1)    Everything is permissible, if you can get away with it.
2)    You almost certainly will get away it.
3)    Because we make the rules. HUZZAH!
4)    And if you do get caught, don't worry. We've got special tennis prisons for the rich where hardly anybody ever gets raped.

Arusi Persian Wedding

Thurs., Feb. 26, 6:30pm. Free, reservations requested. Bonnell Auditorium, Community College of Philadelphia, 1700 Spring Garden St. 215.351.0511. www.whyy.org/memberexperience

Iran is coming to dinner. Papa Obama said so. You know your manners, right? Sit up straight, elbows off the table, and come up with some good questions to ask. Can't think of any? That's probably because Iran has been completely expelled from our cultural and historical education. Remedial lessons start here: Marjan Tehrani's doc Arusi Persian Wedding follows her American-born brother's journey to their father's birthplace to have a traditional Persian wedding ceremony (with his American wife). To complicate matters further, brother and sister were raised in the U.S. by their Iranian father and Jewish mother. A panel discussion of Iranian-American cultural and academic leaders follows the film. Learning about cultural identity is good; knowing what the hell Obama and Ahmadinejad are talking about is even better. (Jeffrey Barg)

Red Herring

Scopitone Party

Before the music video, there was the scopitone. A '60s craze that originated in France, the scopitone was a visual jukebox that played 16 mm music shorts in cafes. Secret Cinema unearths a host of old scopitone clips, ranging from Nancy Sinatra to the unsettling British Elvis impersonator Vince Taylor. (Matt Prigge)

Neil DeGrasse Tyson

Still crushed by Pluto's humiliating 2006 demotion from "planet" to mere "dwarf planet"? If so, pop physicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson is responsible for a large part of your anguish: The frequent Colbert Report guest spearheaded the move to banish the lil' beige rock, arguing that it had more in common with the Kuiper Belt's cosmic losers than our system's VIPs. On Tuesday he'll defend the slight at the Free Library, where he'll discuss his 11th book, The Pluto Files: The Rise and Fall of America's Favorite Planet. And he may just persuade you: He won NASA's Distinguished Service Medal, was one of Time's "Most Influential People" in 2007, and trounced Steven Hawking for People's coveted "Sexiest Astrophysicist Alive" title in 2000. By Saturn's rings, is there nothing the man can't do? (Jacob Lambert)

Dionicio Jimenez

A rising star on Philly's restaurant scene, chef Dionicio Jimenez hews toward the bold and extreme. A special mid-March pre-Hispanic menu at Xochitl, his haute-Mex spot off Headhouse Square, promises grasshopper tacos, breaded veal brains and the relatively tame Mexican broccoli cakes with mole negro, among other selections. (The theme is a tribute to Benito Juarez, the first indigenous president of Mexico, born on March 21 in 1806.) The food at his upcoming class at Foster's Homeware won't be as polarizing. He aims to show that the preparation of sophisticated restaurant fare (three types of guacamole, scallop and watermelon ceviche, and stuffed poblano peppers topped with creamy walnut sauce and pomegranate) is no more daunting than the pronunciation (so-cheet) of his restaurant's name. (Dan Packel)

Austrian artist Peter Weibel's video and text art from the 1960s and '70s, now on view at the Slought Foundation, fits perfectly in today's concept-driven and media-obsessed art world. The work's refusal to be beautiful shocked audiences back when most thought art was a pretty painting or figurative sculpture. But today, Weibel's work--with its playful approach to subject and its smart wordsmithing--prefigures much contemporary art.

Throughout the large show, Weibel's works have an undeniable charm. Soliloquy (1973), a wry word piece that combines the artist's fascination with words and electronic media, shows Weibel as he plays a recording of a sentence fragment then repeats the phrase, changing the placement of the words in the sentence into a string of nonsense. He's an engaging performer. Videos like Parenthetical Identity, in which he tries to define himself by reading a script of his life like a news anchor while a slideshow plays behind him, are deadpan and endearing. (It doesn't hurt that the young artist, with his muttonchop sideburns and thick wavy hair, resembles Patrick Dempsey.) His earnest attempts at self-discovery remind you that contemporary self-discoverer Alex Bag did not invent this genre, although she, too, does it well.

Many of the works, for all their anti-aesthetics and anti-art leanings, are quite engaging. TV Aquarium (TV Death 1), from 1970, is a static tableau of a person watching television nested into a screen of another person watching television. It's a striking image and a great critique of the media's seduction. Vulcanology of Emotions (1973) feels like a complete movie in a minute with a screaming argument and a tryst in the grass. And Trinity (1975), in which the artist's face morphs slowly into an image of Jesus and back again, is a lovely and technically sophisticated work with relevance to today's worship of the superstar artist.

Weibel's street performances with his then-partner Valie Export, still seem off-the-charts radical. In Tap and Touch Cinema (1968)--in which Export wore a small cardboard box over her naked chest--Weibel, like a carnival barker, extolled the beauty of her breasts and encouraged people to put their hands inside the box to touch them. This work transgressed social mores then and continues to do so today.

Through the years, Slought has provided a direct link to European theoretical and conceptual art, with great shows by Weibel, Hermann Nitsch, Günter Brus and others. Highly relevant today and especially for young American artists whose view of art history is mostly confined to what's happened in this country over the last 10 years, these shows provide a lesson on how to break ground and move forward.

]]> http://www.philadelphiaweekly.com/articles/18294/a-e--art http://www.philadelphiaweekly.com/articles/18305/film--capsules Thu, 26 Feb 2009 20:12:15 EST Gomorrah, Cherry Blossoms

New Releases

However impressive the sprawling Italian crime saga Gomorrah, it'd be more impressive if it hadn't arrived deep within the age of HBO and Showtime. After something like The Wire spends five seasons and some 60 hours fleshing out its expansive subject, to extend "only" 135 minutes to something similar can only feel like a tease.

Coming off either like a promising pilot or an entire season gruesomely condensed for movie theaters, Matteo Garrone's Gomorrah--its title a heavy-handed play on Camorra, the Italian Mafia organization it profiles--adapts Roberto Saviano's dangerously well-researched nonfiction best-seller, which delved so deep into its subject its author has been granted permanent police escort. Garrone's film takes no such chances: It's a thinly fictionalized version that, in lieu of a single guide-character, gives equal focus to five different plot threads, plus dozens of characters.

A kid and a tailor each get embroiled in gang play. Elsewhere both a timid middleman and an idealistic graduate fret over criminal deeds. All the while a pair of reckless, cocky wannabe-Tony Montanas run about, waiting to get killed.

Gomorrah is most valuable for its tone, which somehow manages to be clinical yet clearly horrified. There are no iconic idols or glamorous lifestyles here. With its utter lack of--and cool disdain for-- gangsta chic, Gomorrah serves as a corrective to the likes of City of Men and even The Godfathers and the films of Martin Scorsese (who lent his name to the U.S. release). Garrone paints a world whose every inch is corrupted by crime, and sets his action in grimy slums and post-apocalyptic vistas with characters who'll never be emulated by fans.

That, of course, is because no characters ever really grip, nor do any of its storylines. With only a little more than two hours to burn, Gomorrah never gets to develop and thus feels sui generis but superficial. Look at the title and you've basically figured out what Garrone is after. All that's left is to sort out the film's daisy chain of characters. That should take you a couple reels. There are plenty of stand-out scenes and surreal/absurdist sequences--the Scarface Jrs. giddily firing off a stolen arsenal in their undies; kids practicing being shot at with makeshift bulletproof vests; a bullet-ridden car that crashes through a pasture of junked Roman statues--but the only thing it instills in you is a wish for more.

Cherry Blossoms
Directed by Doris Dörrie
C
Reviewed by Matt Prigge
Opens Fri., Feb. 27

Even before the action relocates from Germany to Tokyo, Doris Dörrie's earnest grief porn drama Cherry Blossoms plays like a fanboy ode to Japanese minimalist (and Criterion Collection favorite) Yasujiro Ozu. In fact, the intentionally misleading first 40 minutes could count as a loose remake of Ozu's best-known film Tokyo Story, updated and starring a middle-aged German couple rather than a bumblng Japanese one.

Upon learning that her boring, clockwork husband Rudi (Elmar Wepper) is dying, onetime hausfrau Trudi (Hannelore Elsner) arranges a trip to Berlin. There, they reconvene with their children, who prove madly assholish, albeit slightly less so when Dörrie's script arranges for Trudi, not her husband, to pass on.

Consumed with guilt for being dull during his wife's life, Rudi ventures to Japan to loosen up on the way to his own inevitable end. Amid shots of him gawking sheepishly at Asia's neon and busyness, Rudi strikes up a relationship with an all-too-kind teenaged Butoh dancer (Aya Irizuki). (Someone saw Lost in Translation, didn't they?)

Grief is a hard thing to capture on film without tumbling into banality, and tumble Cherry Blossoms does. From shots of cascading waves to sunsets to Rudi lying on a bed next to the deceased's clothes, Dörrie's film nakedly aims for the gentleness of Ozu. But Dörrie (of the '80s favorite Men) is not Ozu. Ponderous and fussy, Cherry Blossoms often feels as though it were following a how-to on making a film about overcoming death, all set to a sickeningly twinkly piano score. Even the title acts as a shortcut to profundity, and sure enough, someone's on hand to helpfully explain that said flowers are "the most beautiful symbol of impermanence." Gee, just like life.

Ongoing

We spend an academic year in the classroom of Mr. Marin, an effete, exhausted teacher working in a run-down Parisian neighborhood. He attempts to engage and enlighten a rough-and-tumble class of students of mixed races, most of whom return the favor with bad attitudes and bored disinterest. A (S.B.)

Confessions of a Shopaholic

Remember The Devil Wears Prada? Homely gal with journalistic ambition gets a job at fashion mag and changes her life accordingly. Shopaholic is like that, but in reverse. (Not reviewed.)

Coraline

In the Alice in Wonderland-esque children's tale, a neglected, blue-maned little girl (voiced, fairly obnoxiously, by Dakota Fanning) discovers an alternate version of her new hopelessly rural apartment building. There, inattentive Mom and Dad (Teri Hatcher and John Hodgman--try to picture that couple) are excessively attentive and delish cooks to boot. Everything would be hunky dory but for the black buttons everyone sports in lieu of eyes, which, alas, is mandatory for longtime stays. Cue increasingly sinister tone and vigorous workouts for those sleek Real-D specs. B- (M.P.)

Defiance

In 1941, four hard-drinking, rough-hewn criminal brothers headed deep into the Belarusian forest, building a kibbutz where they and fellow Jews could hide from Hitler's goons and wait out the war. The Bielski brothers saved hundreds of lives, but these wondrous facts don't provide enough nobility for boring director Edward Zwick. This is such a damned good story, he's determined to oversell it. C- (S.B.)

Doubt

Doubt is a "parable" of a monstrous nun (Meryl Streep) at a Bronx Catholic school in 1964 who's trying to destroy a progressive-minded priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) with baseless accusations of "unhealthy" dealings with the school's lone black student. There are only four characters, but the action consists primarily of debates between the nun and priest, as well as dialogue with a younger nun who's caught in the middle. B (M.P.)

Fired Up!

Two bros trade football gear for pompoms in an effort to bang cheerleaders. (Not reviewed.)

Friday the 13th

There's no lazier slasher-flick series to adapt than the tiresome legend of Jason Voorhees and Friday the 13th. A cheap knockoff cribbed from John Carpenter's technically adroit, dead-from-the-neck-up Halloween, Sean S. Cunningham's unstoppable series of rank ineptitude stumbled into a winning formula: Beautiful young people fuck each others' brains out, only to pay for it once that guy with the hockey mask and machete pops out of nowhere and mutilates them. D- (S.B.)

Frost/Nixon

Based on Peter Morgan's smash 2006 stage play, the film attempts to chronicle the travails of shlock TV host David Frost (expertly played by Michael Sheen) as he overpays and underprepares for an epic stretch of interviews with "Tricky Dick" Nixon (played by the always magnificent Frank Langella, who's a bit too grave and Shakespearean to truly convey the disgraced leader's wormy, shifty mannerisms, no matter how impressive his jowls). C (S.B.)

Gran Torino

Clint Eastwood plays Walt Kowalski, a grizzled old Korean War vet who, after the death of his wife, tends to while away the days sitting on his front porch guzzling cans of PBR, offering salty observations on the decline of his white-flight Detroit neighborhood. Barking ridiculous, dated slurs for every minority in his sight, he's like Dirty Harry in the sunset years. A variety of contrivances find Walt begrudgingly befriending a family of Hmong immigrants next door. Young Thao (Bee Vang) is an awkward, bookish kid--prime recruitment material for the local gangs. These thugs make the huge mistake of scuffling on Walt's pristine front yard and kicking over the wrong geezer's garden gnome. B+ (S.B.)

Harvard Beats Yale 29-29

The subject is the infamous 1968 bout between Harvard and Yale, which culminated in Harvard making a ridiculous 16-point comeback in just 42 seconds. That should be fascinating enough, but director Kevin Rafferty, who attended Harvard during the game, craves more context. Summoning team members from both sides--including Tommy Lee Jones, one of Harvard's offensive tackles--Rafferty (The Atomic Café, Feed) offers a Proustian evocation of a specific time and place. B- (M.P.)

He's Just Not That Into You

Ginnifer Goodwin stands more or less at the center of an all-star cast as Gigi, a persnickety, borderline deranged single gal who, when introduced, is wondering why some douchey real estate agent (Kevin Connolly) hasn't called her back. In strolls cynical bar manager Alex (Justin Long), who proceeds to offer her the cold, hard truth about how men think. Perturbed by Gigi's findings, co-worker Beth (Jennifer Aniston) breaks up with longtime marriage-phobic boyfriend Neil (Ben Affleck). Meanwhile, Janine (Jennifer Connelly) wonders if she can really trust husband Ben (Bradley Cooper). Funny thing, that, since Ben's gallivanting with a chesty trollop (Scarlett Johansson, natch). Periodically producer Drew Barrymore swings by to lord over the rom-com festivities like the grand dame of the genre. C+ (M.P.)

Hotel for Dogs

Orphan kids have to find a new home for their puppy when their new guardians won't allow pets so they open a hotel for city strays. (Not reviewed.)

Milk

As San Francisco's cherished local legend--the first openly gay man ever elected to a public office in America--Sean Penn's Harvey Milk is a buoyant, expansive figure. As droll as he is shrewd, the character is delightful to watch. The real Harvey Milk's lanky stance, queeny mannerisms and honking Noo Yawk accent aren't just fodder for a typical Oscar-friendly dead celebrity impression--they're pushing this actor out of his gloomy old comfort zones. There's such a feeling of playfulness and joy in this performance, I dare say Sean Penn--who won the Academy Award for Best Actor for Milk--hasn't been this much fun to watch since Fast Times at Ridgemont High or at the very least Carlito's Way. A- (S.B.)

My Bloody Valentine 3-D

Ten years after a tragic mining accident turned its lone survivor into a pickaxe-wielding boogeyman, the mysterious gas mask-wearing marauder returns to wreak havoc on a town full of attractive, dim-witted folks, most of whom are kind enough to remove their clothes at regular intervals. C- (S.B.)

Paul Blart: Mall Cop

The guy from The King of Queens stopped making a television show so he could portray a Rent-a-Cop on the big screen. Huh. (Not reviewed.)

Pink Panther 2

Steve Martin returns as Detective Clouseau, though Beyoncé decided to skip this time around. (Not reviewed.)

Push

There are no fewer than 10 different telekinetic, telephatic and clairvoyant abilities in Push, ranging from "watchers" who can see the ever-changing future to "movers" who can physically move people and objects with their mind. The latter ability belongs to hero Chris Evans, an expat hiding out in pretty Hong Kong. He gets roped into intrigue involving a group of shadowy U.S. government baddies led by Djimon Hounsou (a "pusher" who can "push" lies into another's mind); a runaway super-psychic who's also his ex-girlfriend (Camilla Belle); a rival Chinese gang; and an old-fashioned MacGuffin stored, amusingly, in a briefcase. C+ (M.P.)

The Reader

Best Actress Oscar-winner Kate Winslet essays Hannah Schmidt, a mysteriously private and weary mid-30s tram conductor in post-WWII Germany who seduces 15-year-old Michael Berg (David Kross). They have a special relationship: He reads her the greatest hits of classic literature and then she works his bones. After a couple sweaty months Schmidt abruptly disappears. It's eight years before Berg sees her again, this time as a law student sitting in on her war crimes trial. C+ (M.P.)

Revolutionary Road

Based on Richard Yates' 1961 novel, this phenomenally dull new film from director Sam Mendes has absolutely nothing new to say, yet says it loud and insistently anyway. In a fiendish bit of stunt casting, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet reunite for the first time since a certain fateful boat trip 11 years ago, starring here as Frank and April Wheeler, a tedious married couple prone to squabbling at great length about the tragic soul-crushing emptiness of their giant house, fancy car and beautiful children. The Wheelers feel so suffocated by their affluence and good fortune, it's all they really talk about. D- (S.B.)

Slumdog Millionaire

Teenage nobody Jamal Malik (Dev Patel) is a mere few questions away from beating the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. But Malik's been accused of cheating, and as the shadowy, belligerent authorities go through his taped performance, answer by answer, we're treated to his ramshackle, Dickensian childhood as an orphaned slum kid from Mumbai, riding the rails and eking out various desperate existences alongside his more crafty and ethics-handicapped brother. C+ (M.P.)

Taken

It's reactionary father-knows-best- because-he-used-to-murder-people-for-a-living nonsense, implicitly reinforcing all sorts of xenophobic paranoias and insidious patriarchal hierarchies. But it's also absurdly entertaining to watch Liam Neeson cut a bloody swath through Paris leaving countless dead bodies in his wake. This is a lurid, sleazy button-pusher movie, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't work like gangbusters on a base, Cro-Magnon level. B- (S.B.)

Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail

As one colleague explained, "Madea's following the Ernest route to cinematic success." (Not reviewed.)

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans

Who could've guessed that Len Wiseman's tedious 2003 original would provide enough fodder for a franchise? As far as I can recall, that underlit dud was notable for exactly two things: 1) squandering the juicy premise of a war between vampires and werewolves by having them all shoot guns while jumping around in slow-motion like a bad Matrix parody and 2) Kate Beckinsale in skintight leather pants. Beckinsale's not even back for this bargain-basement third go-'round, as it's a wildly misguided prequel that inexplicably decides to dramatize a tale that was already explained in the second feature. This is the most bothersome trend in our current geek culture, as what used to be simple backstory now takes up entire movies of its own. D- (S.B.)

The Uninvited

In this horror flick, two young girls freak out when their dad marries their dead mother's nurse. Naturally, the ghost of the dead mother is a main character. (Not reviewed.)

Valkyrie

Tom Cruise is far more famous these days for bizarre behavior than blockbuster openings, so in desperate need of career rehab, here he stars as Col. Claus Von Stauffenberg, Nazi with a conscience, and architect of the suitcase bombing that nearly killed Hitler in the waning days of WWII. It's a classy, handsomely mounted production, directed with brisk efficiency by Bryan Singer. And as a co-worker surmised, "It'll probably be wicked suspenseful for anybody who didn't pay attention in history class." C+ (S.B.)

Waltz With Bashir

Director Ari Folman stars, detailing his personal attempt to come to terms with atrocities he witnessed during Israel's 1982 war in Lebanon. The journey begins over drinks with his old friend Boaz, when the latter admits to being haunted by dreams of all the dogs he shot in combat--evocatively rendered hell hounds of the past coming to collect on the present. Folman, oddly enough, claims to have no memories at all of his wartime experiences, save for a single recurring image of emerging stark naked from the water near the Sabra and Shitila refugee camps where countless Palestinians were massacred. C+ (S.B.)

The Wild Child

Based on a real 18th-century case, The Wild Child replaces Jean-Pierre Léaud's confused delinquent Antoine Doinel with a feral boy, discovered grunting and fucking up Rottweilers in the forests of Aveyron. Upon capture, the kid--eventually named Victor--is shuffled first to a hapless institution and then to the remote manse of Dr. Jean Itard. An unfailingly kind physician known today for his pioneering work with deaf children and describing the first case of Tourette syndrome, Itard goes to work "normalizing" the savage Victor, a mission that seems far from being accomplished as the film's scant 80 minutes are about to expire. B+ (M.P.)

The Wrestler

Faced with a health crisis, wrestler Randy the Ram's (Mickey Rourke) forced to consider retirement, and that's when the movie begins questioning how we define ourselves. If a man is what he does for a living, who does he become when he can't do that anymore? The Ram tentatively tries to muster an existence beyond the mat, attempting to reconnect with his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood.) Only Cassidy seems to understand. Brilliantly played by Marisa Tomei, Randy's favorite stripper is secretly a single mom, and the two foster a friendship outside the sleazy club's VIP room. Just like the Ram, Cassidy's getting too old to make a living off her body anymore, and director Darren Aronofsky quietly underlines their similarities with matching camera movements whenever these two are "at work." A- (S.B.)

Mimi's on the run. After five years of being whipped with burning wire, pummeled by bare fists and having her skull repeatedly smashed into concrete, the childlike 20-year-old--who's had nearly 30 pimps since she was 15--is running as fast as she can from a life inside the teen-sex industry.

Two months into her escape, she remains in hiding in New Jersey. If a former pimp catches up with her, she could be killed. Mimi hopes to find salvation in Philadelphia, at a safe haven called Dawn's Place.

Right now Dawn's Place isn't fully functional. The building is purchased and painted and permits are secured, but the board of directors is still seeking sustainable funding for its mission. But that mission is essential, because for girls like Mimi, the commercial sex industry is easy to fall into but notoriously hard to escape.

The vision is that Dawn's Place will serve as an emergency hideout for girls on the run. Once it's fully staffed, it'll help women and girls like Mimi sort out the psychological, emotional and financial wreckage that are the obstacles to real recovery. Clients will commit to live for one full year at Dawn's, which will hopefully be enough time to right the wrongs done to them. Under the direction of local expert Donna Sabella, the counseling program will be designed to dissolve the trauma that psychologically enslaves such women and girls long after they have their bodies back.

Dawn's Place will be one of a handful of recovery programs of its kind in the country, and will bring Philadelphia to the progressive forefront of the global battle against human trafficking. The program is modeled after Dignity House in Phoenix, Az., a recovery program created by sex-industry survivor/activist Kathleen Mitchell, a mentor of Sabella's.

If Mimi had been allowed to keep any of the money she made from all those men, she could finance Dawn's Place herself. She estimates she earned hundreds of thousands of dollars in profit for her pimps.

"It sucked," she says now. "Even though I got clothes, got whatever I wanted, I couldn't be free. When you're in the game, you're a kid, always dependent on other people. You can't depend on yourself. You have to go out, meet certain people and get money off them. You're never in control. Never."

Mimi escaped with a mere $30. And now money's the reason she can't move to Philly to start a new life. In the meantime, she keeps a low profile--her mom won't let her back in the house--and waits for the next phase of her young life to begin.

The international pandemic of trafficking is gaining more attention in the U.S. thanks to the efforts of high-profile abolitionists like New York Times journalist Nicholas Kristof and a rash of new books and documentaries. Organizational membership in Philadelphia's Coalition Against Human Trafficking mushroomed in the last year.

Last week the United Nations issued a report, "Global Report on Trafficking in Persons," that estimated 79 percent of human trafficking takes place within the commercial sex industry. But as awareness builds and legislation tries to catch up with the problem, girls like Mimi still have few places to go.

And stories like hers are becoming all too common. Often, young girls are kidnapped, gagged or drugged and then kept in brothels to "work" as sex slaves. It's estimated that 60 percent of workers in the commercial sex industry are slaves. Only 2 percent of commercial sex workers do such work voluntarily. The remaining 38 percent fall into a gray area that's further confused by the young age of the average victim, the inherent exploitation and the strategic recruitment employed by pimps.

The U.S. is primarily a destination for kids trafficked from abroad. In Philadelphia alone, there are roughly 70 sites under suspicion for housing sex slaves. Because these children are generally kept in brothels, have language barriers and fear for their lives--trafficked kids are frequently told their families back home will be killed if they escape--workers in the field say it's very difficult to reach them.

But Mimi's story is different. As an American citizen, she was trafficked domestically, and girls like her are on street corners everywhere. She's part of the street-level commercial sex-for-sale system, or what insiders call "the game."

The game preys on kids. The average age a prostitute in the U.S. starts working is 12 or 13. Some research skews the age even younger.

Sitting in a room in New Jersey, chaperoned by her caseworker, Mimi prepares to recount her story for Sabella, who was once a teenage go-go dancer in a club in Bucks County. She's now a mental health nurse and a professor at three universities and she's documenting Mimi's story for her doctoral thesis. She'll use the recording for insight as she develops the counseling program that will be used at Dawn's Place.

Mimi takes a deep breath.

"Where do you want to begin?" she asks politely. "It depends where you want to begin."

Mimi remembers little about her early years beyond playing in the ice and snow with the other kids, and that it was always freezing, and the one best friend she left behind was named Ana. She's nagged by the feeling that "a lot of stuff" happened to her in Russia, though she adds that if she was sexually abused as a baby, she doesn't remember it.

"I have scars on my butt, like deep indentation scars. It was a knife, and I don't know what that's from. My parents don't know what that's from [either]," she says. "The adoption people never said nothing about it. They just said, 'She was born like that.' But I don't think so."

As an adolescent, Mimi didn't get along well with her parents.

"They're older, so they were very strict when they raised me," she explains. "I couldn't do nothing. Like literally, nothing."

At 15, she met an older guy on a Nextel push-to-talk phone line, hopped on a bus and headed west. It was a decision that put her life in a tailspin.

Her 25-year-old boyfriend's dope-dealing mother and grandmother pressured Mimi into prostitution. The duo told the young girl that if she wanted to continue living in their house, she had to pay their rent.

"I was like, 'What do you mean?'" says Mimi. "It was weird. I was like, 'What do you want me to do?' I didn't know what they wanted me to do."

Thousands of miles from home and with nowhere to go, Mimi turned her first trick.

But things didn't work out--Mimi's boyfriend got another 15-year-old girl pregnant--so she returned to her family in Jersey, earned a GED and generally stayed out of trouble. But, Mimi says, "Things didn't work out." Soon enough, she ran away again.

"I left again and just kept going back to the streets," she says. "At the time, I just wanted--I felt comfort in the streets. Like I was protected."

That feeling disappeared. Soon, Mimi met pimps who said they wanted to protect her, but instead hurt her badly.

There was the guy who favored punishment by the classic "pimpstick"--he untangled a wire hanger, heated it with fire until it glowed red, and then whipped Mimi with it. Mimi still has the scars.

"Over a Social Security card, too," she says, remembering her surprise. "That was so dumb."

What she didn't realize was that to pimps and traffickers, securing an ID isn't dumb at all. It's a standard practice to take all forms of identification from their underage victims and either hold them or sell them on the black market. Mimi's Social Security card, birth certificate and passport were taken. Her birth certificate was sold for $500.

When Mimi starts talking about a puppy that was in the room while her ex-pimp was whipping her with the burning wire, she gets a goofy smile on her face.

"I thought it was cute, the little puppy. He was barking at him, trying to bite him," she says. "That little puppy, trying to save me!"

After the beating, Mimi tried to escape by running through the woods. But there was a fence, and she didn't get over it in time. A rival girl from the stable grabbed her and beat her up. She was dragged back to the pimp.

Looking at Mimi, it's disturbingly obvious why pimps repeatedly recruited her.

Mimi's got a child's frame and a very pretty baby-face--she looks barely 13 in her blonde ponytail and dangly silver heart earrings. About 5 feet tall, she has the polite demeanor of the baby-sitter next door. The thin strokes of black liner that rim her eyes and white frosty eye shadow smudged across her brow bone make her eyes look as big as a Japanimation character.

How long can a girl like Mimi walk down a city street before a car pulls over and a pimp tries to get her in? "Fifteen, 20 minutes," she says.

It's hard to imagine Mimi working 20 hours a day turning tricks in cars and hotel rooms with strange and sometimes violent men--never mind at 15 when she must have looked even younger.

As Mimi tells her story, the need for Dawn's Place becomes more clear. Getting away from a pimp is only the first part in a long journey of recovery. Studies show that the persistent lack of autonomy, violence and fear leads to post-traumatic stress disorder for 68 percent of prostitutes. Sometimes Mimi will see a guy who looks like the man who broke her nose then tried to force his penis into her bloody mouth and she panics, and once again feels the urge to run.

In 2000, the Victims of Violence and Traffic Act (PDF) finally made the human trafficking of people born in foreign countries on American soil illegal. Under this law, when foreign-born girls are discovered being abused in the commercial sex industry, they're recognized as victims and protected by the Department of Health and Human Services. If they meet the requirements, are willing to assist in the investigation of traffickers and have applied for a temporary visa (or are approved by the Department of Homeland Security), they're extended the same benefits as refugees.

A couple months ago, five young Liberian sex slaves were discovered living in a house in Upper Darby. After they were found, four of the five girls were placed in protective care. The fifth girl disappeared.

But when sexually exploited American children are discovered, they don't get certified; they get arrested and branded as willing participants of the sex trade. A criminal record piled on top systemized physical and psychological trauma makes it highly unlikely for domestic sex slaves to lead a normal life.

So far, one state has taken a first stride toward helping American-born children who are exploited in the sex trade. Last June New York State passed the Safe Harbor Act, which will "create a presumption that a person under 16 years of age who is charged as a juvenile delinquent for a prostitution offense is a severely trafficked person." It's currently waiting to be signed by the governor and is scheduled to take effect by April 2010. According to Gov. Rendell's office, Pennsylvania doesn't have any such law in the works.

In the eyes of the law, girls like Mimi are seen as criminals. Yet the traffickers' and street pimps' methods of recruitment and retention--targeting the youngest kids with the least resources, stealing and withholding ID documents, and the ancient slave-keeping strategy of debt bondage--are often identical, whether the girls are foreign-born or American.

According to one study, 62 percent of "prostitutes" report having been raped, 73 percent report getting beat up and 72 percent being otherwise homeless. Forty-eight percent confess to being raped at least five times. Research shows 90 to 92 percent of people selling their bodies on the street want to get out.

In Philly, the average prostitute is dead by 40. (PDF) But by opening Dawn's Place and creating a counseling model that deals with the reverberations of the trauma of prostitution, Sabella is determined to help refugees of the game escape and heal. These girls will learn how to survive outside of the sex trade and even examine where age and circumstance blurs the concept of choice.

For Mimi, the urgency of getting into Dawn's Place is palpable. "I know if he ever found me, I would die," she says, referring to one of her ex-pimps. "He would kill me."

Once she realized what their common experiences were, she says, it didn't make any sense, from a psychological standpoint, to continue counseling them without directly addressing the trauma experienced during prostitution.

"This one woman in particular, she was beaten up and she said something about her 'Daddy,' and I was like, 'Daddy?' Then the light bulb went off."

The abusive relationship between pimp and prostitute--or trafficker and victim--can be one of the biggest retention tools. The dynamic between very young girls like Mimi and older predator pimps is especially problematic. To them, the thinly veiled abuse can feel a lot like love.

Allegiance to a long-term pimp is part of the psychological phenomenon that makes kids so susceptible to predators in the game.

"You're with a certain guy and you're with him a long time, like two or three years. And you want to get out of the game but you can't, because you're in love. At the end of the day, you are in love with this guy," she says. "You're strong, you've got a strong will about yourself to go out every night, sell your pussy and then come home and give all the money you made to that guy."

It's called trauma bonds, a severe attachment disorder most common among abused and neglected children. It results in a tendency to avoid or resist their mothers and to show loyalty to abusers. It's one of the psychological concepts that counselors at Dawn's Place plan to address.

When Mimi finally got on the bus back to New Jersey two months ago, she wasn't just leaving the streets or the game or prostitution behind. It's hard for people--squares, as she calls outsiders--to understand, but in her mind she was leaving a boyfriend behind, too.

The last couple of years she was on the street she worked for a guy she calls S. He started out acting like a boyfriend. This is a common strategy that older male pimps employ to recruit younger girls. It's called "the loverboy phenomenon."

When Mimi talks about S., her voice softens and she looks at the ground and plays with her fingers. She looks and sounds like any other heartbroken teenager having a hard time believing her boyfriend is such an asshole.

"He was so great. He was so cute. I found him so attractive and he was so caring. That's how I felt," she says, about their courtship.

Then reality set in, and he made her work with a fever until she collapsed, hit her a few times and started getting "jealous and weird."

When she was almost murdered by a crazy trick, and was hurt so badly it looked like she wouldn't be able to earn for a little while, S. stopped even pretending to care.

Mimi says she sensed something was wrong when she went with that trick, but she got in the car anyway. The guy started to drive and refused to "handle business," which means to pay. Then he broke her nose with his fist, yanked his penis out and tried to force it into her bloody mouth by pulling her hair. All while the car was going 40, 45 miles per hour.

"He started reaching to the side. I didn't know if he was going to pull out a knife, a gun, whatever. He could've pulled out anything. I thought, 'Either I'm going to live or I'm going to die,'" she says. "I opened the car door while he was driving and jumped out."

Two girls about her age saw her body tumble across the road and ran over to help her. Her nose was broken, her arm fractured and her skin road-rashed and cut up. There was blood everywhere. She remembers feeling the convulsions of a seizure beginning. She woke up in the hospital with her arm in a sling and bandaged all over.

S. allowed her one week off of work then pushed her back onto the strip.

"I was frightened but I did it," she says. "I had no choice. I wanted to stay with him and if I stayed with him, I would have to continue getting money."

The last night Mimi actually saw S., she was sitting in the passenger seat in his car in Vegas. They were arguing. He pulled over, kicked her out of the car, threw a few bills at her and left her on the side of the freeway. Even though she wanted to escape--that's why they were arguing--she says she cried for a half-hour straight. A few hours later, she hopped on a Greyhound bus. She spent the next two days watching the world slide by the window.

In the last five years, Mimi's spent a lot of time on buses shuttling from one city to another, one pimp after another. She's spent the majority of her time in buses, hotels and pimp's houses. Now more than anything she wants to get to Dawn's Place and learn how to be independent.

With luck (and funding), Sabella may be able to bring Mimi to Philadelphia and begin working on her year-long psychological, legal, emotional, physical and financial recovery. Mimi needs to get her many hospital bills sorted. She's already got a new passport, new Social Security card and a new birth certificate, which she proudly carries around with her. After Dawn's Place, she's dying to go to school. Years ago, she wanted to be a nurse and take care of sick people. Now she wants to become a lawyer. She says lawyers get to handle business, get to dress up and speak their minds; you get to win.

At one time, this pretty little girl was beaten to a bloody pulp by a trick who stole the shoes right off her feet. She ran back to her pimp bloody and barefoot. Now she's tired and needs a rest. But she's still running.

"I don't want to do this no more. I want to go back home. I want to be with my family. I'm tired of these tricks beating me up," she says. "Everything."

Fri., Feb. 27 and Sat., Feb. 28, 8pm. $10-$16. Community Education Center, 3500 Lancaster Ave. 215.387.1911. www.cecarts.org

It's no secret that Philly's populated by some creative folks. The murals, the artists and the music scene get mainstream media love, but the city's underground creative community keeps things interesting by providing original works of art that address issues that usually remain in the margin. This weekend several community-based dancers, musicians and storytellers collaborate on a project called Emancipation of a Soul. Written by Philadelphia storyteller Joslyn Ladson, Soul tells the story of Africans in America through fables, dance and West African percussion. The multimedia production journeys from the Middle Passage to the present day through a series of vignettes created by Ladson and brought to life through the talent of Philadelphia's budding artists. Saturday night's show will be followed by the Free Soul Café, an open mic gathering that invites you to share your own stories, songs, poetry or music. (Jazmyn Burton)

Andrew Reid wants the ball.

He glides down the side of the court, quickly coming to a stop near the baseline. He pivots toward the lane and waves his strong, calloused hands at his teammates.

"I'm wide open!" he bellows, scrunching his lips as he watches one of his teammates shoot the ball.

As the ball clanks off the rim, Reid spins, rolls down court, weaves in front of his frustrated opponent, and barks steadily.

"Turn, turn, turn!" he urges. "Defense!"

When one of his teammates on the Temple Rolling Owls wheelchair basketball team snags a loose ball, Reid, 15, flies back toward his basket, cuts to the corner and screams, "Kick it out!"

He catches a bounce pass, pokes his tongue out the right side of his mouth and drives toward the hoop. It doesn't matter to him that he's barely 4 feet tall and only 110 pounds. Reid dribbles into a crowd of older, beefier players from the Delaware Destroyers and launches a shot.

It doesn't drop but it doesn't really matter. His team is easily crushing their opponent.

And besides, Reid isn't even supposed to be here right now.

The team, which practices every Saturday at the Carousel House on Belmont Avenue, is open to teens with spina bifida, cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy, cancer or any other physical or developmental challenges.

Reid has osteogenesis imperfecta, also known as brittle bones disease. He breaks easily, especially during the winter months.

"I hurt my shoulder so I'm not supposed to be playing much," he grudgingly admits.

He's supposed to be saving himself for the big tournament. He practiced with the Komets earlier in the day, but when a team he moonlights with, the Rolling Owls, has a game, Reid can't resist.

"I'm really competitive," he says. "I hate to lose. I take wheelchair basketball very, very seriously."

Kirlin's 10-year old daughter, Katie, became paralyzed from the waist down when a tumor crushed her spinal cord in 1987. Between operations, Katie competed in wheelchair games across the country. She won medals at the junior National Wheelchair Games, and set a national record in swimming.

"Playing wheelchair games gave her hope," says Kirlin, 60. "Going to all these events and seeing all these other people in a similar situation, it made her feel like she could achieve anything."

The cost of competing--travel expenses, hotels and meals--was enormous. So a group of Kirlin's neighborhood friends, mostly longshoreman, organized a charity golf tournament. They raised $800.

Katie succumbed to cancer in 1989 but the golf tournament in her honor has continued annually. The 21st event in 2008 raised more than $60,000. Over the years, Kirlin estimates they've raised more than $1.3 million, and all of the money helps defray costs for young people participating in wheelchair sports.

The Komets are the pride of the Katie Kirlin Fund. The program has a national reputation, and over the last five years, nine Komets earned scholarships to play wheelchair basketball in college. Sarah Poiesz, a current Komet, is weighing offers from several universities.

"That man is a saint," Sarah's mother, Lynne Poiesz, says of Joe Kirlin. "I don't think he even recognizes the significance of what he's doing."

He's become a team leader, and he's more independent all around. Despite his fragile legs that can sustain his body weight only for brief periods, Reid learned to shuttle himself around the region using mass transit. He maneuvers city streets in his wheelchair while carrying his basketball wheelchair and gear.

Every day, he shoots 500 baskets and sprints numerous suicides. He lifts weights three times per week. He spends all of his free time on the court--playing, observing and absorbing everything.

"He probably knows more about the game than anyone on the team," says Jordan Prusack, coach of the Komets. "He's a born point guard, a general on the court."

Reid hopes to parlay his talents into a college scholarship. Then he wants to become a lawyer and sports agent.

His greatest fault is an insatiable love of the game.

Reid arrived at the court at 9 a.m., practiced with the Komets at noon, started the game with the Rolling Owls at 3, and he's still yapping now at 4.

"Come on!" he implores. "Let's shut them down!"

Prusack, who disapproves of Reid's extracurricular game, says, "They'll shove him out of here when they shut the lights off."

Regarding Jennifer Merrill's recent cover story about getting pregnant at 18:

Thank you for printing this amazing and heartfelt article. This article will help people who have been in this situation, children who were adopted and anyone who thinks they can judge the decisions made by woman in this situation. I have no doubt Jennifer Merrill will be a successful journalist and will make the right decision for her and her baby.

Plenty of teenagers in this city get pregnant every day. Some of them will be forced to abort the baby for lack of money or support. Why are we treating this one case as news? Because she's white? Because she's pretty enough to put on the cover? Because she was narcissistic enough to think that her story is compelling and decided to write about it?

A pregnant teenager is not news. This is a sanitized version of an everyday event and a pity party thrown by a member of a demographic that PW desperately wants reading their paper masquerading as something newsworthy.

If this is really what we have to accept as content these days, you could at least do us the favor of having an editor look at the story or make it an "as told to" deal and let someone who can actually string words together to make a sentence relate the melodrama to us. This article is cliche-ridden, overwrought and trying far too hard to be "writerly." The cover of a product that's going to be consumed by an audience is not the place to hold amateur hour. We readers deserve much better than this.

Jennifer Merrill is a brave young lady. As a young woman myself, the thoughts of pregnancy are more than a little overwhelming. I'm sure it was hard for her to get a positive perspective, but she has proven that unexpectancies in life can be shockingly happy discoveries in the end. Merrill may be young but her mental strength is inspiring. To think that she is making such a weighty decision during this time of her life may be unfortunate in many ways considering the finance, time and attention needed for a child in addition to our already hectic and stressful lives as students, but from this story I have faith she will be able to make the right decisions for herself and baby.

Not to sound heartless, but this is nothing compared to what some people go through. How about the teenagers who get pregnant and their parents abandon them? I don't see why this is newsworthy and I am offended that this story is being glorified while so many are out there with zero support and no one cares to tell their story.

This story is beautifully written and one that touches the heart whether you have ever been in a similar situation or not. I think it's great that PW is looking to the next generation to contribute. I mean, do we really need another story about the economy or housing crisis? Merrill may not have the writing ability that someone who's been in the business for 20 years does, but I think her article is amazing and heartfelt.

Not to disparage the young author and mother (I wish her the best of luck in the choices she decides are best for her and her child), but this is not a realistic view of the lives of most teen parents. Because she's white, pretty and middle class, it's newsworthy?

I'm also a little turned off by the seemingly anti-choice vibe this article gave me. Certainly it wouldn't make for a newsworthy story if she had chosen to terminate her pregnancy. Society puts so much shame and secrecy around abortion; it's really unfair. I respect the choice she made, but the fact is she had a choice. We never focus or write articles about the similarly brave women who choose not to carry to term for their own reasons. The section about abortion seemed to demonize the act, not discuss it as a viable choice for many people.

Jennifer Merrill has written an important and engaging article. She and her family are dealing with her unplanned pregnancy with courage and thoughtful pursuit of facts, in order to make the best decision possible for the child involved. To complicate this decision, as she has so eloquently expressed in her article, her choice cannot be made by rational thinking alone; this is a decision that will be influenced by the heart.

This story raises awareness about the important issues of unplanned pregnancy, abortion, adoption and responsible decision-making. The writer's story is enhanced by the authenticity of her young age, voice and demographic.

Whatever Merrill chooses to do, once

her choice is made, I hope that she will have peace of mind and spirit in the knowledge that she made the right choice, and go forward with self-confidence into the rest of her life.

My main concern over the article about a young teenage mother's experience with an unplanned pregnancy is that Philadelphia Weekly has been conned into putting forth a pro-life perspective veiled in a human interest story. The young writer should be commended, along with the thousands of others across the country in similar situations, for confronting her situation and exploring her options and feelings, and as someone who is pro-choice, I fully support her decision to continue with the pregnancy. But PW owes its readers a better explanation for how this article came about and why it chose to publish such a piece.

While abortion is never something to be celebrated, it is a viable option for women in her situation, yet all the tell-tale signs of someone who has been co-opted by the pro-life establishment are pretty clear within the article­--but they aren't explored in any detail. If publishing this article was an attempt to create dialogue about the politics of the abortion debate, fine, make that clear. By not addressing this issue in any meaningful way, it leaves the reader suspicious of the fact that PW has been used as a pawn in a very serious debate that continues to captivate the country. At the very least, readers deserve an opposing point of view.

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Arbouretum

There is an ease to Baltimore's Arbouretum that begs you to stick around. The organic nature of the calm and subtle psychedelia breathes with every confident minute of their longer songs. Neil Young's more open-ended neo-Western guitar work isn't too far off. It certainly isn't the most original stuff around, but at its best it's effective at lulling you into an easy place. Music this lazy can collapse in on itself without any talent to drive it; fortunately Arboretum do a good job of serving their material in a way that keeps it vital no matter how laid-back. (John Cramer)

Alela Diane

Mid-twentysomething California-bred folkie Alela Diane is loosely affiliated with the so-called New Weird America movement, mostly because of her long-standing friendship with Joanna Newsom and Mariee Sioux. But there's nothing particularly weird or freaky about strumming simple yet affecting chords on an acoustic guitar; singing about cuckoos, forests, fireplaces and lives that are "buried in snow"; or warbling warmly and wistfully with an assured voice that occasionally recalls Joni Mitchell. So no, you don't have to listen while sitting on horse blankets or bring crystals to this show. Diane's songs are still plenty magical, though, and she can cast musical spells with the best of 'em. (Michael Alan Goldberg)

Juana Molina

Juana Molina has toured the U.S. in the past, but always by herself, relying on her own soft voice, acoustic guitar and a variety of digital aids to get her songs across. This time, however, the Argentinian actress-turned-songwriter brings a full band to help interpret her music. That'll be key as she plays from the densely textured Un Día, out since late 2008 on Domino. The fifth album in 13 years, Día is built on driving rhythms and striking vocal counterpoints. The new material is less like singer-songwriter epiphanies and more like ecstatic, multicultured celebrations--and sure to expand to fill the room. (Jennifer Kelly)

John Hollenbeck

One of jazz's most provocative drummer-composers, John Hollenbeck stormed Philly not long ago with his mind-altering Claudia Quintet and Tony Malaby's Cello Trio. His "Big Ears" residency, an innovative winter series sponsored by the Bride, is about to wrap up, and this week's 19-piece large ensemble gig is part one of the send-off. Marshaling the resources of top New York improvisers, Hollenbeck conjures a world of bustling eclecticism, driving rhythm and tone poetry, captured beautifully on his 2005 OmniTone release A Blessing. On March 6 he returns to lead a handpicked Philly group in "The Philadelphia Compositions," a set of new works inspired by the Big Ears experience. (David R. Adler)

The Homosexuals

It's an old British punk legend backed by a cadre of young, energetic admirers from New York City. But it's no shtick, no Who-style go-around for extra cash or some geezer thinking he's still the shit. Because 58-year-old Bruno Wizard, Homosexual frontman, is. These Homos rock, hard and without abandon. They scream and jump around stage, sweat flying off their faces and hair in a near-cathartic stupor while delivering in-your-face, aggressive and convulsive punk rock with catchy undertones of '70s British pop. (Katherine Silkaitis)

Black Sheep

The early-'90s blending of jazz with thoughtful, intelligent lyrics never got much better than Black Sheep's debut album A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Gone was the overtly macho seriousness of the gangsta movement, replaced with funky playfulness and a welcome sense of humor, put to good effect in their gangsta parody track "U Mean I'm Not." After their 1994 album Non-Fiction it would be 12 years before they'd release another full-length, and then only on download. In 2008 their hit "The Choice Is Yours" was remixed and rereleased to lend support to the Obama campaign. Easily one of the best, most fun hip-hop acts of any era. (J.C.)

Bang on a Can All-Stars + Glenn Kotche

Bang on a Can strives to push classical music into a modern, interdisciplinary arena, where genre distinctions matter little. The Bang on a Can All-Stars is a subunit, like a shuttle craft, touching off encounters with guest musicians of all types, including jazzers Don Byron and Daniel Kelly. This week they unite with Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche, whose solo projects (including 2006's Mobile) have an abstract, hypnotic, percussive quality reminiscent of Steve Reich. It's not the first such ambitious undertaking for Kotche, whose "Anomaly," commissioned by the Kronos Quartet, premiered in 2007. Like fellow Wilco-ite Nels Cline, he's a rocker and a seeker, with one foot deep in the avant-garde. (D.R.A.)

Philly artisans worry the federal government will put them out of business.

The handmade wooden cars that Frank Burkhauser sells in his Pine Street shop will not poison your children. He's sure of it.

"It's wood and some mineral oils," says Burkhauser, who owns Spirit of the Artist, a store selling a wide array of crafts. "I happen to know it's safe, whether it's tested or not. It's wood and finish. They can eat it if they want."

Burkhauser's toys probably won't appear on a kids' menu anytime soon. But he and numerous other Philadelphia artisans are worried that new federal testing rules designed to protect children will end up forcing them to give up making toys, bibs, sweaters and other handmade items for children--leaving the entertainment and clothing of American youth entirely in the hands of big corporations.

"There's panic in the market already," Burkhauser says.

That panic was created by the new Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act (CPSIA), a federal law passed last year in the wake of safety scandals involving Chinese-made products. The act requires that all products created for children--including books, clothes and wooden toys--undergo testing and certification for toxic substances such as lead and phthalate.

What's more, the rules apply both to big businesses and the "mompreneurs" making bibs to sell on Etsy. Mattel can afford to pay $550 to test a toy; for Philly's community of knitters, woodworkers and other artisans--as well as the stores, like Burkhauser's, that sell their goods--that same cost could be a deal breaker.

"There's fear in the buyers because the buyers think they're gonna have to pull out in the future," Burkhauser says.

The crafters have already received one break. Facing an uproar over the requirements, the Consumer Product Safety Commission has issued a "stay of enforcement," meaning the new rules--which were set to go into effect this month--won't be enforced until Feb. 10, 2010.

That leaves the craft community uncertain about what's next.

"There's been some attorneys general who say they intend to enforce the law," says Kathleen Fasanella, author of the book The Entrepreneur's Guide to Sewn Product Manufacturing. "We don't know how stringent they're going to be."

But there is an opportunity to make the law work for everybody, she says, including consumers. She and many other industry insiders believe that the responsibility of testing for lead and phthalate should lie with the suppliers of raw materials.

"A lot of suppliers already certify their products, so we would like to be able to use our vendors' third-party certifications. And right now, we're not allowed to do that, which doesn't make sense," Fasanella says.

"If you make pajamas, you have to comply with flammability rules for kids, and we're allowed to use certifications from fabric vendors for flammability. So we're just saying it makes sense to do that with lead and phthalate testing as well."

Even with the stay of enforcement, nervous chatter about CPSIA was prominent at the recent biannual Buyers Market of American Craft, hosted at the Pennsylvania Convention Center.

Wendy Rosen, president of the Buyers Market, is protective of her community.

"These people are the most organic people on the face of the earth," she says. "We all know that the toys that have been of the greatest concern have been imported toys."

Rosen says the fear created by CPSIA has already damaged the industry.

"In a time of so much fear right now for small businesses, this is just too much," she says. "What is the impact of fear and what is the impact of legislation? Those are two separate things."

Fasanella, though, was hopeful.

"The point is that consumers need to be protected," she says. "It's not a situation of either/or, where only consumers or only manufacturers need to be protected. We can make this situation work for everybody."

Watch Jeff Fusco's slideshow from the funeral.

It was a fearfully cold day, and thousands of police officers marched past the memorial squad car for yet another fallen officer. They shared the same small steps, the same grave looks, the same stiff backs. They marched into the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul past a sea of fellow well-wishers who stood outside, cheeks red and cold in the wind. They marched inside until the Basilica was nearly filled with people; those left outside stood solemnly during the Catholic funeral of Officer John Pawlowski.

After the service, the officers marched out, same as before, then police cars zoomed off in an endless line. The hearse carrying Officer Pawlowski was followed by a phalanx of motorcycles and sparkling white cars from the Police Department. The motorcade went up I-95, toward the neighborhoods where the grid system breaks down, where so many of the police officers live in stout postwar houses near the Delaware. (Pawlowski still lived where he grew up, in Parkwood Manor, a stone's throw from the suburbs.)

The procession swept past officers and firefighters on overpasses, past officers paying their respects in solemn roadside salutes. It went into the suburbs and by the schools and strip malls on Street Road. It went through fire-truck arches and past bikers holding American flags in the brisk February winds. Finally, it went through the gates of Resurrection Cemetery.

Yet the number of police officers who memorialize their fallen brother or sister seems to grow each time. The services, the procession, the officers at the cemetery--it all seems like more this time. Even actor David Morse, the guy who played a former Philadelphia cop in the TV show Hack, stands against a light pole outside the church. With each loss, the department grows stronger.

Enormous groups of police personnel gathered in John Pawlowski's memory last week. They lined the pews at St. Anselm's in Parkwood on Monday night. They marched down Academy Road on Thursday at dusk to the funeral home for the wake. They processed in and out of the Basilica and stood still at the cemetery as the cold wind swept across the hillsides lined with headstones. The fierce, consistent presence is an impressive show of unity. It shuts down streets; it silences cities.

They are feared and comforting, loathed and respected. They are always late and always on time. They inspire strong emotions.

So it's fitting the police funeral has become such a spectacle. Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey came here from Chicago, where police funerals almost stop time. He felt Philly needed more pomp and circumstance. He wanted to march with the mayor to the funeral home for the wake; he wanted police recruits to dot the road to the gravesite; he wanted the horse-drawn carriages and the symbolic reminders that one good man is missing.

At the cemetery, helicopters flew overhead in a missing-man formation. Police officers from the 35th District signed off Officer John Pawlowski for the last time: "From members of the 35th District and your entire police family, we thank you for a job well done."

The words of the service, the procession of cars, the final words at the cemetery are ritual and tradition, done the same way many times over the last few months.

But they are done with a precision that shows great care. The pallbearers practiced in the days leading up to Pawlowski's funeral by carrying a casket stuffed with dumbbells. When the time came, they marched despite the cold weather. The spectacle of it all is maybe the most uplifting thing the police department does. They just do it right.

At first sight, it's like being south of the border, in that kind of sexy, vaguely sinister, Touch of Evil town. Dark. Noisy. The two oak bars, busy, lined with sweaty bottles of Negra Modelo and weighty wood stools carved by calloused hands in Chihuahua. Cowboys shoot the shit while tarts in fishnets shoot cheap bourbon, and the Virgin of Guadalupe, unofficial guardian and bang-up baby-sitter, turns a blind eye.

But take a closer look. The vintage Wranglers and Western plaid shirts are from Texas, but by way of Sugar Cube and Green Street Consignment. Cans of PBR and "Push Pop" cocktails stand alongside the Mexican beer, and sculptor Joe Brenman's Virgin ... well, at the risk of my immortal soul, she looks like a drag cabaret headliner, with the va-va-voom bod of Jessica Rabbit and the mitts of a power forward.

Dios mio, we're not in Lord-lovin' Texas anymore.

At El Camino Real, owner Owen Kamihira channels the Rio region with artistic Yankee swagger, and like the atmosphere, the menu is a wild collision of West Texas and Northern Mexico.

Executive Chef Jen Zavala, the former Deuce sous chef, makes the flour tortillas from her grandmother's recipe--soft circles that surround carnitas, cactus, tongue and 10 other fillings in El Camino's "Two Little Burritos." Actually two big burritos--they're priced by the filling--but you can't mix and match among the same price point. Bummed, I steered toward the barbacoa burritos, stuffed with lamb, treated to a chili paste rub and slow steam bath perfumed with apples, peppers and hoja santa, the Mexican herb redolent of root beer and eucalyptus.

When the smoke cleared, the beef had taken on a near-jerky consistency and a rootin'-tootin' zestiness I loved. The meat went stag inside tortillas, with sliced radish, lime, jicama-cabbage slaw and smoked pico de gallo riding shotgun. Like with tacos, you're meant to dress the burritos, but they're already wrapped--albeit carelessly, like loose-leaf megaphones you'd roll up in homeroom--leaving you to unroll, reroll, unroll, reroll. It was annoying.

The better half of El Camino's menu pays tribute to pit-style West Texas barbecue, with Zavala smoking nine cuts of meat (plus seitan for the vegans) over applewood mesquite in the restaurant's twin 250-pound smokers. The pig wings, three smoked and deep-fried pork shanks, are my new drinking buddies. They packed all the hot, buttery satisfaction of conventional wings, plus the falling-apart texture of braised short ribs.

Priced by the quarter-pound and served with pickles, buttered thick-cut Texas toast--Baker Street bakes the Wonder-like loaves exclusively for El Camino--and spicy or sweet house-made barbecue sauces, the smoked meat entrees brought out the best in the kitchen as well as the bartender.

Being neither a butcher nor a McDonald's cook, I quickly realized I had no clue what a quarter-pound looked like, so I ordered half a pound each of the 22-hour-smoked Wagyu brisket and shaved Berkshire pork loin. The bartender, who up to this point had been the kind of cool, friendly dude you hope your sister marries, hesitated. Too much food, he said. Start with the quarter, go from there.

I've never had a server encourage me to order less. Usually, it's, "Would you like bottled water/a tableside shaving of black truffles/a construction-grade wheelbarrow to assist your fat ass out the door?"

My man was right. The portions were enough, especially with the crazy-good grilled corn on the cob with cotija cheese, cilantro lime aoili and fiery baked beans flecked with house-cured bacon. Both cuts were incredibly juicy and tender. Zavala gets the brisket from Strube Ranch just outside Dallas, but I won't hold that against her.

The overly sweet banana pudding and overly salty buńuelos, however, I will. At $7, the desserts are also expensive relative to the rest of the super-affordable menu. I could've had that extra quarter-pound of glorious brisket for the same price.

In a city sorely lacking proper 'cue, Kamihira and Zavala delivered, but for me, it was the easygoing, genuine service that stood out most. Someone trying to save you a buck; that's something you can appreciate no matter what country you're in.

Awash in romantic ambivalence and pained, inarticulate yearning, director James Gray's new melodrama Two Lovers should probably be considered ridiculous. And while I'll concede that on some level it's fairly absurd, I also found it impossible not to be swept up in the film's gonzo sincerity; tickled by its eccentric humor; and dazzled by Gray's lush stretches of cinematic elegance.

Joaquin Phoenix stars, delivering his farewell film performance--at least according to that dopey bearded-rapper shtick he's been pulling on talk shows. (I don't believe any of it for a second.) Here, he plays Leonard Kraditor, a heartsick, bumbling mess who's recently reclaimed his childhood bedroom, living with his parents in the insular Jewish community of Brighton Beach. We hear mention of a bad breakup, and subsequent suicidal overtures. Off-kilter Leonard even hurls himself into Sheepshead Bay before the opening credits have unspooled, only to think better of it and head home for dinner.

He's an odd, tormented duck, but also quite funny and vulnerable at unexpected moments. This is Phoenix's third collaboration with writer-director Gray, and the two have clearly established a level of comfort that allows the actor to go for broke here, pushing his mumbled Brando-isms and sideways line readings to a state of grace. It's brave, marvelous work and you're never quite sure what he's going to do next.

Leonard is all set to inherit his family's thriving dry-cleaning empire, and his folks can't help playing matchmaker for their wayward son, constantly inviting an important business partner's daughter to the house for all sorts of awkward family occasions. Sandra (Vinessa Shaw) is sexy, stable and inexplicably captivated by Leonard. (What such a put-together gal sees in this cuckoo-bird is a question the film never answers.) Leonard likes her just fine, but he's distracted.

There's a blonde shiksa goddess living in an apartment upstairs, sticking out like a sore thumb in this ethnically hermetic community. Gwyneth Paltrow plays Michelle, mistress to a hotshot Manhattan lawyer and for all intents and purposes she's a walking disaster. At long last ditching her boring Grace Kelly ingenue routine, Paltrow tears into the role with a reckless grit we haven't seen since her early days in Hard Eight or Flesh and Bone. Michelle is druggy, erratic and altogether mesmerizing, triggering amour fou at first sight in our bewildered young Leonard.

Adapted by Gray and co-screenwriter Richard Menello from Dostoyevsky's "White Nights," Two Lovers boasts a brazenly schematic framework. Obviously, Sandra represents stability, responsibility and a long, quiet future in the old neighborhood, while Michelle personifies the reckless moment, fits of overheated passion and childish notions of a bohemian life. In many ways, it could even be considered a remake of Gray's last feature, We Own the Night, which starred Phoenix as another prodigal son, dabbling in drug deals and nightclub shenanigans to break free from his family of career cops.

But Gray's previous pictures have been stilted crime dramas, strikingly well-made but typically done in by a sense of Shakespearean solemnity. Ditching the genre conventions has worked wonders for the filmmaker; it feels like somebody finally opened a window and let some air in. Two Lovers is looser and far more alive than anything he's done before.

There's a richness to his depiction of this Brighton Beach neighborhood, with some sharp insights on the class divide and unexpected bursts of humor. (Isabella Rossellini delivers a very droll performance as Leonard's asphyxiating mother.) Gray and cinematographer Joaquin Baca-Asay are stubbornly old-school, favoring the long-take, classical compositions of vintage Coppola and '70s European art cinema.

But there's always something erupting within the confines of these rigidly designed shots, whether it's Phoenix pulling out the stops for a break-dancing bonanza, or Paltrow's over-the-top breast-baring declarations of adoration. Two Lovers conjures the heedless rush of true romance, and yet somehow the movie remains clear-eyed enough to question how much of it is just immature delusions.

You may find yourself pondering Gray's closing shot for quite some time, wondering if it's Leonard's triumph--or his entombment.

Singer-guitarist Ben Kweller, now 27, is a music biz veteran, having released albums both with his old band Radish and as a solo artist since he was 13. He's been a punk rocker, indie rocker, power-popster, and balladeer, and for his fourth solo LP, Changing Horses, he dives headfirst into much rootsier fare. We hit an upbeat Kweller up for a session of Review the Reviews, wherein we read excerpts from recent reviews and get the reaction of the reviewed.

"Changing Horses, his self-produced fourth LP, isn't quite the country & western crossover most would have you believe, more like the dirt road connecting his previous paths. (Austin Chronicle)

"Right! I mean, the album's way more Jackson Browne than Merle Haggard. Country music and roots music has always been one of the side roads that I take once in a while, and for this album I wanted to make it the main road."

"He's nodded to his Texas roots before, but on this collection meant to play up his twangy side, he seems scared of edging too far into the darkness of country music's long, rich tradition." (Paste)

"Hmm. Whatever. They don't know me. I mean, I opened the album with a whore and ended it with a junkie. I don't need to explain too much. I don't need to prove anything to anybody."

" ... the best is 'On Her Own,' a number in praise of female self-determination with a precise, pedal-steel-driven chorus that would fit nicely on a Faith Hill or Brad Paisley album." (Rolling Stone)

"That's really cool that they would even reference that shit because it's so far from ... I'm obviously not a Nashville pop-country guy. But the whole thing about this album is that all of a sudden there are people in the country side of the business that are finding out about me for the very first time. So for Rolling Stone to even say something like that, I'm psyched. I'm over the whole indie-hip--I just feel like I paid my dues for so fuckin' long in the indie-rock world that if my stuff took off in country, that'd be really exciting and refreshing."

It's funny your question--with its hint of gay panic--should arrive today. I've been on vacation with the family all week snowboarding in beautiful British Columbia, and what I enjoy most--besides the snowboarding and the half-naked, fully stoned Australian snowboard instructors lolling around in hot tubs at the end of the day--is watching the straight boys who refuse to sit four to a chairlift. They want to ride up alone or ride up two at a time on a four-seater with two empty seats between 'em. They seem to think gayness can be contracted through thigh-to-thigh contact.

Which it can.

Now, MK, there's kissing someone with your come on her breath and then there's kissing someone with your come in her mouth. It sounds like you're interested in the latter, which makes it sound like you're interested in passing some of your boyfriend's load into his mouth--i.e., snowballing--and not simply being rewarded with a kiss, his come on your breath, for a blowjob well-done. And that's an entirely different wad of spunk.

Just because you enjoy tasting yourself on his lips doesn't mean your boyfriend will enjoy or should have to enjoy mouthing his own load. First, there's a significant difference in volume and consistency between you kissing his glazed lips and him eating his own spunk. And then there's this: After a woman comes, MK, she's still in a groove, still capable of more orgasms, still cranked up. After ejaculating, a man is essentially uncranked. He's not capable of another orgasm (not right away, anyway)--he's been knocked out of his groove. So even if the idea of snowballing appeals to a man as you're blowing him, it might not hold the same appeal the moment after he comes.

Some men are afraid of tasting their own come because they believe that doing so, like sitting too close on a chairlift, can turn a guy gay. And it's not an unreasonable fear: not because it will turn a guy gay, but because, judging from my mail, a lot of women are convinced that any man who would taste his own come must secretly be gay. It's possible that your boyfriend is dying to taste himself, MK, but like the boys on the chairlifts, is afraid of getting a reputation if he goes ahead with this and you blab about it to your friends.

The best I could come up with on my own, MACHO, was this: "A Little Night Music--original Broadway cast recording or original London cast?" But that line will get your ass kicked in a lot of gay bars--as I know from bitter experience. So let's toss this out to my readers, the folks who came up with the definitions for "santorum," "pegging," and "saddlebacking": Okay, gang, we're looking for an innocuous question that 1) all

fags everywhere would know the answer to but 2) no straight guys anywhere would. My long-suffering interns--their uniforms chafe--await your suggested questions at mail@savagelove.net.

Some folks think I was too hard on SBOOO, some think I was just hard enough. Like I said in my original response, I intentionally came down hard on SBOOO to compensate for the vast and overwhelming majority of advice professionals who would, per LF, side aggressively with her because a nonmonogamous partner--even an honest one like SBOOO's mate--is always perceived as the bad guy.

For the record: I am not biased toward nonmonogamy. But I do think monogamous people should be with each other and should refrain from marrying folks who are self-aware enough to inform them in advance that they don't think they're capable of being monogamous.

Some folks who wrote in about my advice for SBOOO raised a good point: I should've come down on the husband as well. If nonmonogamy was a deal breaker for him, then he was a fool to marry SBOOO before verifying her ability to be nonmonogamous. Agreed. So, for the record: SBOOO's husband? You're an idiot, too.

Finally, LF, I'm always happy to see money go to Planned Parenthood.

Greta Garbo: With Ernst Lubitsch's Ninotchka (1939), the Swedish Garbo made a bold transition from sudsters to comedies. One film later she retired. After the failure of 1941's rom-com Two-Faced Woman, she retreated into her infamous seclusion, turning down comeback vehicles left and right. Garbo only popped up on celluloid twice after: in 1949, for screen tests for a comeback movie that never happened, and in the 1974 gay porn Adam & Yves, which featured a shot of her walking across First Avenue.

Grace Kelly: While shooting The Swan, in which she played a princess, the Philadelphia native was mid-seduction with Prince Rainier of Monaco. Shortly thereafter she was a princess for real, bidding farewell with High Society (1956) and forced by her husband to turn down returns as varied as Alfred Hitchcock's deranged Marnie and Herbert Ross' The Turning Point. The closest she got was narrating the 1966 TV movie The Poppy Is Also a Flower.

Ronald Reagan: After playing the smirking, Angie-Dickinson-bitchslapping baddie in Don Siegel's The Killers (1964), the one known as the Gipper threw in the towel. And he was never heard from again.

Rick Moranis: Despite resurrecting his Bob McKenzie locutions for two Brother Bear movies, the SCTV vet is all but retired, partly because he'd gone from comic to mere actor with increasingly dire material, and partly because he was a single parent whose wife died of liver cancer. Like quite a few acting retirees, he's moved into music, recording comic country songs.

Joe Pesci: He may be billed as co-lead with Helen Mirren in the upcoming brothel movie Love Ranch, but the onetime Tommy DeVito hasn't done more than a cameo (in The Good Shepherd) since Lethal Weapon 4 in 1998. Why? Music, of course! His crooning alter ego is Vincent Laguardia Gambini, under which he's recorded an album. Betcha didn't know that.

Joaquin Phoenix: Yeah, right. But that Casey Affleck "doc" is going to be amazing.

The Flashpoint Theatre Company continues its mission of presenting unconventional drama with the thoughtful staging of Neena Beber's drama Jump/Cut.

The play is told from the perspective of Paul (Christopher Bohan), a struggling filmmaker who serves as the story's narrator. Paul shares his apartment with his best friend from high school Dave (Keith Conallen), who suffers from bipolar disorder. Dave's mind jumps erratically between reality and delusion, mania and depression.

Paul dreams of becoming a famous film director while Dave's ambitions involve writing the Great American novel. As the adolescents grow into men, Dave's mental state worsens. He spends his days on Paul's couch, smoking pot and swallowing Lithium tablets prescribed to keep his manic-depression at bay.

The apartment becomes more crowded with the arrival of Paul's girlfriend, Karen (Kristyn Chouiniere). Passionate about Dostoyevsky, Karen is working on a somewhat ambiguous project about a beautiful countess and the photographer who immortalized her. Although faithful to Paul, she yearns to be what she calls a "what the hell girl" and is attracted to Dave and his unpredictable bursts of creative energy.

Beber's dialogue can be impressively poetic. Too often, though, the writing draws attention to itself and the episodic tale is congested with annoyingly obscure metaphors. Additionally, Jump/Cut's structure is ill-suited for theater. Relentlessly shifting time, location and mood, the play feels like a film that's been awkwardly adapted for the stage.

Despite these shortcomings, director Karen DiLossi's production captures our interest. Navigating Jump/Cut's disjointed plot, she focuses our attention on the characters brought to life in vivid portrayals.

Bohan (who's emerged as one of the city's most promising actors) and Chouiniere give commendable performances, but their characters are not nearly as captivating as the volatile Dave.

"When you're not well is when you feel the best,'' Dave says, explaining bipolar disorder's dangerous allure. The disease's electrifying high makes him repeatedly abandon his medication and its emotionally deadening calm.

Conallen gives a convincing representation of Dave's manic highs and fatiguing lows, and like Karen, we're attracted to Dave's mix of innocence and impulsiveness.

At one point, Paul observes that a film's conclusion is far more important than its beginning. Jump/Cut begins with Paul and Dave as stoned teens debating the origins of the band Steely Dan. But the trivialities of youth are long forgotten by the time we reach Jump/Cut's potent conclusion, when Dave frees himself from the disease and drugs and finally gains control of his destiny.

» footlights

African Influence

People love to recall the good old days. The Lantern Theater Company's assured revival of Sizwe Bansi Is Dead proves that the bad old days are likewise worth remembering. First performed 35 years ago, the play by Athold Fugard, John Kani and Winston Ntshona returns us to 1972, during South African apartheid.

The story opens in the small shop belonging to a black South African named Styles (Forrest McClendon in a riveting performance). An entrepreneurial sort, Styles left his job at the Ford Motor Company plant to begin his own photography business in Port Elizabeth.

One of Styles' clients is Sizwe Bansi (the excellent Lawrence Stallings). Married and a father of four, Bansi has left his family to work in the city. But he has fallen victim to a practice known as "influx control" that forces him to leave his job in Port Elizabeth and return to a destitute existence in his home district. Bansi discovers a way to stay in Port Elizabeth, but to do so he must relinquish his name.

Beautifully directed by Peter DeLaurier, Bansi can be disturbing to watch. But in the play's conclusion, when Sizwe is forced to choose between his identity and his family's survival, we're witness to an act of heroism that lifts even the most jaded theatergoer's spirits. (J.C.R.) Through March 1. $20-$35. St. Stephen's Theater, 10th and Ludlow sts. 215.829.0395. www.lanterntheater.org

Two years ago Badmaster proprietor John Emory told this paper he should've gotten his business degree instead of learning to paint. If he had, he might not be "losing money every day" on his label's output. What Emory couldn't have known then is that no business degree could save him or his label. The music biz is dying. Hell, seems like everything is. So it turns out he had the only sustainable business plan you can have in music: Make your work a labor of love.

That's how Emory and Badmaster have reached their fourth year together, releasing small batches of highly collectable vinyl-only art objects that, until now, have focused primarily on West Philly, where Badmaster was founded, but is slowly branching out to national acts and national acclaim. (Badmaster's Tickley Featheris now on Animal Collective's Paw Tracks label.)

Lately Emory's begun to take more of a backseat with Badmaster, handing the art-damaged rock baton to his silent partner over the years Brendan O'Connor, who left a Penn grad program studying dead languages to engage in a more youthful, less profitable pursuit: music. PW caught up with Emory for what might be his last interview as the label's chief talking head.

What made you decide to start a record label in 2005?

[Record labels] have always been a major thing in my life. I've always followed them. Basically, when I realized I wasn't going to get anywhere as a musician I wanted to find a way to still be able to participate, and looking through fan zines and stuff growing up I would always pick a label and buy everything that label put out without even questioning it. And I just fell in love with certain aesthetics certain labels had, and I wanted to build an aesthetic, basically. That's one of the things I'm trying to do with Badmaster.

How would you describe that aesthetic?

Black and white, like an old-school flier sort of way. Punk rock meets comic books. There's a humor to it, but there's also a sense of underground urgency and a very basic no-frills sort of style that would just be burned into one's memory hopefully.

What were some of the labels that made an impression on you when you were growing up?

Discord, Touch and Go, Vermiform--which was Sam McPheeter's label. Great American Steak Religion out of Canada was a label I followed very closely. They had some great Canadian hardcore bands come out of that scene. The Canadian scene at that point was really, really great.

What bands will join the Badmaster family in year four?

One particular artist that is going to happen as soon as we can afford it are My Mind, which are a newer band out of West Philadelphia. They've got a punk rock sound that draws from an early-'60s into a late-'70s style. Their songs are like 30 seconds long each, but after you listen to one song it feels like it's been two minutes 'cause they pack so much into such a short time.

Is it a priority to work with Philly bands?

Yeah. It always has been. It's just kinda where my heart is. That's what gets me excited--championing somebody and trying to break these guys is something that really speaks to me.

Is Badmaster primarily vinyl now?

At this point we are only vinyl. I'm never going back. With [the compilation], I wanted to do a quick, easy catch-all for Philly because I wasn't releasing anything at the moment, so I came up with this idea to do this comp, and then I was like, 'Well, screw it. We're going to just digitally release this and make physical copies for people.' Burn it right off, it's free for everybody that comes to the show. It's great. But as far as, like, putting out a record is concerned, we're never going to do anything aside from vinyl. It's so easy to put an mp3 code in the vinyl now, which we did with our last record and we plan to continue to do. There's no reason to do [CDs]. That's not why I started a record label. I'm into art objects. Anyone who is invested in this thing we call music as much as we are is in it for vinyl, I would hope. And if you're not, you need to buy a turntable.

Which works, because it's become its own niche market. While music sales and CDs go by the wayside, there's still a cult of vinyl that's always remained firm.

Yeah, exactly. And that's what we really want to cater to. We want people who buy records to buy our records, I'm not really trying to reinvent the wheel on that one at all. It's just cause its kind of why I got into it, and I don't see it going away anytime soon. And I just like the idea of this object, you know. Except when I have to move. That's a pain in the ass.

We can learn a lot about Canada from the television it sends south. The latest Canadian import is Being Erica, which attracted some controversy because it replaced a respected newsmagazine.

The show was positively reviewed by Canadian critics, who liked newcomer Erin Karpluk in the lead and thought the show had some potential. Much as with the horrid Trust Me, TV is so bad right now critics will give anything a vaguely positive review as long as it doesn't involve washed-up celebrities competing to see who gets to sleep with a porn star.

Canadian critics are just as easy to please as their American counterparts. Erin Karpluk, complete with cute Western Canadian accent, is likable enough and talented-ish, but she's saddled with nonsensical storylines in which everything wraps up neat and tidy and she has a quip about what she's learned to end the show. (Canada thinks five years is long enough for everyone to have forgotten Sex and the City. They might be right.)

Erica Strange, a 32-year-old Torontonian, has a lot of regrets about her life. And whenever she finds herself in a bad situation (conveniently once per episode), a strange therapist named Dr. Tom transports her back to the past, where she can change what she did for the better.

Unfortunately for her, nothing ever seems to go right; one might think going back and losing your virginity to a different guy would change at least a thing or two, but poor Erica is still in the same situation. The show gets repetitive after about two episodes. We learn nothing by continuing to watch.

The biggest sin, though, is the faux-1990s references during time travel. One trip to 1994 includes references to "Gettin' Jiggy Wit' It" and Limp Bizkit. Canadians, apparently, know nothing of important American history.

Listen to Beaucoup Blue on our Umm...Drop podcast.

Philadelphia's Beaucoup Blue may be billed as a father- son duo, but they're no Weird Al-style novelty act. "I think when people read that they go, 'Isn't that cute' and 'They must not be that serious.' But the reason we continue to play music together is because we really believe in the music itself," son Adrian Mowry says. "We're both songwriters, and we have different styles from different generations, but we really are knocked out by the music. I would want to do that with anybody, whether it's my father or brother or somebody that's not in the family."

Adrian grew up playing music with his father David from a young age, and the two have been performing together publicly for more than a decade. They've morphed from a full-on electric band to an acoustic act set to release their third album, Free to Fall. The duo continues to combine heartfelt blues with elements of soul, R&B, country and bluegrass. Featuring all original compositions, except one traditional arrangement, Free to Fall showcases not only energetic and spine-tingling vocals and guitars, but creative original songwriting.

"The last two [albums] were kind of vehicles to help us develop a style," David explains. "We did some original songs, but we didn't pay a lot of attention to arranging. This time we decided we would pay more attention to the song and what it seemed to want to do."