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Dear, dear Joker, I am far from certain that this is the correct item to send on Mother’s Day. If not, blame Canada.

I know it may offend you. For this I apologize and, of course, blame Canada.

Not only is it in dubious taste, but it’s an advertisement for a commercial product.

Again, blame Canada … and Joker Dave Fonda who lives deep in the heart of Quebec, Canada.

Heinz

This is an actual commercial shown in Europe. Can you imagine what would happen if shown on TV in the US?

https://videosift.com/video/He inz-Handjob

 

Enjoy your ketchup. Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day.

 

Joker Jules

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Brother, where you been?

 

I’ve been hiding. I’ve been hibernating. I’ve been AWOL. And most of all, I’ve been ebbing.

It’s my long-held belief that for the sake of sanity, activists need to ebb and flow. And since this awful election, I’ve been in almost full ebb. Why? Two reasons:

  1. For my mental health.
  2. Because I feel the time’s not yet right for the resistance to begin.

While I and most folks who read this are aghast at Trump’s attacking the free press, cutting off funds to science, silencing dissent, and lying through his grimacing teeth, these aren’t the things that will roll back the tsunami of stupid that got him elected.

The rollback will come when the lies become too obvious for all but the truest believers to ignore, when the cruelty becomes too painful for all but the most heartless to scorn, when the consequences of xenophobic policies become too impoverishing to overlook.

I think all three are just beginning to happen.

Responding to the lies.

http://cnn.it/2q3WsSc              Southern Black students turn their backs

And http://wapo.st/2qV11Pm    Russian scandal becomes Truth scandal

And http://wapo.st/2q52gtZ      Soviet-style disappearing act

Feeling the cruelty

http://cbsn.ws/2pkXrZT           A must-see 60 Minutes segment

Going broke

http://lat.ms/2mDzJaS              Farmers can’t find help for harvest

And http://bit.ly/2m2YzUg       Tourism “fallen off a cliff”

So, do I think the time for resistance is nigh?

No. But I feel the first real stirrings. And a change in the tide.

Jules

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It’s a side of San Francisco that locals know well but visitors often miss. No, not the ethnic neighborhoods the Olders are so fond of — the Golden Triangle.

Golden Triangle? Around 1915, that used to be Market, Powell and Sutter Streets, downtown. Today, it’s Chestnut, Union and Fillmore, in Cow Hollow and the Marina. What makes it golden? Boutique clothing shops. Hip bars and swinging clubs. A multitude of restaurants. And the young, affluent and/or aspiring, smart and/or pretty denizens of the Golden Triangle who live and shop, flirt and eat here.

Many consider the corner of Chestnut and Fillmore the vertex of the triangle. And here, at 2001 Chestnut Street, a couple of short blocks from the Marina’s Apple Store, sits The Dorian.

The best time to dine with the locals is brunch. Which means Saturday or Sunday, from eleven to three. Bring time and an appetite.

Time because the kitchen plays constant catch-up with the crowds. Your food will come but not right away. The wait-staff is cheerful and enthusiastic, but they’re playing catch-up, too. This, the price of popularity.

In addition to a few outside tables on Chestnut, The Dorian has several rooms and corners, plus a busy, eat-at bar. It’s loud but not deafening, quirky but not bizarre. And the food is tasty and plentiful. Definitely worth the wait.

The Chef’s Favorite is the $16 #Yolklife Sando. (That hashtag is your reminder that you’re in Digital Age San Francisco.) It’s an enormous sandwich whose ingredients include a sunny-side egg, Hobb’s sausage, bacon jam, fried green tomato, aged cheddar, chorizo and aioli. Unless you have the appetite of a hungry ape, best share it.

The $13 spring market salad is nearly as large. Add six or seven dollars to top it with generous portions of chicken or shrimp. And maybe order the truffle fries to balance all that green.

The small dessert menu includes a $9 butterscotch bread pudding that’s moist and sweet but not cloyingly sweet.

The OJ tastes fresh; the coffee is disappointing — weak and warm. There are, of course, artisanal drinks (you’re in San Francisco), oysters (ditto), pancakes and grits. Enjoy the food; enjoy the scene. Welcome to the Golden Triangle 2.0

 

The Dorian. 2001 Chestnut Street, at Fillmore. Dinner served Tuesday-Sunday, brunch Saturday and Sunday. www.doriansf.com. Reservations via the website, through www.OpenTable.com and (415) 814-2671.

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IF YOU GO-OH TO SAN FRANCISCO …
Surprise(s)

So many surprises come with Urs Fischer: The Public & the Private, the newest exhibit at San Francisco’s Legion of Honor, maybe it’s best to list them. Here goes …
1. The exhibit (which runs through July 2) starts outside the museum, in the courtyard. From there, it moves through eight galleries inside.
2. The outside work is, yes, crowd-sourced by the artist. In the shadow of Rodin’s Thinker, it kinda’ pales. Interesting, contemporary, but not strong artistry.
3. Ah, but inside, Fischer’s solo creations are knockouts — commanding, incisive, startling and funny. A Swiss contemporary artist with a sense of humor? That’s a surprise.
4. Unlike its sister museum, the de Young, the Legion’s oeuvre is ancient and classic European art. Now, it’s ancient and classic European art plus a pair of giant eyeballs and a tiny horse sitting on the floor.
5. Here’s what makes that such a surprise: “In the 100-year history of the Legion of Honor, this is the first exhibition to bring works by a contemporary artist into dialogue with a wide range of the Museum’s permanent holdings.” So says Max Hollein, the new director of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco.
The exhibit not only surprised us, it blew us away.

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Robert James Waller has died.

Robert James who?

Think back. Way back. 1992. Best-selling novel that all the critics hated.

One more hint, please.

Meryl Streep starred in the mov—

The Bridges of Madison County! Robert James Waller wrote the book. 

That’s the guy. He just died in Texas at 77.

OK, but why are you telling writers about the passing of a shallow, literary flash-in-the-pan who got lucky?

Because:

  1. I think he’s been badly dealt with by the literati, and
  1. I wrote his obituary in 1998.

Actually, I spoke it, on Vermont Public Radio. And at the time, it was more a commentary on lit-envy than an extremely early obit. At any rate, here’s what I said nearly 20 years ago …

 

Not too long ago I broke a strong literary taboo. On this very station, I defended Barnes & Noble. Delicate sensibilities were shocked — shocked!

Today I’m gonna do something even worse. I’m going to praise the book most reviled by authors, reviewers, satirists and literary lights. It’s the most hated book of the decade, maybe of the last five decades. And, of course, the most widely read.

I refer to … have you already guessed what I refer to? That’s right — The Bridges of Madison County. 

          The Bridges of Madison County. For a full two years after it was published, you couldn’t go to a writer’s conference without hearing it denounced. You couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing it parodied. You could barely visit a bookstore without some clerk in rimless glasses raising his aquiline nose in disdain. I have never seen a book so universally reviled.

I wouldn’t want this to get around, but I liked it. A lot. There, I’ve said it: I liked The Bridges of Madison County a lot. I wish I’d written it, and not just for the fame and glory. It’s a tender love story, and it deals with the most thrilling aspect of attraction, love at first sizzle. What takes Bridges beyond the frying pan is that the heroine is caught in a big-stakes conflict: Does she leave her family for the man she loves, or does she stick it out? Is she true to her heart or to her husband and kids? Tough question. It makes for a very good book.

And a wildly popular one. This little 171-page novel has been translated into 25 languages and sold over 50 million copies worldwide. It sat on the New York Times Best Seller List for three years. In 1995, it topped Gone with the Wind as the best-selling fiction book of all time. Bridges was made into a Major Motion Picture, spawned a sudden influx of tourists to mountainless, beachless Iowa and propelled author Robert James Waller from an obscure business school professor to the most talked about — as well as most vilified writer in North America.

As 50 million book buyers know, The Bridges of Madison County is about a Midwestern farm wife who has a torrid affair with a stranger, a National Geographic photographer, who’s in the neighborhood to shoot, well, the bridges of Madison County.

It’s not exactly a groundbreaking theme. And the book is admirably short. So why the high level of hatred?

I’m glad you asked. I think there are three reasons. The most obvious is its popularity. Any work so beloved by the (sniff) masses must be junk. Chalk this up to literary snobbishness.

Second is this: It ain’t easy for an author who’s been toiling for years on the Great American Novel to discover that some Midwestern B-school teacher already wrote it. In a couple of weeks. Chalk this up to literary envy.

But the third reason for the level of vituperation aimed at Bridges is less obvious. This is a book that has a woman falling for a man. Admiring his camera skills. Knocked out by his good looks. Noticing that he washes before dinner and lowers the toilet seat. Swept away by his quietly confident masculinity.

And these ideas were written by a man! It’s the clearest case of shallow, vain narcissism the literary critics ever saw. Chalk this up to sexual envy. Bad enough, he wrote a book in weeks that’s beloved by millions. Bad enough it’s made into a movie with Meryl Streep. But to write about a male character who sounds suspiciously like the author— well, that’s the straw that broke the bridge!

RIP, Robert James. Rest in Pride.

 

 

Jules Older Jules@JulesOlder.com

 

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IF YOU GO TO SAN FRANCISCO …

When you visit the Legion of Honor’s “Monet: The Early Years” don’t expect to see water lilies, Rouen cathedrals, poplars, or haystacks. They were painted much later. This exhibit focuses on Monet’s earliest paintings, from 1858 to 1872. He was just 17 in 1858, the year he started showing his work to the public.

Monet’s early years were marked with rejection and poverty, but, encouraged by artists such as Boudin and Manet, he continued to make art. Eventually, he would even name the movement his work represents: Impressionism.

Though most of the paintings in the exhibit are not well known, it’s exciting to see where this beloved artist began. Even at 17, his genius was obviously taking root and would grow into a body of works treasured the world over.

The exhibition runs to May 29, 2017. In two years, the Legion of Honor will host an exhibition focusing on Monet’s paintings from age 72 on. It will be called, appropriately, “Monet: The Later Years.”

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Outside Japan, it’s rare to find a restaurant like Ijji. Think minimalist. Serenity. Ritual. Understatement. Precision.

On a busy block on a busy San Francisco street, Ijji is almost invisible. Even if you’re looking for it, you could still miss it. No sign, no grand entrance, only a discrete iii on the Japanese curtains that face the street.

Once inside, it’s tiny. Just 15 seats, seven of them at the counter. If you can, sit at the counter. You’ll not only watch your chef — one of three — prepare each item of your 19-course meal, you’ll talk to him about the meal, about the special ginger, the house-prepared soy sauce, which items to eat with chopsticks and which to use your fingers.

Seafood is the big item here, much of it flown in from Japan. Oyster, mackerel, eel, octopus, tuna, sea urchin, snow crab and more. Each just a bite or two; each a different taste and texture from the ones before and after.

You’ll notice the minimalism in the design, the décor, in your chef’s economy of motion and words. From the Japanese greeting to the sidewalk farewell and thank you, you’ll experience the ritual. In the whispered words between chefs and the silky silent service from the waiters, you’ll understand the understatement. And from watching your chef make exacting cuts with his impossibly sharp knife in a ribbon of tuna, the precision will quietly announce itself.

Dinner at Ijji is much more than just a meal; it’s a rich experience. The cost is $135 for 19 courses. Reservations are expected. There are two seatings a night: 6:00 and 8:30. Get there early for each; parking is iffy and traffic, dense.

Ijji Sushi  www.ijjisf.com; 252 Divisadero St, San Francisco, CA 94117; (415) 658-7388;

Closed Monday and Tuesday.

 

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