Enough of the silicon and studio lighting! Sex in San Francisco just isn't that scripted – or is it? Good Vibrations put its yearly call out to amateur filmmakers to turn in their own seven minutes and under blue films. Straight, gay, perverted, vanilla, the rainbow of oohs and aahs will show you what's really going on in your neighbor's bedrooms (the hots ones, obviously). But wait, that's next week. This week, you can attend the IXFF kick off party at El Rio, where clips of queer hipster porn will be showing and burlesque babies will shimmy and shake for your viewing pleasure. Look at it this way, if you're going to be squirming in anticipation, you might as well have a cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand.
Well, hell, I thought, shutting Jonathan Safran Foer's book Eating Animals after reading its last page. There goes that. I have been a vegetarian (careful omnivore, pescatarian) off and on for fifteen years now. But having read the author of Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close's latest offering, Safran Foer's exploration of the horrific world and consequences of our current addiction to factory farming, I realized I could no straddle the fence. There would be, I realized, no more salmon on my plate, or "cage-free" eggs, or cheddar cheese. Why? Well besides the whole institutionalized torture thing in most slaughterhouses-dairy farms-egg factories today, here's a fact to chew on: omnivores generate seven times more carbon emissions than vegan. And I can live without eggs and bacon. Call me Natalie Portman if you must. I chatted with Safran Foer over the phone about his lyrical horror story in anticipation of his SF appearances next week, including a benefit for 826 Valencia (Weds/22). He's no activist, but I like him.
MUSIC Michael Franti has definite ideas on the best manner in which to enjoy his music. "I wanna see you jumping!" the dreadlocked star of conscious pop music repeats numerous times throughout last weekend's Power to the Peaceful concert in Golden Gate Park. But the crowd of 80,000 doesn't mind in fact, judging from the beaming faces in Speedway Meadow, Franti's fervent messaging, mixed with liberal doses of dub sounds, reggae, hip-hop, and sunshine positivity, is the reason they came to the event in the first place.
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“Last time I played a show with no shoes I had to get stitches between my little toe and the next big toe. It sucked.” And so commenced Forrest Day's show at Slim's last Thursday Sept. 9, the group's frontman (also named Forrest Day) clad in two mismatched gym socks for safety. He was also wearing a dress that most likely resulted from a trip to the big Goodwill on South Van Ness – a flowy number with an attached denim faux vest that Grandma had a hard time parting with after she lost all that weight. So there he was, head shaven, straight outta San Leandro, a man that hardly needs a dress to stand out musically. Oh, and the music? How about that music...
You are perhaps in the market for an accessory statement that mimics pink plastic unicorns jumping through your ears? Maybe a connected tube top-tutu smattered with a happy orgy of babydolls and hair-bows in the shape of a heart? Fret not, little cream-puff – your kawaii savior, Sebastian Masuda of Harajuku brand 6% DOKIDOKI (it's name is an onomatopoeia of a beating heart) will be making an appearance at New People's J-Pop Summit (Weds/15) for a lecture on Tokyo's “cute culture,” a fashion show featuring members of his store's famously, fabulously saccharine staff, and a glitz-tastic 6%DOKIDOKI pop-up store. The brand's focus on wide-eyed adorable and the shockingly juvenile has been termed “happy anarchy” by people that know about these things, so we shot Masuda some questions via email about what the hell he's up to. His answers were vague -- but they include the possibility of world salvation, so you might wanna check them out.
Nate1's business card is totally dope. It's front depicts a Kry-lon paint can, the brand most used for graffiti in the days he was coming up as a street writer in 1980s San Francisco. “Back then we used to have to make art with automotive paint,” he tells me at 1AM gallery, where his new show on the golden age of Bay tagging, “The Classics” opens today (Fri/10). “We're talking about paint to paint red wagons and doors,” he remembers, smiling like a man that didn't mind too much. Read more »
Entering into its twelfth year of existence this weekend, Michael Franti's Power to the Peaceful music and yoga festival doesn't appear to pack quite the big name punch on (recycled, written on with hemp ink) paper – the Talib Kwelis and String Cheese Incidents that shared the bill with Franti in years past have been cycled out for Rupa and the April Fishes, SambaDa, and other relatively little known acts. But we caught up with Franti a few weeks ago to talk about this weekend's (Fri/10-Sun/12) life-loving festivities while he was driving through the Nevadan desert, and he says there's a method to the grooviness.
Well bless my Star Wars! All that tassel twirling and shimmy-shimmy of burlesque, at times it seems you can't turn around with a eyeful of curves hitting you at full speed in this town. Not that I'm complaining. But I must admit, I've always been concerned – when do the sci-fi aficionados get their very own night of burlesque beauties? One would think that more would follow in the steps of LA's Devil's Playground, which performed a mind-busting strip down of C3PO and even Jabba the Hutt this spring. Disturbing? Hot? Both? Maybe I'm worrying too much -- but when does SF get a piece of that action? Leave it to Bombshell Betty to heed my heart-felt cry for our darling and economically life-affirming nerds (you know we're a cradle for Tech 2.0 or whatever, right?). Strutting the stage on a very special night at the Elbo Room (Tues/14) will be any number of ladies loving the heroes, the bad guys, the technology, the far-fetched cleavage of the sci-fi genre that you would think just begs for a little more spec-ta-ta-tacular exploitation. Oh wait. Lara Croft. Never mind.
“Are you noting the hints of coriander in your Rolling Rock?” my buddy wants to know. On a late summer afternoon, the couples and regulars scattered around us throughout a southeast Portland, Oregon neighborhood dive are taking a break from the microbrews their city is known for. For them, it was all about the tall cans. And for a damn good reason – the proud beginning of what may well be the world's first Macro BrewFest, which went down this past weekend.