Culture
By Carlos Davalos/Oakland North Johanna Poethig’s art has a straight message: It’s crazy out there. The North Oakland artist’s latest work-in-progress is a series of large-scale canvases that take her ideas about public art into a more radical arena of political madness, cultural confusion and community consciousness. She calls it Wasak!!, in a nod to the Philippines, where the art has just gone on display. The word “wasak” is a commonly used term in Philippines’ slang. It’s one of those…
Once a week, small coffee shop transforms into game show stage when employees lob questions at patrons jousting for a small prize. Click here for the story
video by MARTIN RICARD If you’re vegan and you live in North Oakland, this is the place to be. Even if you’re not, 1050 40th St., is the place to get a good meal that is both organic and macrobiotic.
The Video Room, where everybody knows your name and your favorite movie title, re-creates itself to stay afloat. Click here for the story
Trapped by cultural tradition and poor English, some Korean women find Oakland’s Isabel Kang for help escaping domestic abuse. Click here for the story.
In these commentaries, Oakland North writers weigh in on 1) keeping Black Friday in perspective; 2) keeping certain kinds of humor in the back room, where maybe it ought to stay; and 3) how the new secretary of state selection looks through the eyes of a journalist raised in West Africa.
In training now for the Tour of California, this veteran pro cyclist is one of those whippet-skinny riders who whizzes past you when you’re stuck in traffic. Click here for the story.
The Telegraph Avenue collective, part of this Friday’s Art Murmur, keeps re-inventing itself: gallery, school, champion of re-use. Click here for the story.
by ISABEL ESTERMAN Inside Oakland’s Albo African Gift shop, at the corner of Alcatraz and Telegraph, a deep herbal aroma wafts from a row of colorful bottles labeled ‘frankincense.’ Ethiopian Singer Hamelmal Abate’s mournful vibrato pours out of the stereo, crooning over an incongruously lively beat, while the store’s owner, Genet Asrat, sits behind the counter, her black sweater brightened by a bold patterned scarf with a yellow border. The phone rings nearly continuously, and Asrat switches back and forth…