By Johnny Ray Huston
RUBIES
Explode from Center
(Telle)
The Norway-to-our-Bay connection is strong in this group, which bridges Bergen and San Francisco. No cosmic disco, though: Simone Rubi plays chanteuse over pop arrangements. The result never reaches the Cardigans’ sublimity, but it matches the warmth of Lois and Marine Girls.
Rubies, “I Feel Electric”
Rubies play Sunday, June 14 at The Independent
SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.
Today’s Look: Nikola, Market and Franklin
Tell us about your look: “I wake up in the morning and think how can I stand out by wearing something different from what I wore yesterday.”
By Andrea Nemerson. View more alt.sex columns here. Email your questions to Andrea: andrea@altsexcolumn.com
Dear Andrea:
Have you heard of a study that analyzed biometric feedback from self-identified male bisexuals, and the notable finding was that the overwhelming majority of these men were in fact homosexual, not bisexual? The conclusion of the study was that "true" male bisexuality is extremely rare. (For what it’s worth, I consider myself a "true" male bisexual, but what do I know?)
I also heard about another study from at least 10 years ago that tracked the sexual fantasies of self-identified lesbians, and the surprising result was that some 50 percent of these women actually fantasized about men while doing it with their female partners.
Have you heard of these, and would you care to comment?
Love,
Actually Here!
Dear Here:
I have, of course, and they’re all fascinating, partly for the science (which is generally super-simple and not easily misinterpreted) and partly for the reactions in the various communities whenever one of these studies is reported, which are frankly pretty funny.
The "there’s no such thing as male bisexuality" studies have received the most press, and the biggest, most offended reactions, but it’s not like the researchers at Northwestern University and the Center for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto set out to disprove the existence of an entire sexual orientation! All they did was hook up some volunteers to a plethysmograph and show them porn. I think the first researchers were probably as surprised as anyone when the self-identified bi men failed to respond in a recognizably "bi" manner. About three-quarters of the bi men read as completely gay according to their penises (do penises lie?), while the rest were indistinguishable from the self-identified straight guys. There was no recognizable "bi" pattern of arousal, and the subjects seemed overwhelmingly to fall on one or the other end of the Kinsey scale:
By L.C. Mason
"Less is more" sucks; "more is more" rules. Maybe that’s just the indulgent kid in me talking, but it hasn’t stopped me from incessantly barking my musical wet dream over a bullhorn to anyone with ears: more fuzz, grit, and grime; more sweat; more eyeballs rolling back into heads; more microphones in mouths. Then one day, Christmas came early. Hark! The herald angels sing. Someone heard these ardent desires and delivered to me a glittering layer cake of wondrous noise — a megabill starring garage kingpins Thee Oh Sees, incognito feedback wizards Mayyors, and lo-fi clamor popsters Nodzzz.
This Bay Area-baked rock ‘n’ roll show might reduce any holier-than-thou longhair into a hapless fanboy or girl — while still maintaining that hip exterior, of course. But that’s okay. You’ll get over pretending you’re cool, because you’ll soon be quoting the wise words of Britney Spears, yelling "Gimme gimme more" in reflex to the spectacle of visceral, adrenochrome-addled power. Like when Mayyors’ caged-animal vocalist John Pritchard lets loose his devilish yawps; or when ax-wielder Chris Woodhouse’s dirty, torrential licks get ghoulish; or when Oh Sees’ guitarist Petey Dammit hones in on a laser-cut groove and won’t let go; or when the Nodzzz boys brazenly wail "Is she there? Is she there?" over swooning, sun-lit strums; or when, or when, or when….
More is more: when it rains it pours.
THEE OH SEES, MAYYORS, NODZZZ With Sunny and the Sunsets. Wed/29, 8 p.m., $5. El Rincon, 2700 16th Street, SF. (415) 437-9240. www.elrinconsf.com>.
By Andre Torrez
I went to Bimbo’s to see Junior Boys on a whim. I knew someone who had an extra spot on the list. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and was just happy to hang with my friend. Parking was a bitch, but we settled on a lot and made our way into the swank club. North Beach was definitely in the house.
Looking around, I couldn’t help but notice that this wasn’t exactly my scene. I felt like I was in an episode from The O.C. where the kids somehow get to hang in the bar and watch the latest “cool indie band” circa-2004. Waiting in anticipation of a band you don’t know usually proves to be anti-climactic, but there was something about the performance itself that was amiss. It didn’t take long for me to put my finger on it: I was annoyed at the lack of camaraderie between the band members, especially the core songwriting duo: the front man and the mysteriously silent man on the Moog synthesizer directly to his left. The drummer was in the background as expected, albeit all Genesis-looking because of the cool lighting, but the lead singer and this Moog man were placed prominently next to one another even though Moog man never spoke a word. I guess he had a cool haircut and all, but if you’ve got nothing to say and little to do, why take the spotlight? He might as well have been a prop. It was almost as if a wall was dividing front man and Moog man — they had little to no interaction with one another on stage. Not even a glance.
Moog man and frontman.
The two main men of Junior Boys would be better off pursuing separate musical paths, instead of catering to trends by fusing the electronic with the organic. With his scruffy look, the lead singer-guitarist came across as more of a traditional songwriter. He focused on lyrics and on connections with the audience. He was adept at banter and seemed to thrive off the audience’s energy. The man at the Moog admittedly held down the electronic portion of the show, but he was utterly detached. Given the opportunity to let loose, I’m sure he’d come alive — if he just wasn’t stifled by that other guy with the words and guitar. Both parties would flourish creatively if they just ditched the commercial combination sound. But who am I to judge? It’s probably payin’ the bills.
One night later at the Independent, Sebastien Tellier had the Moog-and-guitar combo down to a science. His sound was a perfect balance of heavy, deep, and dark elements. He had a lot more fun mixing synthesizers and rock star posturing, with a guitar representing a full-on phallus.
By Rita Felciano
Let’s send a libation or some other such thing in the direction of Terpsichore — the muse of dance — because Paul Taylor Dance Company is back. For five consecutive years, we’ve had an opportunity to gain a perspective on Taylor’s 50-plus years of dance-making. Then the money ran out. Thankfully San Francisco Performances found a way to have these remarkable dancers return with another set of three different Taylor programs. The earliest, the very dark Scudorama, which was thought to be lost, dates back to 1963. The most recent, Beloved Renegade, inspired by Walt Whitman and Francis Poulenc, premiered in February of this year. Taylor is sometimes considered old-fashioned because early in his career he abandoned self-conscious formal experimentations in favor of honing his pieces — the way a jeweler does when he polishes a diamond in order to bring out its many facets. In Taylor inspiration is wedded to musicality and craft. He also happens to be a sardonic observer of our foibles and vices. And when he strikes — hypocrisy is a favorite topic — he cuts to the bone. Few choreographers have made work which can be so joyously celebratory in one piece — both Esplanade (1975) and Arden Court (1981) are in the line-up — and so mordantly corrosive in the next that it leaves you shivering.
PAUL TAYLOR DANCE COMPANY Wed/29-Sat/2, 8 p.m.; Sun/3, 2 p.m., $32-$49. Novellus Theater, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 700 Howard, SF. (415) 392-2545, www. performances.org
By Natalie Gregory
If you were unaware of the lawsuit between the indigenous Ecuadorian people and Chevron/Texaco, watching Joe Berlinger’s Crude will get you up to speed. It’s a documentary about the case following the plaintiffs and their lawyers in their seemingly impossible fight against one of the most powerful American companies. Pablo Fajardo is the Ecuadorian native lawyer who battles with impressive, inspiring fervor on behalf of his indigenous citizens. Joining him is New York attorney Steven Donziger, a bilingual Harvard whiz who seems amazed that they are even getting through proceedings (the film certainly mentions the David vs. Goliath element of the lawsuit). The case is still locked in litigation and pending testimonies. But the film is powerful in its defense for the native people of Ecuador, and the state of the Amazon. If you only half-questioned Chevron’s ethics before, this film will make you opt for a Shell station — or some form of alternative transportation.
Crude screens at the San Francisco International Film Festival Wed/29, 6:30pm, Sundance Kabuki; Thurs/30, 6:30pm, Sundance Kabuki; and Sat/2, 6:15pm, PFA.
Text and photos by Ariel Soto
I have a confession to make: I’m 25 years old and I’m totally obsessed with Gossip Girl. My friend Bobbi Noodle and I spend hours talking about the drama behind Serena’s possible marriage in Spain and whether or not Blair will actually get into Yale in the end (don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about people … I’m sure at least a few of you are addicted too). Last Sunday night I felt like I had entered the world of Gossip Girl, but a cooler, more aware, San Francisco version of Gossip Girl. I was at the Been There Done That Fashion Show at Temple Nightclub, a benefit for Victory Gardens+ and get this … the event was produced by two high school students, Zoe Fisher and Audrey Snyder from Urban High School.
By Nicole Gluckstern
Throbbing Gristle blur the lines at the Regency Ballroom, 4/23. Photos by Morlock E.
It’s a veritable rogue’s gallery at the Regency Ballroom on April 23, every single statesperson of the Bay Area underground having emerged from their respective lairs for Throbbing Gristle, the first, the foremost industrial noise band come back to destroy the universe, one eardrum at a time. The last time I saw such a profusion of familiar faces was, well, last week at Leonard Cohen. And just like at Leonard Cohen, the faces around me bear expressions that are expectant, electric, slightly starstruck. Unlike Leonard Cohen though, the band launches first into a sweet little ditty penned in tribute to the Moors Murderers Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, “Very Friendly”.
Genesis P-Orridge, hand out
“Could you imagine what might have happened if Myra Hindley and Ian Brady had met me and Cosey back than?” quips Genesis P-orridge, who wears the role of flamboyant frontperson like a comfortable pair of bright pink polka-dotted stockings. An array of “greatest hits” follows: “Persuasion”, “Something Came Over Me”, the infinitely creepy “Hamburger Lady”. The set may verge on this side of predictable, but honestly, these are the songs we all want to hear.
The venue lights stay on, loud; the sound system cranked, loud; Genesis P-orridge channeling Marianne Faithfull in a bright orange Stevie Nicks tunic, loud. More “disciplined” than dangerous, the evenly rhythmic computer-generated beats smack just as much of Coil as chaos unleashed. Still, at certain points in the evening, the relentless throb threatens to dislodge both my intestines and my equilibrium. “If I stand with my legs apart I get an erection,” I hear someone mutter. And ultimately, that’s the crux of this whole experience, this sonic onslaught. Industrial at its hard core is precisely the music of solitary erections, the music of intestinal distress, the music of bondage games, vertigo, and boots of shiny leather (just like Cosey’s). That said, all those iMacs onstage? Neither sexy nor disturbed. The blue-screened sea of iPhone photogs below me? Ditto. The price of progress, I suppose, disturbance demystified.
By Lynn Rapoport
Mabel (Gena Rowlands, in an Oscar-winning Oscar-nominated performance) has a rare calm moment in A Woman Under the Influence.
The first weekend of the 52nd San Francisco International Film Festival produced a cheerful, if windblown, bottleneck along Post between Fillmore and Webster. The one outside the Castro on Sunday night had a slightly more shell-shocked emotional tenor. The crowd seemed in good enough spirits (though this reviewer admits to getting a bit misty-eyed) while giving Gena Rowlands a standing ovation when the 78-year-old actor came onstage before John Cassavetes’s A Woman under the Influence (1974). But the film’s two and a half hours of abrasive familial dysfunction and poorly attended-to mental illness are rough going, and no one could be blamed for wandering home in a torn-up, overwrought fugue. (Think happy thoughts: like the 2008 restoration of the film by the UCLA Film and Television Archive, underwritten by Gucci.)
Less emotionally brutalizing was Friday evening’s screening of Art & Copy (screening again Tues/28, 4 p.m., Sundance Kabuki), where doc maker Doug Pray (Hype!, Scratch, Surfwise) expressed satisfaction at finally getting a film into SFIFF and noted that this one was centered on “the idea that if you hate advertising, make better advertising.”
Radio, radio: a scene from Art & Copy.
DVRs, defaced billboards, and legislation to calm the traffic of branding on virtually every visible surface of public space also spring to mind. However, these and other options are left unexplored in favor of a brief history of the revolution that occurred in advertising midcentury; commentary by some of the rebel forces and their descendants, including locals Jeff Goodby and Rich Silverstein (Goodby, Silverstein, and Partners); entertaining behind-the-scenes tales of famous ad campaigns (Got Milk?, I Want My MTV); and stats sprinkled throughout on advertising’s cultural presence, nationally and globally.
Self-comparisons to cave painters and a sequence near the close that feels like an advertisement for advertising (emotionally evocative images of children’s faces upturned in wonder to the sky: check) are somewhat uncomfortable to witness. But Pray has gathered together some of the industry’s brighter, more engaging lights, and his subjects discuss their vocation intelligently, thoughtfully, wittily, and often thoroughly earnestly. It would have been interesting to hear, amid the earnestness, and the exalted talk of advertising that rises to the level of art, some philosophizing on where all this branding and selling gets us, in an age when it’s hard to deny that breakneck consumption is having a somewhat deleterious effect on the planet. Or to learn from these creatives whether there were any ad campaigns they wouldn’t touch, such as one centered on nuclear energy, or the reelection of George W. Bush. After all, many of the interviewees come across as shaggy ex-hippies and liberals. (Last fall, trade paper the Denver Egotist referred to “the entire creative world uniting against John McCain in support of Barack Obama” in a piece on Goodby, Silverstein-made anti-McCain spots that the agency cofounders reportedly underwrote personally.) Still, the film is successful in humanizing and developing a richer picture of a vilified profession. And what it reveals about the visions of its subjects (one compares a good brand to someone you’d like to have over for dinner; another asserts that “great advertising makes food taste better”; another that “you can manufacture any feeling that you want to manufacture”) makes it worth watching, even if you make a habit of fast-forwarding past the ads.
SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.
Today’s look: Yvonne, Market and Sansome
Tell us about your look: “I got it at Ross!”
Photos and text by Ariel Soto
The Red Poppy Art House, an artist community and intimate performance center in the heart of the Mission, welcomed Karamo Susso, a world famous kora player from West Africa, who performed this Saturday, April 25th. Susso, who was raised in Mali, is a master of the kora, a 21-stringed instrument originally from Gambia, that is played solely with the thumbs and index fingers, creating tones that sound somewhat like a harp, a guitar and maybe just a bit of toy piano.
By Virginia Miller
As long-time San Francisco resident and writer, I’m passionate about this city and obsessed with exploring its best food-and-drink spots (in all categories), events, and news, in every neighborhood and cuisine type. I have my own personalized itinerary service and monthly food/drink/travel newsletter, The Perfect Spot, and am thrilled to share up-to-the minute news with you from the endless goings-on in our fair city.
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NEW RESTAURANT and BAR OPENINGS
RN74 rolls in on French wheels
Start making reservations now for Michael Mina’s latest — and most affordable? — SF restaurant at the base of the Millennium Tower. RN74is named after Route National 74, which passes through Burgundy, with the focus on, you guessed it: Burgundian pleasures in wine and food. Wine director, Raj Parr, oversees the 80-page, 3000 bottles, 50 by-the-glass wine list (so you know there’ll be many a fine choice), and Chef Jason Berthold, of none other than the French Laundry, prepares an exquisite, reasonably priced ($9-17!) menu with the likes of Smoked Sturgeon Rillettes, Crispy Duck Wings, Pea Tendril Veloute, Chilled Salad of Japanese Big Fin Squid, and Herb-Roasted Lamb Loin. Just opened on Friday for lunch and dinner, it’s the new, downtown impress a date or colleague dining destination.
301 Mission Street (in the Millennium Tower)
415-543-7474
www.michaelmina.net/rn74
Gourmet sandwiches from random sources continues with Pal’s Take Away
Pal’s is located inside a dodgy corner market, Tony’s, at 24th and Hampshire, with sweet, friendly Jeff and David behind the counter making some kick-ass sandwiches and salads, diving into the ever-growing crowd of gourmet food coming from carts, out of garages (Kitchenette) and whatnot. Just opened last Tuesday, Pal’s changing menu includes a banh mi that’s becoming a runaway hit in the first week already: tender, pink/brown beef accented with jalapeno, carrot, onion on a crunchy ACME roll. Vegetarians aren’t left out with options like Full Belly asparagus tossed w/ Meyer lemon and Reggianno, topped with a Riverdog soft-cooked ranch egg on Acme whole wheat bread. Bet you never got that from a corner liquor/grocery store before.
2751 24th Street
ww.palstakeaway.com
SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.
Today’s Look: Lulu, Jersey and Vicksburg
Lulu’s grandmother says: “She likes to wear a lot of pink!”
By Todd Lavoie
THE BALKY MULE
The Length Of The Rail
(Fat Cat)
Stubborn? Who’s stubborn? Don’t be thrown by the Balky Mule name — Sam Jones might have selected his pseudonym in honor of an unyielding beast of burden, but his newest release is quite an amiable fellow, actually. The formerly Bristol, England-based musician (known for his stints in Flying Saucer Attack, The Third Eye Foundation, Movietone, and Crescent) relocated to Melbourne, Australia and focused on crafting wobbly-footed D.I.Y. pop and alluring folk/electronica collisions. In spite of a resume flush with hazy spin-drifts of guitar feedback and creeping atmosphere, Jones’ Balky Mule project is a considerably more playful affair; The Length Of The Rail is a bubbling, bleeping romp of toy-shop psychedelia and likable shy-boy vocals. On this sophomore release — though best of luck to you in finding its predecessor, as it appears to have been a limited-run and self-issued — the English ex-pat clearly seems to be having a grand ol’ time, picking up every instrument in sight and banging upon every available surface in pursuit of finding the right combination of curious ping-pings and plunkety-plunks.
Still, the disc is very much a bedroom creation, and one can almost imagine Jones skipping and grinning from behind the safety of his teetering piles of instruments; behind that wall is a bashful, boyish warble, pitched somewhere between Robert Wyatt and a more lucid version of Syd Barrett. It’s a thin, sweet, incredibly vulnerable tenor — perhaps not always perfectly-pitched, but channeled wisely for tremendous emotional impact. Set against sputtering electronics and delicate guitar textures, Jones’ innocent rambles trigger both the sad sighs of nostalgia and the cheerier heart-flutters of childhood memories.
In which super sexy porn people answer questions — each week — from Bay Area locals. View the last installment here
By Justin Juul
Fielding your questions this month is AVN’s current “Transsexual Performer of The Year,” Wendy Williams. Check out some of her stuff and then send some questions here.
SFBG: You’re known for using blogs and video diaries to develop and maintain a really intimate relationship with your fans. Can you tell us a little about them? Are they mostly straight men?
Williams: Yeah, they are. You gotta understand that my fans are attracted to the feminine qualities they see in me and that many of them just consider the dick to be a fetish. Transsexual porn has a very divided fan base, actually. For example, there are people who want to see the transsexual as a bottom only. For them, the fact that she has a dick is just kind of a best-of-both-worlds thing. They would never do it in real life, but they like to see it. I don’t know what that means as far as sexual orientation goes, but I do know that most of my fans identify as straight men. They’re never gonna go to a gay bar and try to pick up guys because they’re not attracted to masculine qualities. They like long hair, breasts, and asses. Obviously, since I have a cock, there’s some question about their actual straightness, but that really doesn’t matter. I’m sure I have bi-sexual fans and I’m sure there are people out there who just want to fuck anything with legs. Whatever. I don’t believe in rigid labels.
SFBG: Yeah, the lines always get blurry when you really start to look at this stuff. I think smart people view sexuality as a continuum that shifts around throughout life. The labels don’t really fit anyone perfectly.
Williams: Yeah, it’s hard not to use the labels sometimes though. I mean, it’s pretty obvious that transsexual porn is marketed to and made for a straight male audience. Ask any gay guy if he’s attracted to transsexuals and you’ll get the same sort of answer: “God, no! I don’t want titties on my back. That’s disgusting!” Transsexuals and drag queens have a place in the gay community, but we’re not sex objects. We are a form of entertainment.
By Ari Messer
In the era of Slow Food in the City of Fog, I wonder why more people don’t slow down for a second and get out to taste some local music. Think about the last time you were willing to fork over more than a fiver for some local talent. Seriously. San Franciscans sometimes seem fonder and more aware of what the Bay Area attracts than of what it produces. Jimmy Sweetwater is out to change that. Sweetwater is the rare breed of promoter who is also a musician — he plays a mean harmonica and a dirty washboard. He has been giving his all to keep his series of local music going in a town drawn to touring bands. Sweetwater, a historian of Mission District music from the past 20 years, has put on five shows at the Great American Music Hall, four at Slim’s, and one at Cafe du Nord. According to Sweetwater, club staff has largely been supportive, but it’s a struggle to fill venues in these times of financial woe. "There’s a ton of local talent that never gets to play the big clubs," he says, noting that he tries "to combine different kinds of music in one night." All-local nights and combinations of different genres — these aren’t traditional strategies, but the Bay Area is the perfect place to unleash them.
This weekend sees a diverse Jimmy Sweetwater Presents lineup at the Red Devil Lounge, including the high-speed-Calexico-like Diego’s Umbrella, honkeytonkers 77 El Deora, the East Bay’s Ben Benkert, and the Mission Three, a group including Sweetwater that will play a number of tunes by the Band, even one of my favorite (and rarer) Band joints, "Acadian Driftwood." Sweetwater always seems to be doing a thousand things at once. It’s all for the love of song in this songlike town.
JIMMY SWEETWATER PRESENTS: DIEGO’S UMBRELLA, BEN BENKERT, 77 EL DEORA, AND THE MISSION THREE Sat/25, 9 p.m., $10. Red Devil Lounge, 1695 Polk, SF. (415) 921-1695. www.myspace.com/jimmysweetwater
SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.
Today’s Look: Melissa of Darling Design, 16th Street and Sanchez
Tell us about your look: “I’m really into soft clothes right now.”
By Marke B.
I’ve been living with SF dub stalwart Kush Arora‘s new release Dread Bass Chronicles in my headphones for a week now — partly out of addiction to its golden production and throbbing bass (this shit will truly bang the dancefloor), but also because it’s given me a lot to think about. Kush is part of the Surya Dub collective, which has become a Bay classic by melding bhangra raveups with dupstep wigouts at its monthly parties at Club Six. A couple years ago, Surya started throwing around the phrase “dread bass” to describe its direction — more aggressive, more dancehall-oriented, less electronically psychedelic than other “worldly dubstep” nights — and here we have the most definitive statement of dread bass to date. (OK, OK, dread bass was also a miniature jungle movement in the early ’90s, but nevermind that.)
Suitably, that statement comes from Surya’s most audio-aggressive member, who claims death metal and punk among his early influences, and who told the Guardian‘s Tomas Palermo last year that he believes his family’s roots in the often-volatile Punjab region between India and Pakistan breathe through his music. “That’s why I like bhangra. It has an element of aggression and sadness,” he said.
In this, Kush’s seventh release, however, most bhangra references are almost completely subsumed into ornate background decorations to the 11 tracks’ insistently energetic thudding and boasting. Yes, there are some bubbling tablas and burbling, looped flutes — but it’s Kush’s other Bay nightlife association, with Sunday night dub and dancehall mainstay Dub Mission, that’s more telling here.
By Paula Connelly
Click here to read the Spring 09 Feast article, Get juiced: Fresh, healthy alternatives to the Master Cleanse.
I asked Carolynn Kraskouskas, owner and operator of Be Whole Again! bodywork and nutritional therapy (Be Whole Again!, 3150 18th Street Mlbx 511, Suite 536, SF; www.bewholeagain.net) to help lay out the basics of planning a detox:
It is important to remember that each person is unique and each cleanse should be designed to work towards your personal goals. Your first step should be to set a goal and figure out the organs you’d like to target in your cleanse. Specifically, what you want to move, slow down or remove. Most people cleanse for weight loss and greater regularity, when they feel like their system has become sluggish, generating a feeling of a lack of health. They are interested in digestive cleanses, which allows their organs to rest and cleanse themselves. However, it is crucial to remember that if you cleanse anything you often take the good with the bad. That is why one of your primary goals in cleansing should be rebuilding. Cleanses need to be sandwiched with a program that rebuilds the organs as well as cleanses them. Rainbow grocery sells popular cleanses in a box that also rebuild.
Keep in mind that our eliminative channels for waste and toxins function in a hierarchy: bowels, kidneys, lungs, skin, and, for women, menstruation. Spending some time cleaning out your bowels before you detox can help to lessen the stress on your other channels during detox, and considerably lessen adverse detox symptoms during your fast, like headaches, rashes and diarrhea. Then you can tackle your targeted organs. It’s good to do some gentle exercise like walking or yoga and a sauna or steam room can help you to sweat out some of those stubborn toxins. Also, you should be aware that you might have to deal with surfacing emotions. This is also a mental cleanse. Food, and the habit of eating food, provides a comfort zone that distracts us from fully experiencing some emotions. Most of the time this is a good thing because we need to function productively and not dwell on negative things. However, every once in a while it’s good to “clear our cache” to lighten the accumulated mental load of every day life. Expect to go through highs and lows and don’t attempt any cleanse for less than two weeks because you’ll likely experience more negative effects than positive.
Ann Cohen, wife of the late poet Allen Cohen, writes,
“This morning when I woke up my first thought were of Allen Allen Cohen and all of us are part of the world community. Allen, the San Francisco Oracle Staff and All our friends were and are about people working together
Embracing each others differences This brings strength to us, A world community.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALLEN WE MISS YOU.”
Cohen, founder and editor of the legendary Oracle of Summer of Love fame, would have been 69 today (4/23/2009). Ann and his friends are meeting tonight at 7 p.m. at the Bocci Cafe in North Beach where Cohen always celebrated his birthday. His friends will sit where he always sat, near the stage. Cohen died April 29, 2004, at the age of 64.
Ann sent along the poem Allen wrote to celebrate his 56th birthday.
On my 56th birthday
It is a warm spring day.
Our pre-school children
are playing barefoot
in the backyard.
Cleo, the Siamese cat,
is chasing squirrels
in the branches of the Ash tree.
Last night at the moment
of my birth 56 years ago
the mocking bird
was calling for its lover.
While driving to San Francisco,
the sky became overcast with grey clouds.
As the sun filters through them
a silvery light illuminates the city
The hills of Marin are
wearing a white fog hat.
We are on our way to meet
the Vagabond Poet at
the Muddy Waters Café.
Later we will meet some friends
for dinner at the Bocce Cafe
As I write this in the car
passing through the streets
in the warehouse district,
there is a quietness in the air.
Few cars are in the streets but
people amble along the sidewalks.
It is still good to be here
in this body creating.
Allen Cohen
By Natalie Gregory
Adult Swim’s Squidbillies is a bizarre world of ghoul-like creatures set in nowhere Georgia, whose characters speak with the most hideous Appalachian dialect. I just watched three episodes from the recently released Squidbillies Vol. 2 DVD, and you have to admire the show’s animators. Their sense of humor and imagination has no bounds for the ridiculous, or just plain weird. Again, Adult Swim veterans, bear with my naiveté; everyone else, take note: Squidbillies stars a family of what looks like an alien, octopus, human crossbreed. The patriarch is Early, a fast-talking, shotgun-happy bullheaded type who always knows best. His son, Rusty, is a little more mild-mannered and sweet but devoted to his father. Both are devoid of logic, especially Early. And then there’s Granny, whose behavior seems more inappropriate with each episode. Watch what happens when Early and Rusty kill multiple animals to give her new skin.
Obviously, animation is not constrained by plausibility, and for Squidbillies, this is crucial. Early shoots someone multiple times each episode. It usually happens after someone says something he disagrees with. I found myself laughing at the frequent use of violence to solve problems when things don’t pan out as planned. While some people may glorify the show’s constant use of sadism (the family’s tanning bed stand-in: roasting on a spit until they accomplish third degree burns) as condoning violence, I dare say it’s a subversive attack on the American tendency to solve problems through gun use, and the previous administrations’ tendency to oversimplify complicated political situations. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. But I enjoyed Squidbillies, and laughed heartily at its ridiculousness, whatever the intention may be. The DVD, available here, contains special features including Dragonbillies: Squidbillies Circle Jerk 2: Return of the Self-Congratulation. Yee-haw!
By Marke B.
Morrissey may have crapped out of his stint at the Paramount, Belle and Sebastian are probably off looking for 20 more band members — and whither the classic Bluebells, I ask you?
But at least on this overcast break from yesterday’s heatwave we have the 13-year-old and much overlooked Scottish popsters Camera Obscura — no, not this camera obscura, although the music has the same ethereal shimmer — to keep us melancholically sunny with their new, lushly orchestrated My Maudlin Career (4AD). Somehow the 11 slightly countrified gems on this release seem like the ones that got away from both Neko Case and Rough Trade …
Camera Obscura, “French Navy”
Bonus! Bluebells (Hey, I’m in the mood for jangly Scottish maudlin today)
The Bluebells, “I’m Falling” (much better sound quality here)
What do you know? The singers look quite a bit alike ….
View the previous Snap Sound here.
