Roku’s USB Stick looks to be a remarkable advance over previous efforts at creating a “smart” TV, and, if it’s cheap enough, I imagine it might convince quite a few people to try streaming TV shows via the internet and onto their television (the circle of life!).

It’s hard to argue with a simple USB dongle that plugs into the back of your TV, although it sounds as though the Roku stick won’t be compatible with most older television sets. And, while it may be another piece of hardware intentionally designed to be obsolete within a year or two, at least in this case it’s meant to be easily replaceable – buying a new USB dongle for your TV every once in a while is hardly the same as buying a new laptop every couple of years, and watching Netflix on that same little, two-year old laptop is hardly the same as streaming it into your television.

At an average ninety minutes long, the episodes in each of Sherlock’s three-episode seasons are more of feature-length films than TV shows, but these episodes do tie into an over-arching plot. The premise is admittedly off-putting – classic Sherlock Holmes’ stories updated for present-day England, featuring a young Sherlock whose brilliance is at least partially credited to his Asperger’s syndrome, with the result that the viewer can often find Sherlock as hard to relate to as Sherlock clearly finds it to relate to the characters around him.

This potentially awkward plot device is saved by Benedict Cumberbatch (that name!), whose skill in playing such an unlikeable version of Sherlock holds the entire show together. Watson, the ying to Sherlock’s ‘definitely on the spectrum’ yang (and now an injured army doctor back from Afghanistan), is played by the ever-charming, bumbling Martin Freeman, and their dynamic gives the show’s dialogue an easy, almost sitcom-like air amidst all the crime and murder and slowly ungolding mysteries. Naturally, this being the present day, that very same dynamic results in a running joke where most people assume the two (who live together) are slightly more than just professional partners.

Conveniently enough, their beers also taste quite good (yes, even the Watermelon Wheat!), but I suspect that, even if their beers were too strange or too hoppy for my stunted tastes, I’d still end up buying a 21A six-pack every once in while – I’m a sucker for packaging when faced with a refrigerated wall of unfamiliar beers. 21A’s can/box art, and even the beer names themselves (‘Fireside Chat’, ‘Back in Black’, ‘Monks Blood’, ‘Hell or High Watermelon’, etc) are all eye-catching without being too overdone. Their can and box design leaves me with the impression that these beers are made by actual people with actual senses of humor, rather than by a corporation attempting a more personable angle for their product.

Also, I should re-iterate that their beers do taste very good.

I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve skipped over reviews of or articles about Shabazz Palaces in the last few months, and I actually caught some of their set at the Treasure Island music festival recently, but it wasn’t until I saw them included in nearly every Dusted reviewers’ best-of-2011 list that I finally decided to give their album a chance (not surprisingly, said album is quite good).

There’s also something satisfying about getting a glimpse of each reviewer’s personal tastes, and realizing which artists are universally-loved on your own, rather than simply being presented with a definitive list of the ‘Top 50 Albums of 2011′ compiled via some arcane voting process.

Ordering can be an intimidating process. Opening their menu, one is faced with page after page after page of tequilas, divided by climate (highlands, midlands, lowlands), each with its own individual tasting notes (vanilla flan? apples!? leather!?!?). Each glass also comes with two chasers, the more impressive of the two being a spicy Mexican take on the legendary ‘pickleback.’

Too expensive to allow for an all-night tequila bender (at least on my salary), and too crowded to be much fun later in the evening, Mosto still remains an enjoyable spot to start the weekend off on the right foot.

Hailing from Australia, Royal Headache follow in the immediate footsteps of the much-loved Eddy Current Suppression Ring, reminding the rest of the world that punk rock used to be kind of fun. More soulful than ferocious, and more love-lorn than politically-inclined, Royal Headache are a just a frenzied pop-punk party in a bottle. While the guitars, bass, and drums are maybe just a step above ‘solid’ (which is fine, this is still punk after all), singer Shogun’s voice pulls the entire band into the upper echelons of Rock n Roll greatness, encompassing everything you could ever want from a frontman – frantic energy, great range, and, dare I say, soul.

The Roxie (SF’s oldest continually operating movie theater – since 1909!), like most weird, incredible, run-down, independent movie theaters, has been on the verge of shutting down for as long as I’ve lived here. I don’t think anyone ever had any trouble sneaking beer in to that particular theater (I certainly haven’t), but it’s great to see the SF Board of Supervisors making an effort to help support a neighborhood institution by approving a license which will allow them to sell beer and wine.

While I was initially concerned that the Roxie might just be trying to sell movie-goers on over-priced cans of PBR, last week’s ’2 Drunk 2 Die Hard’ event – a screening of Die Hard featuring beer from local brewery 21st Amendment – quickly put my fears to rest.

After nearly a decade of establishing himself within the standard bad-boy narrative (putting out a cigar in a teammate’s eye, doing jail-time for assault, normal bad-boy stuff), Barton’s begun to calm down a bit, at least off the field. Where once he was picking bar fights and assaulting teammates, he’s now quoting philosophers (and Morrissey) on Twitter, and while he may always be considered too hot-headed to play for the English national team, his recent signing by Queens Park Rangers (a newly promoted Premier League underdog) has led to his being designated as their new team captain.

Of course, he was only let go from his last team as the result of the constant barrage of criticism he directed at his old bosses (via Twitter, naturally), so it’s safe to assume that he hasn’t entirely changed his tune just yet. Either way, it will be interesting to see how this new, respectable role suits him as the Premier League season progresses.

Apparently, the filtration systems in regular fish tanks have a tendency to suck up and ‘liquefy’ hapless jellyfish – a reasonable answer to the question: “Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?” Even so, I’m surprised it took so long for someone to make this happen, given that a) with a little mood lighting, these tanks basically become living lava lamps, and b) jellyfish are slowly taking over the rest of the world anyway. My only concern is that these pet jellyfish might die as fast as sea monkeys of yore (those poor, doomed bastards…), leaving me with a fashionably-lit, empty bowl, and a sizable hole in my wallet.

A couple hundred books by authors most people have never heard of, vouched for by the esteemed editors of the New York Review, and usually featuring introductions written by authors and critics whose names are just familiar enough to remind you that you really know very little about literature. The series concentrates on unjustly forgotten or poorly-translated works of any genre, making their catalog a remarkable grab-bag of noir fiction, muckraking exposés, Viking epics, psychological treatises, etc…

As with most large, imposing collections though, all it took was a gentle introduction to get the ball rolling. I think I began with a new translation of the original Pinocchio (it turns out that, pre-Disney, that little puppet was a real little sh*t), and since then every NYRB book I’ve picked up has felt like a long-lost revelation.

My latest discovery is the recently (re)published Three Christs of Ypsilanti by Milton Rokeach: a psychological study which brought together three paranoid schizophrenics, each convinced that he was Jesus Christ, in the hopes that they might be able shock each other out of their mental illness. How could you not pick that book up?