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Conflict journalist Christian Poveda killed

Journalism lost one of its most courageous members earlier this month (via Lightstalkers): Photojournalist-turned-filmmaker Christian Poveda was murdered in El Salvador last week, possibly by the same gang he famously documented in last year's "La Vida Loca."

Poveda was found dead with gunshots to the head on the outskirts of San Salvador, near a slum where he'd infiltrated and documented the Mara 18, chief rivals to the Mara "MS-13" Salvatrucha down in the homeland. True, he could have chosen a more original name, and yes, the work covers fairly predictable (albeit wholly fascinating) fare -- gnarly facial tats, drug use and distribution, hookers, ultra-violent children. But Poveda succeeded where some had failed and many more had feared to venture in the first place. Born in Algeria to Spanish parents who raised him in France, Poveda gained his first exposure to El Salvador as a photographer covering the devastating civil war for Time in the early 1980s (a 12-year conflict whose atrocities were exacerbated by a little good ole covert Amurrican intervention and whose destabilizing effect helped bring about the emergence of the Maras and other powerful, barrio-governing gangs). He returned a decade later with a video camera and no obligation to present his work sans motif.

It's trite to revert to the "died doing what he loved" platitude, but in this case, it's absolutely applicable: Poveda was returning from shooting more gangland footage when he was slain. Regardless of whether his killers were Mara 18 members unhappy with their portrayal, MS-13 guys unhappy with their chief rival's increased exposure, government operatives in need of a martyr to force the politicians to provide more anti-crime funding, or the proverbial Man on the Grassy Knoll, Poveda lived his passion, his life's cause, to the end. And for that he deserves our greatest respect and, sadly now, our remembrance.

On a side note, Poveda's self-styled brand of photojournalism -- entrenching himself in communities on the periphery of acceptable society for long stretches, befriending fringe characters, and generally pissing off assigning editors under pressure to keep down costs -- is nicely summarized by a former collaborator here.

BREAKING: White Musician Targets Underground Rap Fans!

A year or so ago, Peanut Butter Wolf, who our buds over at the seemingly-moribund TheHeathersKnow saw last weekend at the Save Our Parks/Fuck Yeah Fest in downtown LA, signed a late-20s white kid from Detroit to his Stones Throw label.

His name is Mayer Hawthorne. He sings sixties-style black soul.

I repeat: Dorky white dude from Detroit. Sixties soul.

All signs say Mayer Hawthorne's set to blow in Echo Park/The Mish/WBurg. Tickets for his two shows in NYC later this month -- one of them at Brooklyn's new Knitting Factory -- are reportedly selling briskly.

Ernest and Ironhead go to Heaven

In keeping with the childhood reminiscence tip we've been on recently, today we reflect on two men who provided us with some of the weirder sub-pop culture moments of our youth before dying too young. Jim Varney, known for his franchise-friendly "Ernest P. Worrell" redneck character, succumbed to pack-a-day-spawned lung cancer in 2000, further proof that the bulk of those who provide America with good, wholesome family fun are not themselves living that same charmed portrayal of "life" (see: Ray Kroc, anyone from Disney).

Varney's influence on much of DCQ cannot be overstated. But we'll try. Another day. For now, let's just say we miss the guy. And that wherever he is, we know a turtle's biting his nuts, or he just tripped over a tree trunk, or the chef just made him eat something green and gloppy.

Then there's Craig "Ironhead" Heyward. He was Zestfully Clean for a good chunk of the 1990s. He was also 300-plus pounds! And a competent running back! !Ke increible!

For the fashionistas out there, the always-reliable Wikipedia credits Heyward, via commercials aforementioned and embedded below, with "introducing a generation of American men to the modern version of the Luffa that is now a fixture in many showers and bathtubs."

Ironhead died of brain cancer in May 2006. We'll tip one tonight to the last of the fat backs.

F* you, F* Yeah Fest!

(photos courtesy of Angela Gail of Stereogum, because my camera's broke)

LA's 6th annual Fuck Yeah Fest took place yesterday in Chinatown's Los Angeles State Historic Park. As expected, the hipsters were out in full force and the watered down cocktails were way overpriced, but on the plus side, the music roared and the park provided an open and accessible venue. Additionally, the decision to name California State Parks the beneficiaries of the event rang true with concert-goers, and most seemed fine with having paid $20-24 for tickets.

The park is long and fairly narrow, and the three stages were staggered effectively, so as not to musically contaminate one other. The fun began at 1:00pm, but keeping in line with DCQ staffers' notorious tardiness, I didn't show until shortly after 8:00. I scurried over the park's grassy hills just in time to catch FYF's first ever hip hop performer, Peanut Butter Wolf (who also maintains my favorite hip hop name of all time). The crowd seemed sparse at the stage, but the set was pure pleasure for the ADD generation, with much fun had by all via the visual scratch machine (is there an official name for this machine?). I then ran to see the disappointing Fucked Up (seems they wanted to continue the event's namesake), and mere moments later, The Dillinger Escape Plan, who felt like an enjoyable alternate universe after PB Wolf.

After forking over $8 for a "vodka & lemonade," which was actually only lemonade I think, I found myself sequestered in the fenced off booze area. Though I could see two of the stages from the lawn in said area, I still felt that this was a limiting way to control alcohol consumption. Whatever happened to plain old wristbands? Whatev, I understand that they may have been under stricter-than-usual surveillance, being that we were in a State Historic Park.

My overall experience was grand and I'll certainly be attending next summer, but sadly, my stay at the event was short lived and I missed out on these guys:

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

Give us pristine walls, a savaged Merry Prankster bus and A LOT of pies, and we'll come through...

Immortality has its Drawbacks

What to do when you're one of the exalted few actors who will forever be identified with one indelible role?

Voiceover, that's what.

Six weeks till Tony Soprano becomes a Wild Thing:

Ricky Watters: "BBQ potato chips are the ultimate"

When we were wee bitty Dunces growing up in the Bay Area, we idolized our 49ers. This was before we knew (or cared to know) about collective bargaining, steroids, domestic violence and salary caps (or even 'salaries,' for that matter). They were Niners, and they kicked most everyone all over the field, and they were awesome.

We knew them all -- even the offensive lineman. We had Joe and Jerry and Roger and John and Harris and Guy and Jesse and Steve (Wallace) and Steve (Young) and Charles and Eric and Ronnie and Keena and Brent and Tom and even Mike Fucking Cofer. The only question was whether we'd beat the Vikings, then the Giants, then later the Cowboys, and finally the Packers, in the NFC Championship Game. Sometimes we would and sometimes we wouldn't, but we'd almost always get close (I vividly remember winning 'only' 10 games and missing the playoffs in 1991). Either way they'd riot in the Mission, which, though only a mile and a half from where I grew up (which wasn't a perfect place, either), might as well have been present-day Juarez for all I knew (though it looked OK from the Laidlaw bus on the way school every morning).

The Niners, good guys that they were, played a charity basketball game in Kezar Pavilion every offseason. This was your chance to see these heroes in the flesh, up close and without all their armor. We were there. With much trepidation I approached John Taylor and asked for an autograph. He asked, "You got 10 bucks?" I said "N-noo" and started retreating to the bleachers. He hollered out something and I turned around and he signed my ticket stub. I still don't know if he was messing with me or actually trying to extort 10 bucks out of an unemployed, half-grown person, but I've since concluded that this was the moment when I realized not all athletes were as great as I'd previously assumed they were.

Years passed and we grew somewhat and saw the Niners in a different light: They were still very good -- not dominant, but very good -- every year. But the cast had changed: Where there had been Joe, there was now Steve. We were OK with that because he, like Joe, tore up defenses without fail, which was nice. We also had Charles and Deion and Richard and Rickey and Ricky and William as new complements to Steve. It was this year -- 1995 -- when I became aware of the concept of 'buying championships.' But we were still the Niners, and kicked everyone's asses, and it was awesome. A precocious tween with no bills, job, nagging wife or serious work ethic, I had all kinds of time to absorb every number on the Chronicle's sports section. And it was decided: Ricky Watters was the new BEST PLAYER EVER. He scored five -- FIVE! -- touchdowns in one playoff game. He could run, catch, spin, high-step...the Man. Like Taylor, he came to the local basketball gym to play a charity game with other Niners, and we all got him to sign stuff and he was the coolest. I think he even threw down a dunk, but maybe not.

But Ricky, like the Niners of the mid-to-late 90s, never achieved greatness, though he was consistently very good, and occasionally spectacular. Then he bolted for Philly and had a couple decent seasons there and places beyond before retiring after, according to the omniscient and infallible Wikipedia, reportedly turning down Cleveland's contract offer out of fear that terrorists would blow up the next plane he boarded (this being the age of 9/11 hysteria, and he being a man not paid for his intellect).

Recently, our thoughts returned to the guy. An extensive Google search followed. His modest personal website indicates he does promotional speaking, helps run football camps and bankrolls a positive-vibe rap label.

But he also proffers up a glimpse into his personal life:

FAVORITE ACTIVITIES

Writing and Producing Music

Martial Arts

Reading poetry and self-help books

Playing Chess

Watching SyFy, Chiller and Kung Fu movies

Traveling

Tennis

Riding his Segway

Eating BBQ Middleswarth Chips

Keith Murray is "Complicated but Simple"

T-Bird brings us some old Keith Murray inanity today. Skip to around minute four if you, like us, find the We Are Scientists guys mildly yet consistently annoying.

DCQ's Guide to Sneaking Shit In

On a recent Friday eve, DCQ's New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a "cash" bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of "sneaking shit in (SSI)."

This is an art form we've refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend's spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey's 40s from the Oak Grove corner market ('bodega' hadn't yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then carried in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers' market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field -- approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey's buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.

In the years since, we've became more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor's the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it's a day game and you're nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth -- whiskey or rum only, please -- goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard -- he'll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants' new(ish) stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, by entering the park through the team store.

Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. In such situations, we've come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you're with (better make it two or three if it's a festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn't recognize you're together. This way, you're virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.

As any nimrod (that's you, Jack) can see, we've had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising -- nay, stunning -- when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts had estimated would be a harmless formality. We suspect it was an inside job because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down pattern (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all...everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we'd divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.

So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist's ability to assess and adapt -- that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.

A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he'd blessed with a personal touch: "Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks." We were only 10 at the time, so we didn't really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace "fat chicks" with "SSI operations," and it rings true. But it still won't make sense to a 10-year-old.

Enjoy. And use responsibly.