By Dona Bridges
I could have sworn that my credit card wriggled in my pocket as I was walking along Valencia the other day in the glorious Mission sunshine. I figured it was a Pavlovian response to the red and white awning of Minnie Wilde, a frequent stop for me (and source of many, many free airline miles courtesy of United Visa). I shrugged off the supernatural tremor and walked on determinedly: later for you, my plastic frenemy.
By Marianne Moore
My friend’s rich older boyfriend—well, rich relative to my friend, who makes her living pretending to be a fairy at birthday parties (Her fairy name is Ginger-Snap. We know it’s a stripper name. We’re over it.)—is taking her to the Black and White Ball on Saturday, and I’ve been drafted into shopping. We’re now faced with a pretty awkward question: what do normal people wear to the fancy-pantsiest occasion on the San Francisco calendar?
Other people must have faced this problem before. After all, tickets to the party are $200, not cheap by any means but still well within the reach of many modest-living San Franciscans. Maybe some are kept away by the event’s reputation; personally, even if I had $200 to throw around, I would be way too scared to go. Whatever the case, there’s no information out there about how to dress for the B & W if you’re not immensely rich. One thing we know for sure: the boyfriend, while he may be shelling out $400 for tickets, isn’t about to spring for a $10,000 gown. That leaves us to dress on a fairy’s budget.
I figure we have three options:
(1) try and find a cute discounted dress a la TJ Maxx,
(2) go completely casual, or
(3) go vintage.
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.
By Justin Juul
If we’ve learned anything from the most recent technological revolution (Web 2.0 and stuff, duh!), it’s that nerds are way cooler than we thought they were. In fact, the word “nerd” has lost nearly all of its negative connotations, now defining a certain type of person with highly specific interests rather than a loser. “I’m a music nerd,” people will proudly say, or “I’m an art nerd.” Being a nerd, then, has become cool; and not just in an ironic hipster sense like when you wear glasses without lenses or pretend to like B-movies. The people who used to be nerds are now actually cooler than the people who used to be cool. Take skateboarders for example. Being a skateboarder in 1990 meant that you lived a life of dread, that you were a nerd, and that all the jocks, cheerleaders, and thugs got to make fun of you. But being a skateboarder these days means that you have the freshest gear before anyone else, you know about underground art and music, and you have a pretty good chance of being an extra in the next Larry Clark film. The same thing goes for yo-yo champions like David Capurro. He may not spend his weekends getting drunk and doing cocaine at clubs, but well, come on; that shit’s for nerds.
The Guardian caught up with Capurro recently to explore the subculture of competitive yo-yo players, who might just be the coolest people on the planet (next to skateboarders, of course).
SFBG: How did you get into yo-yoing?
David Capurro: I saw a kid playing with a yo-yo when I was ten years old. I was kind of a socially awkward kid so I traded him a pair of walkie-talkies for his yo-yo. I guess I just figured I’d rather play with a yo-yo by myself than go out and try to make friends with those damn walkie-talkies. Besides, yo-yos don’t need batteries.
Part One of a multi-part series on ill-conceived Public Service Announcements by intern Marianne Moore
On a Richmond-bound train the other day I noticed a sign at the end of the car, reading: “Los líquidos calientes queman como el fuego,” which means, “Hot liquids burn like fire.” I confess that I laughed — really, really loudly.
By A.J. Hayes
A cursory inspection of the sea of fans sporting navy blue and crimson at the Oakland Coliseum this past weekend proved that a) Boston Red Sox fans travel really well. And b) David Ortiz replica jerseys are not limited to “Big Popi” sizes.
Dozens of men, women, teens and toddlers of all dimensions ringed the stadium, spreading New England support from foul pole to foul pole and representing Ortiz, the Red Sox massive slugger. And those not wearing Ortiz’s iconic No. 34 modeled jerseys and t-shits representing the likes of Manny Ramirez, Kevin Youkilis, and Jonathan Papelbon. Sprinkled among them were some retro pieces featuring the numbers of Jim Rice, Carl Yastrzemski and Ted Williams.
No matter how Oakland fared on the field against the visiting Bosox, the Green and Gold bean counters knew in advance they would be big winners at the box office. Boston is the hottest ticket in baseball and the Red Sox currently lead the American League in road attendance with an average of nearly 35,000 fans per road game. Plus, the A’s charge more for their tickets when the world champs come to town. In all the three game set in Oakland series netted 97,592 customers.
But long before the Red Sox won two world championships over the past four seasons, the Red Sox were a big draw in the Bay Area. During the Red Sox inaugural inter-league visit/invasion of San Francisco a few seasons ago, Boston fans famously took over the lower grand stand of the Giants freshly minted ball park.
New England and the Bay Area have their share of bicoastal similarities. Both area have Irish/Italian roots; both have legendary sea ports, each has boho street cred and each region is over-shadowed by neon glitz to the south.
Prior to Saturday evening’s contest at the Coliseum we ventured into the heart of the Red Sox Nation’s west coast capitol and let it’s citizenry speak for themselves.
Ray Remocapozzi, 35, sporting Bosox cap and t-shirt:
“I grew up and live in Reno and try to make it out to the Bay Area every time the Red Sox come in. My mom and dad are originally from the Boston area and my half-brother, who is 18 years older than me, turned me on to the team. When I was growing up he brought me a bunch of Red Sox stuff: caps t-shirts, pennants. Naturally, I rooted for them. This is the second time seen the Red Sox this year and the second time we’ve brought our two-year old daughter (out-fitted in Lil’ Popi tee). Red Sox fans are a tight knit group and we run into the same people year after year. This is Red Sox Nation way out west.”
By Phil Eil
I was walking down Mission Street the other night, just South of Cesar Chavez, when I saw something that made my heart skip. No, it wasn’t another ex-girlfriend lookalike (they’re everywhere, I swear), it was a 1991 white Toyota Previa — a doppelganger of my first car — parked in front of The Knockout.
The Previa, if you don’t know, was a Toyota minivan produced from 1991 to 1997 (their popularity followed roughly the same arc as Soundgarden’s). With a name derived from the Italian word “to preview” or “to look ahead,” Previa enthusiasts, past and present, agree — the Previa was a visionary feat of engineering.
By Justin Juul
Have you been to Lost Weekend Video lately? If not, you better run soon. It’s the only place in the city where you can score one of these limited edition t-shirts by local Bay Area artist, Maria Forde. The Herzog/Kinski and Roman Polanski shirts are almost gone, but rumor has it there’s a Sam Peckinpah line coming soon and she may even do a run of Don Siegel prints. Rad!
Lost Weekend Video
1034 Valencia. SF
(415) 643-3373
Intern Phil Eil checks out his neighborhood diner – without nearly kissing his mother.
Does your license plate read, “MCFLY”? Have you been scanning Craig’s List for a Flux Capacitor? Well, while you’re waiting for that “Your DeLorean is ready,” phone call (the waiting list is eight months last time I checked), head over to Al’s Good Food Cafe at Mission and 29th Street. The place is a time machine, itself — definitely where Doc Brown dines when he’s in the Bay Area.
Al’s opened in 1947 and it hasn’t changed much since. From the original Cattle Queen of Montana poster signed by Ronald Reagan to the menu descriptions (“Maiden Christina’s Special: A breakfast feast for the delicate lady with the big appetite…”), the place is steeped in old-school American allure. As “Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu” played over the speakers, I ate a Jo’s Special — three extra large eggs scrambled with ground chuck, fresh spinach, green onions and mushrooms — and tried to named the movie stars pictured on the walls. Jimmy Dean. Audrey Hepburn. That other guy from Rebel Without a Cause.
But while the décor of Al’s is the real deal (as opposed to, say, Chili’s), the reason to eat there is not the Bing Crosby champagne bottle (“He only gave them to his closest friends,” Jean, my waitress, told me) or the Thank-You note from Florence Henderson. It’s the hospitality. Al’s daughters Jean and Joann have been working there since the restaurant opened, and they keep it grounded in its original principles. “Everyone here aims to please,” Joann told me. Jean added, “My father always said, ‘Soup and coffee is like saying, ‘Hello.’”
Leaving the restaurant, I put on my sunglasses, popped in a lollipop (it came free with the bill), and headed back out to Mission St.—back to the future.
Al’s Good Food Café
3286½ Mission, SF
(415) 641 – 8445
When this thing hits 88 miles per hour, you’re gonna see some serious…scrambled eggs.
By Justin Juul
Freelancing comes with a shitload of perks – autonomy, loving your work, self-scheduling, etc. — but it’s not all great. The common myth is that freelancers live in heaven; that they just hang around their spacious lofts all day drinking beer, napping in the afternoon, and writing or painting whenever their bank accounts get low. Well, take it from me; freelancing may be better than office work, but it comes with a lot of bullshit too. For starters, there’s the money issue. Unless you’ve been doing it for over five years, the odds of making rent with your freelance income alone are extremely slim, which means a shitty side-job is a necessity. That basically means you never get a day off. Ever. Another drawback to this line of work is loneliness. Chilling out at home all day may sound nice, but it turns into a soul-crushing nightmare after about a month.
Still, for all the discipline, suffering, and sacrifice freelancing requires, it beats working for the man any day. At least, that’s what I thought before the city started building a goddamn school (or something) right across the street from my apartment. Now, not only am I lonely, distracted, and riddled with anxiety about meeting my deadlines, but I have to pump out journalistic brilliance with a chorus of drilling, welding, cement-mixing, and shouting right outside my window. Which hasn’t been working out so well. The construction site has been so loud lately that I’ve had to move my little operation down to the closest hipster café. Which also sucks because the music is loud, I can’t wear my jammies, and everyone talks constantly.
It’s been bugging me so much lately that I actually started looking into renting a “creative space,” which I knew would probably be impossible, given my financial situation. But, lo and behold, I found a company that offers exactly what I need. Dystopic Horizon Realty specializes in “near loft-like artist housing designed to cultivate creative thinking for those with exceptional lifestyles.” Each of DHR’s highly-affordable units is “hand-crafted and capable of magnificent views.” They’re well-ventilated, customizable, and built by a group of “unreal estate unprofessionals with over 40 years of experience.” Plus, they’re green!
Goodbye trendy café and hot noisy room. Hello good livin’.
Intern Ailene Sankur refs the Brunch Battle of the Bay: Mama vs. Mama.
This culinary clash takes place between two cross-bay heavyweights—brunch staples with a maternal instinct to make sure you get your most important meal of the day: the one at noon that takes away the shakes. Oakland’s Mama’s Royal Café is a hipster enclave in the Temescal District while San Francisco’s Mama’s is a bougie North Beach eatery. Both are cash-only neighborhood favorites (I’ve said it before–the less a restaurant wants to convenience you, the better it probably is.) Let the fight begin!
Round 1—The Line
Both Mama’s Royal Café and Mama’s are, apparently, worth waiting for. The wait at Mama’s is known to take over an hour, while I’ve never waited over thirty minutes at Mama’s Royal. Both restaurants operate on the “turn and burn” philosophy: moving people in and out quickly to turn over the tables. At Mama’s Royal, sign up on the clipboard, grab a mug from the pile and pour yourself coffee. Then lounge in the front–with the ironically acid-washed-skinny-jean clad hipsters–smoke a cigarette and wait for someone to yell your name. At Mama’s, you wait in a line sans coffee–unless someone holds your place in line so you can run to Caffe Roma two blocks away–sandwiched between an ex-Cal frat boy/junior assistant something or other talking on his cell about how wasted he was last night and two impossibly thin and good-looking parents with impossibly “precocious” children. Either way, bring the paper!
Winner: Mama’s Royal Café. Come on, Mom would never make anyone wait outside without offering them a hot beverage.
Passover’s around the corner (starts Saturday, as a matter of fact), so what better way to celebrate than with a bit of Jewtube humor?
And don’t forget to buy your last minute seder supplies at popjudaica.com. Where else will you find a “Let My People Go” toilet seat?
According to intern Ailene Sankur, sometimes a girl just needs a subpar, average meal at a crappy chain restaurant.
I have a confession to make: sometimes, I need to go to a chain restaurant. I know, I know, I live in a gourmand’s paradise. And yes, I love to support family-owned small Indian, Turkish, and Mexican joints. I hate corporations, hate cheesiness, hate tchotchkes and flair. But sometimes, I just need to go into my happy suburban place. The place that takes me back to the Target, Ross, and TJ Maxx stores of my youth, with their big, wide, unmonitored parking lots where I could probably leave my car for weeks unnoticed.
Yes, the food is subpar, but it’s consistent in its average-ness. And sometimes, you want to step away from all the culinary razzle-dazzle and just eat something blah in a place where the “kooky, original” décor is the same as it is in your fave chain back home for a Twilight-zone eerie, but strangely soothing effect. Talk about Walter Benjamin’s theories of “art in the age of mechanical production” in a ginormous booth—another wonderful thing about chains…no more tiny wood tables crammed next to a loud kitchen—decorated in southwestern tiles and a big sign that says “Chili cook-off.”
So, if you’re like me and sometimes you just want to eat an homage to your Stepford childhood, here’s a list of chain restaurants close to the city:
By Alex Felsinger
Hours after heart surgery, while still in her bed on the cardiac floor of the hospital, doctors gave Kristen Doyle’s mother a hamburger for her first meal. Doyle knew this was common practice. But as a registered and practicing nurse with an interest in nutrition and preventative medicine, she’d always been disgusted that doctors allowed patients to eat fatty, processed foods instead of directing them towards a healthier lifestyle.
In 2004, after a 12-year nursing career, Doyle could no longer stomach the hypocrisy. In search of a way to help people beyond diagnostics and treatment, she enrolled in Bauman College of Holistic Nutrition and Culinary Arts. The incident with her mother later that year confirmed what she’d suspected: she’d never use her nursing degree for traditional practices again. Now she’s a personal chef for cancer patients, diabetics, and other people with special nutritional needs.
But while the new job she started in 2005 pays the bills, Doyle wasn’t satisfied she was helping enough people. “I’m only reaching a couple of families each week,” Doyle said. “If you’re paying for a personal chef, you’re probably upper or middle class, but this information should be available to everyone.”
Doyle’s answer? A healthy, cancer-preventing diet through free weekly cooking and nutrition classes held at the Institute on Aging, UCSF, and most recently, the SOMA Whole Foods.
Photo by Glenn McElhose
During my three decades of life, I’ve had the chance to do quite a few things wearing a blindfold — play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, whack a piñata, wait for a lover to find my clitoris – but eating has never been one of them. Until now.
“Waiter, I don’t know what’s in my soup.” AP photo.
I’m sure you’ve heard of this phenomenon: fancy restaurants blindfolding their patrons so they can fully focus on the subtle, complex, upper-middle-class flavors of haute cuisine. Or perhaps you’ve heard of it from dieting gurus, who profess you’ll enjoy your food more, and eat less of it, if you aren’t distracted by stimuli like television, books, or, you know, sight.
Chef Craig Patzer prepares our meals – and probably tries not to laugh at our blindfolded shenanigans.AP Photo.
What I experienced was a version of this phenomenon crossed with the PR machine: a joint event between Jardiniere and Tazo teas where media types were blindfolded to taste entrees and alcohol pairings made with, or inspired by, Tazo blends. And it was rad.
“The rest of you are blindfolded too, right? This isn’t some kind of April Fool’s joke?”
By Ailene Sankur
A friend forwarded me this New York Times blog post on literary deal-breakers: the idea of the book on the shelf of the person you’re dating that would make you say, “You know what? I think we want different things in life.”
One great comment to the blog:
“I’m a huge book snob, but it’s a devotion to the overpraised middle ground, the NPR and Oprah-approved canon that would turn me off a person.
Give me a lover of James Patterson and Nora Roberts any day over someone who thinks Lethem and Safran Foer are geniuses. Who likes a striver?
The sight of a woman reading Javier Marias, Robert Musil, Frank O’Hara or just about any of the NYRB titles and I’m immediately smitten.”
This is my feeling about books. I read everything from Harlequin novels to (my favorite author of all time) Graham Greene. I’ve read Proust waxing poetic about Madeleins (eagerly) , and Joyce jabbering on about Leo Blum (reluctantly), but I’ve also read the entire Nora Roberts Key Trilogy (Key of Light, Key of Knowledge, Key of Valor). I enjoyed all of them in different ways, but equally.
Proust
But lately I’ve been feeling very nastily elitist, intellectually snobby towards those lovers of anything on the Oprah Book Club.
By Ailene Sankur
A friend sent me the blog “Stuff White People Like,” and it’s probably the funniest thing on the Internet right now. White people are ridiculous! (Myself included, even though, technically, I’m Middle Eastern…Anyhow…)
A few eerily right on, brilliantly funny ones:
Hosts are expected to deliver a magical evening. The food must be homemade with fresh, organic ingredients, the music must be just right (ambient, new, but not too loud), and the decorations inside the house should be subtle but elegant.
Everything must be perfect. One copy of US Weekly, a McDonalds wrapper, a book by John Grisham, a Third Eye Blind CD, or an Old School DVD can undo months and maybe even years of work.
I read this after a dinner party with at good friends’ house. I call them D squared (Dee and Drew) and they always make amazing meals. Last week it was blood orange and onion pork shoulder roast, breaded cauliflower ( I will include the recipe at the bottom because you really should make it at home), sautéed broccoli rabe, and a salad with a simple Dijon vinaigrette. Vampire Weekend, Regina Spektor, and Cat Power played—at a pleasantly low volume.
While some of you were eating brunch with your families, most of you were in Dolores Park for the Sisters’ annual Easter festivities, I was at home catching up on some Zzzs, and a bunch of cars were parked outside churches, about 500 hilarious blasphemers were riding Big Wheels down Potrero Hill’s windiest street. Check here for photos or take a look at the video below, posted by mflorido (or Boj).
Kinda beats hunting for Easter eggs, huh?
Now this is a mission after my own heart…
Members of the New York-based performance group Improv Everywhere planned a “spontaneous” musical-style song-and-dance number to be held in a food court in a Los Angeles mall. (These are the same folks responsible for Frozen Grand Central and the annual No Pants event.)
Simply Unique really is.
I’ve had a fantastic 24 hours: mani-pedis with my best friend from L.A. at Simply Unique on 14th Street (fab!) followed by a delicious Senagalese dinner at Bissap Baobab and a giggly slumber party – all to celebrate her engagement and my upcoming 30th birthday (I know.) The only thing that would’ve been better is if we’d somehow also been able to make it to the Buffy Reunion in L.A. and the National Conference for the Popular Culture and American Culture Association here in the Bay. Joss Whedon for dessert, lectures on Eating Disorders in US Weekly and the history of the coolness of motorcycles for breakfast, with my BF sandwiched between? Even more awesomeness.
By Ailene Sankur
Just in time for Easter…
I used to hate Pooh, Tigger, Roo, Eeyore and the rest of the Hundred Acre wood crew. Well, I don’t necessarily hate those characters. It’s more like those bumper stickers that say, “God, Save Me From Your Followers.” I hate the people who love Pooh: basically, people with severe arrested development issues, the kind of people who also like stuff from Disney. Not ironically. (My ex-boyfriend loves Tigger stuff — keychain, a full PJ set — and those things just reminded me of the indulgent females in his life who gave him the Tigger shit and who tended to encourage his Tigger-like behavior, i.e. Teenage guy hyperactive irresponsibility. I also had a high school friend who loved Eeyore, talking in baby voices, and sleeping with your boyfriend. Neither did much to change my original perspective on Pooh-lovers.)
So I didn’t have much room in my life for cartoon animals of the Pooh variety until a precocious eight-year-old (something else I normally hate…I’m growing soft in my advanced age) introduced me to the Peek-a-Pooh, a rubber keychain-like toy in which a hard plastic Pooh hides within various rubber costumes.
Under Da Sea: Peek-a-Pooh Aquatic Collection
