mashdownbabylon

London Calling

On July 1st, I stepped down from my editorial position at Allvoices. With two months to pack up our home and move to the United Kingdom, I couldn't have had a better reason to punch out. I'll be spending the next eight weeks at home writing and editing a couple of terrific books while we get everything ready. To make the transition back to book editing, after being immersed in the world of blogs and online periodicals is interesting to note, (as a format exercise), given the direction that this kind of work now moves.

Leaving my office in San Francisco's financial district (pictured above) for the very last time, I couldn't resist capturing the signage of the cylinder shaped newsstand that sits at the building's front entrance. Housing not only my ex-employer, but also a Reuters office, and the headquarters of the local Jewish weekly, The J, my former firm's new abode hosts an above average number of news publishers for such a small, albeit significant, American city.

Just before I left, however, I received a call from the very first periodical I ever worked for, in between my freshman and sophomore years of high school, in 1982. Serving as a summer intern for the legendary Mother Jones (whose building, pictured above, is three blocks west of my former office) has earned me a semi-annual email or phone call from what sounds like another MoJo intern, keeping tabs on alumni. "You're a writer, right?" asked the young man who called me. "Yes," I told him. "And an editor, too."

Local Levantine

1 of 4 photographs of our neighborhood, featured in a new photo essay of mine published today in Zeek. Focusing on the imbrication of the Middle Eastern in San Francisco life, the article is a brief portrait of an increasingly multicultural city, bisected by two regional conflicts, and immigrants living peacefully together, side by side.

It's Getting Closer

Sometimes a well-placed sign says everything. A block east of Bayshore, at the foot of Bernal Heights. San Francisco, May 2008.

Carniceria Halal

The biggest surprise of living in San Francisco this past decade has been the number of excellent Arab restaurants that have opened in the area. Starting out with the first Truly Mediterranean falafel parlor on 16th and Valencia, to the Old Jerusalem on Mission and 26th, my greater neighborhood now boasts some of the best Middle Eastern food in the United States. As good as anything I've had in Brooklyn or LA.

So, it was with great pleasure that I discovered the other great local Arab restaurant: San Bruno's Mideast Market, on El Camino Real. Run by a guy from Bethlehem, together with an exhaustively stocked store carrying everything from cans of Ahmad Ceylon tea and fresh pita, to Marcel Khalife CDs and Elite Turkish coffee, once a week, my entire office will head over at lunch and imbibe the best falafel I've ever had in the US.



Call it a sign of feeling old. Or perhaps surprise that, after feeling so dislocated for so many years, those aspects of Middle Eastern life that I miss the absolute most would somehow find me here, in the middle of a war. Speaking in Hebrew with the owner as I paid for my food, giggling, my coworkers stood outside the entrance, marveling at the fact that the awning above included the Spanish word for "butcher."

Granted, if you want something like shakshouka, you still have to drive down to Los Angeles to get it. But, if what you want are the basics - falafel, hummus, shashlik, baklava and, as this establishment serves up, ezme (along with a few other curiously Turkish side dishes) - you can't find any better than what local places like this make available. There's so many surpluses to it all, in context, it feels positively utopian.

Tombstone Horizon

Now closed, San Bruno's Golden Gate National Cemetery lives on 161 acres of land. Boasting 138, 352 interments, this enormous military graveyard sits at the northernmost end of Silicon Valley.

I pass by this spot every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, I got out of the car to take this picture. Looking north towards San Francisco, the city was invisible. All I could see were tombstones.

No Need For Translation

Our neighborhood Christian resource center. In Spanish, "Llamada Final" means "Final Call."

A block south, local proponents of secularism let their their feelings about religion be known.

Street Academy

Right across the street from the San Francisco supermarket where I confirmed the non-identity of the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades leader stands a liquor store. Until recently, it's owner was a Palestinian, and the clerks who worked there were either from southern Lebanon or the West Bank.

The last time I had talked to the Lebanese clerk was in July 2006, at the beginning of the war. He had told me that he was very concerned about his family, who still lived in the south, and had just had their electricity and water cut off during the first days of the fighting.

Two weeks ago, I found him standing in front of the store. He recognized me, and we shook hands. "Did your family make it through?" I asked. "Yes," he replied. "Barely. Your people bombed the hell out of their village," he added, as a young couple walked by us speaking to each other in Hebrew.

I told him about the turn I took last summer in Ghajar, and asked if he could help me identify the puzzling green flag of the militiamen I'd run into there." Oh, they were Amal," he said, referring to the Lebanese Shi'ite guerrilla organization that preceded Hezbollah.

Shit You Hear at Groceries

This is our local grocery store. We try not to shop there too often because it's expensive, and offers a fairly unimaginative selection of coffees. But, being four blocks away, it still has it's value. Such as when, fact-checking an article about the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade cell in Nablus last summer for a magazine, I ran into a friend who had just spent a month working with an NGO in the West Bank city.

"The author identifies the head of the local 'Brigade crew," I told Rebecca when I saw her, dropping the name given to the commander. "You must have run into those people with some frequency when you were there. Does it ring a bell?" I asked. Laughing, she gently replied, "No, of course not. That's definitely not the guy's name, and besides, I couldn't pin a pseudonym on him if I tried."

Choose Your Jerusalem

Sometimes, a ten minute walk from home can lead to more pleasant associations.

Help Wanted

A ghostly plea for assistance placed outside Mission Dolores late last year. Encountered just before entering an adjacent synagogue in order to take part in a panel discussion on social justice work.

Click on the image for greater detail.

The Song Remains the Same

The best stocked section (aside from the Health and Diet shelf) in San Francisco's Green Apple Books bargain media annex.

Perhaps the single most frequently asked question posed by my interns at Tikkun was why we continued to receive so many books about Nazism and the Holocaust to review.

Indeed, every day, new books about the Shoah would inevitably outnumber arriving titles on Israel and Judaism. "It's one of the occupational hazards of being a Jewish magazine," was my stock reply.

Blast From the Past

It's finally out, and boy does it look good. Strolling through the Haight yesterday, Jennifer and I stumbled upon the brand new edition of the Punk Planet interview collection, We Owe You Nothing, at the appropriately DiY, volunteer-staffed Bound Together Books.

Featuring several new interviews conducted between 2001 and 2007, We Owe You contains six pieces I acquired for PP back in the day, including interviews with Steve Albini, Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore, Negativland, Team Dresch's Jody Bleyle, Outpunk's Matt Wobensmith and Black Flag.

Toronto's Eye Weekly reviewed the collection on the 9th, together with former Punk Planet Associate Publisher Anne Elizabeth Moore's excellent Unmarketable. Putting Anne's book in the mix not only was smart. It also explains why PP remains essential to understanding the zeitgeist.

Target Marketing

How's your translation skills? Five blocks west of this billboard, three restaurants serve falafel, and a supermarket carries excellent za'atar. San Francisco, January '08.

Through My Binoculars

When Jennifer first began working at her new office in October, she mentioned that the Jordanian consulate was also in her building. I'd forgotten this until Saturday, when we stopped by to show off her new digs to Jen's parents, who'd flown up from LA for the weekend.

Unlocking the front door, we noticed that the country's coat of arms had been pasted inside the building's Mission street entrance. Though the details are slightly obscured by a mid-afternoon shadow, its hard to miss the archetypal Bedouin icon, the desert falcon, symbolically holding up the Hashemite royal crown.

Walking up towards Union Square afterwards, I wondered how many people took notice of it, and if they did, understood it - the falcon, the importance that Bedouins play in Jordanian politics. Overhearing Arabic on the street, twice in the course of the next ten minutes, I figured, most likely, more than a few.

Only in San Francisco

It was a highly animated conversation. It could have been about any number of persons. 

At a local cafe this afternoon, I overheard the most precious of disses:

"Politically, he's a Trotskyite. Culturally, he's a Transcendentalist. Personally, he's an asshole."

The Day Before Annapolis

Two blocks away, an Israeli-American couple sat down to a late lunch in a local cafe. Ten minutes later, a young woman and her middle aged mother took the table next to them, and in Hebrew, began discussing the differences between San Francisco and Tel Aviv real estate prices.

Walking back to our car afterwards, we talked about how much more familiar this city is starting to feel. The prevalence of pita and hummus on restaurant menus, how often we run into Israelis. And, the increase in signs like this, which we caught as we got into our Toyota. 

Publication Party

The new issue of Other is officially out. Though I'm running a little late posting this terrific postcard, (the release party took place a couple of weeks ago), we finally had the time to scan a copy.

A contributor (and sometimes contributing editor) to this great, freethinking mag since it was first launched, there's a piece in the current issue by me, about my years editing the late Punk Planet.

For the first time since 2003, when I served up a really loud noise set for a bunch of tranny friends at a local hair salon, I brought my Macbook and MIDI controller to the Other party and played DJ.

Speaking of Punk Planet, Paul M. Davis posted his article on the distribution crisis that triggered PP's collapse to the magazine's website. Click here to read his analysis. It's from the very last edition.

Boogie Wonderland

A name and it's surpluses. North Korea's baddest b-boy gives it up for a local street lamp, San Francisco, November 2007.

East Meets West

Not long after 9/11, my favorite local record store began stocking up on European reissues of Turkish psychedelia from the late sixties and early seventies. Perhaps the third wave of musical imports from the greater Middle East that I can remember being taken up by American hipsters (beginning with their adoption of Ofra Haza in the mid-nineteen eighties,) the timing was entirely appropriate. Amidst the wreckage of the World Trade Center, American music fans were instinctively finding themselves drawn to the sounds of the Islamic equivalent of New York, London, or even San Francisco.

Indeed, if one wants to take a sampling of what makes the music of the eastern Mediterranean so unbelievably great, you can't do any better than listen to what's been coming out of Istanbul over the course of the past fourty years. Thus, I was reminded, as I delighted in the strangely familiar sounds of an American album whose arrangements epitomized what's best about Middle Eastern pop. The second full-length to be issued by Madlib's younger brother, Oh No, Dr No's Oxperiment is the closest thing that one will get to an archetypal Lebanese or Israeli Arab hip-hop record like Clotaire K's Lebanese LP, or DAM's more recent album, Dedication.

Relying exclusively on regional source material, if there is a recording that reflects a Middle East-impacted American zeitgeist, this album is ground zero. Opening with the Turkish fuzz guitar of "Heavy", to the mournful Arabic vocal part of "Down Under" near the it's end,  Dr No is an excellent example of how organically Middle Eastern music and American hip-hop speak to each other. As cheesy as that sounds, it's the political metaphor implied by that conversation's fluency that's so crucial. Think back to the pretense of the album's title. It's like a book report about the positive things Americans may have learned from their Iraqi sojourn. Baghdad Calling, anyone?

San Francisco to Lebanon

"They're extending their range of fire," my father said as I answered my mobile phone. Before I had a chance to ask him why, he stated, "They finally managed to hit Afula." Almost a week into last year's war, this was not reassuring news to hear. "Well, Abba," I responded, trying to sound comforting, "That's still far away from your home. At least they didn't point the weapon southwest. "

What more could I say to my clearly anguished father? That a strike on a nearby town was better than one on our own? Of course not. He knew what I meant. But with each missile fired at Israel's north, it was clear that they were slowly getting closer. "Well," my father said, clearing his throat. "Our pilots are doing the best that they can to knock these things out..."

I'd taken the day to work out of my house, and was standing in front of a local, Arab-owned convenience store as my father and I spoke about the situation. When we were done, I told Elie that I loved him, and walked inside to buy some smokes. "Your family in Israel?" asked the clerk, who clearly had overheard the conversation. "Yes," I said, feeling a little uncomfortable. "They live in the north."

"My parents are under fire too," he said. "In a Christian town, just across the border." "Have you had a chance to speak to them?" I asked. "Yes," he replied, sounding worried. "Apparently their power has been cut off, and they're running out of food. I am puzzled by this, because they are Christians, not Shia. Why are your people targeting us? It's stupid. We used to be your allies."

Though I have since quit smoking, I have gone by the convenience store several times, hoping to say hello again to the fellow and hear what ended up happening to his beleaguered family. He's never reappeared. Since then, I've chatted several times with his replacement. A Christian from Bethlehem, he told me that he'd escaped to the US during the siege of the city in May, 2002.

Spotting him sitting outside the store yesterday, I wondered if his Lebanese colleague's parents were lucky enough to have done the same. Oftentimes, I ask myself why I just don't ask him what happened to the guy, whether his parents survived. Seeing as several rockets did eventually fall near my parents' home, I think it's because something inside me prevents myself from asking, as though I already know why.

Local Knowledge

A discarded book found on the sidewalk two blocks south, in front of a pretty tough housing project the cops always seem to be raiding. Click on the image for more detail.

From Here to Epitome

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

In July, we started to receive a complimentary 'subscription' to The San Francisco Examiner. By featuring musicians like Nick Cave and Yo La Tengo on its cover, this historically conservative (and now free) tabloid appears to be intent on capturing my specific demographic: post-punk professionals who came of age in the early 1990s. In other words, the Nirvana generation.

I find such explicit overtures annoying because American news periodicals always over-emphasize their music coverage when they don't know who their readership is. I can't tell you how many editorial meetings I've attended over the years where an editor has asked the staff to "up" the coverage of cool bands when they're worried that they're not reaching a younger audience.

Just look at the headlines above to see what I mean. Fifty-year old Nick Cave "Gets Rowdy", fourty something Yo La Tengo "Still Has It." Its the kind of self-conscious headline writing that speaks reams about what the editors are really worried about: the vitality and worth of their newspaper.

Introducing Raster

This is Raster. He's a three-year old miniature schnauzer. Abandoned by his owners, I found him in a cage at our dog groomers' office last May. We adopted him not long thereafter.

Three weeks ago, Raster started licking his left paw on a more-than-regular basis. As the days progressed, he'd attack a particular, nondescript spot with increasing intensity.

Eventually, Jennifer and I became concerned, and decided to take Raster to the vet, where, after shaving his paw, the doctor discovered two deep, highly infected holes.

"It looks like your dog was bitten by a snake," the veterinarian concluded. "Don't you live in the city?" he asked, scratching his head.

Relieved that we finally knew what had happened to the little guy, Jennifer and I both sighed and replied "Yes," giggling in response to the totally unexpected diagnosis.

"Bernal Heights, to be precise," I told our physician. "From what we understand, there are snakes crawling throughout the neighborhood."

Exploring Our Erogenous Zones

The Schalits have no immediate plans to move to Marin.

Terminal Preppies

The only known 'band' photo: Christal Methodists, SF Weekly cover pic, 1999. Found on an old hard drive yesterday evening.

All About the Subtext

If you have the patience, the results are well worth it. Sitting in the exact same spot from where I listened to him lecture last year following the premier of Astra Taylor's Zizek, on Sunday night, I spent two and a half hours watching the same Slovenian philosopher explain why movies matter. 

A collaboration with filmmaker Sophie Fiennes, The Pervert's Guide to Cinema isn't as overtly transgressive as the title implies. What's radical (hence 'perverted') about it is how Pervert simplifies a decidedly complex, psychoanalytic approach to interpreting films for a non-academic audience.

Replete with footage of Zizek in San Francisco (on city streets, standing by the Golden Gate Bridge, etc.) Pervert is also a curious study in the intersection of his career with the Bay Area. A fan of the many Hitchcock and Coppola dramas shot here, most of Zizek's discussions of them ( The Birds, for example) were filmed in SF. 

Worth noting is Pervert's sixties-style editing and visual detail. At times resembling an avant-garde documentary - imagine a vintage public television feature on Jean-Luc Godard hosted by Marshall McLuhan - Pervert is as stylistically rich as it is intellectually stimulating. Or, to put it simply, dope.

California Orientalist

The mental health ploy had worked. She'd just gotten excused from her army service, and had come to the United States to go to art school. Standing in the kitchen of my old Richmond district apartment, K. [her pseudonym]  sampled two versions of hummus: one from Trader Joe's, the other from a local Armenian deli. "Oy, they're horrible," she exclaimed. "However hard they try, Americans cannot make hummus."

Thus, the perennial refrain of most Israelis living in the Bay Area. And its true. In nearly every instance, American hummus is consistently terrible. Either there's not enough tahina (or any), or for some reason, ingredients such as mayonnaise, cream and salt are present. Even the so-called 'organic' versions are offensive, oftentimes sporting vegetable flavorings. Imagine an exotic wheat paste sprinkled with paprika. That's what it tastes like.

Though my Israeli house guest is long gone from San Francisco (she now lives in NYC), we finally have a restaurant where the hummus is competitive with the best that the Middle East has to offer. As good as anything I've had at Yafo's Abu Hassan, or Akko's Hummus Said, this hole in the wall, run by several wonderful guys from Jerusalem, has made the Bay Area a better place to live.

Located in the heart of SF's Mission district, the unsurprisingly titled Old Jerusalem, serves another dish of equal significance: Salat Turki. A standard at most Israeli fast food places, try and find it in the US, and you'll be totally disappointed. Though its not listed on the menu, it is indeed available, and it absolutely kills. A fifteen minute walk from our house, Jennifer and I eat at OJ at least once a week.

"Never trust an Israeli's judgement of Arab food," a Kuwaiti graduate student friend once joked to me as we inhaled Turkish coffee together in Toronto. "They're all one-dimensional orientalists." I thought about these hilarious, stinging words as a Lebanese colleague of mine worked his way through the hummus the other night during an editorial meeting we held at the restaurant.

"Bloody hell," he blustered as he dipped a thick piece of pita into the hummus. "This stuff is so good, you'd think they started this place just for us."

Local Press

San Francisco, April 27th, 2007.

Dolph Schalit: 1995-2007

Jennifer and Dolph at the vet, February 2007

Just before daybreak, our eldest dog, Dolph, passed away. He was twelve. Though Dolph suffered from numerous longterm ailments such as Cushings Disease, the cause was congestive heart failure.

Dolph did not have an easy life. Found wandering around San Francisco's Lower Haight neighborhood in the Spring of 2006, we adopted him, and spent the better part of the past year becoming family.

Abused and neglected, bearing an unfathomable number of bladder stones (25, or so our veterinarian told us), records indicated he was abandoned by someone who'd recently moved up here from San Diego.

I have no qualms about stating that the last twelve months were the best of Dolph's life. Despite the threats he continued to face, Dolph held them at bay for as long as he could. And, for a short time, was truly happy.

Needless to say, this is a real fucking tear-jerker.

Almost Free

Every weekend - or so we intend - Jennifer takes one day for herself. I assist by either working at cafes, seeing friends, or spending the day perusing the aisles of one of my favorite local record stores (or two). In either case, its a good weekend ritual for us. After an exhausting work week, we both need a break from our routines. Having a little personal downtime is always helpful.

Last weekend was no exception. On Sunday, a close friend who moved to Arizona several years ago was in town to see his family, who were out here visiting from New York. We met up for breakfast at the Pork Store Cafe on 16th street, and then made a beeline for Streetlight Records on 24th. Eager to take advantage of a sale, Joe indulged me while I worked the bargain bins.

I walked out with a number of gems: Nina Hagen's Nunsexmonkrock, the new 2.13.61  CD edition of Negative Trend's sole EP, a Homestead-era copy of Nick Cave's Kicking Against the Pricks, The Need's last two records (including the soundtrack for Nomy Lamm's rock opera, The Transfused), Le Tigre's Feminist Sweepstakes, and three other LPs, all for 16.95$

Thinking of myself as the champion discount music shopper, I said goodbye to Joe, and proceeded to walk home feeling absolutely triumphant. Delighted at the prospects of Jennifer's reaction to the purchases (for several years, she's expressed interest in owning nearly all of the records I'd bought), nothing prepared me for what I encountered three blocks from our house.

Standing near the corner of San Jose and 30th, a woman in her mid-thirties was hosting her own DIY music sale. In front of her stood two makeshift tables. One held gangsta and crunk CDs and DVDs, while the other sported piles of unsorted grime, electronica and indie rock discs. Tight on cash, I decided I'd still take a look to see if there were any absolute must-haves.

Low and behold, a number of records fit the bill: Lady Sovereign's Vertically Challenged EP, DJ Clever's Science Faction: Dubstep comp, Panjabi MC's Beware LP, and Rammstein's Reise Reise (featuring the hilarious 'Amerika') all caught my fancy. Looking over the 15 discs I ended up holding in my hands, the person selling the records sighed and said, "Take 'em, they're free. I'm having a hard enough time moving the hip hop as it is. Nobody likes music anymore."

Authors, Friends

The nicest thing about being an editor are the relationships you forge with authors. By no means the first time I was reminded of this, (but definitely the first since I left Tikkun,) my former film editor decided to pay me a visit on Monday. The first time we'd actually met (after nearly three years of exchanging email and phone calls), Shai Ginsburg was out here on a brief break, determined to finally get together.

One of the best critics of Israeli film writing in English (in fact, the top right now), Shai added the kind of depth to our Israel coverage at Tikkun, which, in the form of film reviews, helped me obviate the magazine's never-ending problems with being deemed too 'anti-colonialist' (to quote a right-wing friend of mine), in its historical emphasis on the occupation, to the exclusion of other forms of Israel analysis.

Much to my delight, as Shai and I walked down to San Francisco's best Middle Eastern joint, the Old Jerusalem Restaurant, we ran into one of my longtime contributors, Other publisher and Choir Boy author Charlie Anders, whose work I've printed in both Punk Planet and Tikkun, as well as The Anti-Capitalism Reader. Strolling quickly by on Mission Street in one of her signature outfits, we almost missed her.

Thankfully, Charlie noticed us, and flagged me down. Introducing her to Shai, I explained that Charlie was the author of one of the more controversial religious pieces I commissioned at Tikkun, an article on transgendered Jews. Long in the making, Charlie's piece was a terrific read, and had a kind of secular quality to it which is so lacking in most Jewish periodical coverage of the new queer spirituality scene.

Speaking of Tikkun, the magazine's webmasters were kind enough to consolidate my infrequent blog entries into one URL. Not exactly god's gift to the blogosphere, there's still some stuff of interest. My last entry was in late December, when, despite my crazy schedule, I attempted to jot down some final thoughts on our Israel/Palestine coverage. Check it out. I'm sure I'll be writing more on this greater subject in the future.

Bring the Noise: Drunks with Guns: Second Verses (Intellectual Convulsion, 1990)

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

Late last Friday afternoon, I was sitting in the living room working on my book when I heard the sound of gunfire close by. Slamming my laptop shut, I instinctively ducked down so that I was no longer level with the window. A minute and a half later, the firing stopped. Taking a deep breath, I crawled on all fours to our front porch. Slowly raising myself, I took a good look down our street where it sounded like the shots were fired. The intersection was empty.

When Jennifer got home, she took our dogs out for their evening walk. Two blocks away, she was stopped by a police car, which shined a light on her face, wondering if she might be the person that they were looking for. Once the police got a good look at her - a petite, pink-haired woman in her mid-thirties - the cops apologized and sped away. When she rounded the corner, Jen found two more police cars blocking the street. Something was up.

On Saturday night, we got online and started looking for news about Friday's gunfire. Not surprisingly, there were a fair number of articles about a recent crime wave in our hood. A couple of weeks ago, our neighborhood association apparently met with the chief of the local police precinct to discuss the recent violence. The cops had promised to triple patrols of our neighborhood. Hence Jennifer being stopped on Friday night.

On Sunday, we found a flyer on a  telephone pole nearby, describing some thug who goes by the name of 'Time Bandit," who is allegedly responsible for a number of assaults here in Bernal Heights, as well as other nearby neighborhoods. The guy is described as wearing a hoodie. He supposedly asks his victims for the time before threatening them with a semi-automatic weapon.

This week's kitchen beats: M.R.K. 1: Copyright Laws

Nevermind the Clichés

The last time I devoted a serious amount of mental energy to Adrian Sherwood was a typically cold summer night in San Francisco in 2004. Prior to a gig at the Elbo Room in support of his first solo album, Never Trust a Hippy, together with a couple of close friends, I managed to get myself admitted to the venue's dressing room. There stood the surprisingly tall, fifty year old producer, sweat pouring down his bald head as he shook hands with his guests, discussing the production work he'd done on the then-forthcoming Asian Dub Foundation record, Tank.

It was one of those moments when I didn't feel like I had anything to say. Having met dozens of my favorite artists over the years, I'd thought that I'd gotten over feeling star-struck. As it so turned out, this specific evening turned out to be an exception to the rule. Having produced some of the most influential records of the past generation - by Dub Syndicate, Creation Rebel, the New Age Steppers, and countless others - for his own legendary On-U Sound label (whose creative A&R work served as the inspiration for the label I managed, Asphodel) - I felt like I was in the presence of the Creator.

Unfortunately, this experience  proved to be all-too brief. Not long afterwards, as I sat behind the stage watching Sherwood mix his set, I started to feel queasy. In fact, nauseous. DJ'ing decidedly psychedelic, fast-paced material (according to my friend Ron, consisting of unreleased African Head Charge material, if I remember correctly), after twenty minutes, I decided that I had to leave. Could it have been what I'd had to drink that night, I wondered as I stumbled down the club's crowded stairs, hoping to be relieved by the cool night air. What a lightweight. I'd only had three beers.

Thus, I approached listening to Sherwood's new album, Becoming a Cliche/Dub Cliche, with a little bit of trepidation. So far only released in the UK by Real World, import copies have been slowly trickling into the US since the record's release last November. Picking up a copy yesterday after having breakfast with the same two friends I'd gone to the Sherwood gig with, I took the disc home, and spent most of yesterday afternoon giving it a good listen.

Though I'm not prepared to do a serious critical take quite yet, I'm not exactly feeling speechless this time out either. Very much in the vein of his last solo record, Becoming a Cliche is a dense, drum and bass and ragga-influenced album every bit as rewarding as Sherwood's last record. Boasting the vocal talents of longtime collaborators Lee Scratch Perry, Mark Stewart and the late Bim Sherman, it almost sounds like an updated Pay It All Back-era On-U Sound anthology.

In a November review  in the Guardian, critic Dave Simpson inconclusively asked whether Sherwood was still creating work as groundbreaking as his past achievements - particularly given how many producers have assimilated his style over the years. I'd say yes. However, I'd qualify that judgement by saying that Sherwood is doing so by refining his work rather than introducing new musical idioms. Artistically, though far less dramatic, that's of equal significance.

Instant Community

Yours truly with my old friend Eric Zassenhaus, at the Bitch mag going away party on Wednesday night. Eric is an editor of the terrific local literary journal, Instant City.

Photo courtesy of Bitch publisher Debbie Rasmussen. Really sad to see them leave the Bay Area, but their new home - Portland, Oregon - is about as good as it gets outside of these here parts.

Knowing Portland's publishing scene extremely well, Bitch is going to be an excellent addition to the community. Its been a while since PDX hosted a national magazine of Bitch's stature.

Today's work songs: Boxcutter, Oneiric (Planet Mu)

Turn on the News

Two years ago, I saw a colleague of mine on the German news program, Journal.  A frequent guest on the show, he always provided the Israeli view whenever there was an important event to comment on in the Middle East. After sending Robert an email to let him know I'd seen him on TV, surprised, he asked what I was doing watching German television. "Television news stinks here in the US," I remember writing back to him. "The offerings are nowhere near as good as what you get in Israel. We try and watch as many European news programs as we can."

Eating dinner last night, I recalled my conversation with Robert as I watched our latest local news import, Russia Today. Hosted by local public television station Channel 32, RT provides an amusing Russian take on international news. Viewing two segments - one on the debate about the establishment of US anti-missile bases in the Czech Republic, the other, the Venezuelan government's granting of sweeping new powers to President Hugo Chavez - I was immediately struck by how nostalgic RT was for the Cold War. Speaking to Czech opponents of the American initiative and Venezuelan supporters of Chavez, Russia Today's reporters made no bones about their biases. Anything that irritated the US was fine by them.

As someone who spent their teens in the US during the 1980s, to have imagined watching a Russian program on American television would have been unthinkable. Let alone, a Russian news broadcaster supportively reporting on the progress an arch-enemy was making in consolidating their revolution. By no means a politically progressive show, (witness RT's endless profiles of successful Russian entrepeneurs) it was still a hoot taking this aspect of Russia's political temperature as I switched back and forth between RT, Larry King Live, and yet another annoying Benny Hill rerun on the BBC.

"I hear that we're going to be getting better programming in the near future," I remember telling Robert in Tel Aviv as we sat together in his apartment watching live footage of Saddam Hussein's trial. " I sure hope so," he replied, pointing to his TV and laughing. "Imagine if you could watch events like this. Its totally unprecedented to see such things, even here, in Israel."

Given the eclecticism of contemporary Israeli media consumption, that, I'm sure of. For example, in December, the Guardian reported that Israel's largest sattelite TV provider, Yes, had dropped BBC World from its roster in favor of the new al-Jazeera English network. Say what? Despite all of the criticisms levelled at the BBC's Israeli coverage in recent years,  an Arab broadcaster beat out a longstanding British news outlet for sattelite television subscribers. How's that for counter-intuitive.

When asked to comment on this, an Israeli relative of mine told me, "All the right-wingers are saying its Arab Israelis who demanded this change. Honestly, I think it was Jews. How else would the Ashkenazim who don't speak Arabic know what the Arab world is thinking?"

Back on the home front in San Francisco, our viewing preference remains BBC World. Every morning, Jennifer and I sit in bed and watch a full hour's broadcast while we drink our coffee and read the newspaper. Even though its only an hour long (and only in the morning,) between this, Deutsche Welle, and even Russia Today, its still a hell of a lot better than relying solely on CNN. Nevertheless, we hear from our cable provider that they'll be adding a dedicated BBC World news channel very soon.