Street Life

After dinner I felt like taking a walk. My neighborhood can be very either entertaining or threatening, depending on who's out and my own mood. At Geary and Jones a couple leans up against the wall of Rye, starting to argue. Down on the next block I pass a full backpack, abandoned on the cement slab of the parking lot between Jones and Taylor. The possible contents tempt me, but I keep walking.

East of Taylor is a man with a wielding a cane impersonating a blind man. He asks, "anyone going to the corner?" His act is so bad even the tourists ignore him. I watch for a minute, curious to see if he gets any bites. The bluffing blind man pulls a can of malt liquor from his coat and takes a couple of swigs. Then he asks, "anyone crossing the street?" I guess the sip made him want to go somewhere else.

At Mason a young woman totters out of Biscuit and Blues in incredibly tall heels she can't walk in and in an even more incredibly short skirt, which would work if she knew how to walk in her shoes, but doesn't and it doesn't. Her date looks like he's dressed for a tractor pull in his baseball cap and 3-sizes too large casual ensemble and at first I think they as mismatched as two young people on a date can be, and then realize they're perfect for one another.

I think about heading north up the hill, but I hear "Hey Joe" being played somewhere and keep walking toward music coming from the direction of Powell.

Crossing the street I make eye contact with an unusually attractive young woman. Too young for me, but she's stunning. I don't look away. Neither does she. Our heads turn 45 degrees, then ninety. I look forward again to make sure I don't walk into anyone, then back. She's doing the same. Smiling, I walk on, my night made.

Suddenly there's a gentle tap at my elbow. I turn and it's her. She has an incredibly kind, bright smile and says hello. I smile, shake my head without saying a word and walk toward the band, feeling mildly disappointed. If were single, drunk, and had my wallet with me, the night may have suddenly gone in a very different direction. Sadly, that probably would have meant jail, because when I think about it, women that good-looking aren't streetwalkers at that age. They're call girls, and it makes me think slightly less of our local police that they would send a decoy of that quality out to snare tourists. She wasn't dressed like a hooker, but rather like any other woman between 20 and 35 years old out for a night downtown, and that seems rather unfair to me. I mean if you're going to try to snare johns, at least use women who actually look like hookers if you're going to send them to Union Square.

The band is planted at Powell and Geary- a trio doing a set of material by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. They play one hit after another, play them well, and I can't leave because I'm enjoying everything they're doing. The guitar player imitates Hendrix musically and sartorially, though his voice really isn't any good at all. I've always found it amusing that Hendrix thought himself to be a poor singer.

Some people start dancing when the band launches into a driving version of "Purple Haze." Half a dozen songs in, they show no sign of slowing down, though by now it's almost 10:30 and they're playing pretty loud. The guitarist is using two small Marshall amps. I wonder about the guests of the Saint Francis Hotel who are trying to get some sleep and then I wonder about why I think about such things. I leave, knowing someone is waiting for me to return.

At Post and Powell an attractive, tall brunette of  a certain age with an amazing head of wild, curly hair staggers across the street, most likely to the Campton, if only because I can't for the life of me think of where else she can be headed on that side of the street, stumbling in that direction. I watch her stagger for a bit until I'm accosted by an idiot who calls me "Big Guy" and asks me what's happening.

Heading up Post, toward home again, a man offers me an "electronic man." At least it wasn't a woman's necklace and actually it did look pretty cool- like an R2D2 version of a Jerry Mahoney mannequin. I overhear a man tell his date to "go pee" and she wanders in front of me and into a doorway.

One of my least favorite neighborhood crackheads asks me for " a quarter, or anything at all," as I pass by him, my reply stone silence for what feels like the millionth time.

Heading down Leavenworth a couple wrestle playfully with one another. I think the rest of their night will go well.

Back on my own street, approaching my building, a guy dressed as Super Fly is yelling at someone walking ahead of me, vehemently calling him a "stupid, dirty motherfucker."

Home again.

Dedicated to Fog City Notes.

Sympathy for the Devil

Pleased to meet you...

Last week I wrote of the Oakland show Charlie and I attended and it's been on my mind sporadically since. I realized the Stones were in peak form that night as they began "Sympathy for the Devil." The intro sounded more tribal than I've ever heard it performed before, permeated with menace. It stands as my favorite experience of hearing them live. When I was a kid it was a cool-sounding song, but the lyrics were really a bit beyond my comprehension- they hinted at things I just hadn't experienced in life- and wouldn't for some time.

Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste...

My first visit to New York City was in 1992. On the Saturday night I was there I went to see Miss Saigon and during the intermission I met a woman with whom I dined after the show. We had a long, leisurely meal and conversed about theater, New York, and the perils of childhood celebrity. She told amusing and tawdry anecdotes about her youth and her peers, many of which were enormously entertaining.

Later that night after we parted, I went down to the Village in search of a piano bar and ended up at Arthur's tavern, which wasn't very crowded. Al Bundy was playing that night. The place had a horseshoe-shaped rail around the piano, and I was seated opposite Bundy. 


A short time later two men strode in, both impeccably dressed. One looked to be in his late 20's, perhaps early 30's, Latino, handsome and well-groomed. The other easily in his 50's, a faintly regal air about him, hawk-nosed, sharp eyes, an impressive head of hair. He wore the most gorgeous overcoat I had ever seen. I think it was black cashmere.

They sat down to my left and in a short time we were engaged in a convivial conversation. The younger man was Cuban, the older Bulgarian. They had previously met in Miami and were now on a first date weekend. Their names were Carlos and Augustin.

After another half hour or so, only a couple of other people had come into the bar and the three of us were pretty much the only lively patrons. Augustin, the Bulgarian, abruptly broke the thread and asked me if I'd like to accompany them to another club. I declined, saying this would be my last stop of the night. We chatted on a bit, and then he asked me again if I would like to join them. Again I declined, and the conversation carried forward. 

Augustin made one more attempt, this time adding they had a lovely car to ride around in. Carlos leaned over to me and assured me I would truly enjoy the car. It wasn't that I'm a car enthusiast so much as a growing curiosity about where this all might lead which led me to agree to join them. I'd never met anyone quite like these two.

"Drago! Warm up the car!" Augustin barked to no one I could see in his thick accent, which gave every word an extra syllable and consonant.

I hadn't noticed him before- he must have been behind a curtain or something- but suddenly this incredibly tall man who looked somewhat like Dolph Lundgren impersonating the Addams Family butler appeared before us wearing the whole ensemble- cap, long coat with epaulets and piping, gloves- it was ridiculously fantastic. He nodded at Augustin and without saying a word headed for the door. 

As Drago was outside warming up the car, we put on our coats. Carlos again assured me I would enjoy the car. He said it was a very special car.

Stepping outside, there it was, parked in the street, gleaming. I helplessly smiled, then laughed. There stood Drago in all his finery, holding open the rear door of an old Rolls Royce.

"This is the car?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," beamed Carlos.

"Do get in, please," said beckoned Augustin.

Carlos got in first, I followed, and the Rolls' owner behind me. We all sat in a row on the back seat, I was in the middle. It was my first time in a Rolls (and so far, my only time). It smelled like a leather bakery. Everything was immaculately polished. It looked like it had just come off a showroom floor.

"This is a 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Dawn and I only furnish it with things from the year 1955," Augustin said with relish as he opened the bar and spread his hand before the contents, "that includes the liquor and the music."

He took three crystal glasses from their designated place and laid them with precision on an inlaid tray. He suddenly seemed quite sober. Carlos leaned over to me and said, "Beautiful, isn't it? He picked me up from the airport in this. I couldn't believe it."

I couldn't believe it myself.

Some music started playing- I think it was Sarah Vaughan. Drago pulled away from the club and we starting cruising through the streets of the Village, chatting away. Augustin handed me a business card. It was the kind that folded, with lots of embossing on the front, which bore a crest and something in Cyrillic script, with the name of his eponymous foundation underneath in Roman. I opened it and read the addresses in Sofia, Paris, and New York and thought to myself who the hell is this guy?


My host suddenly faced forward and said languidly "Drago, take us to the Spike."

A look of brief alarm crossed over Carlos' eyes and the name of the place set off a bell in the back of my brain. Soon I noticed we were driving along the waterfront. Before I left for the City people had assured me New York was perfectly safe- "just stay away from the waterfront at night," everyone said, and now we were driving along it headed toward the Spike, which certainly didn't sound as cheery as Arthur's Tavern. I noticed the buildings and streets started to look deserted and empty. Then up ahead I saw a crowd on the street and a lone light bulb suspended above a dingy-looking place. We pulled up in front of a leather bar.


Augustin almost bounded out the door of the car when Drago opened the door for him, and he followed his driver to the rear of the car as he opened up the trunk. When Carlos and I got out Augustin was removing his overcoat, followed by the coat of his suit, and handed them to Drago, who placed them carefully in the trunk. Drago then lifted a fringed, black leather jacket from the trunk of the car and assisted Augustin in putting it on. He looked ridiculous, but his face bore a distinct look of satisfaction.


Carlos whispered in my ear, "This isn't my thing. Let's have one drink and then I'll get us a cab- I'm sorry about this- I'll give you a lift anywhere you need to go."


"Shall we, gentlemen?" our host asked, escorting us through the nasty-looking throng gathered in front of the bar's scuzzy entryway.


I won't describe the interior- it was too dark and grimy to be even amusing. A large percentage of the clientele looked either ill, desperate, or angry, in many instances a combination of all three in equal proportions. I noticed the bandannas right away.


We walked up to the bar, behind which stood a dead ringer for Mr. T.. Augustin immediately gave him an attitude, which was returned in spades. I thought there was going to be a fight, which would have easily been a massacre- Augustin was no match for this guy at all, but that didn't stop him from jerking his chain non-stop from moment he spoke to him, every word soaked in derision.


Carlos told Augustin he wanted to leave. 


"Just one drink!" Augustin protested.

Carlos moped, then ordered. "I can't stay here- I hate this scene," he said to me.

Feeling stuck, not really knowing what to do, and at a loss for something, anything to talk about, I asked Augustin what the bandannas meant.

And did I regret that. He gave me the entire rundown, illustrating what each color meant by singling out someone in the bar and then describing in great detail what he was seeking, announced by the color his of bandanna. He finally turned his attention to a thin, pale, very sick-looking young man, a boy really, who leaned up against a post while a bear attempted to maul him. Augustin then described in explicit detail, a certain glee underneath his sadistic leer, of what he was going to do to the young man. And that was really it for Carlos, who grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out into the night, straight into a cab, back to Midtown. Along the way he apologized profusely and asked if I was free the next day. I said I had plans, which was true, but even if I didn't, I would have said the same. As we said farewell to one another, he handed me his business card. Carlos was a doctor. I wished him well for the rest of the weekend.

Augustin, this one's for you. You are indeed a man of wealth and taste, with a penchant for fisting strangers. I still have your business card. Woo woo.

And if you've never seen it, here's the Altamont performance from the film Gimme Shelter, still unnerving all these years later:

And happy birthday, Mick.

The Human Centipede 2 (Full Sequence)

Though I pleaded with her for three weeks in a row when it was playing locally in a theater last fall, Isabella absolutely refused to see The Human Centipede 2 with me. Since it was only playing at midnight, I never did see it on the large screen. The thought of me, a middle-aged man, attending a midnight movie by himself, especially this one, just seemed too depressing. At midnight the audience would likely be filled with drunken teenagers who just wanted to see how gross it was and most likely they would be yelling unfunny jokes at the screen through the entire thing. And I take this sort of thing seriously- I hate it when people yell out lame jokes while watching horror movies. In fact I usually loathe most of the audience at horror movies, which is why its best to see them as part of a genre festival, where the audience is comprised of serious fans, and not a bunch of goofs out on a date.


For the four of you who may not know about The Human Centipede, the first film was about a mad doctor who dreams of stitching together human beings cheek to jowl, so to speak. He succeeds, using his own "100% medically accurate" procedure, creating the title creature out of three humans. The film garnered a tremendous amount of notoriety and featured an unforgettable performance by Dieter Laser as the doctor, giving Udo Kier's performances in the Warhol/Morrisey films of the 70's a run for their money in camp nastiness.

The movie itself, written and directed. Tom Six, actually wasn't very good. In fact I thought it was kind of lame, but Laser was a lot of fun to watch and I did sit through the whole thing if for nothing else to see how it all came out in the end. It certainly wasn't as horrific as Martyrs or A Serbian Film, and if it wasn't for the mostly implied coprophagous element of the central plot point, no one would have paid much attention to it at all. At the time of its release, Stuart Gordon's 1985 film Re-Animator was much more beyond the pale with its severed-head cunnilingus scene.

But people did pay attention, and the film was even satirized on South Park (don't take that as an endorsement- the appeal of that show has always been inexplicable to me). As John Waters proved with 1972's Pink Flamingos, making a movie featuring people eating shit will get you noticed. For fans of horror, The Human Centipede became mandatory viewing- the latest movie to up the ante in the decade-long run of the genre's extreme, torture-porn wing.

And many of those fans came away disappointed- after A Serbian Film, Martyrs, and the much lesser Inside, to name a few, The Human Centipede came off as little more than a county-fair freak show to an audience that has been increasingly exposed to things they never expected to see in a film, albeit one with a nauseatingly great premise.

However, a film doesn't have to be great to become a franchise, so a sequel was announced, accompanied by a teaser trailer featuring director Six responding to his critics by telling us to "prepare for part 2, which really will be the sickest movie of all time." Notice he didn't make a claim for the scariest, nor the most disturbing- just the "sickest," featuring "the sickest bastard of all time: Martin."

How could one not want to see it after hearing that pitch? Count me in.

In his three-star review of Rob Zombie's The Devil's Rejects (2005), Roger Ebert wrote in the Chicago Sun-Times:

Here is a gaudy vomitorium of a movie, violent, nauseating and really a pretty good example of its genre. If you are a hardened horror movie fan capable of appreciating skill and wit in the service of the deliberately disgusting, "The Devil's Rejects" may exercise a certain strange charm.  If on the other hand you close your eyes if a scene gets icky, here is a movie to see with blinders on, because it starts at icky and descends relentlessly through depraved and nauseating to the embrace of road kill. 

How can I possibly give "The Devil's Rejects" a favorable review? A kind of heedless zeal transforms its horrors. The movie is not merely disgusting, but has an attitude and a subversive sense of humor. Its actors venture into camp satire, but never seem to know it's funny; their sincerity gives the jokes a kind of solemn gallows cackle. 

Ebert's take on The Devil's Rejects pretty much sums up my reaction to The Human Centipede 2, except that I would give it at least another 1/2 star, possibly even four.

And I'll quote Ebert's review again before going on:

OK, now, listen up, people. I don't want to get any e-mail messages from readers complaining that I gave the movie three stars, and so they went to it expecting to have a good time, and it was the sickest and most disgusting movie they've ever seen. My review has accurately described the movie and explained why some of you might appreciate it and most of you will not, and if you decide to go, please don't claim you were uninformed.

It should be enough to just state the film really is about a very creepy lunatic who kidnaps twelve people by hitting them over the head with a crowbar, loads them into a station wagon, and takes them to a deserted garage where he begins to assemble his own human centipede fashioned from the unlucky victims, including a pregnant woman, with tools taken from his kitchen drawer. And a lot of duct tape. And a staple gun. You really don't need to know any more than that.

Except that its a pretty damn well-made film, with an absolutely knock-out performance by Laurence R. Harvey as Martin, the heretofore undiscovered love-child of Peter Lorre and Jabba the Hutt. Shot in richly saturated black and white, it's very good looking and while the plot is obviously preposterous, there aren't any jump-the shark moments in the script. It moves with an Aristotelian flow from the first scene to the unexpected denouement, with an equal balance of moments that are so gross they are actually funny and others that actually made me say "ewww" out loud, which I think is a first.

Even though the version I watched on Netflix's streaming service was edited (the notorious barbwire masturbation/rape scene was cut, along with I don't know what else), it still feels like Six didn't pull a single punch, hell-bent to live up to the hype he promised in the trailer. Is The Human Centipede 2 the sickest commercial movie ever made? I don't know- who really cares about such distinctions once you're past puberty? Does it deliver the goods? In spades.

I have no idea what Six has planned for part 3 (yes, there will be a third and final installment), but the next time, even if I have to see it alone at midnight, I'll be there. 

About last weekend...

Anastazia Louise

Last weekend actually began on Thursday night and pretty much ran all the way through Sunday evening. I don't recall ever cramming so much into so little time. Besides the Mavericks concerts on Thursday and Sunday, Jeremy Denk and I had cocktails on Friday night. Denk is a charming and funny guy, full of anecdotes, gossip, and questions. More I'll save for another time, but it was serious fun chatting with him. After taking my leave of him at Jardiniere I met up with Isabella and headed over to Herbst to attend the Cypress String Quartet's Call and Response program, which featured the world premiere of Phillipe Hersant's String Quartet No. 3, a piece I'm sure is going to be featured on many future programs. Cypress also performed a Haydn Quartet and Beethoven's Op.127, but Hersant's work was the highlight of the concert.

The next morning I met up with Chip Grant (founder of Urban Opera) and Barnaby Palmer over breakfast to discuss the upcoming SF Lyric Opera production of David Lang's "the little match girl passion" and from there I went with them to observe a rehearsal. The production has a palindrome structure, which the audience will be able to follow by listening to the different voices and noticing the lighting by Matthew Antaky, who recently did exceptional work on Ensemble Parallele's The Great Gatsby. I also had a chance to meet the very intriguing Anastazia Louise of Bad Unkl Sista and watch as she rehearsed her Butoh-style performance with the singers present for the first time. She said she's been absorbed in little but this project lately and it showed. She's an intense performer and I think this is going to be a moving performance. All four singers are excellent- I've heard Eugene Brancoveanu numerous times and every time I do I wonder how much longer Bay Area audiences will get to see him in small, intimate productions like these before he completely succumbs to the temptation of the larger houses for which he seems destined. Ann Moss is an exceptional soprano, and Celeste Winant, a chorale member of Philharmonia Baroque as well as Volti, also possesses a gorgeous voice. But I was particularly curious about Eric Maggay Tuan, who seems to be capable of singing almost anything. There are only three performances at the ODC theater in the Mission this weekend, and though the scale is small (the four singers double on instruments and it will run less than an hour) the return of San Francisco Lyric Opera is a major event on the local arts scene.

Later in the afternoon I attended the American Orchestra Forum at Davies, where a group of panelists including composers John Adams and Mason Bates and San Francisco Symphony's General Director Brent Assink helmed a three-hour chat on creativity in the arts, focusing on classical music, current culture, and especially, delivering content to audiences online. I didn't plan on staying for the whole thing, but it was so interesting that I did just that. They'll have another one on May 13th featuring Alan Gilbert discussing audiences (which should be highly interesting in light of the recent I Phone incident), while the NY Phil is in town for the American Orchestras series. The event is free.

Afterward I went over to the Paramount in Oakland to hear Chrissette Michelle's SFJazz gig, a show that was so poorly mixed I left my seat in the seventh row to go sit in the very back near the sound board, which only helped a little. I left after an hour, dismayed about so many things I don't even want to write about it. Making my way home through the throngs of amateurs celebrating St. Patrick's Day, I was immensely pleased not to be in a bar on this night, or even worse, to be one of those idiots actually lined up outside of a bar waiting to get in- in San Francisco (where there is a bar on practically every corner).

Sunday afternoon was the last concert of the American Mavericks Festival, which ended at 4:20, leaving me just enough time to make it a few blocks down the street to hear "A Celebration of Bay Area Music"- a concert organized by clarinetist Brenden Guy featuring musicians mostly from the San Francisco Conservatory of Music (as well as Sarah Cahill, Miles Graber and Barnaby Palmer) performing a diverse program. Cahill performed John Adams' China Gates, a work dedicated to her and she brought along the original score. Also on the program were two delightful works by composer David Conte, including a highly engaging sextet. Although everyone onstage possessed a high level of talent, the show was stolen by the extraordinary violin playing of Kevin Rogers, whose solo in Ernest Bloch's Nigun- No. 2 (from the Baal Shem Suite) was stunning.

You don't really want to know what I did after that, do you? I didn't think so.

Candlelight Concert by the Monteverdi Consort this Sunday

The Monteverdi Consort, St. Mary’s Artists in Residence, is a one-on-a-part vocal ensemble specializing in choral music of the Renaissance. This coming Sunday evening, February 19th at 7 p.m., they will present a Candlelight Concert at the Episcopal Church of St. Mary the Virgin, 2325 Union Street (at Steiner) in San Francisco.

The concert features a cappella music of Burton, Brumel, Morales, Palestrina, Roussel, and most notably, Josquin des Prez, in which the solfège syllables- ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, play a structural and often symbolic role. 

There will be a wine and cheese reception following the concert. I’ve been told that over the past few weeks some of the volunteers and staff at St. Mary’s have been caught standing just outside the door as the consort has been practicing in the church. Chip Grant, the Director of Music at the church, promises this concert is sure to transport you to another place and time. I can’t think of a better way to end the weekend.

Doors open at 6:30 p.m.  The concert is free and open to the public.  (Donations are always appreciated.)  There will be a wine and cheese reception following the concert.

If you can't make this event, the next Candlelight Concert at SMV will feature The Real Vocal String Quartet, Sunday, March 18th, at 7 p.m.

While another mugging took place across town, I was having dinner with an artist...

Two evenings prior to the opening of her show at the McLoughlin Gallery last week, I was having dinner with Christy Lee Rogers and her companion. After we left the restaurant and I was escorting them back to their hotel,  we spoke of the lovely weather of this particular evening and what a pleasant rarity it was, among other things.  It was only later I discovered that while we were seated at dinner, the Femme Fatale was busy enacting a vicious mugging of Penelope. The perverse nature of the revulsive attack, and its aftermath, brings the long-running subplot of the bizarre love tetrahedron to an ugly denouement, both here and in reality. I write of it only to tie the final knot in the thread.

Now, back to dinner.

Christy and I have maintained a loose correspondence since we first met a couple of years ago in Los Angeles and this  was our first chance to have an extended conversation, which took place over Thai food at Ler Ros. When I first saw Christy's Sirens collection I was deeply moved by the beauty and mystery of the images, so it took me a little by surprise to discover the artist behind them was an open, warm and engaging personality. For some reason I expected her to be more elusive, guarded perhaps, about who she is and how she approached her art. She was neither, and during dinner we had a long, revealing conversation, touching down in numerous places.

Add caption

Two nights later I went to the opening of the show, which coincided with the monthly First Thursday Art walk. There were plenty of people about the entrance of 49 Geary and milling through the corridors of the building, which contains seventeen or eighteen different galleries, but soon I entered owner Joan McLoughlin's warm, well-lighted space, and saw Christy standing in front of the triptych Sackcloth and Ashes, talking with a couple of people while others stood around apparently eavesdropping. I espied her companion, went over to say hello and he led me through the exhibit, entitled "Odyssey," which makes sense as the palette of her work has expanded beyond Sirens to include images with more color, male subjects, subjects whose gender is hard to determine, and the one in Battle of the Flesh looks an otherworldly feline.

Battle of the Flesh

Her new work presses further into ambiguous territory while looking back with deliberation toward the Renaissance in its use of color and depiction of cloth, though the view is submerged underwater and seen with a contemporary eye. Though she claims it was just a fortuitous result, the green spectre haunting the subject of Innocence evokes an infralapsarian nightmare.

Innocence

Also on exhibit in the gallery is the delirious work of Dalia Nosratabadi, a globe-trotting Iranian woman who lives in Belgium. Her images are also created from water- in this case reflections viewed in puddles, which she photographs and then turns upside down to creating a disorienting vision of the world that's recognizable yet looks like a parallel universe. The exhibit is called Eau La La!, which nicely captures its energy and sense of playfulness.  Imagine Narcissus, armed with a passport and a camera, found the world reflected around him a much more interesting subject. Dalia, her husband, and their baby were present and I asked if she was doing any local shooting while she was here. She hadn't yet found any satisfactory puddles, so I suggested some corners downtown where she might have some luck. I would love to see what she could create here. The exhibit contains large digital images she's shot around the globe- it's compelling work that really captures the energy, confusion, and chaos of urban life.

1010 Xiang Hao

Viewed together in one space, the work of these two artists creates an irresistible juxtaposition- Joan McLoughlin has a keen eye. You can see for yourself until December 3rd.

Bend Over Times Square

Afterwards, we headed off for another meal and conversation, this time to Morac, where I found myself stimulated by the conversation taking place, the incongruous blonde Sirens floating through the room, and the décolletage of one in particular. Thankfully, no one was mugged that night, but crime season is now over- there's no one left to victimize.

Random notes on horror

Ten years ago I wrote a screenplay- a horror movie called The Resurrectionist. I wanted to write a movie I would actually want to go see. At the time, horror movies had fallen into the dismal state of self-parody brought about by the Scream franchise, and no one was really making the kinds of films that made me a fan of the genre to begin with: films like The Exorcist, The Omen, Rosemary's Baby, Black Christmas, Dawn of the Dead, etc. So I set to writing an old-school horror flick- which to me meant interesting characters with a heavy dose of dread and gore. There wasn't a single joke in it, though there were a few nods and winks.

This was before Saw, Hostel and House of 1000 Corpses. When I sent it out to be read, the most common response I received was "It's too dark." After hearing that a few times (and being completely broke) I got a job and later worked on a different project for a bit, called Drop, which proved to be a bit much to take on with everything else clamoring for my attention and I set that aside, too. Then came Saw, followed by the slew of 70's horror remakes, and I realized I was just a bit ahead of the curve on this one and I should make another attempt to get The Resurrectionist off the ground. It didn't happen for myriad reasons, many of which you can discern in this blog. Now that dark tide seems to have subsided a bit and horror is taking another turn, even bleaker, with movies like Martyrs, Inside and of course A Serbian Film. The bonds have been broken and the genre, at its most extreme edge has entered nihilistic territory far beyond what Wes Craven started with the original Last House on the Left (a remake of Bergmans's Virgin Spring) and Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. If you believe, as I do, that horror films only reflect the anxieties and fears of the era in which they're made (hence the many fun but empty, vapid films of the 90's), then these recent films make a lot of sense, disturbing as they are.

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time with Isabella, who's made some films of her own, and I finally gave her the script wondering what she would think of it. Her initial feedback was encouraging and got us into a discussion of the genre, where she revealed a fondness for the funny stuff, which dismayed me a bit. Don't get me wrong, there are some great classic horror movies which are extremely funny, but with the exception of Evil Dead Part II  and Re-Animator, these are only good films in my opinion, not classics.

I was half-jokingly trying to persuade her to see Human Centipede II, which she thought was a porn film, and we were having an animated discussion about it when I told her we could see the first one on Netflix via streaming and we should watch it. She declined, though she agreed to watch Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which I haven't seen since its initial release more than 20 years ago.

Revisiting Henry, what surprised me is how well it holds up. But the key elements for any great horror film are right there: interesting characters, a pervading sense of dread, and the two male leads are strong actors. I had forgotten how transgressive it was, and remains, and watching it again made me think about how the taboos so willingly smashed in A Serbian Film aren't necessarily new, they're being just pushed further out in a film that's much better executed on every other level as well (and yes, yes, I know, please don't bring up Salo as exhibit A in the "been there, done that" argument- Salo lacks interesting characters and dread- it's just a feast for fetishists).

Anyway, the gist of this is I think the time has come to start working on scripts again, beginning with a re-write of The Resurrectionist- if you have a friend at Lionsgate, can you introduce me?

On a side note, it appears Netflix has decided not to carry A Serbian Film, which has been slightly cut for its upcoming U.S. DVD release- I noticed it's recently been removed from my queue. The DVD hits store on October 25th, though you may want to think twice before viewing it. If you decide to watch it I strongly recommend not reading any reviews containing spoilers beforehand- the less you know about what you're going to see, the better- if you're willing to watch it in the first place. My review of the original version is here.

In the back, with the loons and the fourth Rheinmaiden for the last Walküre

We arrived too late to get on the rail, so Isabella and I headed up to the biergarten and waited until it was time to take our place with the other lunatics in the back of the orchestra (at this point "lunatic" meaning people insane enough to do standing room for an almost five-hour long opera- the definition changes quickly). Well, she waited and I tried to eat something that was billed as a sausage but had the texture of a personal gratification tool commonly bought at Good Vibrations. As I was practicing, a man standing near us let loose a fart which sounded like one the trumpets in Hunding’s hunting party.


“Really?” I asked- query met with complete silence. It wasn’t the last of its kind I heard last night.

Why do all of the crazy people always end up in my orbit, like I possess some cosmic gravitational pull, which silently emits a signal stating “lunatics- he’s over here!” Around three months ago- eleven weeks now that I think about it, a man started following me as I walked toward the Hilton on O’Farrell on my way home after work. It didn’t take me long to realize this and soon he was coming up right behind.

“I know who you are, motherfucker,” he hissed at me.

I kept walking- to a certain extent I'm used to this kind of stuff.

“Come on- let’s settle this. Right now. I’m going to fucking kill you so let’s just do it right now. Step into the alley motherfucker.Turn left and let's go.”

Now I was becoming unnerved- this was no longer the usual kind of stuff. I looked over my shoulder to see where his hands were and I looked ahead to see if there were any cops around. There were no cruisers in the street, but I saw one standing in front of the Hilton- if I could just make it there before this guy lost it completely.

“You don’t fool me- I know who you are!” he said, his voice starting to rise.

Realizing at this point I was running out of time and still had too much sidewalk left between me and the cop, I turned to face him and said “I have no idea who you think I am, but I don’t know you.”

He called me by a name which isn’t mine and then accused me of turning his wife into a whore and junkie. She was now dead and he was going to kill me since I was responsible for it all.

I said, “That’s not my name.”

“Bullshit! I know you, you fucking piece of shit!”

“Look, I’m not the man you’re looking for. I can prove it to you.” I told him my name, and walking again, now as fast as I could, I suggested we take a walk straight up to that cop and there, I’d present my ID to the cop and we could verify that I was indeed not the man he wanted to kill. If I failed the test, he could follow me and then stick his knife in my neck.

I kept yammering for time and finally reached the cop. My hands shaking, I handed the surprised cop my driver’s license, turned to the dead woman’s husband and said, “Okay- what’s my name?”

He said it.

I turned to the cop and asked,“Is that right?”

The cop looked at me, then at my license, at me again, turned to my would-be assassin and said, “That’s not his name. What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” I said, though the cop could see I was shaking, “This guy just thinks I’m someone else.”

“It is you- I know it is”

“No man, I’m not him. And now I’m leaving- and you’re going to walk away in the opposite direction. Are we clear? Because otherwise I have more to say to this guy,” nodding toward the cop as we stepped away from him.

The man said, “You have no idea how much you look like him. I’m gonna find him and I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Good luck with that," I replied, and with that, he turned and walked in the direction from which we came. I waited until he was a block away and watched him disappear into the crowd before I continued on my way home.

What the hell has this got to do with opera?

Sorry- the crazy people standing next to us last night in the back of standing room on the orchestra level reminded me of this story and I meant to write about it at the time but shortly after it actually happened, all hell broke loose in my life and I had forgotten about it until now. So there you have it.

As I was saying, Isabella and I went to catch the last performance of Die Walküre in San Francisco Opera’s Ring cycle. Though I had just seen this production last week, I did want to hear Heidi Melton take over from Anja Kampe as Sieglinde and Isabella is enthusiastically discovering that though Italian opera runs through her veins, there are pleasures of a different sort to be found in German. For the first two acts we stood next to these lunatics who kept arguing- and belching- and breaking wind- and breathing like they’d left their respirators at home. Thankfully, Isabella submitted to me to turning her out as an opera whore and she procured some Dress Circle seats from an elderly couple who were leaving early.

Runnicles had the orchestra under control from the start and though the pacing of the first two acts still felt slow to me, the orchestra was in tight focus all night long and the third act was nothing else but beautifully performed from start to finish. The cast, the same from last week except for Melton, was stronger, giving off a sense that they were happy to be crossing the finish line with this final Walküre. Brandon Jovanovich and Elizabeth Bishop were even stronger than they were last week. For me though, this was really about seeing Melton justly take a turn in a major role in a house that’s been formative in her career.

During the first act she sang well, though I was expecting more. She and Jovanovich didn’t seem to have a lot of chemistry, but who knows who much rehearsal time they had to get the blocking down. What they lacked in chemistry however, was definitely made up for in vocal power.

During the second act she found her comfort zone and simply put, Melton then soared as Sieglinde. The huge, clear voice locals have now appreciated for years filled the house and Melton laid claim to the role with conviction. "Du hehrstes Wunder, herrliche Maid!"- for me the signifier distinguishing those who can and should sing it and those who shouldn’t- was glorious coming from her.

Nina Stemme started off slightly weaker than on previous nights, but by the time the third act came, she was back to her usual, now-setting-the-standard-for-contemporary-Brunnhildes excellence, matched note for note in what may have been his strongest performance yet by Mark Delevan as Wotan.

What I had earlier found problematic or annoying about the production didn’t really bother me too much this time around, in no small part due to the fact that last night it was really all about hearing the voices- and not the ones in my head.

It’s the sign of a good cycle when each night makes you want to go back for more, and though I wasn’t originally planning on it because this has been a very busy week filled with ridiculously long nights followed by work the next morning, at this point I can’t see myself skipping Siegfried this Friday unless I collapse from exhaustion. The momentum builds, as does the anticipation for more.

Hopefully the lunatics will have other plans.

Yuja's dress

Updated 08/08/11:

This picture of Yuja Wang was published in the LA Times from a recent Hollywood Bowl concert. She's wearing the same dress I've been yammering on about. Photo by Lawrence Ho of the LA Times.

Since almost every reviewer of Tuesday night's chamber music concert featuring Yuja Wang and members of the San Francisco Symphony has mentioned "the dress" (granted, not with the same enthusiasm of yours truly) I thought it a public service to direct you to the best picture I've been able to find of it

I also shared it on the Facebook page for this blog. Go ahead, "like" it- you know you want to.

Another Hole in the Head begins this week

It's back and begins tomorrow, June 3rd.
Ends June 17th.
27 films, 5 from the Bay Area.
At least a few will be completely outrageous.

See the list of films here.
See the schedule here.
See you at the Roxie.

Casting the remake of Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

General Chang and Chad Newsome were over at the apartment tonight working off last night's adventures and keeping me company since I'm ill and indisposed. It was the General's first time over since he relocated last summer and he was admiring the fine Jenn Lloyd pen and ink art which hangs upon my wall:

I mentioned to him Jenn had started doing drawings for an eventual painting of Tura Satana for me, but I requested she stop because in my current situation I didn't want to be obligated for a painting I wasn't sure I could afford at the moment. The General and Chad were unfamiliar with the name Tura, which resulted in an immediate viewing of Russ Meyer's classic Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

Jenn Lloyd's pen and ink of Tura

Chad seemed to deeply appreciate the art of it all, though its impact was perhaps not as deeply impressed upon the General's psyche. He is a tougher nut, truth be told. However, that led me to lead them into one of my favorite parlor games- "Whom to cast in the Tarantino remake of Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!"?

The rumors of Tarantino wanting to do this remake have been around for years. Satana herself validated them before her recent death, but when I asked the director the question point blank a couple of years ago during a Q & A at the premiere of "Inglorious Basterds" at the Castro, he scoffed and dismissed the entire thing as poppycock. I thought his response disingenuous at the time and still do.

Too bad he feels this way about it, because it would be a cinematic match made in some sort of a perverted heaven.

The General and Chad are of a younger generation than I. In fact, they are young enough to be sons of mine though we never discuss such uncomfortable scenarios. Because of the age difference, playing this game with them, since they have a different perspective on who is "hot" as far as contemporary actresses goes, seemed like good sport to me. I didn't expect them to throw out the obvious choices for the Darla role that I would prefer- Rosario Dawson or Monica Bellucci being first and foremost. But perhaps you can understand my dismay and disappointment when I learned neither of them knew of Asia Argento, whom I think would make a perfect Darla for their generation, if not my own.

We bantered about a few names to fill the nasty, violent and sexy triumvirate of the lead Pussycats. Scarlett Johansson was mentioned, as was Eliza Dushku and Megan Fox, though the latter seemingly the most implausibly plastic and fake of the lot. I kept the idea of casting Britney Spears as Billie to myself, though I have to admit I think it would be the most brilliant casting ever.

Imagine my surprise when we settled upon a trio closer to my age than theirs: Christina Hendricks taking over from Satana as Darla; Kim Kardashian taking over for Haji as a whole lotta Rosie; and Battlestar Galactica's Tricia Helfer as Billie. In praise of older women? Absolutely. But then I could have told Chang and Newsome this would be the case all along, as long as one was looking for satisfaction- not cheap thrills.

And believe me, if a studio could get Tarantino to remake the film with this cast? The box office from the remakes of Charlie's Angels would look like chump change. Just sayin'.

Masur conducts Mendelssohn, another bad bartender and new hookers in the hood

I don't have a good reason for having never seen Kurt Masur conduct the San Francisco Symphony before last night. He makes an annual visit and has for years, so one would think my appreciation for the Romantic rep and his prowess in it would have caused an earlier encounter than last night's all Mendelssohn program at Davies Symphony Hall. To make me feel even more like a rube, it wasn't even Masur or the Mendelssohn which prompted my interest in this particular program. No, it was the participation of Maya Lahyani and Susannah Biller, two young opera singers whose talents have caught my interest, as well as the Davies After Hours event scheduled to follow the performance.

The first half of the performance was the Symphony No. 4 in A major, aka Italian. Masur, using the perhaps the most minimal gestures I've ever seen a conductor use, led the orchestra through a superb performance of the work. Though his gestures were almost imperceptible except when signaling an entrance, the orchestra was with him every step of the way. Re-arranged to emphasize the violins, with the six basses forming an aesthetically pleasing backdrop almost center stage instead of the timpani (which was placed at the far right-side of the stage), the SFS musicians sounded like an entirely different orchestra for this piece. It was a pleasure from the first note through the last.

After the intermission came the the complete A Midsummer Night's Dream. Most of us know only parts of this work- the Overture and the Wedding March, and to hear the entire thing is a rarity. I, for one, now know why. It's an incredibly tedious piece. Despite the game efforts of the orchestra, especially the flutes of Tim Day and Linda Lukas, and a truly outstanding turn by Itay Tiran as the narrator, the piece is just didn't work for me in a concert setting. The music starts and then suddenly stops, as the narrator constantly interjects between passages that increasingly seems like merely repetitve snippets which grow shorter as the works gets longer. Perhaps this is my fault for going into it unfamiliar with its entirety, but I'm certain my response wasn't unique. Biller's two solo turns were nice, and in her brief almost thankless moment in the spotlight Lahyani sounded gorgeous as usual. The San Francisco Girl's Chorus sounded positively angelic. It's just too bad all of the talent was invested in a work that yielded so little to enjoy.

Agreeing to attend with me at almost the last minute after Chad Newsome unconscionably cancelled, Herr Feldheim and I decided to skip the After Hours event and head to a less crowded locale for conversation and drinks. We chose the completely empty Blue Muse, where we once again encountered another seriously bad bartender. I won't speak for Axel, who seems less particular about these things than I (read less bitchy, yes), but I doubt I'll go back. Why? For starters, turn the TV down. Better yet, turn the TV off completely and put on some music. Two, if you've never tried what we're drinking, my drink is not where you should get your first taste from- try your own, or at least ask me before you dip a straw into mine. Unless you're buying the round. Three, if we're talking, you really don't need to interrupt us. Truly, you don't. Thankfully another couple came and diverted her attention until her friend showed up with a dog the size of a horse. After I was molested by the dog we took our leave and looked for another locale. We ended up continuing our conversation in the 101- two middle-aged guys now anonymous in the crowd of 20-somethings, left alone, and free to chat.

After we took our leave, I made my way home through the Gulch- the first time in awhile I've strolled through it at 1:00 am on a Friday night. It's more crowded than ever with young people packing the sidewalks outside the bars and generally being obnoxious. Walking past Divas I was surprised to see an entirely unfamiliar group of hookers working the street- a new generation apparently taking over the neighborhood. Standing at the corner of Larkin and Post, I spotted Veronica a block away at her usual spot under the streetlight at Hemlock, where she's been doing her thing for years. I found her presence strangely reassuring. Not everything changes.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

So did anyone else notice Steven Tyler has undergone breast augmentation surgery or know the story behind what is going on here? This photo is unretouched and I just took it from the TV on pause. Really, wtf is going on here?

Crappy Holidays!

I stole this picture from Hudin's blog, because I just had to, and he has the backstory on this curious holiday tradition from Catalonia.

Wouldn't you love to see this in the center of the Westfield Mall?

The Upcoming link and a disclosure

A year ago, after learning a stalker had moved into my building and being attacked by a couple of drunks whom I had to make a citizen's arrest on, I changed the name and url of this blog and removed all pictures of my friends, of me and any references to my real identity. I also made it a habit of not posting about where I was going to be ahead of time so those people wouldn't be able to find me easily. However, it's been a year, and the violent drunks have probably forgotten about me and been arrested a few times since then (one of them had outstanding warrants in three states for same kind of thing) and I'm not even sure if the stalker still lives here- I never ask about her and a court action made her extremely unlikely to  initiate any contact with me.

While I still keep my identity apart from A Beast to the extent I can and don't post pictures of myself or friends, I felt it was time to loosen up a bit and post a calendar of what I'm going to attend over the next few weeks and it appears under the title picture. Click on it and you'll see where I'm planning to be. Clicking on the links of the individual shows will take you to the most reasonable and informative page about it I could find at the time. I hope it will help promote these performances and at the same time help me to keep the next couple of months straight, since they're going to be busy. Fun, but busy

See you there?

Uranus, Jupiter, its three moons and Euro porn

"Dave" looking at Uranus and Jupiter. Midnight on Van Ness and Eddy.

This was a weird evening. I almost feel compelled to tell its story in reverse, but that's just a little too "Momento"-ish. Almost everyone I know was attending the opening night of SFO's The Marriage of Figaro starring the ridiculously gorgeous Danielle de Niese. This was originally my plan too, via a $10 standing room ticket (for the first act only, of course), because frankly I'm just not that into Mozart's operas and unless it's Cosi or a particularly well-cast Don Giovanni I really don't care. But I'm something of a completist and I'll see it standing room at some point solely so I can throw my opinion online like everyone else. Well that and I do want to hear de Niese.

That was the plan, at least until the Femme Fatale proposed that I join her to see the "Sexy Euro Cinema" program at the Red Vic, which is part of the Good Vibrations Indie Erotic Film Festival. Now that's a dilemma, is it not? I figured I could see Figaro almost anytime so I agreed and we met at the Vidal Sassoon salon where she was getting her hair done. I always wondered who got their hair done here.  From there we boarded Muni and proceeded to wait and wait and wait while someone was expiring at the Church St. station. Oh, not good people, not good.

We get off Muni and make our way to Haight St. to grab a bite beforehand, deciding to go to Zona Rosa, where a bunch of undercover cops are busting a fairly large group of drug dealers. Dealers are so dumb. The Femme ordered a beer with dinner, which was kind of shocking to me because she has the most sophisticated wine palate of anyone I've ever met. After that, we went next door to Alembic for a cocktail. I ordered a slight variation of my usual, and a Sazerac for her. She liked it.

Then we go next door (again) to the Red Vic, which I haven't been to in years. Seems like it's a lot spiffier (in a Red Vic way, that is) than I remember it, which is back when they had actual couches. Had I known the Vic is now almost a real movie theater I might have gone to Figaro instead. I mean I'm not a porn guy to begin with, so sitting in an actual seat to watch the stuff isn't my idea of time well spent.

A woman from Good Vibrations comes out and explains the program and some other hype kind of stuff. There will be 7 films from 5 countries, to be then followed by a screening of a film called Matinee. The director of Matinee, Jennifer Lyon Bell is on hand and will conduct a Q & A after the screening. Good grief, this is weird. Really? A Q & A about a porn film?

The shorts start with "Headshot," an homage to an Andy Warhol film the title of which begins with "blow" and ends with "job." It's actually pretty clever in that you never see anything except the young man's reaction to what's being done to him. Thankfully for the audience and the unseen other member of the cast, it's not all that long and avoids being tiresome and in some moments is pretty damn funny. Then we're stuck with a series of short films featuring tattooed and pierced young people with dirty fingernails in shorts that run about ten minutes long apiece. While I was appreciative of the fact that none of the performers had undergone plastic surgery nor looked like they spent every waking moment at the gym when they weren't snorting coke, aesthetically it got boring pretty fast.

Now allow me to interject that the theater was completely packed. Almost every seat taken by groups, couples and the random old pervy guy 10 or 20 years older than myself and everyone is munching on popcorn. It was almost like watching a documentary on Chomsky. Well, it was like that at least until the moment the guy next to me opened a can of beer and of course the images on screen were different than those seen in Manufacturing Consent. Oddly, the theater was growing very warm. I'm not sure why, but I was starting to sweat. I grew weary of this and was pretty much done with it all. At intermission I wanted to leave.

I told the Femme this and she asked if I had watched the trailer for Matinee, to which I replied in the negative. She convinced me to at least watch a bit of it and then, if I didn't care for it, we could leave, as she wasn't too impressed either but was very interested to see this particular film. I agreed out of a chivalric impulse and not much else.

Matinee is an interesting film about two stage actors who are doing an intimate scene in a play together and they both know isn't working as well as it should. They are told before the matinee performance that a very important talent agent is attending that afternoon. It's like a porn version of Waiting for Guffman. Their futures may ride on this one performance. The male actor tries to talk the female into loosening it up a bit with a bit of pre-performance improv. She declines, thinking it unprofessional but then at the last moment, before their scene, she has a change of heart and decides to take the scene to another level the actor could never have seen coming. This is pretty interesting to watch because the actors are mature (and tattoo and piercing free) and you can actually see the thoughts in their eyes as they convey to each other "are we really going to do this? Here? Now? In front of an audience?" Yes, they do and after awhile they seem to forget this is happening on a stage and I forgot they were actors. Good job people! Art requires giving everything of oneself! It's pretty provocative, explicit, and I have to admit it won me over.

After leaving the theater, the Femme is in a funk because the whole Cinderella/nasty-stepfather/turning into a pumpkin issue looms before her and we end up taking this enormous walk from the Haight to the Castro, where I take my leave of her, watching  as she runs off to catch a bus to the castle on High Street. From there I hit the street, stopping into the Lucky 13 to listen to some Iggy and ponder exactly what is going on here. Then Dr. Hank texts me , writing that Figaro was great, Danielle is fantastic and that he's now going home because he has to work tomorrow and cannot have a drink with me. Fine, I say to myself, and continue on the journey home.

At the corner of Eddy and Van Ness I espy a man on the corner with a telescope. Now, if you were outside on this evening you couldn't help notice the waxing moon on a warm night with cloud wisps scurrying past it constantly. It was beautiful.. I turn and look over my shoulder and sure enough the man has his telescope trained on the moon and what is obviously a planet in plain view to its left. At Van Ness and Eddy- at midnight. This is odd, even for San Francisco.

"Is that Venus?" I ask him.

"No, it's Jupiter," he replies.

"Really?" says I, thinking Jupiter should be full of color while this planet is plainly white like Venus.

"Yes" says he, "Would you like to take a look?"

I  say yes and look into what he describes as a "cheap" telescope he doesn't mind having out on the street next to the Tenderloin as the hour approaches midnight and see not only Jupiter, but three of its moons and Uranus crystal clear. It was fantastic.

The astronomer, whose name is Dave, then proceeded to give me a bit of information on which planets appear when and where. It was all very interesting, not the least because it was happening in this most unusual circumstance, at this most unusual place. Thank you Dave, that was a truly magical moment.

From there I continued my walk home, past the Great American Music Hall, where someone who draws a very large audience of young women was playing, past the dealers, past the whores, returning safely to the reality of my small apartment and strange cat.

And there you are!

IXFF- the Indie Erotic Film Festival

Seriously? Yep, and it's just another example of how amusing this City is to live in. Brought to you by the good folks at Good Vibrations, there seems to be a little somethin' somethin' for every taste and preference and since it's the 5th year, they must be doing something right. There are three more nights left and the grand finale at the Castro Theatre sounds like quite a fun time.

The website seems fairly tame given the subject matter, but I wouldn't recommend viewing it at work because of one particular image, which is pretty funny but also makes the cover of Sticky Fingers look, shall we say, small in comparison.

http://www.gv-ixff.org/

The Ambassador roams high and low

Filoli

Penelope and I went to the Giants/Dodgers game last night, and as we were watching the game she reminded me of the former name of this blog since we had attended the symphony opening, heard a great jazz concert featuring Janice Siegel of Manhattan Transfer at Filoli (which I will eventually put up a post about), Fringe plays and more during what has been a pretty busy week for me. She wasn't even there for half of what I've attended.

But roaming high and low is what makes it interesting to live here because there's simply so much to take in. It also keeps one's perspective fresh, because after hanging out with Penelope and two old-time Giants fans at Public House after the game, I awoke this morning with a second wind, looking forward to seeing Aida tonight with Newsome.

A note about Public House: you folks need to decide if the place is a bar or a restaurant and act accordingly. At around 10:40 the bouncer/doorman came over to our table and told us if we wanted a last round to do it now because the place closes at 11:00 and everyone needed to be out of there. Curiously, the kitchen was closed by the time we went depsite the fact there were at least 100 people in the place and more followed in behind us. So, owners of Public House, you have a restaurant where the kitchen closes after the game? That makes no sense at all. We looked around at all the people in the place, all drinking, some just getting started and said, "Really? You want to clear all of these people out of here?"

The bouncer replied "Yes, the restaurant is closed, and we need to clear it.Need everyone out by 11:00"

Well, Public House, I've worked in restaurants and one thing you do not do is tell people when it's time to leave. Yes, you can do that in a bar, but you don't do it in a restaurant. So decide, because it left a pretty bad taste in our mouths. And the Manhattan wasn't great either. As for the food, well, we couldn't try any because the kitchen was closed. Dumb.

Finally, last night was the third baseball game I've attended this year, which is three times the normal amount I usually go to in a season. Two visits to ATT and one at Yankee Stadium has made me conclude that modern stadiums are really a pain in the ass and it's better to watch the game on TV. Who needs to go to a game only to be assaulted by mindless crap during the entire game. It's especially awful at Yankee Stadium, where not only the seats horrifically narrow and the volume of the speakers deafening, but it costs more to go to a Yankees game than it does to attend an opera at the Met. Go figure.

And there you are.