THEY SOLD US NEW TELEVISIONS WHEN WE BEGAN SEEING TEETH IN THE STATIC. NOW, THROUGH ALL THAT BLUE, SOMETHING IMMENSE IS SWIMMING TOWARD US.
THE SLEEK LIGHTLESS ÜBERS WHICH COLLECT ONE PASSENGER AFTER ANOTHER, BUT WHICH NEVER EMPTY OUT. THE TOLLS THEY DEMAND DURING SURGE PRICING.
A PRIVATE FIRM HAS WEAPONIZED THE SENSATION OF GOING TO A ROCK SHOW ALONE
LANDLINES, CHOKED WITH VEILS OF SPIDER'S WEB, WITH NO CURRENT OF VOICES TO SWEEP THEM CLEAN
REVELATION THAT, EVEN THOUGH THE U2 ALBUM'S GONE, IT MAY HAVE LAID EGGS IN OUR PHONES
TILDA SWINTON HAS FOLLOWED YOU INTO A CRAWL SPACE: AN EXHIBIT AT MoMA
ONCE ELLO REACHES ENOUGH ACTIVE ACCOUNTS, VENTURE CAPITALISTS ARE FREE TO SELL THE USER BASE TO A COMPANY THAT "PROCESSES BONES."
INCREASINGLY DESPERATE GOOGLE SEARCH FOR "HOW MANY SHADOWS SHOULD I HAVE?"
THE WORLD TILTS ALONG SOME AWFUL AXIS. YOU UNDERSTAND BITCOIN NOW. YOUR FACE PRESSED TO THE FLOOR, HOWLING ABOUT A DISAPPEARING MOUNTAIN.
THE BRAND OF BOTTLED WATER THAT NEVER QUITE DRIES AFTER A SPILL, ITS CONSUMERS GOING ABOUT THEIR LIVES WITH DRIPPING HANDS AND CHINS.
YOUR PHONE CLUTCHING YOU WITH FRIGHTENED LITTLE CLAWS WHENEVER YOU MOVE TO SET IT DOWN.
That's all to say, it depicts a dystopian world, but the whole concept also can't help but come across as some kind of meta wormhole, like a microcosm of capitalism trying to devour itself. A smaller fast-food giant is knocking a bigger goliath for creating a fantastical totalitarian communist state, wherein the greatest strain on individual freedom is uninspired food, and the most dire physical threat to would-be defectors is whatever horror befalls a person who gets hit by a confetti bomb, or jumps into a grimy ball pit. (Though, in fairness, it's always been hard not to wonder what's lurking in the bottoms of those things -- they're too colorful to trust.)
Do you want Jokers? Because this is how you get Jokers. But don't forget, "Taco Bell was the only restaurant to survive the Franchise Wars, so now all restaurants are Taco Bell."
The thing that I like best about this show is that it's not fucking metal. You may have noticed that just about all of the live music we've done here in the last several years has been fucking metal. (And the occasional 30-year-old goth band.) This show is fucking not fucking metal, and so if you're interested in music of the "not fucking metal all the fucking time" variety, you should come out! Because it has been absolutely like pulling teeth to get non-metal bands in here. Help. Help.
Originally this was intended to be an even larger show and involve other venues on the block, maybe even a street closure. But that turned out to be entirely too many cats to herd.
Looking for a new french toile pattern blanket for your couch? Something that is nice flowery and with mildly offensive genitalia to your mother once she stares at it too long? This subtle floral penis pattern is for you!
I just wish it came in white, because then it would be the perfect accent to my Imperial Formalwear that I did not even realize was missing until right now.
Pro tip: much like tuxedos and gorilla suits, you never realize how many opportunities you will have to bust out a space suit until you own one.
And in further Hubba-related activities, this Monday and Tuesday are the Twenty-Second anniversary of Death Guild -- I know, right? -- and we will be bringing you all-goth burlesquery upstairs. This instructional video will help you prepare:
Also, it's time to vote for us in the SF Weekly Best of the Bay poll again. Relevant categories include: Best Live Music Venue, Best Dance Party, Best Live Theatre, and Best Pizza. Heck, why not vote for us for Best Dry Cleaner too?