Sisters of Dreary

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Sisters of Dreary

the arts | stage |

Photograph by Cindy Brillhart True

By David Templeton

M en dressed as nuns are funny. Who knows why, but it’s true whether it’s Jeff Goldblum and Rowan Atkinson singing and dancing in wimples and robes in The Tall Guy ; male Carnevale dancers in Rio parading down the streets attired as women of the cloth; or the subversive political antics of San Francisco’s reigning queer nuns, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. There’s something undeniably joyous and silly about seeing a nun who is actually a dude.

So it was welcome news when Sonoma’s Hoochi-Doo Productions—having already enjoyed huge success with their previous string of Dan Goggins’ various Nunsense musicals—announced that their 2008 season would kick off with Nunsense A-Men , a variation on the original, cabaret-style Nunsense , done exactly the same except that the Little Sisters of Hoboken are to be played not by women but by guys.

How could that not be funny? I can’t answer that, except to say that in Hoochi-Doo’s surprisingly flat, energy-deficient new production, it isn’t.

I can only theorize that the cast, some of whom are reasonably experienced and accomplished in the ways of musicals, are trying too hard to play it “straight,” avoiding going over the top into the realm of camp. The problem is, this play is camp; even when the nuns are played by women, it’s camp, intended to be played slightly over the top.

These nuns are named Sister Mary Amnesia and Sister Julia, Child of God. They sing songs about leprosy, with lyrics describing the shedding of body parts. One nun performs a vaudeville routine with a hand puppet, while the Mother Superior gets stoned and starts tripping on stage, pretending to do the Australian crawl while suspended on a stool. It’s camp, and the only thing that happens when you play that down, especially when your nuns are a bunch of guys in nun drag, is to make it less funny. Sadly, that’s exactly what they’ve accomplished with this one.

It’s a disappointment, given that Hoochi-Doo has made such a strong name for themselves doing the Nunsense plays over the years. We’ve come to expect better from director Vicki Martinez, who, as a veteran of musicals, certainly knows what she’s doing and has proven herself to be an able and inventive director of cabaret shows.

Nunsense A-Men’s story, what little there is of it, has not been changed. In the recreation hall of the convent’s school, the Little Sisters of Hoboken are staging a musical benefit show in order to raise enough money to bury some of their order, who recently died of botulism—blame Sister Julia, Child of God—and are cooling their heels in the dining room freezer. The reverend mother Sister Mary Regina (Jeremy Berrick) rules the show with an iron fist, browbeating the nuns into performing song and dance routines (“Nunsense Is Habit Forming,” “Holier Than Thou”), refusing to allow the street-wise Sister Robert Anne (J. Anthony Martin) to have more than a supporting role in the show.

Sister Hubert (Edwin Richards) is the reverend mother’s competitive second-in-command, gamely enforcing the R.M.’s show plan while taking every opportunity to interject her own ideas. Sister Leo (Curtis Hoffmann) is the newest and youngest member, a classically trained dancer who imagines she’ll one day become the world’s first nun ballerina; the benefit show is her big opportunity to strut her stuff. Sister Mary Amnesia (Scott Maraj) is so named because a crucifix once fell on her head and now she can’t remember who she is—or any of the dance steps.

Of all the actors, Martin, familiar from performances at various companies around the North Bay, comes out best here, ably demonstrating his fine singing voice and commanding stage presence. Maraj has perfected a kind of blank, smiling, slightly worried facial expression as Sister Amnesia, which is genuinely endearing. No one else in the cast makes much of an impression, another disappointment given how well-defined and colorful each character has been in past Hoochi-Doo Nunsense shows.

The best part of this production is the theater itself. A nifty new space created on the campus of the Sonoma Charter School, the Playbox (as it’s been dubbed), is a comfortable “black box” room with a reasonably good-sized stage and great sight lines from every corner of the audience area. It’s a good home for Hoochi-Doo. I look forward to their next production there. Presumably, with this misfire securely behind them, Hoochi-Doo will be back in the same fine form that has made them one of Sonoma’s most promising companies.

‘Nunsense A-Men’ runs Friday–Sunday through Feb. 24. Friday–Saturday at 8pm; Sunday at 3pm. The Playbox, Sonoma Charter School, 17202 Sonoma Hwy., Sonoma. $20–$25. 707.332.0621.



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First Bite

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2.20.09

Editor’s note: First Bite is a new concept in restaurant writing. This is not a go-three-times, try-everything-on-the-menu report; rather, this is a quick snapshot of a single experience. We invite you to come along with our writers as they—informed, intelligent eaters like yourselves—have a simple meal at an area restaurant, just like you do.

 

We demand a certain authenticity from our Irish pubs, even faux American Irish pubs. A proper pint served by bartender with a brogue is required; yellowed posters advocating sympathy for armed resistance, optional. Santa Rosa’s new Stout Brothers Pub is a picture-perfect specimen from the kit pub genre. Gently illuminated but not dark, handsomely furnished with Irish-themed accoutrements, all that it lacks, as one wag commented, is a track running through it so that patrons could ride through, Disneyland-style. But insofar as it is a comfy public house that fits nicely in between the loud, dressed-down din of a brewery and the tense chill of a cocktail lounge, so what? It’s a welcome alternative in downtown Santa Rosa; here the casual crowd fits right in the middle.

 

Pub-goers can choose from a good variety of seating possibilities, from the full bar to various tables and nooks and a cozy hideaway upstairs surrounded by gold-flecked wainscoting and balcony railing, under a ceiling stained to simulate decades of diligent smoking.

 

Stout’s key appetizer is a bit of a misnomer. So-called Gaelic chips ($3.75) are what the Irish would term “crisps,” or potato chips. Served with whiskey-barbecue dipping sauce, they’re a tasty snack, but to say they were oily would be like noting that Guinness is wet. Speaking of which, our pints displayed the disturbing trend toward icy-coldness and were suspiciously speedy. Regardless of fad, Guinness likes a warmer, more restful approach, with two pulls on the tap and less chill in its timbre.

 

A bowl of potato leek soup ($5.75) was a rich, chunky purée served with rustic soda bead. My dining companion was nonplussed by the large brick of undercooked potato found lurking at the bottom, but enjoyed the fresh, simple Gaelic wedge salad ($6.75), iceberg lettuce sluiced with blue cheese dressing and bacon. The fish and chips ($11.75) were crisp on the outside and fresh and tender on the inside, but the devil was in the mushy layer of batter in the middle, possibly telling of incompletely defrosted frozen fish. The tartar sauce was wanting, and our malted vinegar never showed up.

 

Service was a bit spotty, although the various servers who circulated by our table were friendly and well-intentioned. The group across from us hadn’t seen their server for a good fortnight, while we belatedly received at least one fork and knife to share after requesting setups. The best surprise was the ploughman’s lunch sandwich ($8.50). Layered with grilled vegetable slices, mushrooms, caramelized onion and cheese, it’s a scrumptious repast that bodes well for the menu’s Irish burger, something I’ve yet to try.

With a few kinks ironed out, this insta-Erin watering hole may deliver on its promising atmosphere. Given our distance from the Emerald Isle, we might as well bring on the frosty pints and the barbecue-dip crisps while putting another Pogues number on the jukebox.

 

Stout Brothers Irish Pub & Restaurant. Lunch and dinner daily. 527 Fourth St., Santa Rosa. 707.636.0240.

 


Quick-and-dirty dashes through North Bay restaurants. These aren’t your standard “bring five friends and order everything on the menu” dining reviews.

Wine Tasting Room of the Week

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Glen Ellen’s most notable rock ‘n’ roll winery is surely B.R. Cohn, but on any given Friday, the tunes are cranking way past his olive trees at the neighbor’s place. That’s when Little Vineyards’ owner Rich Little gets out his Chapman Stick in the corner of the tasting room and noodles out a few licks. Off the beaten track, Little Vineyards is a refrain on the small, family winery started in the late 1990s, with a few surprises, like its own recording studio and a house wine with its own companion CD.

 

I first encountered Little Vineyard’s Band Blend at my local pub. At $5 a glass for an estate bottled Sonoma Valley red, it was an improvement over the previous house wine, and what wine looks more in its element in a bar with a Stratocaster on the label? The Band Blend Track 2 ($15) is unfined, unfiltered and also uncomplicated to open—crack the screw cap and you’re ready to rock. With a backbone of Cabernet Sauvignon and Petite Sirah, Syrah and Cab Franc to fill in the center, it’s accented by juicy riffs of Zinfandel. Dry, but gulpable, with dark black cherry fruit, it’s not a sipping wine or your father’s Oldsmobile. Plus, it has its own CD mix. Since this column is about wine, I will demur to the music critics—look, my tape deck was playing Flock of Seagulls on the drive over—but the wine rocks, for sure.

 

All of the Little’s wines are made from their 15-acre estate vineyards, and they’re serious about their product. If winemaker Ted Coleman doesn’t like a particular vintage, he sells it out as bulk. Can’t redub it, you know? I like that approach. So there will be no 2005 Zinfandel, but the available 2004 Zinfandel ($25) is a bright, claret style, with a red raspberry zing and phase shifted volatile notes—echoes of Meeker Vineyard’s acid-rock Rack ‘n’ Roll. The 2005 Syrah ($30) is a more gothic number, rumbling with dry dark fruit of the grape.

While contemplating the wine or tapping your toes, you may note that you’re sharing the same tasting bar with Jack London some years hence. The Littles chanced upon this heavy, dinged-up wooden stand-alone bar in a neighbor’s barn in Glen Ellen. From the Rustic Inn, it bears the proprietor’s proud plaque certifying that the famous author tippled with him here in 1916. Not a lucky year for London, but had he only had such fine and robust wine as this . . .

 

Little Vineyards Family Winery, 15188 Sonoma Hwy., Glen Ellen. Tasting by appointment. 707.996.2750.



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Helvetica

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I heard about Helvetica last year from a friend of mine who’s a graphic designer in New York—he was excited about it even before it came out. Since then, two more graphic designer friends of mine, including Jackie at the Bohemian, have sang its praises. I finally watched it last night, and no matter what your line of work or your level of interest in design, I hereby and totally recommend it.A film about a font might sound pretty dull. It’s not. Through interviews with over 20 design experts and with lots of montages revealing Helvetica’s omnipresent usage, the film charts the 50-year life of the most popular font in the world. You go to the factory where Helvetica was born, you are shown why it works, scientifically, as the perfect font, and you drink in its massive cultural impact.The best part is that just when you start getting sick of hearing how incredible and wonderful Helvetica is, the film brings on the haters—and they’re just as convincing. Helvetica is the font of nothing, they say; it represents conformity and blankness and corporate culture. One graphic designer goes so far as to blame Helvetica for the Vietnam war.Watching this film will change the way you look at the world, if even only for a day or two. The interviews are astounding; it’s fascinating what kinds of wild corollaries emerge when professionals start talking about their craft. Helvetica is full of those moments: incredible insight into something that most of us rarely, if ever, think about at all.It’s got a great soundtrack, too, courtesy of these guys.

The Winter Anti-Movie Guide

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Film critics typically publish a Summer Movie Guide, a Fall Movie Guide, perhaps a Holiday Movie Guide…and then these ubiquitous guides conspicuously go into hibernation for the next few months. There is a definite reason for this; winter is typically regarded by all as a dead time at the megaplex. In recent years, the expansion of the summer movie season to May has made even April a somewhat desirable month for studios to unload their latest shlock, but January through March still remains a quality graveyard. But even in graveyard terms, the first three months of 2008 have to go down as one of the worst three months of film in cinematic history.

Forty films have or will come out between January 1st and March 31st of this year, and even by the most dumbed down of popcorn gobbling standards barely half of these are worth even the Target Bargain Bin DVD they will inevitably spawn. For a more concrete example, look no further than myself; as something of a film critic, I have access to advance screenings of most every studio film that comes out. In layman’s terms, that means a free ticket with a reserved seat in the best section of the theater and validated parking – and even I haven’t gone to the movies more than twice since 2008 rang in.

A brief rundown of the worst of the worst includes a family friendly alleged “comedy” starring the black hole of talent formerly known as a gangsta rapper Ice Cube, yet another video game adaptation by legendarily horrible filmmaker Uwe Boll, a fifteen years overdue sequel to a jingoistic action film, an inexplicably theatrically released VeggieTales movie– and that’s just January! Two “disaffected youth makes goodthrough urban dance” flicks were released within three weeks of each other, and a third is scheduled for a month later that tackles the same story but imaginatively moves it into the world of mixed martial arts. An already dated parody of last year’s blockbusters, two artlessremakes of stylishAsian horror films, two Martin Lawrence vehicles (one so bland and uninspired that it manages to be live action but earn itself a “G” rating), foursaccharineromantic comedies and Hannah Montana– what exactly did we do to deserve all this, Sony, Disney, Warner Bros, Universal, Paramount and Fox?

Of course there are some predictably brighter spots to be found in the world of independent film – the already classic There Will Be Blood, Woody Allen’s new film Cassandra’s Dream, award winning playwright Martin McDonagh’s controversial feature film debut In Brugesand severalreveredforeign films, to name but a few. And March’s outlook is a tad better, if ‘nothing starring Larry the Cable Guy’ is any indicator of quality. But by the time April comes around and some actually talented (or at the very least, capable) filmmakers unleash their films on the populace, I tip my hat to any film buff brave enough to open the movie times section without involuntarily cringing.

Heathen Hemp?

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02.20.08

Before interviewing Mike Fata, cofounder of Manitoba Harvest, purveyors of hemp foods and oils, I do a mental tabulation of everything I think I know about hemp. While I tabulate, I eat Manitoba Harvest hemp-seed nut butter by the spoonful, a slow, delectably sticky process that gives me inspiration along with a much-needed protein boost.

 

George Washington grew hemp. Long used to fashion rope, hemp, no matter how much of it you smoke, will not get you high. Some people like to wear clothing made from hemp fibers. Yet hemp clothing, while certainly durable and sustainable, is rarely considered fashionable by anyone other than those who also wear hemp clothing. (I briefly consider asking Fata if this is one of the reasons why he and fellow cofounders Alex Chwaiewsky and Martin Moravcik have steered clear of the textile industry. Have they too have been frightened away by those boxlike hemp hats and ill-shapen hemp pants? Fortunately, the high nutritional content of the nut butter seems to be working on my brain, and after a few moments of consideration, I decide to cross this question off my list as potentially offensive.)

 

As it turns out, Manitoba Harvest’s decision to focus on oils and edibles rather than textiles has more to do with its commitment to quality than to fashion sense. Fata claims that hemp is such a large and versatile crop, with such a multitude of uses, that they simply had to focus. The decision to concentrate on the possibilities of hemp seed was based on a passion and commitment to promoting healthy lifestyles.

 

In fact, Fata says that Moravcik is the Godfather of Hemp in Canada, where he has led a decade-long fight to legalize this farm-saving crop in the United States; Canada decriminalized its production in 1997. Despite the bad name given to hemp by that very different strain of cannabis, hemp is so useful and lucrative that it now provides steady income, as well as a sustainable farming lifestyle, to the 20 farmers who are investors as well as growers for Manitoba Harvest.

 

Industrial hemp once covered 400,000 acres of farmland in the United States, yet all that is left is the remnant “ditch weed,” or feral hemp, that grows sporadically across the countryside. Innocuous in nature, the federal government nonetheless spends large amounts of our tax dollars attempting to eradicate ditch weed, which any cross-country traveler can tell you will get you about as high as smoking a smudge stick—in other words, not at all.

 

Fata says that by the time he was 18, he weighed 300 pounds. As this was the 1990s and fat-free diets were all the rage, he chose to lose weight the no-fat way. The method was effective. He quickly dropped down to 160, almost killing himself in the process. Thus began Fata’s exploration into the world of healthy fats. He began to learn about hemp seeds, which offer a rich source of the omega-6 and omega-3 essential fatty acids (EFAs), providing the best source of balanced EFAs of any other plant source.

 

After convincing family members of the health benefits as well as potential profits, Fata purchased a European oil press. He began pressing hemp seeds from his home, producing oil which he then sold with great success to health food stores in Winnipeg. In 1998, Fata partnered with hemp activists Chwaiewsky and Moravcik, and together, they moved from a small personal oil press in his kitchen to a 6,000-square-foot kosher- and USDA-organic-certified facility. They now ship their hemp seed oil, hemp nut butter, hemp milk, hemp protein powder and hemp-seed nut all over the world.

 

Manitoba Harvest is in the process of preparing to move its entire facility to a new 20,000-square-foot facility. This daunting task is necessary, as Manitoba Harvest grows and packages all of its own products. The company’s success, considering the fact that it processes only hemp seed and nothing else, is really quite astounding, and proof that the products speak for themselves.

After my conversation with Fata, who assures me that the winters in Manitoba really aren’t so bad, I peruse the company website for recipes and inspirations. The way this Canadian native says the word “about” like “a boot” is so irresistible that I briefly consider defecting just to be surrounded by such an accent. My plans are temporarily stalled when I see that Hemp Bliss is not shipped November through April due to “product freezing.” It’s true, I’m a fair weather fan. In the North Bay, the temperature is currently hovering in the mid-60s, and so I will remain put in my backwards-thinking, hemp-banning country of origin, where I can import hemp, I can wear hemp and I can eat hemp. I just can’t grow it.

 

For more information on Manitoba Harvest, go to www.manitobaharvest.com. For more information on legalizing hemp in the United States, go to www.votehemp.com and [ http://www.industrialhemp.net/ ]www.industrialhemp.net.

 


Sweet Disassembly

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Sweet Disassembly

02.20.08

O pening for Radiohead, appearing in Rolling Stone and the New York Times , and performing on Late Night with Carson Daly were never supposed to be in the cards for the massively unconventional band Deerhoof, insists drummer Greg Saunier from his modest Hyde Street residence in San Francisco.

 

“I didn’t even think we would go from our first show as a duo to our second show as a duo,” Saunier says over the phone with trademark humility, recalling the band’s improvisational origins in 1996. “I never had any expectation that anyone would ever listen to us or that anyone would ever come to our concerts.”

 

And yet Deerhoof, who perform Feb. 23 at Petaluma’s Phoenix Theater, have been justly lauded around the globe for creating some of the most engagingly original and beautifully off-kilter pop music of the past decade. Their completely unorthodox style is like a hard candy that’s been dropped to the ground and shattered into pieces—a sweet and beautiful thing, randomly disassembled. Most surprising to Saunier is that it’s won hordes of open-minded fans and tickled the ears of those seeking an enjoyably outré take on the pop form.

 

“It’s always weird to think,” he muses, “that an idea coming from such a personal or remote starting point, somewhere inside somebody’s mind, could ever be heard by a total stranger in Petaluma or Turkey or Japan, and that it’s anything other than total gibberish to them. It shocks me again and again, year after year. Every time we do another album, it’s sort of like, ‘Well, huh. I would never have guessed that that could have been comprehensible to anyone but us!'”

 

And surely Deerhoof’s music is utterly free of any preexisting guideposts. Their lyrics, usually chirped by diminutive bassist Satomi Matsuzaki (she stands about as high as Saunier’s drum kit), play a childlike foil to the band’s slathered intricacies. From their latest release, Friend Opportunity , the chorus of “+81” is as pure and innocent as its underlying instrumentation is meticulously mapped: “Choo-choo-choo-choo beep-beep,” Matsuzaki coos, “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo”—the tone changes to an augmented fourth—”Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo”—then back to the root note—”Choo-choo-choo-choo beep-beep.”

 

That’s not even mentioning the heralding trumpet blasts, the marching drum cadences, the space-age electronic blips, the Edgar Winter&–like guitar riffs, the dexterous trills, the disco handclaps or the ending’s horn decay, all cut and pasted into three thrilling minutes.

 

Most bands as creative as Deerhoof inevitably begin losing their edge by evaluating their own eventual legacy, but Saunier stresses that seeing into the distant future has never been the case with Deerhoof.

“Right now,” he says, “I’m so caught up in, like, ‘Why does this one section of our new song not work?’ or ‘God, I think my drum beat in this one part sounds so stupid.’ That’s what keeps me up at night. ‘How far should John’s bass knob be turned up on his amp? Because if he turns it up from two and a half to three, then I think that’s going to ruin my entire life.’

 

“There’s no way,” he continues, “to plan out what your imagination is going to surprise you with tomorrow.”

 

This weekend’s show represents two firsts for Deerhoof: the first show with new guitarist Ed Rodriguez, and the first time the band has ever played in Sonoma County. The freshness of both events is in keeping with Deerhoof’s constant rebirth of ideas.

 

“We’re still complete mysteries to each other in a lot of ways,” he admits. “We don’t understand anything about how you put a song together or how you play music. It feels like nothing’s given; we aren’t starting from a solid base of understanding. It’s just constant upheaval. So, yeah, things are going really well right now.”

 

Deerhoof play Saturday, Feb. 23, at the Phoenix Theater, 201 E. Washington St., Petaluma. 8pm. $15. 707.762.3565. For more on Deerhoof and Saunier’s insights into John Cage, Harry Smith, children’s music and Radiohead, visit Gabe Meline’s blog at

Mini Movies

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Mini Movies

02.20.08

Live action short films are often thought of as “calling cards” for filmmakers, being a snapshot of the film they could make should millions of dollars suddenly rain down upon their heads, Brad Pitt climb onboard and Scott Rudin decide to produce. Several North Bay theaters are screening the contenders in live action and animation in advance of the Feb. 24 festivities, making them calling cards to Academy Award watchers.

 

Of the nominees in the 2007 selection, the French offering, Mozart of the Pickpockets, is one I’d love to see at full length. Two congenial, bumbling pickpockets off-handedly find themselves suddenly in charge of a homeless deaf boy, taking him home with less thought than one might give an orphaned puppy. They try to teach him to spell, a task neither is capable of, but succeed at teaching him to steal. Mozart has no dark underbelly, the stealing is all jolly good fun that seemingly hurts no one and, while one of the men is obliquely accused of being gay, any apparent homosexuality is held in gentle abeyance. The goofy world that Mozart establishes in which stealing does no harm, taking a remarkably clean and healthy homeless child in without notifying authorities is acceptable and where a single bowl of pasta is a filling meal for three is irresistible.

 

Also sweetly goofy is the Belgian entry, Tanghi Argentini, following the efforts of an office drone who wants to learn to tango in just two weeks time to impress an Internet date. This schlub enlists the formidable Frans, an accomplished dancer in the office who exhorts him to puff out his chest and slink like a panther, and grudgingly teaches him steps in the conference room after hours. All is not what it seems and an aw-shucks twist at the end nonetheless surprises.

 

Taken from an Elmore Leonard story, The Tonto Woman is a ’70s-style Western that features a dark man riding into town and verbally seducing the wronged wife of a wealthy rancher. Abducted and held for 11 years by the Apaches, the wife was rescued by her husband but not until she had submitted to a heavy facial tattoo typical of the tribe. Interestingly, she had insisted on a different, more rampant tattoo and is thus even more disfigured&–a bearded lady with a smooth face&–than the ritual demanded. Her husband calls her a “squaw” and keeps her separate, living alone in a shack with a rusty pump for water. The dark man, a cattle rustler, intends to steal the husband’s stock but steals the wife’s heart instead. Things go to a remarkably sappy end in a mere 36 minutes, but the possibilities of this story stay strong.

Also included is a Danish heartbreaker set in an oncology ward (At Night) and a foolish Italian spoof that is probably much funnier to an audience raised on commedia dell’arte (The Substitute).

 

Animation technology seemingly progresses daily, and the slate poised for the Oscars this year rely heavily on a live-action basis with real actors lurking underneath the fantasy. And these are definitely not your kid’s cartoons; I’d warn against taking anyone under the age of eight. The particularly dark and malevolent Canadian short Madame Tutli-Putli is a short essay on the evils of travel with no real plot and even less resolve. It’s horribly fascinating to watch, however, and the scabrous flesh of its characters and dark insistence of its action still give me the creeps.

 

On the lighter side is the French submission Even Pigeons Go to Heaven, in which a charlatan marketing mechanical trips to heaven is one-upped by the Grim Reaper himself. The Russian watercolor fever dream My Love ostensibly follows the shallow yearnings of a young man’s lust but really recounts the great Russian literature of the late 19th century with a surprisingly sharp longing for the Czarist culture so long gone, while the U.K./Polish reworking of Peter and the Wolf finds a dystopia of lame birds and dead bears that even Grandpa’s gate can’t keep out.

 

The final work on the program is the five-minute I Met the Walrus, using reel-to-reel audio footage recorded by 14-year-old Jerry Levin when he sneaked into John Lennon’s hotel room in 1969. The animation refers to the Monty Python&–esque clip-art tomfoolery of the era, an inky sprawl that pools and reinvents itself endlessly. Lennon, too sharp to be dumbed down by media lessons of the past, assures the boy, “We’re all Christ on the inside.”

 

‘Academy Award-Nominated Short Films’ currently screens at the Rafael (118 Fourth St., San Rafael; 415.454.1222), opens Feb. 22 at the Rialto Lakeside Cinemas (551 Summerfield Road, Santa Rosa; 707.525.4840) and starts March 8 at the Jarvis Conservatory (1711 Main St., Napa; 707.255.5445).

 


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We Love You, Lynn

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02.20.08

From our Better Late Than Never Files, we reprint below Sixth Congressional District representative Lynn Woolsey’s Jan. 28 response to President Bush’s last State of the Union address. It’s great reading regardless of its glacial age (sorry Lynn!), so icy-angry and point-on that we’re even ignoring the tacit ‘Vote for Hillary’ clause at the end. You go, girl.

After seven years of mismanagement, gross incompetence and blinding arrogance, the waning moments of President Bush’s term in office can’t come fast enough for our nation and the world. To say that this president’s term in office has been bad would be an understatement. [Marker]

President Bush has been more than just bad—he has been a miserable and abject failure. Despite this, and perhaps because of this, we now face the great responsibility, and difficulty, of working together to rebuild our nation.

We are tired of the partisan politics and artificial divisions trumpeted as supposed “wedge issues,” by the political pundits, and are committed to strengthening our economy, rebuilding our public schools and working together to bring our troops home safely from Iraq.

That’s why I’m looking forward to working with the next president to undo the damage that President Bush has done over the past seven years, a list that reads like a catalogue of failures and missed opportunities.

Here at home, this is the man who from day one turned a record surplus into a record deficit; who vowed to overhaul our nation’s education system, but then failed to fund it; who turned his back on thousands of Americans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina; who ousted a covert CIA officer; who vetoed healthcare for millions of children; who drove partisanship to new levels; and who trampled on the Bill of Rights.

It was under his watch that our nation turned its back on our wounded veterans at Walter Reed; that oil hit $100 a barrel; that our economy suffered; and that millions of Americans [currently] stand at risk of losing their homes.

To the rest of the world, this is the man whose “cowboy diplomacy” included reneging on international treaties; who has defended torture; constructed Guantanamo Bay; and promoted the policy of preemptive unilateral strikes.

Most galling of all, this is the man who sent our sons and daughters to a war of convenience; who accused those of us who stood up in opposition of supporting the enemy, even while he failed to provide our troops with body armor; and who gave a whole new meaning to the term “mission accomplished.”

While the road to undoing the damage of the past seven years is long, I have no doubt that the American public is ready to put aside our differences and work together to strengthen our nation.

We need a strong leader in office who can not only unify the country, but has the experience to hit the ground running on day one.

The next president must be just as committed as we are to confronting the problems that face us, and overcome the challenges that this president has left us.


Letters to the Editor

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02.20.08

Boastful Wankering

I realize that cynical and self-aggrandizing opinion columns are trendy these days, but what gets my fur to bristle about “Haunted by Hills” by Alastair Bland (Feb. 13) is that its voice reeks of scenester elitism.

Reminiscent of a coked-up Hollywood body-builder who laments over not getting the Rambo role even though he could kick Stallone’s ass, Bland claims that by living in San Francisco, his hunger for hills is easily satisfied and that he has yet to meet a stronger rider than himself.

Maybe Bland drank one too many Americanos, but reading him boast of wicker baskets and other poor-boy aesthetics applied to his expensive Surly brand steed while slamming other athletes for wearing gear appropriate to the sport of cycling makes me wonder who he’s trying to impress if not simply the urban alcoholic bike-messenger set.

Mr. Bland, if you’re so far above the need to prove your abilities through an official sport, then why abuse a free publication to spout your boastful wankering? There may be some blacktop basketball player out there who can out slam-dunk Shaquille O’Neal, but that doesn’t mean the NBA are all a bunch of weenies.

Next time you find your feathers all ruffled up with the outdated stereotype of cycling as a yuppie weekender sport, please just hop on your fixie and ride down to the SOMA district for a few pints at Zeitgeist, then write your article for the SF Weekly and leave Levi Leipheimer and the North Bay out of it. I’ll even buy the next round.

Carlos Knoop

Santa Rosa

Alastair Bland replies: I appreciate all people who ride bikes, and I honestly respect the abilities of the athletes in the Tour (if not the carbon footprint of the race). But if I’m guilty of fueling a stereotype of weekend riders as yuppies, then so are you by assuming that a late-20s person from San Francisco who rides a bike is a hipster. I don’t put a U-lock in my back pocket, and I even wear a helmet. I also would never waste my money on a fixie. (You really think I could go up a 30 percent hill on a fixie?) Nice offer on the beer, but I don’t go to Zeitgeist. Let’s race sometime! Cheers, buddy.

PETA finally weighs in!

Last Sunday’s recall of 143 million pounds of beef by the U.S. Department of Agriculture should provide a loud and clear wake-up call that federal inspection is not adequate to ensure a safe meat supply.

This largest meat recall in U.S. history was actually brought on by an animal rights organization’s undercover video showing California slaughterhouse workers using kicks, electric shock, high-pressure water hoses and a forklift to force sick or injured animals onto the kill floor. USDA regulations prohibit sick animals from entering the food supply, because of the high risk of contamination by E. coli, salmonella or mad cow disease.

About 37 million pounds of the recalled meat went to school lunch and other federal nutrition programs since October 2006, and “almost all of it is likely to have been consumed,” according to a USDA official.

Parents must insist that USDA stop using the National School Lunch Program as a dumping ground for surplus meat and dairy commodities. The rest of us must learn to treat all meat, and particularly ground beef, as a hazardous substance to be consumed at one’s own peril.

Steven Alderson

Santa Rosa

European Dream

Here is what I think of the real state of the union. The American dream has become a nightmare. As one who recently returned from a vacation in Italy and has previously traveled through France, Spain and England, I see that Americans should be more aware of the European dream.

Sure, they pay high taxes, but look what they get for it. Public education starting from preschool right through to university. My cousin, who is a doctor in Italy, graduated from medical school debt-free.

Then there’s our elections. In Europe, every candidate has to take public funds. It is mandatory. Elections take two months and every candidate gets free air time. Consequently, they don’t have corporations buying their candidates and elections becoming million dollar venues for big business.

Why can’t America offer the same? Because we are corporate plutocracy, not a democracy. And that is the unfortunate state of our union.

Elizabeth Basile

Santa Rosa

Joyce T. Naylor

Santa Rosa


Sisters of Dreary

the arts | stage | Photograph by Cindy Brillhart...
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First Bite

2.20.09Editor's note: First Bite is a new concept in restaurant writing. This is not a go-three-times, try-everything-on-the-menu report; rather, this is a quick snapshot of a single experience. We invite you to come along with our writers as they—informed, intelligent eaters like yourselves—have a simple meal at an area restaurant, just like you do.  We demand a certain authenticity...
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Wine Tasting Room of the Week

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Helvetica

I heard about Helvetica last year from a friend of mine who’s a graphic designer in New York—he was excited about it even before it came out. Since then, two more graphic designer friends of mine, including Jackie at the Bohemian, have sang its praises. I finally watched it last night, and no matter what your line of work...
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The Winter Anti-Movie Guide

Film critics typically publish a Summer Movie Guide, a Fall Movie Guide, perhaps a Holiday Movie Guide…and then these ubiquitous guides conspicuously go into hibernation for the next few months. There is a definite reason for this; winter is typically regarded by all as a dead time at the megaplex. In recent years, the expansion of the summer movie...
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Heathen Hemp?

02.20.08 Before interviewing Mike Fata, cofounder of Manitoba Harvest, purveyors of hemp foods and oils, I do a mental tabulation of everything I think I know about hemp. While I tabulate, I eat Manitoba Harvest hemp-seed nut butter by the spoonful, a slow, delectably sticky process that gives me inspiration along with a much-needed protein boost.  George Washington grew hemp....
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Sweet Disassembly

02.20.08O pening for Radiohead, appearing in Rolling Stone and the New York Times , and performing on Late Night with Carson Daly were never supposed to be in the cards for the massively unconventional band Deerhoof, insists drummer Greg Saunier from his modest Hyde Street residence in San Francisco.  "I didn't even think we would go from...
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Mini Movies

02.20.08Live action short films are often thought of as "calling cards" for filmmakers, being a snapshot of the film they could make should millions of dollars suddenly rain down upon their heads, Brad Pitt climb onboard and Scott Rudin decide to produce. Several North Bay theaters are screening the contenders in live action and animation in advance of the...
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We Love You, Lynn

02.20.08From our Better Late Than Never Files, we reprint below Sixth Congressional District representative Lynn Woolsey's Jan. 28 response to President Bush's last State of the Union address. It's great reading regardless of its glacial age (sorry Lynn!), so icy-angry and point-on that we're even ignoring the tacit 'Vote for Hillary' clause at the end. You go, girl. After...
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Letters to the Editor

02.20.08Boastful WankeringI realize that cynical and self-aggrandizing opinion columns are trendy these days, but what gets my fur to bristle about "Haunted by Hills" by Alastair Bland (Feb. 13) is that its voice reeks of scenester elitism. Reminiscent of a coked-up Hollywood body-builder who laments over not getting the Rambo role even though he could kick Stallone's ass, Bland...
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