I'm speechless........and just how were they found, out you ask...the kid told his mother...(I should fly to Tampa and beat that child myself)...I don't get it....this *is* every 14 year old boy's fantasy....I mean, I've seen "documentaries" devoted completely to this type of thing......Is this the "future" of our country? Is this who's supposed to change my diapers if I should live to be 92? Somebody, please give me something to blame; schools built near substations, growth hormones in milk, Al Qaeda....I'll take anything....
UPDATE: Car mag pics have surfaced. (poor, poor girl...I hope she @ least gets a book deal, cause she won't even be able to teach defensive driving after this...)
Man...I really wasn't going to post today...
Everyone on web today is infatuated with the Jane's breakup, Brit's engagement, OMG the new Pixies song, or the new products from the Apple conf.....to these we say *yawn*
.....and I'm not touching the Iraqi hand over with a ten foot Polack...ok, zeh time has come for your worssless knowledge, yah.
Yao...can I write a check??
(Warning: gratuitous weekend activity post.)
What a weekend....Friday was off the absolute chains when Bailey touched down for the SOMA Slosh-uns...the man ripped the place to pieces in ways unknown...tha joint was packed! We had the best sales the club had seen in 6 years according to mgmt. The time spent @ the bar compounded by DJ M's sub-urban bourbon stash in the DJ booth had me rollin' out like so...(don't miss that link...it's a hot little time waster)
After successfully posting up @ Pier 23 the next morning for some much needed brunch grease with my better-half, DJ M, lady J. and the Bailers, it was time to roll to Jim and Joyce's wedding....hangover still firmly in tow. I must confess trying to remember people's names that you haven't seen in a couple of years is pretty painful given my state, but the ceremony was the lick and teh happy couple are on their way to Italy...OMG congrats 2 U 2 ;)
So, after the hangover/wedding combo, I wasn't quite sure if I was gonna make it out for the mandatory appearance @ the DNA lounge for the Tipper show. But, I can't be lettin' my boy Greg down, so roll out I did. I have a pretty love/hate relationship with DNA. Last year, I laid witness to a major pissing war between the owner and a promotion partner over some comments he posted on the clubs website about a party we had thrown there last year. This fact compounded by the ever present Remedy crowd, I didn't know if I was really up for this. That being said...Tipper, Tung, Dov, the BTX boys, and others made it hot to death...all fears were allayed as I walked through the door. (Don't get me wrong, there were a couple of people who looked like they were in search of an Usher remix...but sometimes you take the bridge with the tunnel. The sound system was on fiyah, I was feelin the tracks big time. I sucessfully rocked out with Ms. Vern, several members of the hot-girl-maffia and other celebrity contestants.
You too can re-live the moment: audio up here for the next two weeks....don't miss that...it's ILL.
(photos courtesy of RadChad)
aight...ez wicha monday now...
In recent years, a new character has entered the pantheon of SF characters. His name is Frank Chu. If you live in San Francisco, you know who I'm talking about; if you haven't lived in San Francisco in the past few years, you missed the tipping point at which he became a full-blown celebrity, albeit one who does not possess his full mental faculties.
In my version of San Francisco, there are currently three widely recognized icons that can actually be seen walking its streets: the Twins, Vivian and Marian Brown, the Tamale Lady, Virginia Ramos, and Frank Chu (I'd throw in the unicyclist known as Pink Man, but I've never actually seen him walk). Sure, there are other famous people like Robin Williams and Willie Brown and Joe Montana, but those are people whose celebrity extends well beyond San Francisco. The Twins, the Tamale Lady, and Frank Chu are ours.
Frank Chu has walked the streets of San Francisco holding an inscrutable picket sign for the past 10 years. The messages have changed, but the man largely looks the same: suit, sunglasses, black shoes, and a facial expression that politely asks you to take him seriously, even though you probably never will.
The last two places that I've seen Frank Chu have been at clubs: 12 Galaxies (formerly the Galia Club) and 111 Minna. There's no way on Earth that Frank Chu had to pay to get into these places -- that's one of the benefits of being Frank Chu. 12 Galaxies was, in fact, named after Frank Chu's signature slogan. At 12 Galaxies, his positioning at the foot of the stage made for an inspired juxtaposition with the burlesque show that was going on.
Let's get one thing straight: Frank Chu is not right in the head. That's not a laughing matter. But the fact that he's crazy without being psycho, that fact that he's probably sane enough to appreciate the attention, that fact that he was holding his sign next to a woman jiggling her tasseled breasts, makes it ok to laugh a little. Frankly, I feel that I'm laughing with him.
Photos:
Frank Chu, seen and heard:
One more video:
The expression "last but not least" does not apply here. This is last and this is least. This 10-minute short film (large file: 25MB) involves a familiar subject, but unlike almost everything else I've heard or seen, does it in a way that is both degrading and exploitative. I wished that Frank Chu, during the interview portion of this film, would have taken his stick and knocked the smug interviewer on his ass. Don't waste your time with this. I include it here because it has the distinction of being the largest file associated with Frank Chu -- other than the one the CIA and the aliens have.
Here's a toast to my favorite San Francisco poet who doesn't know it, Frank Chu.
I missed the first ten minutes of Saved! waiting in the concessions line at the Metreon. When have concessions taken this long? It's like I was Yasser Arafat and the workers were a collective Sharon, or vice versa. Movement was slow, painstakingly slow. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect the concessions workers to be leaping around and catching air -- for minimum wage, it's not worth it. But damn it, prove to me that one of your feet ever leaves the ground. Someone bring Scatman Caruthers back from the goddamn grave to teach these kids how to put some tap into their step. Caruthers zombie, where are you when I need you? We need to hang out sometime. One condition: no killing. We cool?
Saved!, a comedy about life at American Eagle Christian High School, hits all the necessary targets, but does so in very fleeting and superficial ways. Take, for instance, the subject of "speaking in tongues," which is merely a throwaway gag in the movie.
One of the more interesting and weird experiences I had as a kid going to church was when a specialist in ancient biblical languages came to speak to our group of Sunday school kids. The idea put forth was that certain living individuals are imbued with the power to channel a long lost language that existed around the time events in the Bible are described. This was another sign that God, who could give a damn about ostentatious displays like turning tobacco into marijuana or blowing up Antarctica, was up in the cut. So there we were, asked to ramble non-sensical things out of our mouths in the hope that someone's nonsense turned out to make divine sense. Where was this episode of The Wonder Years?
I should have told the tongue specialist that she was barking up the wrong tree. If she really wanted get some good tongue, she should have driven over to Ruthless Records in Los Angeles, home of NWA, and asked to speak to labelmates MC J.B., Baby D, and Sassy C, the three members of J.J. Fad. J.J. Fad had a hit in the 80's with Supersonic, a song that reached #31 in the Billboard 200, but more importantly, channeled a language not spoken since Chaka roamed the Land of the Lost.
Exhibit A, from Supersonic:
Listen here.
Transcript:
"A sama lama lama lama doo ma see ma nama lama doo ma lama nama see ma
Na ma lama doo ma lama see ma lama see ma doo ma humma, yeah (Yeah)
That's it (That's it)"
Case closed. Who needs the parting of seas or when you have this?
Movie rating: 5.1
Caruthers zombie, take us out.
So, last Friday, a usual cast of characters assembled for dinner in Japan town @ this joint called Cafe Mums. This particular eatery serves up Shabu Shabu, which is basically a Japanese hot pot meal. You're supplied with a cauldron of hot oil and an endless supply of succulent meats and veggies to cook with. The food was good, but what was even better the fact that the meal included all the beer or sake you desired....note to world...we got way-sted...
We wrapped up on dinner and rolled to the parking garage. Greg and I were set to do some flyering for some upcoming events...I know, such a shameless plug. Anyway, on the way back to the garage we stopped by this bar in the Raddison hotel. What can be described next is sort of like the lost city of Atlantis rising from the ocean for a brief period once every million years.
The bar was as posh and sleek as any bar-of-the-moment that would be attached to a Ian Schrager or W hotel, (coming to a hip business-cum-playboy destination near you). And with places of this sort, it's all in the accents; 5-foot golden poodle statues flank the staircase, plastic deer heads adorn the walls, customers sip their cozmos at a zebra pattern bar, and a granite spiral staircase gives access to the two levels of the bar (with a different self affirming phrase chiseled in each step...natch). Granted, I've seen plenty of bars like this. In concept, it was nothing new. But I couldn't figure out WTF this place was doing in the middle of j-town, in the same block as mall that houses stores peddling pickled ginger treats and oversized tachometers for your Hyundai.
The watering hole in question was named, quizzically enough, Lord of Balls. The bartender, who was half-in-the-bag, reviled her new guests, who were completely in the bag, about the particularities of the bar. Apparently Joe Boxer, yes the one of smiley face underwear fame, was owner or part owner in the lounge along with the Blue Dot restaurant that adjoined with it. Joe, or as he's known by his mama; Nick Graham, had decided that he wanted to become a British lord....tea and crumpets to ensue. Anyway, in 1998, he did what any red-blooded American would do to get his lordship; he bought it.....I guess @ 4k, the title Lord of Balls, or more specifically, "The Lordship of the Manor of Balls Bedfordshire", isn't such a hot property to the on the UK "lord" market...have mercy. Graham was also kind enough to commission portraits in his likeness to adorn the walls of his kingdom. You'll find him, cloaked in monarchic garb and surrounded by nymphs, for all to regale. (Note to self: when I hit it big, I simply *must* get some nymphs of my own.)
Name aside, the other odd thing about this place is that the bartender said that business was so slow, the place now only opens for private parties. Though it's not really my scene, its quite a shame such a nice bar is going to waste like this. I guess the Cozmo set just doesn't flock to j-town to get their kicks like they used to. Apparently, we had happened in on the tail end of a party, and they were happy to have the extra business. All in attendance proceeded to get "royally" smashed, and I got a little happy with the new camera phone. Pictures are attached for your amusement.
So, on the off chance you find yourself in Japantown on a Fri or Sat night, I suggest you "drop in" on the Lord of the Balls and get a taste of ironic hilarity. You won't be the first, but you probably won't have to wade through too many Kate Spade bags to get your next extremely dirty martini.
So, you want to meet the hottest ladies? The old methods are, well, are just plain old. Join a band and be a rock star? That's so Almost Famous. Be a pretty boy dj? Yawn. Get with the program and learn the most time-honored chick-magnet technique: be the dopest circle dancer at the party.
You know what I'm talking about. You're at a party, the dancefloor is starting to flow and the dj puts on some old-school electro breakbeat jam. OK, this is the time to separate the men from the boys. You know who the boys are: they're the ones lining the circumference of the circle, smiling, profiling, but afraid to step into the ring. C'mon Frodo, quit pussyfooting -- it's time to get your RING ON.
Lesson: diameter x 3.14 (pi) = circumference. For all you fellas smiling, hand-clapping and parkin' on the dancefloor, 3.14 is the closest thing you'll be getting to pie tonight.
Face it, if you live in SF, at some point you have out of town visitors who are just dying for you to drag them around the city. At which point you'll probably comment to yourself, "damn, I haven't been to fisherman's wharf in like 2 years"...anyway, I had some San Francisco related links I've been meaning to post...all of them are tourist related except the SFPD one (which is super frash)...so, go nuts...
Normally, I save this type of stuff for the ye olde "Flash Friday" game link. However, it's not often you find something that just floors you b/c of it's creativity and attention to detail....enter emogame.com. Granted, I haven't really fumbled around enough to know the purpose of the site b/c I got stuck on the most awesomest flash game possibly I have ever seen.
The Anti-Bush game manages to weave together pretty impressvie anti-bush factiods, heavy metal (:slayer:), voltron, and, well, about ever other important major pop-culture reference from my childhood...and that's just in the intro of the game. I really can't express in text how rad this is...you gotta check it out...The boys @ 1115 are gonna shit themselves when they see this.
(via MattTheGorman...who is apparently hoarding all the good content links...).
Not many of us have been on a game show. I have. I had the good fortune of appearing on what I consider to be the most exciting gameshow going right now: Pyramid.
The rules are simple: you and a celebrity partner alternate trying to get each other to say a phrase without using any words in that phrase. Simple enough, huh? Yeah, but very difficult when the camera is rolling and the mercilous clock is amplifying the sub bass of your heart.
Here is an excerpt from my experience on the show. The host of Pyramid is Donnie Osmond, who many of you will remember from... well, wherever you remember him from.
-------
Donnie Osmond: "Hello, Rok. I understand you're from San Francisco and you write for a website."
Rok: "Yes, Donnie, I hail from SF and I just want to tell you that I loved your work in Black Sabbath. The website is called ComeCorrect and I'm about to break it down."
Donnnie Osmond: "Well, let me break it down for YOU. You have 20 seconds, and you need six correct answers to advance to the next round. You ready?"
Rok: "From day one."
Donnie Osmond: "Are you going to give or receive?"
Rok: "I'll receive and I'll have the lovely Phyllis Diller give."
Donnie Osmond: "Category is: 'People you meet at parties.' You have 20 seconds on the clock. And... GO."
Rok: "Your watch. Time. Loud, too loud. Pig. Cops!"
Phyllis: "Yes!"
Rok: "You're spinning. You're drunk. No, going in a circle like a merry-go-round. Handshake. Wet fish handshake. Merry-go-round. Same conversation everytime havin' muthufucka!"
Phyllis: "Yes!"
Rok: "You want a hug. But we're not really friends. You're angling for a hug, but that would be a serious stretch. I give you a handshake, which you accept only begrudgingly. Creepy ass dude trying to hug me all the time!"
Phyllis: "Yes!"
Rok: "Ok, you're in some kind of a rush. You're talking fast. You're a chatterbox. No, you're wiping your nose; you have a cold. Runny nose. You're talking about the most inane subjects in the world and making me wish I had dark sunglasses on so that I could fall asleep without offending you. Chatty cokehead!"
Phyllis: "Yes!"
Rok: "Ok, you really like me. You really, really like me. Sally Fields at the Academy Awards. No, your jaw is dislocated and you... want a cigarette. You really appreciate the vibe I bring to a party and want to tell me again how special I am. Ecstacy conversatin' ho!"
Phyllis: "Yes!"
Rok: "You're in your longjohns. You got invited to the apartment of some sketchy old guy..."
[BUZZER]
Donnie Osmond: "Oh, I'm sorry. Time is up. The phrase we were looking for was 'Dudley from Diff'rent Strokes.'"
-------
Well, that was the dramatic highlight of my experience on Pyramid. I didn't win any money, but I left with some Pyramid stationary and Vicki Lawrence's cell phone number. Eh, I don't think I'll call.
The author of this piece wrote this under the influence of: Cans, several, stupid trucker hats, cheap, Dennis Hopper. Pabst Blue Ribbon!
Yes.
MEN OF VIRGINA: please dont' touch the little girls!!! - (via Dr. Otto)
I think I had the ivy walls of Hahhhvad all wrong. They easily had the most bestest commencement speaker EVAR this year. Selectah say "BOH"...the one like Ali G...yup, I'm about as shocked as I am impressed. Before closing his speech with "Big up yaself, Princeton!", mista G dropped the following science on the next generation of the work force:
“Like the great civil rights leader Martin Luther Vandross, I has got a dream of little black girls and little white girls playing with each other,”
Also, his second season's just about to drop on HBO....gwan, gwan...feelin Irie.
Lastly, Ali G's own text translator here...feel free to spice up those boring work emails.
you either love them or hate them, and i happen to super duper heart them. i'm talking about the purple and gold, the soon to be four-time nba champions, the lakers. the dream team.
why do i like the lakers? is it because i grew up in the valley, van nuys, aka porn capital of the world? is it because purple and gold remind me of pretty unicorns? is it because kobe is so damn fine?
actually, simply put, i like the lakers because they got game. you cannot argue with that. the lakeshow dominates. the warriors? please, they're so JV. and the kings? ghetto ballers sporting that tired tattooed gangsta look.
the laker's team roster is full of A-players. despite his scrupulous sexual encounters, kobe is ridiculously skilled, and, well, i'll admit it, very handsome. only a short-bus-riding fool would deny that assertation. and, while his free throw is a bit f-ugly, shaq is a monster on the court.
the rest of the team ain't so bad either - gary "ghetto" payton, derek fisher - our 4th quarter clutch player, karl "just give me the ring!" malone, newcomer kareem rush, hell, even medvedenko ain't too lousy. and luke walton should get some props just for growing up as bill walton's kid.
with star players such as these, and skills galore, why would anyone hate on the lakers? what's not to love? why not buy a part of the dream?
as we're in the midst of a dramatic playoff season, i've been thinking about this more and more. i feel like the negative energy that people are generating from hating on the lakeshow is starting to impact their karma. so, it's become an imperative question in my mind: how do i convert more san franciscans into laker lovers?
i've been brainstorming away, and think i've come up with some pretty decent ideas. now all i need to do is get a few minutes of phil jackson's time to convince him to test these out.
IDEAS TO INCREASE LAKER LOVE
1 - Move the team to San Francisco and send the Warriors to LA. I think this is the winner - because it's really all about hating on SoCal, isn't it?
2 - Open a Lakers musical at the SF Opera House - think Lion King, only not as scary. It'll be fun for the whole family!
3 - Have the Lakers do a DJ battle at Barneveld. I bet Kobe spins breaks - the question is who spins big gay house?
4 - Free blow jobs by the Laker Girls, but only if you wear a "Lakers Rule!" shirt for a week.
5 - Sponsor a burrito giveaway from the Mexican eatery of your choice (El Faralito and Papalotes included!). Win over the unemployed and very hungry.
6 - Lakers set up a big rave camp on the Esplanade, with free water, showers, a roller coaster and mushrooms for all Burners.
7 - Lakers enter a coup with the Giants - anytime someone boos the Lakers, the Giants throw a game.
8 - Give the Lakers makeovers and turn them into hipsters. Lose the bling, get some skinny pants and eyeliner. Have them run in to The Shins or electroclash.
9 - Open a sushi restaurant with a variety of affordably-priced Laker Rolls - The Shaq Unagi Surprise, the Fishy Fisher, the Raw Rush Roll. Fry some of them for good measure. Everyone loves sushi, everyone loves Lakers. No uni allowed.
10 - Appeal to the cultured -- have the Lakers donate their own artwork to the SFMOMA, and sponsor an evening event, perhaps Three-Pointers and Modern Art.
Enough ppl have commented to me that they were completely infatutated with the whole Wonkette piece a few weeks ago, I sorta feel compelled to post this showdown between The Gothamist and Jason Calacanis...
So there’s some serious talk about putting Ronald Reagan’s mug on a US greenback -- a 10, maybe a 20. Why don’t we just spit on his grave while we’re at it?
Whether you’re on the left or right, you will agree that Reagan’s legacy deserves to be dignified by something more than a piece of paper to be stuffed down a stripper's thong or rolled up to assist in vacuuming countless lines of blow. D.A.R.E. we say yes to this? And then you have that guy who just won the lottery, who, at his first bowel movement, will wipe his ass on the deceased president's visage just because he can. No, Reagan’s legacy should not be thus besmirched.
The best way to honor President Ronald Wilson Reagan is to have a national holiday in his honor. Esteemed members of Congress, is the third Monday in June good for you? It’s great for me. And let’s not stop there. Where is the love for our long list of beloved yet uncelebrated forefathers such as Calvin Coolidge, Millard Fillmore, and Jimmy Carter? Trying to lump them all like sardines in one day, President's Day, is the height of ingratitude. Each of them deserves to be honored with a national day off from work. I’ve got a lot of Mondays on my calendar that are free. Let’s talk.
This message was brought to you by The Overworked Laborers of America and by Southwest Airlines.
What the hell is up with the PA system inside Muni trains?
Ok, we've all joked about the quality of the voice reproduction at fast food drive-thru's, but that's drive-thru's -- we're talking about something that costs over $3,000,000 per unit.Yes, that's how much each of the newer, grey and red trains costs the city of San Francisco. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to spend that much on a ride, I want a fucking decent soundsystem. Did they run out of money when building these things? You're telling me they couldn't have kicked in another $200 for a goddamn Bose soundsystem? Give me some Bose, some Kenwood, some Denon; don't give me this ratty, 1862 Civil War audio technology.
Once in a blue moon the station agent comes through clearly. Maybe that train is the luxury edition with Dolby noise reduction or something. I just know that most of the time I hear the conductor of the train over the interior PA, the only thing that is being communicated is the gender of the speaker. I know my male muffles from my female muffles, call me telepathic. Other than that, I don't know what the hell they're talking about.
If you've ridden Muni Metro enough times, you can probably tell from situational cues what they might be saying. There's a fire on board: they're probably telling you, "Get the fuck off the train." The train is stopped because someone is keeping the door from closing properly: they're probably telling you," Get the fuck inside." There's a long delay in the tunnel: they're probabaly telling you, "I don't know about you, but I'm about to dig into this tasty little bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that I made last night. Good, good stuff. Going to wash it down with this cold Dr. Pepper. You know I like that little sweetness, that funny little sweetness in Dr. Pepper."
Have you ever looked inside the conductor's compartment? See all those buttons and switches? There are probably about 200 different buttons and switches. Let me tell you something: for the purposes of driving the train, the conductor uses three of these buttons. That's right, three. What do the other 197 buttons and switches control? Vocoders and other audio filtering devices used to mess with your goddamn head. And all this is officially sanctioned by Muni. Muni administrators realize that being a Metro Driver is one of the most boring jobs in the City. What do the conductors have for entertainment? Voice distortion... and you.
 |
Loud and Clear: Happy 1-month anniversary, ComeCorrect! |
10 years ago today a Florida record store owner was arrested for selling a copy of 2 Live Crew's record "As Nasty as They Wanna Be" after it had been declared "obscene" by a Broward county court judge. In a not-as-landmark-as-they-would-have-liked-to-believe-event, MTV became the beacon for anti-censorship, Broward county earned it's place on the map, and Luke Skywalker made an extra album, "Banned in the USA", just to commemorate this landmark event. His anthem, "The Fuck Shop" would, in fact, not fall victim to the vicious american censorship machine....Yes, yes, this historic event basically proved, for a fact, that while people love dick and fart jokes, they love 'em even more when they've been set to some Miami bass and have been declared "obscene" by uptight white people.
20 Years ago today, Richard Pryor set most of his upper body on fire during an explosion while trying to freebase crack cocaine. He was seen running, in flames, down the street before he finally collapsed. Yet another historic event proving that life can be tragic, and that cocaine is one helluv a drug......but the mental image of a crackhead, on fire, running down the street is still undeniably hilarious. (Rich has since put down the pipe and and picked up the torch; boycotting KFC.)
(writers note: clearly, i need an editor. i swear, i eventually give a very biased review on two venues, without so much as a nod to either live music act i went to see, but that part of this entry is buried in the extended entry. click ahead if you want to read about rickshaw stop or mighty.)
time for a true confession ... in a recent past life, i used to think i was a "party girl." before becoming a mini yogini, i was oftentimes a bona fide crackhead. i earned a brownie badge for every questionable substance i imbibed or inhaled. i was a true san francisco socialite, parading around in my after-party uniform of boots and underwear, attending live music events in outfits that would make molly ringwald envious.
my quasi-wild lifestyle was facilitated by the fact that i spent my saturday nights slinging drinks at one of the best bars in the city, sublounge. sublounge introduced me to a number of interesting people and positioned me in quite a few convenient and devilish situations. like many san franciscans, the moonlighting gig as a degenerate bartender allowed me to have a dichotomous lifestyle -- destroying livers by night, living the corporate lifestyle by day. being employed at the city's best burning man-esque bar meant i could classify myself as "complicated" and "mysterious" and "lover of faux fur" on any and all online dating channels. anyhow ... for almost two years my saturday nights consisted of sublounge and the after party. it was beautiful.
but, now that i've hung up my towel and tossed in my martini shakers in exchange for a yoga mat and far too many downward dogs, my life has opened up to a whole new experience -- that of free saturday nights and sober trysts out about town.
i'm going to make a wild assumption - either agree with me wholeheartedly or call me a fool - but i, like most other san francisco denizens, tend to get stuck frequenting the same old establishments. the neighborhood watering hole. the bar your good friend owns. the place where you're sleeping with the barback. same old same old.
so, this being said, i figured a review of exciting new venues might be appreciated by all. we all want to break out of our social circles once in a while, don't we? we do. however, i should provide a disclaimer: the night i'm going to tell you about was actually a friday, not a saturday, and the sober part -- well, lets just say i was taking a night off of the internal cleansing.
at any rate - last weekend, i stopped by two great, newish san francisco establishments, the rickshaw stop and mighty.
so, first stop - rickshaw stop. went to see a friend spin some records and check out The Invisibles. a huge live music slut, i was excited to hear The Invisibles and listen to some dirty punk-disco-electronic-gothic-rock tracks. though the first dj lacked flawless skills on the decks, his selection of music was outstanding, and The Invisibles were pretty good too (their eye make up totally ruled).
rickshaw stop is over on fell street, near the always desireable stretch between civic center and van ness muni stops. but, my friends, it has easy access. that's what's important here.
here's how rickshaw stop rated that night:
- pros -
1 - they serve corndogs and huge shots. HUGE. the shots of tequila are practically in tumblers. be warned.
2 - there were plenty of hot hipster men hanging around - eye candy, eye candy, eye candy. yum.
3 - they have gorgeous rickshaws-a-plenty, and the place is laid out really well, with an upstairs balcony area for people to chill or play foosball, and a downstairs dance area where i think i did the running man.
- cons -
really, the only big con here is that for every hot hipster guy, there were three hotter hipster girls, most of whom were a good five years younger than me. the odds are not in favor of ladies in their late twenties.
so, stiff competition on the hetero male front and - gasp - only two stalls in the ladies bathroom. really, you can't have a club that caters to an 80s-minded crowd and just have two stalls. it just don't work.
second stop of the night, mighty, to see uberzone. actually, that's a lie - i didn't go to see uberzone, and don't even really know what uberzone sounds like, though i'm sure i'd like them. i went to mighty because, once again, some friends were spinning, and, well, other friends convinced me it would be a good idea to go. being a clean-living yogini, four healthy shots of tequila can really fuck you up. anyway, my review on mighty:
- pros -
1 - the venue itself is amazing (either that or everytime i've been there i've been Super Fucked Up). there's art all about the space, a huge dancefloor, areas to relax if you've done one too many pills.
2 - there is great sound. seriously. and i hear it's fun to make out next to the speakers.
3 - i always see at least three people i know, and they are usually more fucked up than me, making me feel better about myself and my degenerate ways. delinquency loves company. consequently, since mighty is such a hot spot where friends of friends tend to congregate, it's not a good place to do really ridiculous things (e.g., dance on the bar, do body shots of the bouncer, pop a squat behind the stage).
- cons -
mighty's touted as a "new hidden gem in the emerging SOMISSPO district of San Francisco" which means that it is in BFE, practically daly city or something. it's hard to get a cab, and even harder to drive your drunk self back home when you're lost in the labyrynth known as SOMISSPO.
so, that's that. sure, my reviews kinda suck, but i told you what's important - rickshaw pours the big drinks, has the beautiful people; mighty has the sound that won't stop and might(y) get you lost.
wah wah.
...unless you want people digging up rogue party pics and photoshopping the living shit out of you.....this may mean war. (via Genome)
I caught Amp Fiddler last Friday night at a venue that will go unnamed. He's currently receiving a lot of attention in the music press for his debut album titled "Waltz of a Ghetto Fly." Having worked as a keyboardist for the likes of George Clinton, Prince, and Carl Craig, Fiddler waltzed into the attractive, intimately sized venue with enough buzz to fill the place to capacity, and then some. It sold out early in the night.
I had a preconceived Plan B: another spot in the City that I was happy to check out if Amp Fiddler fell through. On this night, however, that option was really a Plan C because I knew that the venue where Amp Fiddler was playing had a weak link, one shared by countless venues in this or any other city: that little Rorschach mark on one's hand or wrist, otherwise known as a handstamp. Forging a handstamp is one of the oldest tricks in the book, and for good reason -- it usually works.
The friend I was with that night had a will call ticket, which was key because it gave me a willing hand stamp figure model. Before he went inside, I told him that I'd meet him at the nearby gas station in ten minutes. On my way to the gas station to see if I could garner a pen, I made a quick call to find out the color of the handstamp. Anything other than black or blue ink makes finding the right color pen more difficult, sometimes impossible. The ink was black -- perfect. It actually took going to two gas stations to eventually find a black pen. The clerk at the second station didn't seem to have any problem selling me one of the used pens he had lying around for a dollar. I wonder what I could have gotten for $10 -- in San Francisco, maybe two gallons of gasoline and a smile.
When my friend came outside to meet me, I took a gander at the stamp and knew getting in would not be a problem. It was an uncomplicated design, one that could easily be mistaken for a blob with a weird little OK sign on one side and a funky little snail antenna-like thing on top. My friend, who was a little nervous about my prospects, relayed to me how strict the door guy was and gave me this and that reason why I should be sweating it. All I knew is that I could recreate blobs, OK signs, and snail antennae just fine, and with my left hand no less, as the stamp was on the right hand. I told my anxious friend to go ahead and go back inside, that I'd see him inside in a few.
After drawing the stamp from memory, I neared the entrance and drew a few drags off a cigarette. I could tell that the doorman was probably a nice guy, but having to deal with a sold-out show and people trying to talk their way in put a steely expression on his face. I put my butt out (no, not like a ho, though I'm sure that often opens doors for ho's) and approached the doorman. All was OK as I slowly sauntered in like Errol, unmolested.
I don't want you to get the idea that I do this all the time. It is, in fact, very rare for me to go this route. Simply put, it's wrong: I respect the right of venues and promoters to make a return on their investment (ok, maybe with a couple of exceptions). It's just that sometimes it's too inconvenient not to get in. Say you're meeting a group of friends at a show and it sells out before you get there. Sometimes you just need to be a unified posse for all to be good and righteous in the world. Or say you're stricken with a terrible fever, and the only prescription for it is hearing some good cowbell [video: cowbell].
The handstamp maneuver shouldn't become a regular Plan A. If this is your primary method of getting into places you'd be what is commonly referred to as a scumbag. You'd be a scumbag for the obvious reasons, but also because you'd be making your friends feel like shit for paying with their hard-earned money, while you waltz in for free. One woman, with the emotional IQ of a Barry Bonds bobblehead, comes to mind. She was raving to a group of us at Burning Man about how thrilled she was that she was able to sneak in and avoid paying the $150 admission. We were ready to collect $150 for someone to sneak her the fuck out.
I've neglected to share some of the finer details of the art of handstamp reproduction. Let's just say that with a little spit and attitude, you're most of the way there. That's a lesson you can carry over into other areas of your life.
I'm organizing a gallery show this month featuring handstamp art. The show is titled "By Any Means Necessary." Admission is $15 or free with handstamp.
so, did I just read that correctly? colin posted a link today for pubic stencils. pubic. stencils. “six sexy stencils” for only nine bones. now you can mow your lawn into a variety of patterns for your partner to appreciate. really, though - proof that people will buy anything. i mean, for nine bucks you could get seven and a half big macs or a sloppy hand job from an asian massage parlor. or, you could get six pubic stencils. your choice.
if it were up to me, i'd give my nine bucks to a scalper to try to get into franz ferdinand tonight at the grand at the regency center. any boy band with lyrics like "michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips, sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips" makes me think that if i get them drunk enough i might still have a chance.
at least now all us ladies have a new excuse for dates we'd rather not go on.
If there's one thing the people of San Francisco do with vigor and fervor, it's protest...like seriously....they seem to protest about every falking chance they can. If it's not the war in Iraq, it's Mumia Abdul Jamal, or Leonard Peltier, or offensive t-shirts, or Hummers, or work conditions at the Gap, or Old Navy, or jesus...just about anything....I'm seriously surprised the city doesn't have special funding to compensate every whack-job in this city with material to make a protest sign. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that the city's anticipating heavy protests for the BIO 2004 convention going down @ Moscone Center next week.
I should qualify this a little more. I used to work @ 3rd & Howard. So if there was any protest corresponding to a convention, I had a front row seat. Any time elected officials came into town to speak, there were rings of wing-nuts screaming about some atrocity of the day, pumping a sign, and getting in the way of me getting my latte. Probably one of the more inventive displays were the hundreds of baby sized caskets one protest used to line the steps of the convention center during one event that was surely post fixed with "con" or "world". (Note to the cause-heads; dead baby references score big for newspaper pics and scaring the living shit out of females aged 18-30.) I think my former job location was one of the major reasons I'm so fascinated with the whole protestor thing.
Anyway this particular protest could be interesting, I *sorta* wish I had my old job just for the front row view afforded by next weeks event. See this event is a little different. The city plans to woo a lot of the bio-tech companies to open up shop in the new Mission Bay digs that are getting built. They hope it will help pump up the city's economy. The protestors, obvs, don't want any part of these companies rolling into the area previously known as China Basin....which, personally I think is pretty hilarious since half these ppl probably rocked out 5 years ago @ illegal raves dropping every substance from here to Amsterdam in warehouses that were housed on the very gound that has been converted to house these new "drug" companies. It will be interesting to see just how far the city goes to protect it's own interest.
There's some interesting subtext here. Anyone remember the protests in SF that completely shut down SOMA last year? We'll, I dunno if you caught up on all the postgame reports, but what went down there made some serious rumblings in both circles of protestors and sociologists alike. See those protests were different. No one was given specific orders on how to act out their deviance, they were simply given a goal...shut the city down. They came up with their own methods. Using cell phones and email, they planned on their own time, in their own little renegade factions, being as inventive as they wanted...... There were people forcing themselves to vomit on the Federal Reserve building because they said the "war made them sick". (Sorry, couldn't find a link)
...ok...where was I....anyway, this Malcom-X-by-any-means-necessary type of protesting made it impossible for the police to anticipate what could happen. I remember walking to work that day. There were four people who had chained themselves together in the middle of 1st and Howard, the intersection that all the SOMA bay bridge traffic enters onto. Traffic was majorly fuct. Those four people had effective backed-up traffic so badly, it ran all the way back to the bridge. Those four people had completely shut down any entrance from the bay bridge to the city for a brief moment in time. Now that, my friends, is how you give the middle finger to the man....screw that big marionette puppet walking down Market street shit.
Ok....Don't get me wrong, I do honestly believe you should speak out for what you believe, and if something's bullshit, you call bullshit on it. What I *really* don't understand are the people who are into protests as a social scene. I'm very sure there's a San Francisco protest email list out there somewhere announcing where these dirty hippies should show up from event to event with suggested slogans for their signs, etc. I'm sure they draw straws each time for which person is gonna work the bullhorn and get everyone all riled up. These jokers aren't even protesting because they're really pissed about something, it's just the means they use to get together with like minded people and, you know, try to get laid...I mean, do whatever you wanna do ok, just don't clog up Market street on Saturday while I'm trying to pick up some threads from some multi-conglomerate sweatshop that chains 15 year olds to sewing machines and oppresses the entire third world.......my ass needs to look freshly dipped.... recognize.
Last night marked the end of Gay Bingo as we know it. After five years of spankings, cross dressing and big winnings, Ba Da Bingo closed it's doors as it bid adieu in a Black Tie affair to Sister Betty who plans to raise little bingo players on a farm outside of Portland Maine. Mark Leno and Bevan Dufty were on hand to "pull the last balls" as were a wide array of belly dancers, drag queens & cirque du soleil performers. What was once billed as "This ain't your momma's bingo!" has become another chapter in the city that strives to provide alternatives to reality tv by providing... reality. Highlights included the public spankings, french kissing by men in nun outfits and the winning of the coveted Hello Kitty vibrators by one of our very own.
Gay Bingo is dead, long live gay bingo!
aight...I'm out...oh yah BTX @ Amnesia tonight...
"They're just like the Crips and Bloods ... except they're gay! Gay gangs ... Out of the closet, and on to our streets!" - Fox News
Bottom line: if SF's sizable population of huge, totally ripped gay men formed a gang they'd be quite menacing -- except for the fact that they'd be totally gay. You see, gay men are the most nonviolent group of people who could rip your head off with their bare hands if they wanted to people in the world.
I was surprised, then, to find that there have actually been reports of gay male gangs in the US. To research this topic, I intitially performed a Google search for "gay gang," which resulted in a page full of links to gay male gangbang videos. A search for "gay gangs" came up with more pertinent results. I discovered links to a Fox News segment on gay gangs (purportedly, nothing more than a few sensationalized fist fights) and to a documentary about Black and Latino gay youth gangs in New York called "Life on Christopher Street." Eh, those kids from New York look like they could use some steroids.
Unfortunately, a lot of gay muscle is wasted by the absence of gay gangs. For the sake of those guys who toil like Sisyphus day after day at Gold's Gym in the Castro: less gangbangs, more gangbanging.
The author is piece is not buff enough to be gay.
...I could have been up $450 as of this article in WIRED. That's right folks, one of my friends in college sent me an email link to sign of for this free stock from this company Travelzoo...I probably wouldn't have even remembered it except for the odd name. I know it's worthless to cry over money I would have never had. Let's face it, I can barely keep track of what I have to do each day, much less a stock certificate given to me for free while I was in college in Texas over 6 years ago...I've since changed my email address a kabillion times and really didn't even know that the company was still around, much less publicly traded. But I'm going to take a brief moment a ponder all the things I might have done with those 450 shells....that's right, a little "me time" with the old calculator...
I could have had....
- approx .222% of a 2 bedroom condo in the bay area (.075% if it's got good views)....
- a plane ticket to most anywhere in Europe (bought @ least two weeks in advance)...
- 46.15 movies tickets....
- 12.85 weeks of groceries if I rock Trader Joes....6.92 weeks if I hit Whole Foods
- 1/2 of a nice suit.....
- 10 full tanks of gas in San Francisco (about 15 anywhere outside of California)......
- 360 bottles of chocolate milk.....
- 5.75 new paris of Gravis sneakers......
- 105.88 trips to In & Out Burger....
- 200 Slices of Arinell's pizza....
- 20.45 pairs of fresh new Calvins.....
- 2.3 serious drug binges.....
- 11.25 bottles of Sauza Tequilla (which means 281.25 shots with Veronica if we party in Golden Gate Park again)
- 90 glasses of my fav scotch in a dive bar (49.76 glasses if I would have actually gone to a nice bar)....
- 200 vanilla lattes (cause I'm gay like that).....
- 1/15 of a Panari watch.....
- 4.5 trips to a spa (2.5 if get the happy ending)....
...but whatever, atleast I'm not completely obsessed with money or matierial values...that's all that matters...I mean, at least I'm a good person...on the inside...or something...
