Wine Tasting

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You just don’t know what to expect from an outfit that releases a wine called VineAgra. Initially, I noticed Sapphire Hill for the trippy triangles on its labels. Could they be an ad for shamanistic voyaging? But what do you know from a label anyway? Zip. You might as well go and try the wine. You might find yourself rolling into H-town in a rented SUV, with tattooed ladies from Maine and nothing to lose, and do just that.

The Sapphire Hill gang established their vineyard west of Windsor, but the winery is located in Healdsburg, half mile or so from the gourmet ghetto. They share a refurbished 1933 winery complex with several other tasting rooms. As we drove up, the folks were outside, enjoying the sun, but retreated into their respective storefronts as we approached. We surveyed our choices. We chose Sapphire Hill, and we chose well. Winemaker Tim Meinken was manning the bar, has a sense of humor and knows the wine. Made the darn stuff.

Not driven by typical market expectation, Sapphire’s lineup includes no Cab and no Merlot. Production is mainly reds, with the exception of the 2003 Estate Chardonnay ($23). This Chard’s lumber and dairy product notes are subtle; it achieves more of a hint of cream soda. “Burgundian,” is how they describe the 2003 Sapphire Hill Vineyard Pinot Noir ($38). It’s tart and plummy, with a firm vegetal character. Green? I’m not saying that. More like roasted red pepper. It’s good. They produce some lots as limited as one barrel, such as the 2004 Bastoni Vineyard Alicante Bouschet ($25). Not available for tasting, the 2005 “Harlot,” a sassy Zinfandel/Syrah blend, could well be worth gambling $18 on a bottle. Also from the Bastoni Vineyard, the 2003 Old Vine Zinfandel ($28) is a toothsome brew of raisins and figs, with thorny tannins. Your bright and brambly Zin would be the 2005 Winberrie Vineyard Zinfandel ($32), juicy and savory, sure to brighten up the gloaming of any dimming day.

Now back to that 2005 VineAgra Zinfandel ($85). Only released in magnums, and containing 17 percent alcohol by volume, the wine got a lot of attention at this year’s ZAP Festival. Cognitive dissonance? Save it. Many a wit has already had a go at that. The real feat of pluck and verve: They got the label approved by the notoriously persnickety BATF. Dude.

Sapphire Hill Vineyards, 51 Front St., Healdsburg. Open Thursday-Monday, 11am to 4:30pm. 707.431.1888.



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Film Cheats

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May 9-15, 2007

I‘ve always liked David Mamet’s 1987 debut film, House of Games, but now I feel like I never truly saw it until I saw it through Simon Lovell’s eyes.

“I’d love to shake David Mamet’s hand one of these days and say what a great movie about con games that is,” says Lovell.

And he would know. Lovell is a former confidence man himself, who now uses his powers for good instead of evil as a magician, most famously in his critically acclaimed off-Broadway show, Strange and Unusual Hobbies.

He still draws on his experiences as a scammer in the show, as well as several books on the subject, and recently I stumbled across his magnum opus, How to Cheat at Everything. The title is a bit of a joke, since most of the book is actually about how to protect yourself from cheating. It’s the most gripping thing I’ve read in quite some time, and I couldn’t stop thinking that, even as nonfiction, it could be the basis for the ultimate con-man movie; Lovell even uses the very cinematic device of following a single hustler and his friends through every con in the book.

He also makes references to movies as illustrative examples of cons in action–if he feels the screenwriters have done their homework. He mentions House of Games and The Sting more than once, which inspired me to go back and watch those movies in an entirely different context.

I was lucky enough to talk to the Manchester, England-born Lovell about these cinematic cheats from his home in New York City, and it turns out he’s quite the film buff. But con flicks that impress him as true to their subject matter are rare.

“There are very few,” he admits. “You’ve got The Hustler, The Grifters; you’ve got The Sting, House of Games, The Color of Money. These are movies that are few and far between, where cons are actually done properly, even within a cinematic sense. Another lovely movie is The Baltimore Bullet with James Coburn, about a pool player. The Sheep Has Five Legs is a very interesting one. It’s very hard to find, but if you can find it, it’s fascinating.”

Of those, the interesting thing about The Sting and House of Games is that they both depict the same con: the “crossed deck” or “cross.” It works on the time-tested principle that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, hooking the victim into thinking that he or she is actually being brought in on a con, while in reality an even bigger con is being worked on them. In both films, Lovell says, the cons play out with a lot more elegance than your run-of-the-mill scam.

“Most cons just rely on human greed and culpability,” says Lovell. “The high end of cons are the artistic cons. The Sting would be a very good example of an artistic con. And House of Games is a nice artistic con. They’ve got everything planned out, they know what they’re doing right from the start, and it’s really a delightful piece.”

But that alone can lead to some problems with realism, as Lovell points out about The Sting. “Of course, it’s theatrically exaggerated, because the money at the end of it is probably nowhere near what they needed to put in to pull all of that shit off,” he says with a laugh. “So you walk away with $100,000, and what did you put into it, $500,000? Bit of a disaster there, you know?”

There is some poetic license in House of Games, too, like the “tell” that finally gives the cons away–the unwisely parked red car. Lovell estimates the hospital stay for a con who screwed up his part that badly would be minimum 14 weeks, which is why cons in real life rarely make such mistakes.

If you don’t understand the enduring appeal of the con movie, take it from the man who teaches casino operatives about cheating: everyone has the capacity to be a hustler. And a mark.

“People don’t think they’re gullible,” says Lovell, “but you look up the word ‘gullible’ in the dictionary, and you’ll find the entire human population in a photograph there.”


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Ask Sydney

May 9-15, 2007

Dear Sydney, I have back problems. To help, I go to the gym and stretch out. They have great mats, balls, etc. A number of times, while I’ve been stretching, I’ve had people shout at me, “Shouldn’t you be working out!” It’s happened on several occasions, and just the other day, while I was stretching, this man shouted at me from across the room, “Do you need a blanket?”–as if I was getting ready to take a nap. I don’t understand it. It seems offensive to me that anyone would talk to me at all while I’m trying to do my workout, but maybe I’m reading people wrong? Is it good gym etiquette to shout at people across the gym and make comments about their stretching practices? And am I obligated to respond?–Pissed-Off Stretcher

Dear Stretcher: Working out in a gym is like walking around outside in your underwear. Some seem to have no problem with it, and flex and sweat so freely it appears they have no idea how ridiculous they look. Others feel on the spot, overexposed, as if they feel they look really bad in spandex. For these people, no talking and no eye contact is the standard. It sounds to me like you are of the later sort; someone who goes to the gym not to socialize, and certainly not to be judged, but to stretch, so that your back doesn’t hurt. It’s strange that people would feel moved to comment on your stretching, and definitely inappropriate.

If it’s possible, consider switching gyms. Many gyms have rooms available with mats and balls, where you can stretch without being ogled by someone working on the treadmill. Perhaps you belong to a gym where members feel comfortable making meaningless conversation with people they don’t know, while they’re doing the splits. Pay attention to those around you and see if this sort of commentary is commonplace, or if it seems pointedly geared toward you. My guess is, unless your stretching methods and apparel are truly, deeply unorthodox, you just happen to belong to a chatty gym. Ignore the chatter, no response is necessary, and don’t take it so personally. Who cares what some workout maniacs think, anyway? The gym is there for you and you alone. Buy a Walkman or MP3 player, block all of them out, and do your thing.

Dear Sydney, as a single mom with no career or child support, I find it almost impossible to make ends meet. To add to my troubles, my daughter is now 15, and my son approaching his teen years, and it seems like with every new day they need more and more money. Where do I draw the line? Of course I want to be able to help them go to concerts and the movies and get the clothes and shoes they need, but it’s getting out of control. Just to make it through the week, my 15-year-old needs the majority of my grocery money. She’s also furious at me that we’re poor. Their dad gives them no spending money at all, so it’s always on my shoulders if they can’t go out and have fun. Do I show them exactly how much I make, and then teach them how to budget? Or is that too much information, which will only stress them out? I guess I just can’t figure out how to get them to value money, and we always end up fighting.–Broke Mom

Dear Mom: How can you help feeling bad when the other people’s kids seem to all be getting iPods, laptops, nice cars, ski vacations, cell phones, designer clothes and every kind of lesson invented by man or beast, no matter what the hourly rate? It’s enough to make any impoverished parent want to crawl under her sagging jalopy and not emerge until the kids move out. But it sounds like you are doing the best you can, and if your daughter feels angry about how things are, well, hopefully she will grow up and make choices that ensure she will not end up in a similar situation.

Your kids already know you don’t make enough money. They don’t need pay stubs and a weekly break down of utilities and gasoline costs to understand. Instead, figure out your own budget, and decide exactly how much you can afford to allot them for spending money. Tell them this is what they have to work with each week, period. This should eliminate some of the overspending, as well as give them some practice budgeting their own money. It also might give that teenager of yours impetus to go out and get a part-time job.

Is this fair, when her friends can just dig through their parent’s wallets anytime, and fish out a 20? No, it’s not, but neither is life, and neither is being a single mom, and neither is being poor. It’s just the breaks. And if you can stomach it, have a talk with Dead Beat Dad. Maybe he would agree to, at the very least, match you with spending money for the kids. It’s worth a try.

Dear Sydney, how do you know when to call it quits in a relationship? Supposedly, we’re supposed to be dedicated through thick and thin, good and bad, fights and nonfights, but I just find the grind of my relationship so exhausting. Sometimes I just want to be alone. But then I’m afraid that all relationships are probably full of strife, and do I really want to be alone for the rest of my life? So maybe I’m just being unrealistic and love is about work, and I just need to accept that. I guess I’m just wondering how to figure out when enough is enough.–Tired Out

Dear Tired: Wouldn’t it be nice if every relationship came with a stopwatch? Then you could just glance at it anytime, and it would report exactly what your chances of relationship survival are in any given moment and, when all hope is gone, it would just stop, and you would know it was time to move out. It’s part of the human condition to long for what we don’t have. So, naturally, being in a relationship makes you yearn for solitude. But try not to allow either your fear of being alone, or your desire to be alone, define the success rate of your relationship or be your stopwatch. Some relationships are not worth the work, and others, despite the ups, downs and struggles, give enough back in return to make them sustainable. Instead of focusing on that elusive sense of certainty that usually doesn’t follow anyone–not to the alter and not to the divorce lawyer–concentrate on what your relationship does or does not offer you right now. Then sit with it for awhile. Without the details, it’s impossible for me to assess the situation, but I will tell you, relationships are exhausting. Life is exhausting. That’s why there’s coffee.

‘Ask Sydney’ is penned by a Sonoma County resident. There is no question too big, too small or too off-the-wall. Inquire at www.asksydney.com.

No question too big, too small or too off-the-wall.


The Byrne Report

May 9-15, 2007

In in April, Don McQueen of Santa Rosa took issue with my observation that Americans “have been psychologically conditioned to accept unpardonable acts of violence as moral imperatives.” McQueen suggested that the readiness of human beings to accept or employ violent acts is caused more by evolution than by psychology.

I agree with McQueen that the warlike nature of our culture is not purely the product of media brainwashing. More accurately, our genetically programmed fear response is consciously and unconsciously manipulated by the power structure to serve Manichaean ends. Logically, though, that same underlying genetic machinery could be geared to desire and work toward the continued survival of our species by promoting cooperation on a global scale.

To borrow computer terminology, it is true that our “operating system” is engineered to support Pentagon-manufactured “applications” that cause great suffering. And the enormous bandwidth of the militaristic media’s incessant transmission of militaristic explanations for all socio-economic phenomena tends to overwrite the mentally subterranean effects of vast arrays of peace-loving memes that have also evolved and that compete with our violence-rewarding software. But despite being inundated by such streams of informational garbage as advertisements, we are fundamentally wired to distinguish truth from falsehood. Evolutionary psychology shows that our somatic systems simmer with genetically-encoded imperatives that promote species-preservation through self-organizing and altruistic acts. Yet, mainstream brains are dominated by instructions from a master program, so to speak, that runs our militarized society as if we are mindless bots designed to “feel” cyber-pleasure in the act of generating surplus value for unseen “investors” while perceiving their plutocratic order as a “democracy.” Only a bot could believe itself “free” to “chose” which rich person to obey every four years, right?

This brings us back to sociologist C. Wright Mills’ path-breaking dissection of American society, The Power Elite ( May 2). Although it was written 51 years ago, the book remains sociologically accurate. After breaking down the class structure of America, Mills characterizes the ruling ideology of the conglomeration of corporate, military and political groups that determine when and how we go to war as a form of business-oriented pragmatism that he calls, without humor, “crack-pot realism.”

Listen to what sounds familiar in observations that Mills made as he watched Lockheed, Boeing, Raytheon and General Motors purchase presidents and congressmen wholesale while controlling, with advertising dollars, a subservient media that cheerfully inoculated the populace with nuclear and racial fears and the business-approved solution to fear—blind patriotism:

  • “America is now in considerable part more a formal political democracy than a democratic social structure, and even the formal political mechanics are weak.”
  • “[F]or the first time in American history, men in authority are talking about an ’emergency’ without a foreseeable end . . . . [W]ar or a high state of war preparedness is felt to be the normal and seemingly permanent condition of the United States.”
  • “[C]orporate leaders are drawn into the circle of the high military and political through personal friendship, trade and professional associations . . . prestige clubs, open political affiliation and customer relationships.” Their agenda is “keeping taxes down, turning all productive operations over to private enterprises, increasing foreign trade, keeping governmental welfare and other domestic activities to a minimum, and strengthening the hold of the current party in power.”
  • Now look at our war-profiteering senator, Dianne Feinstein: She had no problem with Bush until he lost the unjust war on Iraq. She faithfully supported Bush’s ripping up of the Constitution via the Patriot Act. And now that she and her war-contractor husband, Richard C. Blum, have made their bundle on the backs of dead people in Iraq and Afghanistan, Feinstein is ready to partially repudiate Bush’s leadership, claiming that she did not know he lied about his reasons for invading Iraq. Even though she sat on the Senate Intelligence Committee and was privy to real intelligence that, according to her colleague on the committee, Senator Richard Durbin, proved that Bush was lying about Iraq’s weaponry even as he cranked up the invasion.

    Yes, there are occasional cracks in the public relations facade, especially when the elite is confused about what to do next. In a televised debate in late April, former Alaska senator Mike Gravel said, “We have no important enemies. What we have to do is to begin to deal with the rest of the world as equals and we don’t do that. Iraq has never been a threat to us. We invaded them, it is unbelievable. The military industrial complex not only controls our government lock stock and barrel, but they control our culture.”

    Unless we take it back.

    or


    Band Bads

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    May 9-15, 2007

    Names go through cycles. I was born in an era of Saras; at school, only the Jennifers outnumbered us. Today, my heart goes out to the legions of tiny Madisons and Ethans in America. After all, naming is intimidating. The self-image of the future is at stake, something my current data-entry job reminds me of periodically. Today, I encountered one Rod Glasscock, whose coordinates I typed into a spreadsheet with a mixture of pity and marvel. What were his parents thinking?

    While expectant parents can look through baby-name books, no such tool exists for new bands, whose names must be utterly unique. And, just as the hierarchy of popular first names has shifted, jettisoning Mary and David for Mackenzie and Dylan, the province of band names has become a bizarre postmodern landscape of calculated irreverence and self-awareness cloaked in faux guilelessness. In other words, bad rock-band names, which have always existed in spades, are more prevalent than ever. I don’t care if Fall Out Boy’s name did originate from a Simpsons episode, it’s still a terrible thing to call a band. So is My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday, My Brightest Diamond and any other construction of words that dangles expectantly as a fragment of an eternally unfinished sentence.

    It does not have to be that way. As a public service, here is a 100 percent free band-name style guide. New bands, when you have that all-important meeting to decide what to call yourselves, simply refer to these guidelines and avoid what might be decades of life stuck with a name your thought was cool when you were 15 and easily amused.

  • A simple noun ending with an s is always a good bet; it is classic and elegant. However, after almost six decades of constant popularity, this construction has left very few objects unclaimed: Seeds, Slits, Sundays, Specials, Samples, for example, are all taken. Still, do not forget that the world is full of nouns. Look harder.
  • Spelling words incorrectly on purpose usually results in neither cuteness nor cleverness. What worked in the early 1960s (Beatles, Byrds, Cyrkle, Monkees) will come across as cloying in 2007 unless your band plays very stylized ’60s psychedelic garage rock. (Note that hip-hop is exempt from this particular element of style, as well as from most rock band name guidelines in general.)

  • Letters intentionally set in lowercase or letters set in all uppercase will deeply perturb the grammar/typography nerd at your local alt-weekly newspaper. You want these people on your side. Also avoid abusing punctuation marks. Sun O))) and india.arie and ADULT. feel completely ridiculous to type and look equally ridiculous in the context of, say, a New Yorker profile; they may just go and cover Feist instead. Don’t nip your best press opportunities in the bud just to indulge juvenile notions of nonconformity!

  • Don’t be a jackass and go and name your band something that’s virtually impossible to pronounce, like “!!!” or “OOIOO.” Any name that takes more than five minutes to explain to your mom is a bad idea.

  • Place names–Boston, Europe, Chicago, America, Kansas–aren’t just for power balladeers and soft-rock staples anymore. An atlas is a veritable goldmine of band names, from interstate off-ramps (Sleater-Kinney) to obscure towns in Maryland (Timonium).

  • Don’t name your band after anything that could be construed as a reference to poop or semen. True, both Hot Snakes and Pearl Jam have legions of devoted fans, but come on. Yeech! Likewise, avoid drug references, unless you are in a Black Sabbath cover band, in which case Sweet Leaf is a totally awesome name. So awesome, in fact, that it is taken. Sweat Leaf, however, is not and should remain so.

  • These days, a peek at the originality of a potential band name is only a quick Google away, but lawsuits can strike even the most thorough researcher. Smart bands eschew conflict by altering their names somewhat and emerging, triumphant, with a better name: Dinosaur to Dinosaur Jr., the Champs to the Fucking Champs.

  • Dumb bands change their name midway through their careers for no apparent reason, except for a change of pace. Brooklyn’s Kilowatthours, for instance, switched to Up the Empire a few years ago. Why ditch a perfectly fine name for a perfectly stupid one? Were they put into band witness protection?

  • “Wolf” and “Bear” are the Emmas and Jacobs of today’s band names. Grizzly Bear, Big Bear, Panda Bear, Polar Bears, Peanut Butter Wolf, AIDS Wolf, Wolfmother, Wolf Eyes . . . Just to be safe, your band may want to lay off the mammal names. Reptiles and insects are still a good bet.

    Band names are silly by nature. Go ahead and name your Hot Topic-shoppin’ emo band something like Sally’s Last Nightmare or name your mock-metal band Can Opener. Be serious about the music, but don’t take your name too seriously.

    Somewhere, someone–me, probably–will find a way to make fun of it.


  • Morsels

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    May 2-8, 2007

    Nominees for this year’s James Beard Foundation Awards, which recognizes culinary excellence in America, are the usual scullery suspects: carrot-lime ravioli hot shot Wylie Dufresne, Balthazar’s most Very Important Person Keith McNally, and discerning champ of class Thomas Keller.

    But Keller’s just the beginning when it comes to the discriminating papillae of the North Bay, which are catching the drooly attention of the James Beard folks. Here’s our grocery list of the rest of the local nominees, so you’ll know who to ask for an autograph when you pass them in the supermarket:

  • Kenwood food writer Jeff Cox’s Organic Cook’s Bible (John Wiley & Sons; $40) is up for best reference book.
  • John Scharffenberger, who lives in Mendocino and kind of recently sold out to Hershey, co-wrote The Essence of Chocolate (Hyperion Books; $35), which is nominated for the best book on a single subject award.
  • On her KQED program Check, Please! Bay Area, Petaluma’s own Leslie Sbrocco features candid debates by regular Joes who’ve eaten at each other’s favorite restaurants. That’s up for Best Television Food Special.
  • Cyrus’s Douglas Keane is up for best chef in the Pacific region. (You can bet the P.D.’s happy about that one.)
  • Dan Duckhorn of Duckhorn Vineyards, St. Helena; Helen Turley of HTM Consultants/Marcassin Winery, Calistoga; Paul Draper of Ridge Vineyards, Healdsburg and Cupertino are all up for the best Outstanding Wine and Spirits Professional Award.
  • Impressing your linens off, Terra restaurant in St. Helena scored a nomination for most outstanding service.Find out if that autograph will be worth something on May 7, when the Beard Foundation finally spills the haricots verts at a black-tie gala in Manhattan.
  • Quick dining snapshots by Bohemian staffers.

    Winery news and reviews.

    Food-related comings and goings, openings and closings, and other essays for those who love the kitchen and what it produces.

    Recipes for food that you can actually make.

    Fashion Friction

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    Photograph by Patricia Lynn Henley
    Much of a muchness: Redwood Middle School students must conform to a dress code or have their records permanently marked for disobedience.

    By Patricia Lynn Henley

    For her first day as a seventh-grader at Redwood Middle School in Napa, Toni Kay Scott wore a denim skirt and a brown shirt with a pink border. The girl, known to her friends as T.K., also sported sensible school shoes and knee-high socks graced with images of the Winnie-the-Pooh character Tigger. Even before classes started on that fall day in 2005, the campus police officer had singled K. and another student out and taken them to the principal’s office.

    “It was kind of awkward,” T.K. recalls, speaking from her napa home via a conference call which included her attorney and her mother. remembering that day, T.K. adds, “I’d never gotten talked to by a police officer before or gotten in trouble.”

    A third student was brought in after classes started. All three presented copies of letters their parents had sent the principal a week before, officially requesting that their children be allowed to “opt out” of the school’s restrictive dress code. According to a recent lawsuit filed by five families–including T.K.’s–representing six students, the principal ignored the requests for exemptions to the dress code and ordered the three youngsters to spend the day in a program called Students with Attitude Problems.

    “I missed the whole first day of school that year,” explains T.K., an honor-roll student who enjoys math and science. “We just had to sit in a room. there was no talking. all we could do was read a book.”

    Because of the lawsuit, principal Michael Pearson declined to comment on specific incidents, but explained that the campus clothing policy started in 1996 as a response to local gang activity. Pearson has been principal of the 1,100-pupil campus for three years, and sees the dress code as a positive influence on a diverse student body that is 50 percent Caucasian and 50 percent Hispanic, with half of all families living on incomes below the poverty level.

    “It’s still a safety issue, although we don’t have near the gang issues that we used to,” Pearson explains. “It’s our way of setting the tone here on campus, that our focus is on education.”

    Currently, students can wear only seven solid colors–blue, white, green, yellow, khaki, gray, brown and black–in cotton twill, chino or corduroy. No pink collar on a white shirt. No pink at all. No purple. No orange. No denim. No prints. No stripes. No logos. No drawings. No Tigger socks.

    “This is a uniform,” says T.K.’s mother, Donnell Scott. “I don’t care how you word it, this is a uniform.”

    Pearson says the simplicity of the rules make them easy to enforce–there is no need for long discussions about whether a stripe is one or two inches wide–so that staff and faculty can focus on safety and education. In the lawsuit filed with the support of the ACLU and a private law firm, the Scotts and other families charge that the code goes too far, creating a de facto uniform policy. Under California law, students must follow a school’s dress code, but families can choose to exempt their children from having to wear a school uniform.

    Donnell Scott says she and the other families want their kids to have more options in dressing appropriately for school. They aren’t demanding an anything-goes approach; they simply don’t see how stripes, a flower print or Tigger socks are disruptive on a middle-school campus. Her younger daughter, Sydni, has also been cited at school.

    “I’m getting sick and tired of schools telling me how to parent my child,” Scott asserts calmly but forcefully. “This is a public school. Your job is to educate my child. I will dress her appropriately.”

    The heart of the issue, says Sonoma State University education professor Jim Fouche, is whether one favors an existentialist approach to teaching young people. Does the administration emphasize freedom of choice and personal responsibility, or a more traditional philosophy that standardized clothing rules creates a calmer classroom atmosphere and a stronger sense of belonging to a large group? There’s also the matter of leveling differences in family incomes by downplaying or eliminating designer labels and logos.

    Strict school dress codes or uniform policies tend to cycle in and out of fashion, Fouche says. With the recent emphasis on basic skills and standardized testing, the concept has resurfaced. Still, it’s all a matter of opinion, advocacy and philosophy.

    “If it was as simple as having kids put on uniforms and seeing a marked improvement in academic proficiency, then you’d see a lot more of it,” Fouche explains. “I’m not aware of any evidence that would, in a casual way, link wearing or not wearing uniforms with academic performance.”

    A bell rings at 10am on the Redwood Middle School campus, and students pour out of classrooms for a 15-minute break. At first impression, the campus is a fairly homogeneous mass of dark and light colors. Everything, including backpacks, is in solid, subdued hues.

    But as the students mix and mingle in the sunshine, subtle differences emerge. There are shorts, crop pants, slacks, skirts, long-sleeve or short-sleeve tops, lightweight hooded sweatshirts, cotton jackets. While initially their outfits seem rather uniform, no two students are wearing exactly the same thing.

    Standing at the side of the swirling social mass of students, Principal Pearson points out a few minor dress code violations. Some are kids he’ll talk to later. One young boy has white stripes down the sleeves of his jacket. Pearson explains it’s the only jacket this kid has and his family can’t afford another one. Rather than cite the boy for violating school policy, Pearson looks the other way and hopes to eventually find him a coat that follows campus policy. The school has a scholarship fund to help families meet the dress code rules.

    “By and large we get amazing compliance from the kids,” Pearson says. He adds that there are a lot of other avenues for self-expression than fashion; students can assert their individual natures through academics, sports, arts, clubs and more.

    “We want our kids dressed four success. We want the focus on education and we want our campus to be safe. We have truly established an environment that provides safety and promotes learning. I truly believe that’s what parents want.”

    Dave Palagi, president of the school’s parent-faculty club, agrees wholeheartedly. “We’re instilling in our kids that when you go into the corporate world, you have to dress appropriately, and school isn’t any different,” Palagi says. The dress policy does increase safety, he avers, by making it easy for yard supervisors overseeing 1,100 students during breaks and lunch to immediately spot a stranger on campus. “If I had my way, there’d be an even stricter dress code.”

    The rules already go too far, says Sharon O’Grady, one of the private attorneys representing the case. “The dress code goes well beyond the legitimate purposes of a dress code,” she says, “which would be school safety, prevention of gang violence–things that are important to keep the school safe. No one has explained to me why stripes or patterns or having one color on the collar and a different color on the body of the shirt has anything to do with safety or gang violence.”

    The district has three other middle schools, none of which has a dress policy as strict as the one at Redwood. The families who filed the lawsuit say they shouldn’t have to transfer away from their neighborhood campus to escape rules that exceed what the state allows.

    T.K. worries that her permanent record will list disciplinary actions without explaining that they were for minor dress-code infractions. “It will show up that I was defying them. I don’t want to go into high school with them thinking that I’m not a good kid.”

    Donnell Scott adds, “For them to say this is a dress-for-success policy, well, success starts after high school. Let me parent my own child. Let me make a decision. It’s a public school. They can have the dress code; just provide me with an opt-out form.”


    Cottage Industry

    May 2-8, 2007

    Spring Fashion:

    Sebastopol mother of two Alix McCauley has been content to stay at home with her kids for the last seven years, taking special time to raise her son and daughter, now seven and three, be available for play dates and do school volunteering, work on her garden and help renovate the old house she and her husband bought a few years ago. Trained as a painter and photographer at the Rhode Island School of Design, McCauley hasn’t had time to do much fine art, but she has made her children’s clothes and, before that, made her own maternity clothes. And then one day last November, a friend told her about an online marketplace for crafters and artisans, Etsy.com. Never one to turn down an idle moment to shop, McCauley took a look and loved what she saw.

    “I was immediately inspired,” she says. “I’d never seen anything like it; it’s a compilation of so many energies.” Before she went to bed that night, specifically the night of Nov. 19, 2006, McCauley took some photos of clothes she had made for herself and, thinking little of it, posted them to Etsy.

    When she woke up the next day, all of them were sold.

    Now just five months later, McCauley–who taught herself to sew–estimates that she has completed some 700 custom-made pieces through her store, Treehouse28, on Etsy.com. Standing in the airy backyard cottage that literally houses her cottage industry, she still seems a little shocked by her immediate success.

    A tall, willowy strawberry blonde who is also her brand’s only model, McCauley, 38, is an old-fashioned dressmaker in a decidedly new-fashioned world. Working exclusively with cotton-lycra blend fabrics that are stretchy and forgiving and particularly beloved by pregnant women and yoga enthusiasts, McCauley makes earth-tone dresses, headbands, shirts, arm warmers and pants exactly to her customer’s dimensions.

    “It’s all custom work,” she says. “I don’t work from sizing charts. I’m finding that a lot of people of different sizes and shapes want a wardrobe that works for them perfectly.” McCauley posts pictures of herself modestly modeling her designs, customers send in their dimensions–including how long they like their tops to be from shoulder to leg–and in a two-week turnaround, the item appears in the mail, hand-addressed and with a short note from McCauley inside the package.

    A typical dress costs just $60, entirely intended from color choice to breadth to length just for its new owner. And prices don’t change for larger women, whose clothing assuredly uses more fabric than do the size-zero eenie-beanies. “It’s really rewarding making clothing for women who don’t feel like they can pick up a piece of stylish clothing and have it fit,” McCauley says. “A lot of women don’t want to go out shopping or don’t have the time or feel shy trying clothes on in public.”

    The small cottage where McCauley works is immaculate, with clothing samples hanging from the ceiling, and her three sewing machines–two of them commercial sergers that she had to hastily purchase within the first month of her uncanny success–sitting on a white table, quietly at the ready. Even with the flood of orders that come in daily from spots as disparate as New Zealand, England and North Dakota, McCauley still keeps track of her inventory flow on a yellow legal pad.

    A bright orange basket on the floor holds fabric scraps that she uses to hand-tie each garment before packaging it herself for shipping. In less than half a year, she already has large design houses interested in her products and is fielding offers to expand and redirect the very personal nature of her business. And, oh, she has also had to learn how to actually do business.

    “I’m at that point already where I need to consider how big I want to be, how much I want to do,” she says, settling down on an oversized white sofa. “I can make the sales. Now it’s a matter of how to handle a business that’s growing. It’s exciting.”

    She leans forward and smiles. “It’s something I would never have forecast five months ago.”

    To learn more, go to www.etsy.com and search for Treehouse28 under ‘sellers.’


    First Bite

    Have you ever wondered what lies within that huge, posh-looking facade on Sausalito’s Bridgeway Avenue called Poggio? I always have, and one day in early April I found out. White tablecloths, romantic interior lighting, polished wood, maroon velvet, regal arched doorways and a few more of my very favorite things are all found within.

    After I was seated by the hostess, my very kind server followed with a tall crystal carafe of water. To begin, I considered the chicken liver and asparagus crostini ($9) but went instead for the Caprino baked goat cheese and flatbread ($10). The crunchy, wafer-thin flatbread was stuck with pine nuts and grappa-soaked raisins and apricots. I wasn’t sure whether or not the point was to spread the creamy hot cheese over the bread and make a mini pizza, but that’s what I did and I liked it just fine. A dinky pear-and-greens salad dressed in vinaigrette sat meekly beside the crostini. Meanwhile, a hitch-hiking scrap of liver had somehow found its way onto my plate and was a welcome surprise.

    The vinegar and the oil, the goat cheese and the complimentary oven-fresh rolls which I lathered in smooth-whipped butter all conspired to lift me up and away to the hills of Southern France. It wasn’t quite Italy, but that is no fault of Poggio. The excellent food is plainly Italian, and with it I savored a very nice Chianti Superiore ($7.25). Yet there I was in the hills of France. As a kid, I traveled with my family through much of southern Europe. I was only five and couldn’t see any difference between one wine-soaked land and the next, and I think my olfactory transmitters must have gotten a little mixed up with all the baguettes and cheese and the mules and peasants scurrying in every direction.

    The baby beets and arugula salad ($9) bumped me right over the Alps and into Italy. The sliced ricotta on top was fresh and cool, white as snow and pure as the River Po, and it absorbed the color and the faint sweetness of the pink and orange beets just beautifully, while the crunchy arugula cut the flavor like a knife.

    We could talk on and on about the little things: how the droplets of green olive oil lingered like polka dots in the dark burgundy vinegar; how the dry Chianti reflected the Europeans’ confident, no-nonsense approach to winemaking; how the foam of my espresso ($1.95) tickled my upper lip; how many of Poggio’s herbs and garnishes come from the certified organic garden on the hillside out back, but the fact is my food was gone. No airplane could have taken me to Europe and back faster than the food at Poggio did, and I walked out the door and down the street as one who has really been somewhere.

    Poggio has a seasonally changing menu and is open for lunch and dinner daily; the cafe opens for breakfast daily at 6:30am. 777 Bridgeway, Sausalito. 415.332.7771.



    View All

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

    The Byrne Report

    May 2-8, 2007

    On a rainy night in late April, I sat in the Tomales Town Hall watching a live theater troupe perform a play about the Vietnam war called A Piece of My Heart. Normally, I do not attend live theater. Retread Broadway scripts bore me to curses and commercial actors creep me out. Nor do I watch television shows. (Well, I did rent a video of The Sopranos once and was neither shocked nor amused to see that our violence-sucking society considers murder-for-profit and snarling misogyny to be a humorous form of entertainment.)

    I avoid television news; it gives me gas. But I am marginally well-informed, thanks to the snippets of real life that filter through our thought-controlled Internet. And I read lots of those interesting books that Amazon.com tells me to buy. For example, I recently finished C. Wright Mill’s classic 1956 study of the military-industrial-political complex, The Power Elite. We’ll talk about that in a minute.

    So there I was, sitting on a cold metal folding chair in the drafty town hall of a tiny town on a wet night with a dozen others watching a true-life play about American nurses and soldiers getting the shaft in Vietnam. A Piece of My Heart was first produced in New York City in 1991. The song-filled drama, written by Shirley Lauro, opened for a short run in Point Reyes Station a few weeks ago. But Tina Taylor, the play’s director, tells me that her local newspaper, the Point Reyes Light, owned and operated by Robert Plotkin, did not write a story about the community-produced event nor review it nor print any of several letters to the editor about the play that readers sent in.

    In response, Plotkin told me, “We review almost no plays. Sometimes we run it in the calendar section. When we have an art critic, as we did last summer, our art coverage goes up. But amateur reviews are lousy.”

    I thought the antiwar play was extraordinarily timely, and I applaud the gutsy cast for raising their voices to expose the shame of warring on Vietnam and, by implication, Iraq and Afghanistan. Taylor and her troupe want to tour local high schools with the play. They hope seeing it will discourage North Bay youth from enlisting in the armed forces only to be chewed up and spit out after “serving” their country. My main criticism of the play is that it does not search for–nor find any meaningful analysis of–why the United States killed 2 million Vietnamese civilians before they finally defeated us on the battlefield.

    Playwright Lauro throws a few rhetorical barbs at warlike males as a group, as if American females are not just as bloodthirsty as their mates, and rants a bit about “the brass,” without telling us who “the brass” are. In short, the play has pathos a-plenty, but lacks tragic stature, due, in large part, to its failure to acknowledge that the Vietnamese side of the struggle was a war of liberation against foreign invaders.

    And that brings us back to The Power Elite. In it, Mills systematically lays out how the post-WW II military-scientific bureaucracy, multinational corporations and the “political directorate” combined into a profit-seeking elite that runs America as a permanent war economy. Mills foresaw, several generations ago, that much of American culture, education, journalism and our very thought processes have been militarized: “Peace is no longer serious; only war is serious. Every man and every nation is either friend or foe, and the idea of enmity becomes mechanical, massive and without genuine passion.”

    The military-industrial publicity machine, observes Mills, “plant[s its] metaphysics firmly among the population at large,” relying upon “the absence of opposition to [its program] . . . portraying the armed forces in a manner attractive to civilians” and developing “a cast of mind that defines international reality as basically military.”

    This is a profound broadcast by Mills over the chasm of a half-century. Since then, we have degenerated to the point where we shrug off presidentially ordered torture, officially sanctioned kidnappings, indefinite detentions and the daily slaughter of innocents as merely another installment of The Sopranos. But the Dance Palace’s heart-felt antiwar production stood out in the poisoned cultural atmosphere we breath. Mass media suffocates us intellectually and scorches our hearts with a cultural diet that promotes consumption, narcissism and the blind eye.

    Mills warned us: “American militarism, in fully developed form, would mean the triumph in all areas of life of the military metaphysic, and hence the subordination to it of all other ways of life.”

    I salute Dance Palace for raising a small voice against the tide.

    or


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