alix Rosenthal, and I decided to do it starting Jan. 7. And now, as we ease ourselves back onto food, I can attest that they’re right. This is a unique way to test your will, learn about your body, and hit your biological reset button.

Secrets of Bambi?

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This just in from DJ Bus Station John, and anyone who’s enjoyed/suffered the caustic castigations (often racially motivated) and 86-baiting bar antics of local legend and chanteuse Bambi Lake — goddess love her!! —

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will chuckle mightily. Unless this is her secret identity? After the jump ….

Flush ‘N Fish

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We’ve been inundated with emails promoting this amazing toilet-cum-aquarium for the past few weeks — to the point that some of us around the office have created a running joke about making a movie about a killer fish that lives in the toilet called FIN ROT! It’s a fish tank, it’s a toilet tank, it’s a terrarium (yes you can put a lizard in there), it’s …..

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FISH ‘N FLUSH! Interactive and events can be found here!

Yes, there’s fish in the clear tank — don’t worry, they come to no harm And even the mainstream Web media is into it. What next? Koalas in my dryer? Oh, you kids ….

PS on Google one of the search returns for this thingie is titled “Flushing Nemo” heh

Sex on wheels

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I promised this blog wouldn’t turn into a cornucopia of hot-boy postings, but hey, they asked for it! The new 2007 San Francisco Bike Messenger Calendar is here …

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All local SF models — the designers and printers too. You can get a copy (or several if you’re prone to sticky fingers) at Box Dog Bikes and Refried Cycles. No word yet on whether the proceeds go to the Home for Wayward Messengers aka my light well …..

PS I totally get points for not making any “package delivery in the rear” jokes. I do!

Things you can do with your iPhone

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1) iTootle
2) Screen out stalkers 15 different ways!
3) Blow off iBill collectors 15 different ways!
4) Get telemarketed on several platforms simultaneously
5) Chat with your avatar. (“Hey Marke3! What’s up?” “Oh, you know, just being you. But, like, in a giant vat of digital pudding with three stripper wrestler guys.”)
6) Order more custom-made utilikilts and flashing LCD belt buckles online (“I heart Apple!” “Jobs Rules!” “Desperate!”)
7) Bask in your lousy superiortechnolity, while the world goes to hell. But it’s OK, you can order the iVid for later and watch it on your hi-def AppleTV box.
8) Get sued by Cisco for telling people you have an iPhone

I still want one, though.

Foam of the Chosen

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Almost-fabulous intern and alcohol enthusiast Jonathan Beckhardt weighs in on He’Brew….

Despite 5000 years of survival guilt from Noah to Wiesel, Jews have shockingly little presence in the alcohol business. One notable exception: San Francisco’s Schmaltz brewing company, makers of the He’brew line of beers.

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A few weeks ago, The Guardian published a guide to Christmas beers and, to our embarrassment, we overlooked the Chanukah beer from this outfit, “Monumental Jewbelation”. We wish fervently to render reparation here.

In honor of the company’s 10th anniversary, the beer tops out at 10% alcohol. That’s monstrous, but balanced enough to remain steady. A syrupy texture captures the right amount of bitterness to match the malty flavors in the drink. It’s the roasted flavors in this beer, though, that make it the perfect match for your next Christmas ham.

Scooby Doo boo hoo

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I used to have a recurring nightmare as a child that I was trapped in the opening credits of Scooby Doo. It was kind of an erotic nightmare: the rainbow-cartoon swamps, the undulating haunted mansions, the moaning ghosts with their morphenomenal yaws. The dream would go on for hours and I’d wake in the rough heat of my hermetic, carpeted bedroom, the gray footsie-bottoms of my PJs scraping against the cotton sheets. Now, alas, Scooby Doo is dead.

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Or at least his creator is. Animation legend Iwao Takamoto died last week at age 82. This incredibly thoughtful “recycled” piece in Slate by Chris Suellentrop lays out all the influence that Scooby’s had on the world of animation and pop culture. It’s an odd, sad moment. I’ll have to light one up for Shaggy. And pick up a dyke for Velma. But will Scooby haunt my dreams again?

Out on the Bloc

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OK, OK I know we’re beyond the gawker-closet phase (“OMG he’s gay???). I ain’t no Valley Girl. But — MEOW. One of my favorite singers ever just stepped gingerly over the shoe-tree threshhold. Kele Okereke from Bloc Party.

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According to this article on Towleroad, which recounts some juicy details of an interview in the Guardian UK (how’s that for twisted blogoreference?), Kele felt he had to start talkiing more about his sexuality because the content of some of the songs on the new Bloc Party album A Weekend in the City practically begged for it. (One song explicitly references the beating death of gay bartender David Morley, who was killed so people could record the death on their cell phones. Neat!)

“Okereke’s cautious coming out is colored by [what he sees as] ‘definite homophobic bias-slash-persecution” he sees from the music press regarding out gay people,'” according to Towleroad. And of course this is great publicity for the new album. But of course I would have bought it anyway. Now I have to go write some unabashed mash notes to the fan site ….

PS: On the new BP song “The Prayer” does Kele sing “I will dazzle them with my weave” in the chorus?

Fortwo foryou

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Yes, I’m from Detroit, where the frickin’ autoshow was shoved down my throat constantly. (It’s so huge now, they’re threatening to tear down the host site, Cobo Arena, and build a bigger showplace — uh, I thought the car companies were as broke as Dennis Rodman’s penis up Madonna…) And yes, innumerable Detroiters laughingly forwarded me that piece from the New York Times last week about San Francisco parking rage. (We’re killing each other for spaces!). But look! All the rage at this year’s autoshow is the debut — well, in 2008 — of the eminently parkable two-seater we’ve been tempted by for years and years — the SmartCar.

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The model us Merikkkans get is called the Fortwo, which already killed ’em in Canadaland. Forget the clouds of Hybrid smug, Cartman, soon these will be insufferably and necessarily omnipresent among the do-good celeb classes. Of course, DaimlerChrysler, the US distributor, hopes folks, buy it as a second car for city driving — no need to compact that Benz just yet. Still, for this car not to inspire a riot among hemi-bling Detroiters means the ecology’s come a long way …. now about the trans fat from all them biscuits ….

Nerd party!

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Will there be tape on their mojito glasses? Will everyone be “doin’ the snarf”? It’s the annual Macworld Blast this Tuesday “night” (8-11pm, duh) — and I wasn’t invited!

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Promising “live entertainment” (The Klezmatics, mayhaps?), a chance to “mix and mingle with fellow Macworld attendees, speakers, and staff,” and a grand location (“The Moscone Center, in the South Hall at the bottom of the escalator”), Macworld Blast is something I’m dying to infiltrate — it’s sold out at $40 a ticket.

So I figure I’ll just hang out outside the Moscone and jump tipsy Macaddicts for their iPods (and maybe nifty new iPhones). That shit’ll Ebay my way to Cancun, baby! I loves me some Macworld Expo …

State of the union …

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Posted this morning outside my Dumpster: Plain as day. — Marke B.

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Call the pedophile police

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I just spent an inordinate amount of important mirror time in thrall to 16-year Brit sensation Lil Chris. Somebody shoot me. Winner of some sort of British Idol-like contest progged by Gene Simmons from Kiss, he’s like Hanson singing Buzzcocks songs. Yes this is enormous sacrilege — but didn’t we know that pop music was spinning in this direction?

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His producers are doing everything they can to “sex him up” with all the double entendres and accidental shirt-lifts they can. But he’s really just this tiny teenager “rocking out” and clearly pleased to be alive — something distinctly missing in his female counterparts (let alone Justin … or even Aaron Carter, where’d he go? Popsicle rehab?) Either that or he’s constipated. The vid for “Getting Enough??” is reason alone for me to want to marry him in several, several years. Tiny tiny tiny!

She’s a Pakistani tranny, Johnnies

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Tranny of the Year (so far): The New York Times just published an article on Ali Saleem, better known to Pakistani prime time viewers as Begum Nawazish Ali, hostess of the wildly popular (at least among more secular Karachi residents) “Late Night Show With Begum Nawazish Ali.” A self-described transvestite who poses as a “flirty, teasing widow” who’s obsessed with glamor and subtle political commentary, she somehow gets away with some amazing taboo-breaking she-ite on her weekly talk show over there.

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First I melted, then I hit up YouTube. One word: WHAT??? People, I think I’m in love. Anyone who blames the government for her hair color in both Urdu (I think) and English — and addresses her audience as “Johnnies” — has my undying devotion. Work it out, lady.

Holy homo penumbras, Fagman

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Somebody call the gay circus — Rimling Bros and Barndoor Bailey are a-comin’ to town. Rainbows! Rainbows! Rainbows!

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It’s a whole spectrum of tacky fruit flavor down on 18th Street in the Castro, with the new … wait for it …. wait for it … 18th Street Bar. Extra points for the sign’s tres delish font. Did they cut the letters out of felt themselves? How many Glue Sticks were used? I’ve got questions.

So, OK, I don’t know really where to begin reading on this mess ….

Happy New Yearsh

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No nude hippies, please. Girl I’m still hung over three days later. This is what I woke up to on the sidewalk this morning …

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If anyone can tell me what I did this weekend, besides lose my cell phone down the toilet at the Transfer, please call this number …

Rutting madly

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› superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO Oh! Yes! It hurts! Oh yes! It hurts!

My virtual buttocks are on fire.

After my last little column about stuff I’d enjoyed in Clubland over the past year, I got spanked online for downplaying some of the Bay’s ongoing nightlife trends. Namely: breakbeats and house revivals, dubstep and kiddie rave, Burning Man, Burning Man, Burning Man. (Isn’t he burnt yet? Sheesh. It’s like a spiritual tire fire already.) That’s fine, baby: hit me one more time. Getting spanked online was my former profession. If my drag name weren’t already Pantaysia, I’d be known as Rudolpha the Red-Assed Tranny for sure. And luckily, it’s the new year — I can simply wad up my 2006 wall calendar and stuff it down my cut-off liquor store panty hose for some rough-year-behind-me relief. I’m just. That. Crafty. See?

My, but how the sting lingers, the echoing smack of keen reprimands. Whether or not the genres of clubalalia mentioned above — and I’m pretty sure one or more of my personalities has dished them all here in the past — are curvaceous and bearded enough to attract my one good eye is one thing. Whether or not my mouth is so big it can swallow all the wonders of what happens after dark and spit them whole back in your face is another. I’m just one slightly skinny leather hip-hop disco Muppet queer after all. My day job’s at a Wendy’s! I leave being everywhere to other gay peeps.

Yet the familiar finds its way into one’s regular carousing, no? What if I’m in a hot, wet rut? All those back room encounters, bathhouse sounds, bhangra parties, electro flashes, wet jockstraps, mad drag queens, hip-hop karaoke nights, bedroom DJs, shots of Cuervo … could they be of a party piece? Didn’t I once declare krumping the future? Where’s the damn risk?

Yes, I have my broad themes: 2005 was all about the democratization of Clubland via technology — and trying to get laid by a woman for the first time; 2006 was about how clubs reflected our culture’s apocalyptic visions and the return of the outlaw gay underground. Lord knows what the predawn rubble of 2007 will shape itself into. But here are some nifty things I’d like to stick my nosy pumps in.

NEOMINIMAL TECHNO


DJ Jason Kendig, Claude VonStroke, and a giant swath of relocated Detroiters are injecting tiny bleeps and beats in the strangest of places: dive bars and back rooms. What’s the deal?

GEAR CULTURE


Bars like Gestalt in the Mission District are serving brewskis to Critical Massers. Clubs like LoGear at the Transfer are making frantic pedalers dance. Will the fixed-gear explosion spawn a raucous rocker renaissance?

TABLE GODDESSES


Where are the ladies? The fierce rulers of the US club scene at the moment are women from New York City and Los Angeles. For years my money’s been on SF femmes like Jenny Fake, Forest Green, and Claire-Ahl to join them. Why are we still ruled by men?

BEAT FREAKS


Fine. For the 13th time I’m calling a house revival. House club mainstays like Fag and Taboo are still going strong. Legendary DJ Ruben Mancias is coming back from New York City for a while to restart his influential club Devotion, and DJ TeeJay Walton is launching a new club called Freak the Beat (www.freakthebeat.com), specifically aimed at attracting younger househeds. Fingers crossed.

POST-POST-IRONY


Last year all the quotes were dropped from retro. People took the sounds and styles of the past seriously, no joke. It paid off in a lot of ways (notably, people stopped laughing and erroneously screaming, "Oh my god, I used to love this song!" when a record had claps or a guitar solo in it). But post-irony was, well, not much fun. Are people on the dance floor smiling yet? That’s better. *

It’s happening, and it’s happening now. Sign up at www.sfbg.com and you can flame my frickin’ column at will (I know you’ve got scandalous New Year’s Eve tales … better share ’em it before I do). Also: hit up the Pixel Vision blog (www.sfbg.com/blogs/pixel_vision) for more club news, reviews, and how-do-you-dos. It’s all about raving in the cubicles, baby.

Comedy Tonite!

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Intern Aaron Sankin’s take on the recent live SF appearance of Michael Ian Black and Michael Showalter, two of the creators of the show Stella

The first time I saw Stella I was instantly enraptured. It was clever, it was funny, and, most of all, it was zany. Zany like the old Marx brothers movies (which, for my money, are the funniest things to have ever been committed to celluloid); zany like the Animaniacs cartoons that entertained me for many a Cheerio-filled Saturday morning. Zany in a way that modern comedy no longer is. Hip comedy now days is frantic and schizophrenic but zany it is not. Family Guy, the show that is currently pushing the televised comedic envelope these days, has all the elements of zaniness—the non-stop barrage of jokes, the relative minimum of importance put things like plot and character development, pratfalls—but lacks the childlike innocence that true zaniness requires.

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Ringing it backwards

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SUPER EGO Hustlers are like trees — you can usually tell how long they’ve been around by the number of rings around their eyes. Or how many teeth they have left, if trees had teeth, which they don’t, but hey, I’m never one to not stretch a simile to Andromeda and back. They pay me to do it! It’s my elastic destiny.
I was counting the rings on a hot tattooed man-product at the bar closest to my heart, Mr. Lee-ona’s in the Tenderloin, when a thought attacked me: maybe, Miss Marke B., you should do one of those year-in-clubs retrospectives and try to relive, in a Swiss-cheese-brain way, 12 hard months’ worth of gadabouting. The highs, hangovers, hilarity, hurling, what have you.
Suddenly, I was attracted both ways. Retrospectives can be lame, but no one really does them about clubs here. So there’s originality. Plus: I had a coherent thought! I should run with it. Maybe I’ll even earn another ring.

BREAKOUTS
There were oh-so-very many success stories in 2006, not all of them pretty. Here are some. Bootie (www.bootiesf.com), the horrendously wonderful mashup monthly, moved to DNA Lounge and became a secret guilty favorite. Tipsy zombie Santas dancing to Kanye West and Beethoven — ’nuff said. Also: Hard Eight at Crash (www.crashnightclub.com) with DJ Tommy Lee blew the roof off retro and introduced a whole new generation of Marina chicks to porn and torn rock T’s. A sight to ponder heartily. The Transfer (415-861-7499) attempted to transform a beloved biker-dyke bar into the most forward-thinking semiunderground party stop on every cool clubber’s night train and ended up being a little of both, which — who knew? — proved to be an addictive combination.

FLAMEOUTS
Megaclubs, no doubt. San Francisco had already moved away from cavernous supastar showcase spots by the start of ’06. Even that infamous security-wracked techno black hole, 1015 (www.1015.com), was making good on its intentions to remodel itself into a more intimate, lounge-type joint. Mezzanine (www.mezzaninesf.com) found it drew more crowds as an edgy concert space than as a circuit host. And while the ever-delayed opening of “super club” Temple (www.templesf.com) teased me with inklings of controlled experiments (would the ability to plug your own headphones into a DJ booth be enough to tempt folks to pay $20 door fees and find their way through 10 rooms?), the nightspot’s had too many permit problems to get off the ground. We’re edging toward a time when a “DJ” walks into a bar and plugs a cell phone into the speakers — we’re obviously in need of some intimacy.

TRENDS
In a weird reversal of the ’70s, mushrooms have tied cocaine as the bad-girl head party, but neither of them can beat prescription drugs yet. The bathroom stalls are like freakin’ Canadian pharmacies. The whole ’70s rare-groove gay bathhouse trend is still our most exportable original trend — breakbeats, who? — thanks to Bus Station John and a host of new gay musicologists. Circuit is dead, house keeps taking a beating, and no one’s too snobby about music anymore (too much of a good thing? I’m so puke over the easy ’80s). Club Neon (www.neonsf.com) and Brigitte Bardot (www.myspace.com/brigittesf) are doing wonders with bringing back the ’90s, with original remixes and a glam-grunge aesthetic. Trash drag and its backlash, trashier drag, are merging at an alarming pace. And seedy dives — complete with the occasional hustler — are back for their trademark naughty luxury. No more lava lamps and pod chairs, people! SFBG

MR. LEE-ONA’S
301 Turk, SF
7 a.m.–2 a.m.
(415) 292-9803

Frag the dinfo

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› marke@sfbg.com
I.
Choices! You’ve got choices. And you better make them wisely. In cyberspace your tastes define you. It’s your space, your tube, your shared pod. You’re all your bandwidth allows. Be all you can feed. After that OCD-chosen primary photo, it’s all “about me.” But hit that select button carefully. Get those lists exactly right. Not too few favorites, not too many — just enough to embrace your current unique user’s criteria, to pique his or her browsing interests. You’re just one click away from rejection.
Eclecticism is the new aphrodisiac. And yet it’s a tightrope. One wrong combination of favorite musical selections and — next! The perfect come-hither “Interests: Music” DNA — one part wacky unheard-of-yet indie, one part sentimental oldies, some classic Brazilian or Afro-Caribbean, a stream of your friend’s bedroom electro, something involving damaged hair, a wild card from inner space — and voilà, instant Top Viewed. Too bad this list is copyrighted. You’ll have to get your own.
But how? How to pick and choose your nimble-footed way through the Internet audio wilderness? How to fragment the flood of dinformation into listenable chunks, to find the very perfect swells among the aural whirls that represent yourself to others? There’s just too much, it seems.
It’s a challenge that many of us face — some better than others. Already the enormous freedom of musical choice is having negative effects. Certain individuals — your friends, your coworkers, maybe even you — may be suffering from what psychologists are now calling streaming audio archival decision disorder, or SAADD. SAADD manifests itself through a combination of various symptoms: lack of updated profile, aversion to Pitchfork and Pandora, obsessive list sharing. Sometimes, victims of SAADD can disappear completely from your Friends List, deleted by a site’s inactive-user bot.
We here at Bristol-Meyers-Squibb-Def-Jam want to help. That’s why we introduced Klikemol this year, to help combat the growing number of SAADD diagnoses among the general population. Klikemol is a mild anti-agoraphobic that allows people to once again wade bravely into the streaming music marketplace and begin to reconstruct the online personality they were born to inhabit, to reach the maximum gig space in their lifePod. It also gets you high if you snort it, so at least you can post some funny shit on your Interests list. Maybe that vid of the Chihuahua on fire playing piano.
If you’ve stopped enjoying music because there’s too damn much available, maybe Klikemol is for you.
II.
“OK, fine. We give up,” the major record labels announce in a widely ignored teleconference. “We’re folding up the shop.” What were they making anyway, like a penny a download? That could hardly keep them in town cars, darlings.
Suddenly, major recording artists everywhere are left to fend for themselves. What are they to do? They could self-release, but that would put them in the same boat as their former labels: no one buys CDs anymore, and as everyone knows, recording artists need a lot of town cars. Cashing in on live performances and swag is no way out — anyone can watch their performances on cell phones for free, and unless they can project themselves back into Def Leppard, no one covets their T’s.
So they do the only thing they can and begin recording and releasing commercials. Fans don’t mind, since these artists’ songs had basically been about nothing in particular to begin with. Love, blah blah, betrayal, blah blah, I want/hate you, blah blah. In fact, the former arena acts’ embrace of well-known and emerging products in their new ditties actually gives them a fresh resonance, a contemporary sense of purpose and connection.
Soon these “jingle-singles,” called “prod-casts” in the vlogosphere, fill up iPods everywhere, and the artists walk away with affirming paychecks, courtesy of such cultural megoliths as Depends and Love’s Baby Soft. The airwaves are ads; the streets become walking commercials. The ascendancy of this new popular art form is clinched when Kelly Clarkson releases a top-downloaded iTune that packs a grillion product name checks into one helluva pop wallop — Orbitz on the verse, Go-gurt in the chorus and, at the end, a heart-stopping trademark melisma: Ri-co-laaaaa …
Ever attuned to a comic opening, “Weird Al” Yankovic releases a jingle-single for iPod itself, titled “iCod” and sung loosely to the tune of “Dear God” by the British pop group XTC. In it, a sassy urban contemporary-sounding fish (think Mo’Nique with fins) climactically links “a menu wheel, an electric eel/ Turning on its heel just to zap you in the ear” and asks humans to “save the waves and steams of Earth/ We’ll choke, if you don’t net the last of us first.” The joke here is that fish can’t sing. It becomes a top-selling ringtone and scores a coveted Googlie for Best Practice: Unique Penetration.
Have you got it yet? SFBG
MARKE B’S TOP 10 GUILTY PLEASURES
•Downy the Anti-Queen
•DJ Bus Station John’s Manhattan
•Whodat and Bugo, Housemusique, Netmusique.com
•The Cowbell Project
•Quentin Harris and Monique Bingham, “Poor People (Saxy Dub)” (Syam US)
•Leela James, “My Joy (Timmy Regisford Shelter Mix)” (Restricted Access)
•Claude VonStoke, “Beware of the Bird,” Beware of the Bird (dirty bird)
•K-Fed on The Teen Choice Awards
•Steve Reich’s 70th birthday
•Gladys Knight, “Love Is on Your Mind,” Still Together (Buddah, 1977)

Bears in jell-o! Female bears!

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OK OK I know we’re giving the bears a lot of play lately in the clubs section, but the whole bear nightlife thing is truly a phenomenon. There’s all these bear clubs now! Too bad the music lames, in my book — all kinda hi-nrg circuity, but I guess that’s kind of run-off from the whole “we’re fat but macho!” thing. (Fact: bears are big girls. That’s what I love about them. They’re so cute! I’ve slept with ever so many… )

So yes, the big (hahahaha) bear club is Bearracuda and now the extra-machowannabes of the universe — and wonderful, at that. these are hot athletes SF FOG RUGBY is hosting this weekend. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!

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The Fog invades Bearracuda on Saturday, December 16th @ The Deco Lounge, 510 Larkin at Turk. DJs Underdog and Polar Bear will be spinning tunes. $6 gets you in, with part of the proceeds from the door going to the SF Fog. $2.75 drafts, free massages, rugby players and bears! Festivities run from 10pm to 3am.

Snovocaine! Even MORE Holiday drink ideas

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From the wobbly pen of Jonathan Beckhardt …

Batten down the hatches! When it’s too dreary to even think of leaving your apartment, curl up with one of these from the Bay Area’s mixiest minds.

The Snovocaine
Crack out this variation on the Liquid Cocaine by bartenders Eric Zsolnay of Kuleto’s Trattoria and Leon Vitakes of Holas, both in Burlingame, at your next Santa-roast (serves 2):

1 oz Bacardi 151
1 oz Goldshlager
2 oz Gin
2 oz half & half
3/4 oz Jagermeister
1 cup of ice
1/4 lemon squeezed
maraschino cherry juice
3 splashes of soda water

Did someone say “meaty-nog”? Neat-o holiday drinks

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Tipsy-minded intern Jonathan Beckhardt pulled together some drink recipes for the season ….

For Jews, the only thing worse than getting so lost in moments of extreme immorality that you start begging Jesus for forgiveness, is drinking eggnog. I asked Rabbi Greenfield about this cultural development in the diaspora. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jon” said the learned man. I guess, but at the Beckhardt house, there are only two things grandpa cracks out the belt for: checking out gentiles and the aforementioned eggnog sin. Fortunately, I’ve been cast aside from my family and can now fearlessly experiment with Christian Spiritualism. Thus, I now embark on a new era of enjoyment with these recipes to guide me.