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"content": "\u003cp>So it’s the mid ’90s. I’m in film school. It’s a heady time. I’m all hopped up on Kieslowski and Bergman, preaching the virtues of the \u003cb>Decalogue\u003c/b> and the five-hour version of \u003cb>Fanny and Alexander\u003c/b> and stuff like that. The good stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And here comes this chubby, foul-mouthed, bespectacled dude from Jersey who’s really into comics, poo jokes, hockey, working retail, hanging around the mall, making \u003cb>Star Wars\u003c/b> references, being titillated yet discomfited by lesbians and organized religion and fatherhood, and getting famous in the indie-film world for making these preposterously scrappy glorified home movies with all his buddies and no money and a lot of cojones and raunchy camaraderie. He’s so unpretentious it’s almost pretentious. And I’m thinking, “Who is this joker?” And (secretly), “How come I never thought of that?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, he’s Kevin Smith. And my general impression is that if I ever got to meet him, and I asked him what he thought of \u003cb>Fanny and Alexander\u003c/b>, even just the three hour version, well, just that title alone would prompt him to giggle uncontrollably while kicking my ass. And then he would take questions from his fans about it on his Web site in real time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And maybe Jason Mewes, the Jay to his Silent Bob, would be by his side. They’re like the Penn and Teller of douchetards, if I may use a word that sounds silly and doesn’t even exist but might nonetheless deeply offend various individuals and groups, because that seems true to the spirit of Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, now it’s the end of the ’00s. And Smith is a full-fledged media personality, with many movies under his belt (maybe it sounds more correct to say below his belt), most recently \u003cb>Zack and Miri Make a Porno\u003c/b>. And, as part of a national tour, he’s coming to the Warfield to do a stand-up show. And I’m alone in a cafe hunched over my laptop, jealously grousing about how far he’s come, and I haven’t, since the days of \u003cb>Clerks\u003c/b>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lesson might be to think carefully about whether you really want to go to film school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Smith’s show has been billed as “Silent Bob Speaks,” which is too bad. It might actually be funny if he didn’t say anything at all the whole time. And we all just sat there wondering what’s up and thinking, “Oh, right, Silent Bob, heh.” And then thinking, “OK, but seriously.” And then thinking, “Wow, he’s really going through with this.” And then either seething to think that it’s true that he really is just a great big void in the entertainment world and he knows it and he’s managed to sell it to us once again and we’re idiots, or else turning to our pedantic art-film-loving friends and saying, “See? It’s like I’ve been telling you since the mid ’90s. A genius.” And then shutting up and listening and laughing at the silence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But no, he’ll talk. And that could be hilarious too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Silent Bob Speaks: An Evening with Kevin Smith\u003c/b>, 8 p.m. Friday, October 30, 2009 at \u003ca href=\"http://thewarfieldtheatre.com/eventdetail.php?id=23085\">the Warfield\u003c/a> in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.viewaskew.com\">more information\u003c/a>, visit viewaskew.com\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>So it’s the mid ’90s. I’m in film school. It’s a heady time. I’m all hopped up on Kieslowski and Bergman, preaching the virtues of the \u003cb>Decalogue\u003c/b> and the five-hour version of \u003cb>Fanny and Alexander\u003c/b> and stuff like that. The good stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And here comes this chubby, foul-mouthed, bespectacled dude from Jersey who’s really into comics, poo jokes, hockey, working retail, hanging around the mall, making \u003cb>Star Wars\u003c/b> references, being titillated yet discomfited by lesbians and organized religion and fatherhood, and getting famous in the indie-film world for making these preposterously scrappy glorified home movies with all his buddies and no money and a lot of cojones and raunchy camaraderie. He’s so unpretentious it’s almost pretentious. And I’m thinking, “Who is this joker?” And (secretly), “How come I never thought of that?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, he’s Kevin Smith. And my general impression is that if I ever got to meet him, and I asked him what he thought of \u003cb>Fanny and Alexander\u003c/b>, even just the three hour version, well, just that title alone would prompt him to giggle uncontrollably while kicking my ass. And then he would take questions from his fans about it on his Web site in real time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And maybe Jason Mewes, the Jay to his Silent Bob, would be by his side. They’re like the Penn and Teller of douchetards, if I may use a word that sounds silly and doesn’t even exist but might nonetheless deeply offend various individuals and groups, because that seems true to the spirit of Smith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, now it’s the end of the ’00s. And Smith is a full-fledged media personality, with many movies under his belt (maybe it sounds more correct to say below his belt), most recently \u003cb>Zack and Miri Make a Porno\u003c/b>. And, as part of a national tour, he’s coming to the Warfield to do a stand-up show. And I’m alone in a cafe hunched over my laptop, jealously grousing about how far he’s come, and I haven’t, since the days of \u003cb>Clerks\u003c/b>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lesson might be to think carefully about whether you really want to go to film school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Smith’s show has been billed as “Silent Bob Speaks,” which is too bad. It might actually be funny if he didn’t say anything at all the whole time. And we all just sat there wondering what’s up and thinking, “Oh, right, Silent Bob, heh.” And then thinking, “OK, but seriously.” And then thinking, “Wow, he’s really going through with this.” And then either seething to think that it’s true that he really is just a great big void in the entertainment world and he knows it and he’s managed to sell it to us once again and we’re idiots, or else turning to our pedantic art-film-loving friends and saying, “See? It’s like I’ve been telling you since the mid ’90s. A genius.” And then shutting up and listening and laughing at the silence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But no, he’ll talk. And that could be hilarious too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Silent Bob Speaks: An Evening with Kevin Smith\u003c/b>, 8 p.m. Friday, October 30, 2009 at \u003ca href=\"http://thewarfieldtheatre.com/eventdetail.php?id=23085\">the Warfield\u003c/a> in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.viewaskew.com\">more information\u003c/a>, visit viewaskew.com\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In his newest book, \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries: A Memoir of Moods, Masochism and Murder\u003c/b>, \u003ca href=\"http://therumpus.net/\">The Rumpus’s\u003c/a> Stephen Elliott does anything but disappoint. While the title suggests ‘gothic romp,’ \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries\u003c/b> is more Montaigne-esque: a thoughtful inquiry into the relationship between our memories and our understanding of our selves (literally the most overwhelming of all concepts). As Elliott writes in his epigraph, “only a fool mistakes memory for fact.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Formally, the book is a mash-up: part autobiography, part treatise, part true crime. Elliott sets up a parallel between his personal history and the story of Bay Area computer programmer Hans Reiser, who in 2007 was charged with the murder of his wife. Sean Sturgeon, a friend of the couple’s, subsequently came forward to confess to eight unrelated murders, ostensibly to “beat Hans to the punch.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his account of Reiser’s trial and his own interactions with Sturgeon — they share a connection based on their predilection for the dungeons of San Francisco — Elliott has an ideal foil for exploring the subjectivity of memory. The crime story creates a backdrop of confusion, anticipation, helplessness and horror, which is echoed in Elliott’s investigation of his own troubled past and, more specifically, in his relationship to his father, who, as we are informed in the opening line of the book, “may have killed a man.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I haven’t read any of Stephen Elliott’s other books, most of which involve some form of cloaked autobiography, but according to \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries\u003c/b>, Elliott’s father has been attacking the veracity of his son’s writing since he first started publishing — even posting challenging and negative reviews on public forums such as Amazon. While \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries\u003c/b> ends without a concrete resolution for these two, it adds to the book’s depth that Elliott, at least, seems to find a kind of peace with his father’s point of view.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Somewhere in the middle of \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries\u003c/b>, Elliott writes about “archiving systems,” or the ways that we, as individuals and societies, order our memories. “We remember events in our lives in specific order and importance relative to our identity.” He goes on to stress that when compared with computers, which have the potential to forget — or remember — everything, not to mention make identical information available to multiple users, the human brain is not only limited, but seemingly powerless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The beauty of the \u003cb>The Adderall Diaries\u003c/b> lies in its nuanced treatment of this powerlessness, at the heart of which rests not only our understanding of ourselves, but our inability to ever truly know another.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>A man stands amongst others in the tule fog of California’s Central Valley, not too far from the memory of an old copper still, waxing philosophical about the twists and turns his life has taken — a life full of supposedly unexpected pairings like marriage and divorce, full-time and part-time father, professional journalist and…Armenian moonshiner?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The man is Mark Arax, a former journalist for the \u003ci>Los Angeles Times Magazine\u003c/i> and author of \u003cb>West of the West: Dreamers, Believers, Builders and Killers in the Golden State\u003c/b>, a collection of short profiles meant to showcase California “beyond the cliches.” The chapter is “Confessions of an Armenian Moonshiner,” in which Arax describes his family’s rediscovery of an age-old ritual: the making of \u003ca href=\"http://seriesofhopes.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/kendimden_300px-sak_raki.jpg/\">raki\u003c/a>, a process that culminates in a day-long, outdoor event — cooking and distilling the mash, often accompanied by the cold, wet fog for which central California is known. And if I had to nominate the one image in \u003cb>West of the West\u003c/b> that encapsulates the book’s strengths and weaknesses, this would be it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arax is a great storyteller who likes to create broad, emotional portraits out of small details. For example, while during Prohibition the tule fog would have hidden the production of \u003ci>raki\u003c/i> from anyone who might care, in Arax’s hands the fog becomes a metaphor for the forces of memory and time — events that tend to confuse the differences between men and their ancestors, not to mention the lines between past, present and future selves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The book has two main flaws, however, beginning with how loosely the individual chapters hang together. What results is a series of cinematically colorful stills featuring persons and conflicts that, with the exception of the chapter on California’s \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emerald_Triangle/\">Emerald Triangle\u003c/a> (“The Highlands of Humboldt”), might be found anywhere. I got the sense that in producing \u003cb>West of the West\u003c/b>, Arax was feeling nostalgic, digging through old notebooks and previously published stories, and that framing these communities and personalities as specific to California was really just an afterthought, based on the geography of his career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Secondly — and what bothered me more — is that many of Arax’s stories involve overstated conflicts of interest, at least to my cynical eye. For instance, in our current era of foodies and nostalgia for artisanal processes, I have no trouble accepting that a journalist might cook mash according to an old family recipe. Neither do I have problems imagining alliances between certain factions of pro-Israeli Jews and anti-Muslim Christians (“Home Front”), the merging of Northern California pot culture with the leftovers of the timber industry (“The Highlands of Humboldt”), or the notion that the United States government might be up to no good (“The Agent”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All in all, however, I’m willing to accept that much of my cynicism is the product of journalists like Arax, who has been breaking stories like “The Agent” for 25 years now. And, on that note, at its core, my enjoyment of this book stemmed from Arax’s ability to present characters with enough internal nuance to override the less interesting external conflicts. The tule fog may be a little cold and wet, but as long as I’ve got a mash that tastes as good to me as Arax’s written portraiture, my belly will stay warm.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>A man stands amongst others in the tule fog of California’s Central Valley, not too far from the memory of an old copper still, waxing philosophical about the twists and turns his life has taken — a life full of supposedly unexpected pairings like marriage and divorce, full-time and part-time father, professional journalist and…Armenian moonshiner?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The man is Mark Arax, a former journalist for the \u003ci>Los Angeles Times Magazine\u003c/i> and author of \u003cb>West of the West: Dreamers, Believers, Builders and Killers in the Golden State\u003c/b>, a collection of short profiles meant to showcase California “beyond the cliches.” The chapter is “Confessions of an Armenian Moonshiner,” in which Arax describes his family’s rediscovery of an age-old ritual: the making of \u003ca href=\"http://seriesofhopes.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/kendimden_300px-sak_raki.jpg/\">raki\u003c/a>, a process that culminates in a day-long, outdoor event — cooking and distilling the mash, often accompanied by the cold, wet fog for which central California is known. And if I had to nominate the one image in \u003cb>West of the West\u003c/b> that encapsulates the book’s strengths and weaknesses, this would be it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arax is a great storyteller who likes to create broad, emotional portraits out of small details. For example, while during Prohibition the tule fog would have hidden the production of \u003ci>raki\u003c/i> from anyone who might care, in Arax’s hands the fog becomes a metaphor for the forces of memory and time — events that tend to confuse the differences between men and their ancestors, not to mention the lines between past, present and future selves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The book has two main flaws, however, beginning with how loosely the individual chapters hang together. What results is a series of cinematically colorful stills featuring persons and conflicts that, with the exception of the chapter on California’s \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emerald_Triangle/\">Emerald Triangle\u003c/a> (“The Highlands of Humboldt”), might be found anywhere. I got the sense that in producing \u003cb>West of the West\u003c/b>, Arax was feeling nostalgic, digging through old notebooks and previously published stories, and that framing these communities and personalities as specific to California was really just an afterthought, based on the geography of his career.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Secondly — and what bothered me more — is that many of Arax’s stories involve overstated conflicts of interest, at least to my cynical eye. For instance, in our current era of foodies and nostalgia for artisanal processes, I have no trouble accepting that a journalist might cook mash according to an old family recipe. Neither do I have problems imagining alliances between certain factions of pro-Israeli Jews and anti-Muslim Christians (“Home Front”), the merging of Northern California pot culture with the leftovers of the timber industry (“The Highlands of Humboldt”), or the notion that the United States government might be up to no good (“The Agent”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All in all, however, I’m willing to accept that much of my cynicism is the product of journalists like Arax, who has been breaking stories like “The Agent” for 25 years now. And, on that note, at its core, my enjoyment of this book stemmed from Arax’s ability to present characters with enough internal nuance to override the less interesting external conflicts. The tule fog may be a little cold and wet, but as long as I’ve got a mash that tastes as good to me as Arax’s written portraiture, my belly will stay warm.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The China program where I went to college was almost shut down once when a student was arrested in Beijing for crawling out of a hotel window in an attempt to avoid paying a prostitute. At first he told the cops that he was doing it as a joke. This excuse began to seem a lot less believable when he was arrested doing the exact same thing a few days later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After this student was released into the custody of his study abroad program to await deportation, the phone at our rinky-dink student newspaper began ringing incessantly. When the receiver was lifted, a robotic voice droned, “Will you accept a reverse-charge phone call from China.” But something about the way this particular student played Andrew Lloyd Weber CDs full blast at all hours of the day and night made it even harder than it would normally have been to accept his version of the story. (It was an accident. I was framed. Ninjas. Etcetera.) Someone’s hand would reach for the phone, and then it was as though the distant strains of the theme from \u003cb>Cats\u003c/b> would swell to fill the room. The hand in question would drop, and we would all go back to writing our articles about upcoming renovations to the school cafeteria.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which is why it’s refreshing to run across a book like \u003cb>China Underground\u003c/b>. The books that people are likely to press into the hands of American students bound for China are like \u003cb>River Town\u003c/b> by Peter Hessler and \u003cb>Chinese Lessons\u003c/b> by John Pomfret. Those books are masterpieces, but they’re also written by extraordinary, earnest people who, perhaps unsurprisingly, tend to hang out with other extraordinary, earnest people. \u003cb>China Underground\u003c/b> is about a China more familiar to American undergrads studying in Beijing: hookers, shopping malls, noodle stands, punk shows in which Ramones songs are sung phonetically by native Mandarin speakers, and Nigerian immigrants who sell cocaine in nightclubs because it’s hard to get a job doing anything else. A China that is almost a fully globalized non-place, were it not for the extremely good street food, and the enduring penchant for putting journalists in prison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The author’s name is a pseudonym. “Mexico” lived in China for several years and would like to go back again, despite having written a book that depicts the country as full of ketamine-snorting slacker youth, airborne particulate matter, disaffected and stifled journalists, and men who enjoy having sex with other men. It’s unlikely that, had Mexico published the book under his own name, he would be seeing China again anytime soon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Certain details stand out: the Nigerian coke dealer who no one, until Mexico, bothers to inform that in China drug dealers are executed, (but, mercifully, not on television anymore.) Also: the story that the Nigerians travel back and forth on swapped passports and visas under the theory that the Chinese airport security can’t tell one Nigerian from another. The detail that \u003cb>Brokeback Mountain\u003c/b> and \u003cb>Pirates of the Caribbean\u003c/b> were banned from Chinese movie theaters (too gay and too many ghosts, respectively.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are flaws: your reader would be happy if she never encountered another example of prostitute journalism, domestic or international (Hire prostitute. Inform prostitute that you don’t want to have sex, just ask her lots of intrusive questions about her occupation. Express shock that prostitute doesn’t know how many men have paid to have sex with her, because, why? All sex workers should have a notebook with a running tally? I’ve got an idea: go find a bricklayer and ask her how many bricks she’s laid.) There are times when the reporting feels too rushed, like a stone skipping across shallow waters. But there are as many Chinas as there are Americas, and \u003cb>China Underground\u003c/b> is a peek into a previously underexplored one.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>“Prehistory,” says beachcomber and journalist Bonnie Henderson in her introduction to \u003cb>Strand: An Odyssey of Pacific Ocean Debris\u003c/b>, “is written in refuse.” And so are the habits of contemporary humankind, along with all the animals that share our environment. For Henderson, who spent several years regularly walking mile 157 of the Oregon coast as a member of CoastWatch, the detritus that washes up onto shore — a dead bird, an old shoe, a glass float — is an excuse to play archaeologist and storyteller, to uncover the history of a specific piece of trash and in the process string together a series of vignettes about the Pacific Ocean and our relationship to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Henderson’s concept is interesting and her writing is quite good, but her overall technique — the loosely connected vignettes — never managed to rivet my attention, as much as I wanted it to. \u003cb>Strand\u003c/b> approaches being memorable, being a book to which you might compare others, but never quite arrives at the moment of revelation — or whatever you might want to call the feeling that a really great work of non-fiction can bring on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are, however, some astounding moments. For instance, with the help of a serial number, a series of phone calls to Nike and a group of scientists who specialize in studying ocean drift, Henderson traces the multi-year journey of a Nike athletic shoe (the Havoc) from its birthplace in a Chinese factory to its place in the sand of the Oregon coast. In the process, she provides food for thought on topics such as container-shipping, typhoons, and the floating, twice-the-size-of-Texas trash pile known as the \u003ca href=\"http://science.howstuffworks.com/great-pacific-garbage-patch.htm\">Eastern Garbage Patch\u003c/a>. The same chapter also contains the incredibly cinematic image of 29,000 bathtub float toys that wind up “lost” at sea for 11 years: the duckies and froggies eventually hit the coasts of Iceland, Scotland and other North Atlantic countries, but only after they spend 5 years slogging through the frozen Arctic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On her website, Henderson mentions \u003ca href=\"http://www.johnmcphee.com/\">John McPhee\u003c/a> as an influence, and I can hear echoes of his narrative voice throughout \u003cb>Strand\u003c/b>, not to mention the fact that Henderson has adopted his technique of shadowing experts in whatever field she investigates. What \u003cb>Strand\u003c/b> lacks is an attention to pacing, as well as the strong character-building that much of literary non-fiction (particularly McPhee) depends on. That being said, Strand is well-written and thoughtful enough that I’ll keep an eye out for whatever Henderson does next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Well, I’ll tell you. First: The San Francisco Film Society puts on some good classes. And not just the mind-numbing kind where wannabe filmmakers pay many dollars for the privilege of standing around with strangers, diddling a Panasonic HVX200 HD camera and discussing the finer points of P2 Cards, codecs, and final deliverables, whatever the hell those are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No, this educational buffet also offers many tender morsels of immediately obvious practical value, like the class called “How To Ask People for Money,” which seems like it might be useful not just for the wannabe filmmakers but also for the rest of us. Or, better, the class I attended at the Ninth Street Film Center the other night, called “San Francisco: The Movie.” This was billed as the “definitive presentation of what has made our city one of the most intensely filmed and meaningful locations in film history,” and presented by SFFS Creative Director Miguel Pendás, who gives tours of San Francisco movie locations and has obviously spent many hours geeking out on this stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which is great. The evening amounted to a fun few hours with Pendás, about a dozen film buffs, and Chaplin, DeMille, Stroheim, Welles, Hitchcock and the gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yes, I did say DeMille. Who knew that the old epic-monger’s first take on \u003cb>The 10 Commandments\u003c/b>, from 1923, involved some spectacular and apparently safety-averse photography of the Saints Peter and Paul Church in North Beach, then still under construction? DeMille used it to punish a wanton commandment-violator by collapsing a shoddily built church wall on the man’s mother. Before you click your little secular-hedonist tongue, bear in mind that the same not-so-subtle sort of dramatization later recurred in 1936’s \u003cb>San Francisco\u003c/b>, in which the quake of ’06 brought a rather perverse form of deus ex machina for a wily Barbary Coast heathen played by Clark Gable. If there’s one thing to be said for the movies of San Francisco, it’s that people get punished in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Chinatown appears in a lot of melodramas,” Pendás dryly said, early on. “The association we have is this kind of Twilight Zone of exotic goings on, and when white people go in there, they’re in danger.” Case in point: 1931’s \u003cb>Chinatown After Dark\u003c/b>. Or, of course, 1947’s \u003cb>The Lady from Shanghai\u003c/b>, a noir staple in which Orson Welles plays with those aforementioned associations as only he could. Not to mention Wayne Wang’s clever, confounding and raffishly sophisticated 1982 masterpiece \u003cb>Chan is Missing\u003c/b>, whose subject is assimilation — of Chinese-American culture, and of film culture — and the subversion thereof. Pendás didn’t mention \u003cb>Big Trouble in Little China\u003c/b>, but maybe that’s for the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, he had other things to discuss. Of 1957’s \u003cb>Kiss Them For Me\u003c/b>, Pendás observed, “Tragic things happen, even though this is billed as a romantic comedy.” That has proven true of 1968’s \u003cb>Petulia\u003c/b>, too — and, come to think of it, of several other Bay Area movies as well. But \u003cb>Kiss Them For Me\u003c/b> is the one in which the Cary Grant character quips, “True love almost always fades, but money stays green forever.” Which of course brings me back to the brutally poetic reiteration of same in Eric Von Stroheim’s silent 1924 San Francisco classic \u003cb>Greed\u003c/b>. Not that money (and how to ask people for it) is the only reason for a San Francisco movie romance to sour — although Pendás was shrewd to point out, about Jimmy Stewart’s character in Hitchcock’s \u003cb>Vertigo\u003c/b>, that “falling in love with someone from a higher social class makes him dizzy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, \u003cb>The Maltese Falcon\u003c/b> was not neglected, nor even the later, locally set commercial thrillers of the ’90s, well assessed by Pendás as “films that borrow from the suspense legacy, but have become very extreme and very cynical.” And he even got in a word about \u003cb>So I Married an Axe Murderer\u003c/b>, in which the city registers as “a beautiful place, but has nothing to do with the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Actually, I knew a lot of this stuff already, because it’s a subject of special interest and research for me. But I didn’t want to be that jackass who’s always butting in with showoffy, time-squandering tirades about \u003cb>Big Trouble in Little China\u003c/b> or what have you. We only had three short hours, after all. What I really learned from “San Francisco: The Movie” is what we all already knew, but enjoy reminding ourselves: This place \u003ci>really is\u003c/i> one of the most meaningful locations in film history. It’s so full of meaning, in fact, that a single class can only just begin to cover it. Maybe a few more are in order.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Well, I’ll tell you. First: The San Francisco Film Society puts on some good classes. And not just the mind-numbing kind where wannabe filmmakers pay many dollars for the privilege of standing around with strangers, diddling a Panasonic HVX200 HD camera and discussing the finer points of P2 Cards, codecs, and final deliverables, whatever the hell those are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No, this educational buffet also offers many tender morsels of immediately obvious practical value, like the class called “How To Ask People for Money,” which seems like it might be useful not just for the wannabe filmmakers but also for the rest of us. Or, better, the class I attended at the Ninth Street Film Center the other night, called “San Francisco: The Movie.” This was billed as the “definitive presentation of what has made our city one of the most intensely filmed and meaningful locations in film history,” and presented by SFFS Creative Director Miguel Pendás, who gives tours of San Francisco movie locations and has obviously spent many hours geeking out on this stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which is great. The evening amounted to a fun few hours with Pendás, about a dozen film buffs, and Chaplin, DeMille, Stroheim, Welles, Hitchcock and the gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yes, I did say DeMille. Who knew that the old epic-monger’s first take on \u003cb>The 10 Commandments\u003c/b>, from 1923, involved some spectacular and apparently safety-averse photography of the Saints Peter and Paul Church in North Beach, then still under construction? DeMille used it to punish a wanton commandment-violator by collapsing a shoddily built church wall on the man’s mother. Before you click your little secular-hedonist tongue, bear in mind that the same not-so-subtle sort of dramatization later recurred in 1936’s \u003cb>San Francisco\u003c/b>, in which the quake of ’06 brought a rather perverse form of deus ex machina for a wily Barbary Coast heathen played by Clark Gable. If there’s one thing to be said for the movies of San Francisco, it’s that people get punished in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Chinatown appears in a lot of melodramas,” Pendás dryly said, early on. “The association we have is this kind of Twilight Zone of exotic goings on, and when white people go in there, they’re in danger.” Case in point: 1931’s \u003cb>Chinatown After Dark\u003c/b>. Or, of course, 1947’s \u003cb>The Lady from Shanghai\u003c/b>, a noir staple in which Orson Welles plays with those aforementioned associations as only he could. Not to mention Wayne Wang’s clever, confounding and raffishly sophisticated 1982 masterpiece \u003cb>Chan is Missing\u003c/b>, whose subject is assimilation — of Chinese-American culture, and of film culture — and the subversion thereof. Pendás didn’t mention \u003cb>Big Trouble in Little China\u003c/b>, but maybe that’s for the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, he had other things to discuss. Of 1957’s \u003cb>Kiss Them For Me\u003c/b>, Pendás observed, “Tragic things happen, even though this is billed as a romantic comedy.” That has proven true of 1968’s \u003cb>Petulia\u003c/b>, too — and, come to think of it, of several other Bay Area movies as well. But \u003cb>Kiss Them For Me\u003c/b> is the one in which the Cary Grant character quips, “True love almost always fades, but money stays green forever.” Which of course brings me back to the brutally poetic reiteration of same in Eric Von Stroheim’s silent 1924 San Francisco classic \u003cb>Greed\u003c/b>. Not that money (and how to ask people for it) is the only reason for a San Francisco movie romance to sour — although Pendás was shrewd to point out, about Jimmy Stewart’s character in Hitchcock’s \u003cb>Vertigo\u003c/b>, that “falling in love with someone from a higher social class makes him dizzy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, \u003cb>The Maltese Falcon\u003c/b> was not neglected, nor even the later, locally set commercial thrillers of the ’90s, well assessed by Pendás as “films that borrow from the suspense legacy, but have become very extreme and very cynical.” And he even got in a word about \u003cb>So I Married an Axe Murderer\u003c/b>, in which the city registers as “a beautiful place, but has nothing to do with the movie.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Actually, I knew a lot of this stuff already, because it’s a subject of special interest and research for me. But I didn’t want to be that jackass who’s always butting in with showoffy, time-squandering tirades about \u003cb>Big Trouble in Little China\u003c/b> or what have you. We only had three short hours, after all. What I really learned from “San Francisco: The Movie” is what we all already knew, but enjoy reminding ourselves: This place \u003ci>really is\u003c/i> one of the most meaningful locations in film history. It’s so full of meaning, in fact, that a single class can only just begin to cover it. Maybe a few more are in order.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Boyle: The Women, Coupland: The Gum Thief",
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"content": "\u003cp>Your reader has a goal, and that goal is to one day read a book for this column that she actually likes. Much has been attempted to accomplish this objective. Backups are stockpiled in case initial choices go sour. Review copies are read only in a relaxed, suave state of mind (rather than, say, after participating in high-speed car chases that might cloud her sense of literary judgment. You know, the way that cops are statistically more likely to shoot people after they’ve participated in a car chase).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Would this month be the month of unjaded review writing? It began with \u003cb>The Women\u003c/b>, T.C. Boyle’s toaster-sized opus on America and architecture. Oh! And, as the title might suggest, The Ladies. Your reader was impressed by the constant and deft use of metaphor (“The weeks began to topple forward, a series of unanchored pillars thudding to earth one after another”). The word “pluvial” appeared (always the shortest path to a girl’s heart). And yet, the further your reader continued, the more she became convinced that this book had been written for an as-yet-unnamed demographic that yearns for lapidary prose about great architects…and their staffing issues. The novel reads like a very strange and lengthy mash-up of \u003cb>The Fountainhead\u003c/b> and those parts in Virginia Woolf’s diaries where she whinges on about how she can’t get proper kitchen help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It became a slog, dear readers. Reading it was feeling more and more like ingesting set decoration: vintage roadsters and horseback rides and blooming cherry trees blurred into one another. Your reader felt guilty. It was hard to type up notes while T.C. Boyle’s face peered up at me from the dust jacket, wearing a jaunty black beret and looking as though he might already have sent someone out to break my kneecaps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A fallback book seemed the neatest solution. And so Douglas Coupland’s \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b>, recently out in paperback, was taken off the pile. After the sensory detail in \u003cb>The Women\u003c/b>, \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b> felt sparse and relaxing, like smooth vodka with no aftertaste. The memory of each page seemed to vanish as a new page appeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A little dull, but appropriate enough for a novel set in the eternal present of a Staples office supply store. Different characters associated with the Staples narrate their own and other people’s lives — arguing with each other as the book progresses. All the characters are trying to make sense of themselves in that Oprah’s Book Club sense of the word: the matters that concern them most are that they are failures at family relationships, relationship relationships, and business relationships in this, the new economy. And, mysteriously, all of them seem to have fantasies of being writers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Interleaved with the primary story is a novel that is largely a pastiche of Edward Albee’s \u003cb>Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?\u003c/b> It’s been said that Albee’s play about an academic couple who drink, yell at each other, and pretend to have a child that turns out to have never existed is a clarion call about the American tendency to prefer fantasy to reality. Does that make \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b> a clarion call to anything?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Don’t bet on it. It might make you less likely to spend your average workday drinking out at the loading dock. But all of the life-affirming platitudes expressed by various characters feel as spare and unconvincing as the story itself. It’s too bad — Coupland is a fine writer, but it is often the case with his books that they feel as though they have arrived on one’s doorstep pressure-washed and hermetically sealed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> So: two books, two Americas. One chattering, overdescribed, and at the height of its place as a world power. The other sterile, slightly airbrushed, and sleepwalking through the twilight of the closest America has ever gotten to being an empire. Two Americas, and both of them fiction. The readable America is the one I’m waiting for.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Your reader has a goal, and that goal is to one day read a book for this column that she actually likes. Much has been attempted to accomplish this objective. Backups are stockpiled in case initial choices go sour. Review copies are read only in a relaxed, suave state of mind (rather than, say, after participating in high-speed car chases that might cloud her sense of literary judgment. You know, the way that cops are statistically more likely to shoot people after they’ve participated in a car chase).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Would this month be the month of unjaded review writing? It began with \u003cb>The Women\u003c/b>, T.C. Boyle’s toaster-sized opus on America and architecture. Oh! And, as the title might suggest, The Ladies. Your reader was impressed by the constant and deft use of metaphor (“The weeks began to topple forward, a series of unanchored pillars thudding to earth one after another”). The word “pluvial” appeared (always the shortest path to a girl’s heart). And yet, the further your reader continued, the more she became convinced that this book had been written for an as-yet-unnamed demographic that yearns for lapidary prose about great architects…and their staffing issues. The novel reads like a very strange and lengthy mash-up of \u003cb>The Fountainhead\u003c/b> and those parts in Virginia Woolf’s diaries where she whinges on about how she can’t get proper kitchen help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It became a slog, dear readers. Reading it was feeling more and more like ingesting set decoration: vintage roadsters and horseback rides and blooming cherry trees blurred into one another. Your reader felt guilty. It was hard to type up notes while T.C. Boyle’s face peered up at me from the dust jacket, wearing a jaunty black beret and looking as though he might already have sent someone out to break my kneecaps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A fallback book seemed the neatest solution. And so Douglas Coupland’s \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b>, recently out in paperback, was taken off the pile. After the sensory detail in \u003cb>The Women\u003c/b>, \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b> felt sparse and relaxing, like smooth vodka with no aftertaste. The memory of each page seemed to vanish as a new page appeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A little dull, but appropriate enough for a novel set in the eternal present of a Staples office supply store. Different characters associated with the Staples narrate their own and other people’s lives — arguing with each other as the book progresses. All the characters are trying to make sense of themselves in that Oprah’s Book Club sense of the word: the matters that concern them most are that they are failures at family relationships, relationship relationships, and business relationships in this, the new economy. And, mysteriously, all of them seem to have fantasies of being writers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Interleaved with the primary story is a novel that is largely a pastiche of Edward Albee’s \u003cb>Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?\u003c/b> It’s been said that Albee’s play about an academic couple who drink, yell at each other, and pretend to have a child that turns out to have never existed is a clarion call about the American tendency to prefer fantasy to reality. Does that make \u003cb>The Gum Thief\u003c/b> a clarion call to anything?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Don’t bet on it. It might make you less likely to spend your average workday drinking out at the loading dock. But all of the life-affirming platitudes expressed by various characters feel as spare and unconvincing as the story itself. It’s too bad — Coupland is a fine writer, but it is often the case with his books that they feel as though they have arrived on one’s doorstep pressure-washed and hermetically sealed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> So: two books, two Americas. One chattering, overdescribed, and at the height of its place as a world power. The other sterile, slightly airbrushed, and sleepwalking through the twilight of the closest America has ever gotten to being an empire. Two Americas, and both of them fiction. The readable America is the one I’m waiting for.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Susan Sontag: Reborn",
"headTitle": "Susan Sontag: Reborn | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Susan Sontag is an intellectual deity best remembered as provocative, shrewd, and somehow unknowable. Her cultural identity was composed of her ideas, not episodes from her personal life, which is why the release of \u003cb>Reborn: Journal & Notebooks 1947-1963\u003c/b> is so significant. These painfully personal entries offer a glimpse into her inner sanctum, a world of self-doubt, sexual expression, and the growth that took place outside of her essays and novels; a world that, up until this point, had yet to be discovered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reading \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> feels akin to breaking into someone’s home and rummaging through their personal effects. The reader is an intruder inside Sontag’s mind. She never wanted her journals published, which is something her son, David Rieff, struggled with. In his touching preface, he argues that, if he hadn’t released them, someone else would have. This is a valid point, yet it still seems a bit wrong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Sontag knew the implications of keeping a diary. After reading those of her lovers without permission, she admits: “Do I feel guilty about reading what was not intended for my eyes? No. One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people.” So the publication isn’t something that would have surprised her. And, among the hundreds of books listed throughout \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b>, few seem to have given her as much fervid pleasure as Andre Gide’s journals. “I finished reading this at 2:30 a.m. of the same day I acquired it. Gide and I have attained such perfect intellectual communion that I experience the appropriate labor pains for every thought he gives birth to!” Clearly the value of publishing diaries and journals of notable writers and thinkers was not lost on Sontag. Maybe she was just too self-effacing or self-conscious to see herself in that way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>One of the main threads through \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> is Sontag’s struggle with her homosexuality. When she first attends Berkeley at the age of 15, she writes about dating men, but very honestly declares that she does so more as a result of social pressure rather than desire. Soon, she finds herself involved with a girl who introduces her to the late-1940s San Francisco gay scene. Her accounts of this time come to life, suffused with the thrill of self-discovery and expression. Something clearly ignites inside her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet those pesky mores of hetero-normative society eventually catch up with Sontag: “Being queer makes me feel more vulnerable. It increases my wish to hide, to be invisible — which I’ve always felt anyway.” These feelings of anxiety lead to an abrupt December 1949 entry in which she offhandedly mentions her engagement to Philip Rieff, a man whom she’s just met. Despite new developments such as her marriage and the birth of a son, the next few years are barely chronicled in her journals or notebooks. That she stopped writing during this climactic time in her romantic and personal realms is intriguing. It’s as if she lost herself in the ritual of these traditional acts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her writing picks up again in 1956 as her marriage convulses in its death throes. She likens the practice of marriage to mutual immolation and degrades the custom further: “Whoever invented marriage was an ingenious tormentor. It is an institution committed to the dulling of the feelings.” Sontag ends up fleeing the scene of her “marital wars” for Europe. This is where she seems to have returned to herself at last. She becomes involved with a woman represented only by the letter H (and later another woman called I) and plays the part of the unloved, a role familiar to her husband who has yet to realize that Susan has already divorced him in her thoughts. What follows is a series of episodes in which Sontag wavers between despising her lovers and pleading with them to love her more. Turns out that even geniuses suffer from the brutality of Eros.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps more interesting than Sontag’s successes and failures in love is the manner in which she records her existence: “I write to define myself — an act of self-creation — part of the process of becoming.” In her rigorous self-analysis, she disassembles her personality, turns over parts of interest in her hands, studies them, and, with a new understanding, creates herself anew as the person she wishes to be. A rebirth — the latest edition of a continuous work-in-progress — takes place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main achievement of \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> is that the collection humanizes a woman who has become somewhat of an untouchable to many. Her own words prove that she was far from invincible, even though she believed this right up until her death (which she thought avoidable). She was a woman with great mental capacity and perception, yet someone dealing with the same personal struggles that hamper us all. Although sifting through such personal philosophy and turmoil proves exhausting at times, there is much to be gained from Sontag’s example; mainly, the comforting knowledge that self-doubt is a universal symptom and that the insatiable hunger to know more, love more, be more is what makes us human.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Susan Sontag is an intellectual deity best remembered as provocative, shrewd, and somehow unknowable. Her cultural identity was composed of her ideas, not episodes from her personal life, which is why the release of \u003cb>Reborn: Journal & Notebooks 1947-1963\u003c/b> is so significant. These painfully personal entries offer a glimpse into her inner sanctum, a world of self-doubt, sexual expression, and the growth that took place outside of her essays and novels; a world that, up until this point, had yet to be discovered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reading \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> feels akin to breaking into someone’s home and rummaging through their personal effects. The reader is an intruder inside Sontag’s mind. She never wanted her journals published, which is something her son, David Rieff, struggled with. In his touching preface, he argues that, if he hadn’t released them, someone else would have. This is a valid point, yet it still seems a bit wrong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Sontag knew the implications of keeping a diary. After reading those of her lovers without permission, she admits: “Do I feel guilty about reading what was not intended for my eyes? No. One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people.” So the publication isn’t something that would have surprised her. And, among the hundreds of books listed throughout \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b>, few seem to have given her as much fervid pleasure as Andre Gide’s journals. “I finished reading this at 2:30 a.m. of the same day I acquired it. Gide and I have attained such perfect intellectual communion that I experience the appropriate labor pains for every thought he gives birth to!” Clearly the value of publishing diaries and journals of notable writers and thinkers was not lost on Sontag. Maybe she was just too self-effacing or self-conscious to see herself in that way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>One of the main threads through \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> is Sontag’s struggle with her homosexuality. When she first attends Berkeley at the age of 15, she writes about dating men, but very honestly declares that she does so more as a result of social pressure rather than desire. Soon, she finds herself involved with a girl who introduces her to the late-1940s San Francisco gay scene. Her accounts of this time come to life, suffused with the thrill of self-discovery and expression. Something clearly ignites inside her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet those pesky mores of hetero-normative society eventually catch up with Sontag: “Being queer makes me feel more vulnerable. It increases my wish to hide, to be invisible — which I’ve always felt anyway.” These feelings of anxiety lead to an abrupt December 1949 entry in which she offhandedly mentions her engagement to Philip Rieff, a man whom she’s just met. Despite new developments such as her marriage and the birth of a son, the next few years are barely chronicled in her journals or notebooks. That she stopped writing during this climactic time in her romantic and personal realms is intriguing. It’s as if she lost herself in the ritual of these traditional acts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her writing picks up again in 1956 as her marriage convulses in its death throes. She likens the practice of marriage to mutual immolation and degrades the custom further: “Whoever invented marriage was an ingenious tormentor. It is an institution committed to the dulling of the feelings.” Sontag ends up fleeing the scene of her “marital wars” for Europe. This is where she seems to have returned to herself at last. She becomes involved with a woman represented only by the letter H (and later another woman called I) and plays the part of the unloved, a role familiar to her husband who has yet to realize that Susan has already divorced him in her thoughts. What follows is a series of episodes in which Sontag wavers between despising her lovers and pleading with them to love her more. Turns out that even geniuses suffer from the brutality of Eros.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps more interesting than Sontag’s successes and failures in love is the manner in which she records her existence: “I write to define myself — an act of self-creation — part of the process of becoming.” In her rigorous self-analysis, she disassembles her personality, turns over parts of interest in her hands, studies them, and, with a new understanding, creates herself anew as the person she wishes to be. A rebirth — the latest edition of a continuous work-in-progress — takes place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main achievement of \u003cb>Reborn\u003c/b> is that the collection humanizes a woman who has become somewhat of an untouchable to many. Her own words prove that she was far from invincible, even though she believed this right up until her death (which she thought avoidable). She was a woman with great mental capacity and perception, yet someone dealing with the same personal struggles that hamper us all. Although sifting through such personal philosophy and turmoil proves exhausting at times, there is much to be gained from Sontag’s example; mainly, the comforting knowledge that self-doubt is a universal symptom and that the insatiable hunger to know more, love more, be more is what makes us human.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The short form used to be the Rodney Dangerfield of the film world — it couldn’t get no respect. Nowadays shorts programs are amazingly popular, a reflection less of chronic ADD than the dawning realization that no other night at the movies offers so much concentrated creativity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The newest entry among the myriad touring programs (Ann Arbor, Microcinema, The Animation Show, etc.) is CineVegas programmer Mike Plante’s \u003cb>Lunchfilm: Film Before Food\u003c/b>. Like so many marvelous ideas, it began as a fluke. A filmmaker pal was short of dough, so Plante picked up the bill. The other fellow offered the standard make-good — he’d get the check next time — but Plante had a brainstorm: Pay back the “debt” by making a film for the same cost. The concept soon turned into regular commissions, now topping 50, with the programmer scratching out terms and themes over a midday bite with the designated filmmaker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shorts used to be viewed as the province of students and amateurs, the apprentices who weren’t ready for prime time (that is, features). The Lunchfilm lineup boasts several mid-career experimental and nonfiction filmmakers, so I wasn’t expecting half-baked dreck but a cascade of no-budget, handmade work akin to scrapbook art: low on materials and high on inspiration. There are a few pieces like that, notably Kelly Sears’s mysterious, moody \u003cb>Jean\u003c/b>, which revisits movie star Jean Seberg’s dismal end through newspaper-style snippets of text laid over tarot illustrations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But most of the films are so ambitious and accomplished that they defy any sense of constraints, financial or otherwise. The pick of the litter might be Braden King’s intimate black-and-white \u003cb>Home Movie\u003c/b>, co-written with and starring Mimi Visser as an exhausted, devoted Swedish mother who may be facing the loss of her young sons in a custody battle. Another highlight is local filmmaker Sam Green’s wonderful and strangely moving \u003cb>Clear Glasses\u003c/b>, which amplifies the connection he made with political activist-turned-fugitive-turned teacher Mark Rudd in the course of making his Oscar-nominated documentary \u003cb>The Weather Underground\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another S.F. icon, George Kuchar, contributes one of his deceptively complex video travelogues, \u003cb>The Celluloid Cavalcade\u003c/b>, a seemingly random compilation that begins in Atlanta (where he was touted with a couple of shows at Emory University) and ends up flitting around more familiar environs from the S.F. Art Institute (or Art Asylum, as Kuchar refers to his teaching home in his hilariously deadpan narration) to the S.F. International Film Festival’s opening night party to a show by one-time local Martha Colburn at the New Nothing Cinema. Kuchar’s charming, generous work may seem tossed off to the uninitiated, but there’s an undercurrent of Hollywood sendup and monster-movie surrealism on the soundtrack that nudges his films into unexpected psychological territory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The aforementioned Martha Colburn is represented by a stunning piece of cut-out animation, \u003cb>Myth Wars\u003c/b>, that conflates religion, drug addiction and colonial history into a dizzying diorama. A young filmmaker named Mike Gibisser turns in an artful split-screen, black-and-white vignette of his grandmother entitled \u003cb>Springtime Wound Motor\u003c/b>, a reference to the spring-loaded camera he employed. Bobcat Goldthwait’s \u003cb>Goldthwait Home Movies\u003c/b> went even cheaper, adding tongue-in-cheek voice-over to his family’s old films to satirize DVD commentary tracks, child stardom and sibling rivalries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If it’s not already clear, \u003cb>Lunchfilm: Film before Food\u003c/b> draws on an incredible array of styles and genres, and (with only a couple of exceptions) is pure pleasure from start to finish. Jonathan Marlowe of San Francisco Cinematheque saw the program at Sundance in January and asked Plante if a touring program was in the works; it turns out the two-and-a-quarter-hour S.F. show will be the first stop. Plante will be on hand, as well as Green and Kuchar, perhaps. Show some respect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lunchfilm\u003c/b> screens Sunday, March 22, 2009 at 7:30 p.m. at Yerba Buena Center For the Arts in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.ybca.org\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit www.ybca.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The short form used to be the Rodney Dangerfield of the film world — it couldn’t get no respect. Nowadays shorts programs are amazingly popular, a reflection less of chronic ADD than the dawning realization that no other night at the movies offers so much concentrated creativity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The newest entry among the myriad touring programs (Ann Arbor, Microcinema, The Animation Show, etc.) is CineVegas programmer Mike Plante’s \u003cb>Lunchfilm: Film Before Food\u003c/b>. Like so many marvelous ideas, it began as a fluke. A filmmaker pal was short of dough, so Plante picked up the bill. The other fellow offered the standard make-good — he’d get the check next time — but Plante had a brainstorm: Pay back the “debt” by making a film for the same cost. The concept soon turned into regular commissions, now topping 50, with the programmer scratching out terms and themes over a midday bite with the designated filmmaker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shorts used to be viewed as the province of students and amateurs, the apprentices who weren’t ready for prime time (that is, features). The Lunchfilm lineup boasts several mid-career experimental and nonfiction filmmakers, so I wasn’t expecting half-baked dreck but a cascade of no-budget, handmade work akin to scrapbook art: low on materials and high on inspiration. There are a few pieces like that, notably Kelly Sears’s mysterious, moody \u003cb>Jean\u003c/b>, which revisits movie star Jean Seberg’s dismal end through newspaper-style snippets of text laid over tarot illustrations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But most of the films are so ambitious and accomplished that they defy any sense of constraints, financial or otherwise. The pick of the litter might be Braden King’s intimate black-and-white \u003cb>Home Movie\u003c/b>, co-written with and starring Mimi Visser as an exhausted, devoted Swedish mother who may be facing the loss of her young sons in a custody battle. Another highlight is local filmmaker Sam Green’s wonderful and strangely moving \u003cb>Clear Glasses\u003c/b>, which amplifies the connection he made with political activist-turned-fugitive-turned teacher Mark Rudd in the course of making his Oscar-nominated documentary \u003cb>The Weather Underground\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another S.F. icon, George Kuchar, contributes one of his deceptively complex video travelogues, \u003cb>The Celluloid Cavalcade\u003c/b>, a seemingly random compilation that begins in Atlanta (where he was touted with a couple of shows at Emory University) and ends up flitting around more familiar environs from the S.F. Art Institute (or Art Asylum, as Kuchar refers to his teaching home in his hilariously deadpan narration) to the S.F. International Film Festival’s opening night party to a show by one-time local Martha Colburn at the New Nothing Cinema. Kuchar’s charming, generous work may seem tossed off to the uninitiated, but there’s an undercurrent of Hollywood sendup and monster-movie surrealism on the soundtrack that nudges his films into unexpected psychological territory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The aforementioned Martha Colburn is represented by a stunning piece of cut-out animation, \u003cb>Myth Wars\u003c/b>, that conflates religion, drug addiction and colonial history into a dizzying diorama. A young filmmaker named Mike Gibisser turns in an artful split-screen, black-and-white vignette of his grandmother entitled \u003cb>Springtime Wound Motor\u003c/b>, a reference to the spring-loaded camera he employed. Bobcat Goldthwait’s \u003cb>Goldthwait Home Movies\u003c/b> went even cheaper, adding tongue-in-cheek voice-over to his family’s old films to satirize DVD commentary tracks, child stardom and sibling rivalries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If it’s not already clear, \u003cb>Lunchfilm: Film before Food\u003c/b> draws on an incredible array of styles and genres, and (with only a couple of exceptions) is pure pleasure from start to finish. Jonathan Marlowe of San Francisco Cinematheque saw the program at Sundance in January and asked Plante if a touring program was in the works; it turns out the two-and-a-quarter-hour S.F. show will be the first stop. Plante will be on hand, as well as Green and Kuchar, perhaps. Show some respect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lunchfilm\u003c/b> screens Sunday, March 22, 2009 at 7:30 p.m. at Yerba Buena Center For the Arts in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.ybca.org\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit www.ybca.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>From the first time your reader laid eyes on the book cover: its delicate, virginal whiteness, the image of the diamond ring above the lilac font, she knew she was in for a treat. Could it be a book on wedding planning? A collection of rueful essays about men, specifically how they don’t cry and have lousy taste in throw pillows?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ha ha! Was your reader in for a surprise. It was actually about how one can combine a lifestyle that involves planned communities, blonde marina girl highlights, dutiful husbands, and aesthetic surgery with an equally lively existence of shagging persons outside the bounds of sacred matrimony. As the author, Jenny Block puts it, “If I were to eat Italian food for several days in a row, for instance, I might want to go out for Chinese one night, which would only make the next Italian meal more enjoyable.” Ah, the fertile yet swampy ground between outsider and dominant culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley-based Seal Press has a penchant for taking seemingly fringe women’s issues (like men who used to be women who have babies thus visibly freaking out Barbara Walters) and then squeezing them, ingeniously, into the framework of the mainstream. \u003cb>Open: Love, Sex, and Life in an Open Marriage\u003c/b> is the newest example of the genre, and it creates the same sense of wonder in your reader that she witnesses upon seeing a duck stuffed into a turkey. It seems impossible. But then suddenly the duck is gone and the turkey is all that remains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Block is that turkey: bronze, and American, and glazed. Her pro-open marriage argument reads something like this: if a) I’m normal (see: likes children, scrap booking, gourmet dinners) then b) everything I do is also normal. At one point, she compares herself and her romantic liaisons to Starbucks, in the sense that they’re on every street corner, hidden in plains sight. It’s a mention that I hope resulted in a product placement fee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Block herself could have been contrived by Martha Stewart’s design staff. An early boyfriend is described as “handsome and preppy in his Ralph Lauren sweater and Weejun loafers.” An ill-advised affair with another woman is cemented while sitting in rocking chairs gazing up at the stars on the porch of an old Victorian. Seconds after Block and her husband decide to open up their marriage, a woman whom Block describes as having “beautiful hair and an amazing body” drops out of the ceiling like a deus ex machina. She makes love to them both and stays over ’til morning. At which point Block’s husband cooks everyone breakfast. And then friendly squirrels arrive and do the dishes. And a talking deer stops by to tell them that they’ve won the lottery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Three months later, the deus ex machina decides that she would rather sleep with Block’s husband and leave Block out of the situation entirely. Eek. Can a life that involves crossing swords with so many social taboos avoid such awkwardness? Probably not to the real Block, but the narrative Block hits every emotional and social snag she faces like the prow of an icebreaker. Girlfriend only wants to sleep with husband? That’s cool: “Nothing is less sexy than disinterest.” The neighbor lady doesn’t want her kid coming over to play with Block’s daughter anymore because she’s weirded out after fooling around with Block and her husband? Block’s there to talk her down, remarking ruefully that being a poster child for open marriage is its own full-time job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the poster child persona wreaks havoc with the narrative, which ultimately congeals to the texture of library paste, even before one reaches the afterward, which turns out to be a very sweet note from Block’s husband reassuring everyone that he doesn’t think of himself a cuckold. It’s just hard to find the dramatic rise and fall in a story that is, in its essence: “Woman, after much struggle, tosses off perfect façade of suburban hetero-normative marriage. Instantly, an equally unblemished and non-chaotic façade of perfect open marriage rises to replace it.” If there’s one thing your reader remembers from high school English class, it’s the concept of the unreliable narrator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> Block is serious about wanting \u003cb>Open\u003c/b> to read like a fairy tale, and your reader finds herself hoping that Block’s life really is this way, and that the gingerbread façade really is gingerbread. But the thing about real fairy tales is: they’re messy. They’re tricky. Trolls are constantly eating people. That’s why, generations later, people still read them. Deep down, we realize that loving someone, no matter how conventional or unconventional the circumstances, is composed of more rough magic than magic.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>From the first time your reader laid eyes on the book cover: its delicate, virginal whiteness, the image of the diamond ring above the lilac font, she knew she was in for a treat. Could it be a book on wedding planning? A collection of rueful essays about men, specifically how they don’t cry and have lousy taste in throw pillows?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ha ha! Was your reader in for a surprise. It was actually about how one can combine a lifestyle that involves planned communities, blonde marina girl highlights, dutiful husbands, and aesthetic surgery with an equally lively existence of shagging persons outside the bounds of sacred matrimony. As the author, Jenny Block puts it, “If I were to eat Italian food for several days in a row, for instance, I might want to go out for Chinese one night, which would only make the next Italian meal more enjoyable.” Ah, the fertile yet swampy ground between outsider and dominant culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley-based Seal Press has a penchant for taking seemingly fringe women’s issues (like men who used to be women who have babies thus visibly freaking out Barbara Walters) and then squeezing them, ingeniously, into the framework of the mainstream. \u003cb>Open: Love, Sex, and Life in an Open Marriage\u003c/b> is the newest example of the genre, and it creates the same sense of wonder in your reader that she witnesses upon seeing a duck stuffed into a turkey. It seems impossible. But then suddenly the duck is gone and the turkey is all that remains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Block is that turkey: bronze, and American, and glazed. Her pro-open marriage argument reads something like this: if a) I’m normal (see: likes children, scrap booking, gourmet dinners) then b) everything I do is also normal. At one point, she compares herself and her romantic liaisons to Starbucks, in the sense that they’re on every street corner, hidden in plains sight. It’s a mention that I hope resulted in a product placement fee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Block herself could have been contrived by Martha Stewart’s design staff. An early boyfriend is described as “handsome and preppy in his Ralph Lauren sweater and Weejun loafers.” An ill-advised affair with another woman is cemented while sitting in rocking chairs gazing up at the stars on the porch of an old Victorian. Seconds after Block and her husband decide to open up their marriage, a woman whom Block describes as having “beautiful hair and an amazing body” drops out of the ceiling like a deus ex machina. She makes love to them both and stays over ’til morning. At which point Block’s husband cooks everyone breakfast. And then friendly squirrels arrive and do the dishes. And a talking deer stops by to tell them that they’ve won the lottery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Three months later, the deus ex machina decides that she would rather sleep with Block’s husband and leave Block out of the situation entirely. Eek. Can a life that involves crossing swords with so many social taboos avoid such awkwardness? Probably not to the real Block, but the narrative Block hits every emotional and social snag she faces like the prow of an icebreaker. Girlfriend only wants to sleep with husband? That’s cool: “Nothing is less sexy than disinterest.” The neighbor lady doesn’t want her kid coming over to play with Block’s daughter anymore because she’s weirded out after fooling around with Block and her husband? Block’s there to talk her down, remarking ruefully that being a poster child for open marriage is its own full-time job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the poster child persona wreaks havoc with the narrative, which ultimately congeals to the texture of library paste, even before one reaches the afterward, which turns out to be a very sweet note from Block’s husband reassuring everyone that he doesn’t think of himself a cuckold. It’s just hard to find the dramatic rise and fall in a story that is, in its essence: “Woman, after much struggle, tosses off perfect façade of suburban hetero-normative marriage. Instantly, an equally unblemished and non-chaotic façade of perfect open marriage rises to replace it.” If there’s one thing your reader remembers from high school English class, it’s the concept of the unreliable narrator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> Block is serious about wanting \u003cb>Open\u003c/b> to read like a fairy tale, and your reader finds herself hoping that Block’s life really is this way, and that the gingerbread façade really is gingerbread. But the thing about real fairy tales is: they’re messy. They’re tricky. Trolls are constantly eating people. That’s why, generations later, people still read them. Deep down, we realize that loving someone, no matter how conventional or unconventional the circumstances, is composed of more rough magic than magic.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Sixty-three years ago, in his essay “Confessions of a Book Reviewer,” George Orwell wrote the following about yours truly:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He is a man of 45, but looks 50. He is bald, has varicose veins and wears spectacles, or would wear them if his only pair were not chronically lost. If things are normal with him he will be suffering from malnutrition, but if he has recently had a lucky streak he will be suffering from a hangover. At present it is half past eleven in the morning, and according to his schedule he should have started work two hours ago; but even if he had made any serious effort to start he would have been frustrated by the almost continuous ringing of the telephone bell, the yells of the baby, the rattle of an electric drill out in the street, and the heavy boots of his creditors clumping up and down the stairs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK, he’s mildly off. I’m female, well-nourished, and in my thirties. And there’s no telephone bell, or baby, or creditors (thankfully) — but there does happen to be a lot of construction, and if I were \u003ci>only\u003c/i> two hours behind schedule, I would be in a much better mood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Luckily, unlike Orwell’s curmudgeonly reviewer, who invents reactions to books he has “no spontaneous feelings towards whatsoever,” I’ve stumbled onto a conflicted little paradise of a literary world: \u003cb>All Art is Propaganda\u003c/b>, a collection of Orwell’s critical essays from the 1940’s (compiled by the \u003ci>New Yorker\u003c/i>‘s George Packer).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It can be a strange feeling, reading essays on authors and topics that were once the height of fashion and are now old hat (such as Dickens, Eliot, Miller and Kipling), but the questions that Orwell struggles with remain pertinent: where do politics and the personal blend? Where does the balance lie between aesthetics and duty? What is the role of language in keeping a public informed or misinformed?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The result is a tense read: in general, Orwell’s insights are relevant, even contemporary — he’s not afraid to talk about sex and capital — but the illusion is easily punctured by a comment or opinion that feels dated or offensive. Personally, I enjoy this type of reading; it challenges me to be articulate about my own belief system and reminds me that no one is immune to history, a sentiment I think Orwell would have agreed with.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What remains constant is the fact that Orwell is an incredibly original writer — an amazing writer — a writer whose world is constructed of language that is rarely trite and often humorous: Dickens’s imagination is “like a kind of weed,” the typical Victorian happy ending involves “family multiplying, like a bed of oysters,” Henry Miller’s \u003cb>Tropic of Cancer\u003c/b> is not just a piece of “naughty-naughty”…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For this reason alone, it’s a world I intend to revisit.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>I have developed a bit of a fetish for European comics writers who go after the topic of capital “A” America. Remember when Abraham Lincoln ripped the arms off of Johh Fitzgerald Kennedy in \u003cb>Hellblazer\u003c/b>? Remember how in Alan Moore’s \u003cb>Watchmen\u003c/b> all of America had been mysteriously colonized by a fast food chain called The Gunga Diner? Remember \u003cb>Preacher\u003c/b> — that series where a Southern preacher blows up his entire congregation during Sunday services and then sets out with a vampire friend to settle a disagreement that he’s developed with God?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No? Well, I’ll do the remembering for both of us. There’s something about the effect of watching this big weird country reflected in works of someone who grew up immersed not in America, but America’s myths about itself — its superhero comics and cowboy movies. No actual, day-to-day experience of the frequent boringness of the real America to grind out the hyperbole.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I had high hopes for \u003cb>Black Summer\u003c/b>. Its author, the prolific British comics writer Warren Ellis, wrote one of the most ridiculously fun superteam comics of all time, the elegant and effortlessly strange \u003cb>Planetary\u003c/b>. His novel of a few years back, \u003cb>Crooked Little Vein\u003c/b>, was all about the aforementioned “America with a capital A.” (It depicted a country filled with heroin-addicted CIA spooks, strange and grotesque sexual practices, and lots and lots of meat, in case you were wondering. It had its moments, but was hamstrung by the front and center inclusion of a preternatually sexually available Suicide Girl-ish bisexual goth chick who (naturellement) gets kidnapped and needs rescuing and falls into the arms of the schlubby protagonist in such a hackneyed way that one’s only thought at the moment can be “Dream on fanboy.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Black Summer\u003c/b> opens up promisingly, in that it features a bloodspattered superhero standing on a bloodspattered Presidential Seal in a bloodspattered Oval Office in front of a bloodspattered American flag and, well, you get the idea. John Horus, the superpower-endowed bodyguard to the United States president (a never named but clearly implied George Bush, Jr.) has become overwhelmed with the (implied) Bush administration: the secret detention centers, the sketchy elections, the war conducted on bad intelligence, and the passivity in the face of it all. What to do? In the best tradition of Stephen Sondheim musicals, he kills the President.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This could have been interesting, especially given America’s historically documented tendency for killing (or assisting in the killing of) the presidents of other countries. Other comic books, most notably \u003cb>Watchmen\u003c/b>, have done well with superhero characters who have questioned, given how powerful they are, whether they should work alongside the existing power structure, or opt out of it entirely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But \u003cb>Black Summer\u003c/b> never quite recovers the interesting strangeness of its first chapter. Instead, the focus switches from Horus to his superhero buddies, who are trying to react to various authorities who are trying to kill them now that their compatriot has killed the president. The remainder of the book is all helicopters and explosions and shoot-outs and black and white flashbacks and “Thought I was dead, did you? Well ha! ha!” moments. Weird imaginary America, and those persons, American and non, who love it, will have to wait for better.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"rss": "https://podcasts.files.bbci.co.uk/p02nq0gn.rss"
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},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
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"tagline": "California, day by day",
"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
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"order": 8
},
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},
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"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
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"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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"order": 1
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"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
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"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"order": 9
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"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
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"id": "fresh-air",
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"hidden-brain": {
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
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"how-i-built-this": {
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"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
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"order": 18
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},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
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"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
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"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
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"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
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"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "On Our Watch from NPR and KQED",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
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