Ask Sydney

October 11-17, 2006

Dear Sydney, I’m in my mid-20s. I have focused my career goals toward anything outdoors. I’m a trained climbing instructor, ski guide and wilderness guide. I’ve done extensive training and have worked in many capacities, including working with troubled teens at an outdoor-centered high school. My parents have helped me financially to some degree, although I’ve been predominantly independent. My problem is that my parents and extended family are dropping lots of unsubtle hints about me deciding on a career. It seems that they want me to commit to a schooling venture (college), and they don’t have much respect for my processes or ideas. I’ll be traveling to my hometown soon–how can I prevent any misunderstandings and keep my family relations sweet?–Unhappy Camper

Dear Camper: You are too focused and motivated to let your family’s doubt drag you down! If you were working a low-end job, nursing a nagging drug habit and spending all of your free time watching Star Trek reruns, well, then I might counsel you differently. But it seems as though you know what you love and are motivated enough to pursue it. So what’s the problem? Many people have looming familial expectations that they feel they do not live up to. This is just one of the down sides to having a family.

When you go to visit them, stop putting off the inevitable and bring those dropped hints out into the open. Do your best to listen, instead of becoming defensive and shutting them out. If your family feels that you are open to hearing them, they might be more receptive to hearing you. And, hey, there could be some good reasons for you to go to college, so don’t rule it out, especially if they want to pay for it!

This is their way of trying to protect you. Listen to what they have to say, say thanks and then reassure them that you are quite capable of figuring out your own path, but that should your carabiner prove defective, you will not hesitate to let them know, and to ask for their opinions and help so you can keep from tumbling down that mountain.

Dear Sydney, you assure that there’s “No question too off the wall.” OK. In recent months, I’ve been experimenting with shaving my pubic hair. It feels good, it’s exciting and I’ve gotten good reviews. My problem is that I’ve been shaving with an electric shaver all my life and it’s obviously not the ideal tool for the job. I know there are all sorts of space-age shaving gadgets out there, plus lots of women who customarily shave. Any advice for a clueless male? –Razorphobic

Dear Razorphobe: Though an electric razor is capable of achieving the task at hand, it is certainly not the proper tool for the job. An electric razor doesn’t give a close enough shave, and if you thought a five o’clock shadow could be a little rough on the cheeks, just try pube stubble. It’s no fun. Go to your local drug store and purchase a high quality razor with replaceable blades. Don’t skimp, go for the highest quality version with a little weight behind it. Pubic hair is pretty coarse, so change the blade often and, please, resist the temptation to go against the hair grain.

Now if you really want to understand the great lengths females have gone in order to achieve desired levels of hairlessness, then you should forgo shaving altogether, go to the beautician and get waxed. Just rip those babies right on out, by the roots. You’ll stay smooth longer, and the hair will grow in softer than it was before. Sound excruciating? It is. But no one ever said beauty came easy, and if women across the globe are willing to get “Brazilian” wax jobs to keep their men content, why should you be afraid of a little ball waxing?

Dear Sydney, I like to drink. A glass of wine (or two or three) sure does go down well after a long day of work. When is it too much, though? I don’t drink every single night, but most nights, at least a glass or two is normal, with the couple times a month a little over that. At this point no one has ever said they were concerned, and I am not too concerned, except I also don’t want to be deluding myself. –Pleasantly Buzzed

Dear Buzzed: It is important to continuously evaluate your habits as you go, so that you are the one in control and not the other way around. Everyone has different limits and expectations when it comes to alcohol consumption, and there is no textbook formula for deciding exactly what is too much. The best way to ensure that you are in charge of the wine, and not the other way around, is to keep an open dialogue with yourself and with the people in your life. Every so often, check in with your partner or with the people you spend the most time with. Ask them what they think. If you’re not embarrassed to ask, if it doesn’t freak you out to talk about it and if you aren’t afraid to look honestly at how much you drink, you aren’t in denial, and that’s a great sign.

Another great resource for self-diagnosis can be found online. Check out the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence self-test. Its website provides a list of questions that you can ask yourself. Keep on top of things. Addictions have a way of sneaking up on us so that by the time we realize there’s a problem, it’s often too late. If we were all perfect and completely in control of our lives, we would have no addictions or unhealthy habits at all–no alcohol, no caffeine, no reefer, no tobacco, no sugar, no empty carbohydrates–but most of us aren’t. The best thing we can do is examine our crutches carefully, and moderate, moderate, moderate.

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


Morsels

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October 4-10, 2006

Petaluma’s TOPs First

Cinnabar Theater, Petaluma’s resident company and training house for area youth, outdoes itself in an ambitious fundraiser that encompasses all of the downtown. Called Taste of Petaluma, this progressive party features a map temptingly decorated with menu items from among some 31 restaurants and businesses. Ticket books ($30 in advance; $35 day of the event) contain 10 opportunities to eat or drink around town. The food and drink tastes are valued at $3 apiece and promise to be substantial. The Smokehouse Gamblers play in Putnam Plaza, there are free boat rides across the river’s murk, and general bonhomie promises to abound. Plus, all of the food and drink tastes are under the strict scrutiny of a fairly yowza team of judges, so there will be no lackluster slices of sweaty cheese anywhere to be seen. Taste of Petaluma spreads out for the first time on Saturday, Oct. 21, from 1pm to 5pm. 707.763.8920. www.tasteofpetaluma.org.

Gretchen Giles

Crushing Breast Cancer

Between 1992 and 1994, winemaker Rick Hutchinson’s lost two sisters, Judy and Janet, to breast cancer. But two years ago, Hutchinson, who owns Amphora Winery in Healdsburg, came up with a unique idea to help combat the disease, which claimed over 41,000 lives last year in the United States alone. On Oct. 15, the winemaker is hosting the second annual Stomp Out Breast Cancer! event, where women hop into grape-filled bins to crush fruit the old-fashioned way. To do the purple-footed honors, participants make a $25 minimum donation, which funds mammograms for those who don’t have health insurance. The juice will then become the raw material for Amphora’s due sorelle (“two sisters” in Italian) wine. Profits from the sales of the wine, along with the donations for stomping, will benefit the Sutter Medical Center’s Breast Care Center in Santa Rosa. Stomp Out Breast Cancer! crushes the disease at Amphora Winery, on Sunday, Oct. 15, from 10am to 4pm. In the Timber Crest Farms Complex, 4791 Dry Creek Road, Healdsburg. 707.431.7767.

Brett Ascarelli

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.

The Quiet & the Loud

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October 11-17, 2006

Yo La Tengo have been plugging away at their quietly successful career since 1984. Consistently, the primary fanfare associated with the release of a new Yo La Tengo album is the scramble of pop-music critics to scoop each other on reviews that invariably conclude: “Gee, this sure sounds like a Yo La Tengo album.” Now that its latest album, I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass, has been out for more than a month, that fanfare has died down a bit, leaving workaday fans of Hoboken, N.J.’s, most famous trio to luxuriate in fresh but familiar blankets of guitar noise and pop songcraft.

Indeed, I Am Not Afraid sounds like every Yo La Tengo album ever made, and then some. That’s a lot of ground to cover, but the band strap on their cross-training sneakers and ravenously tackle the task, leaping from the atmospheric, lopsided lope of near-epic opener “Pass the Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind” to the falsetto-voiced, funk-lite of “Mr. Tough” to the gritty organ riffage of rockers like “The Room Got Heavy” and “I Should Have Known Better.” The album is a like a rubber band, stretching and contracting to accommodate the elasticity of the songs’ moods.

This requires some flexibility on the listener’s part as well, and by the time the album rolls into its 12th track, I Am Not Afraid begins to feel a bit like the last quarter of a distance race. On the album’s closer, “The Story of Yo La Tengo,” Georgia Hubley sings buried, fuzzed-out vocals, but the song, which contentedly crosses the 10-minute mark, is basically an instrumental drone-and-noodle fest that fades off into the sunset, a horizon where Yo La Tengo plays, unheard, into the new dawn. You may come out of the thing with sweat on your brow, but your efforts will not go unrewarded.

With their shared longevity, love of noise and wife-husband creative partnerships (Hubley is married to Ira Kaplan; James McNew completes the band), Yo La Tengo are sort of a low-maintenance Sonic Youth. But being a fan of Yo La Tengo is rewarding for nothing but musical reasons; your allegiance to them will deem you neither square nor hip, and it’s quite frankly, a relief.

The perfect antidote to the breadth of Yo La Tengo came to me thanks to my husband, who answered a Craigslist posting for a drummer. The dude at the other end of the ad was a guy named Patrick Porter, who had moved from Colorado to Yonkers, N.Y., with his girlfriend. Yonkers was not suiting him. He and Mr. Bir Toujour met up for beers at a bar close to Union Square, and they talked about how much New York sucks, and Patrick Porter gave Mr. Bir Toujour some CDRs with his songs. They talked a bit about getting together to play music and promptly did nothing about it.

Meanwhile, Porter’s songs cropped up on the iPod, and they grew on me. “What’s this?” I’d ask when an unfamiliar song would pop up on shuffle, and invariably the answer was, “Oh, that Patrick Porter guy.” Porter’s music had a rich, comforting sparseness, somewhat like American Analog Set without the drones and vibes.

The songs on our iPod were from Lisha Kill, a quiet collection of brooding songs awash in tension from unpredictable swishes of guitar feedback. Die Wandaland, Porter’s new album, just came out; recorded last year in Denver, it’s more upbeat, the instrumentation fuller. Porter’s simple, childlike lyrics ring with a whimsy that’s gently mirrored in nimble but subtle programmed beats and catchy melodies–the stuff of candy-coated folk pop.

Die Wandaland is charming and meditative without falling prey to cutesiness or self-congratulatory navel-gazing–the perfect album to put on in the fall mornings when you drink your coffee and steel yourself for the slings and arrows of another day in the cruel world.

Yo La Tengo play a three-night gig at the Fillmore in San Francisco on Oct. 19-21.


Letters to the Editor

October 11-17, 2006

Bohemian nominated for Peabody!

Wow! Your (Oct. 4) was fabulous! That really was some wonderful investigative work. It must have taken a full 30 minutes at A’Roma Roasters. Thank you for your pithy journalism. I’ll be sure to call the Peabody Association.

Christopher Bowers, Santa Rosa

world of pain, pt. II

What’s with your fashion writer who bemoans the clothes available at big corporate stores (Express, Abercrombie, J. Crew) and then tells us we may be forced to shop at Macy’s? ( Oct. 4.) Sonoma County (and probably Marin and Napa counties, too, but I haven’t shopped there) are blessed with many small clothing shops with clothing that doesn’t (a) fall apart or (b) reveal your underwear. Some of them even advertise in the Bohemian.

Why confine your shopping conscience to avoiding Walmart when there are so many other places you could avoid too? How about doing a fashion column on local fashion finds?

Judy Helfand, Kenwood

We have done columns highlighting local fashion finds every other time we have been forced–while displaying grossly impolite ill-will–to produce fashion issues (two enormous times a year). And guess what? No letters. Nada. This one time, we tippy-toe out into the frigid waters of emboldened new discovery and–wham!–the letters, they snake in to slam us. Allow us to wipe away a small self-pitying tear. And, oh: sniff.

clear distortions?

When discussing the recent Santa Rosa library forum on immigration ( Oct. 4), Peter Byrne not only does not allow the lone dissenter to the politically correct liberal viewpoint any chance to present her views in her own words, he clearly distorts them. For example, Diversity Alliance for a Sustainable America clearly targets both legal and illegal immigration, as anyone can learn while visiting their informative website.

Without providing any evidence, Byrne sums up Yeh Ling-Ling’s presentation as a “rant” communicating ideas of “exclusion, deportation and selfishness.” He also notes that she “rattled off a ream of questionable statistics,” and, after not actually challenging a single one of her statistics or explaining why he thinks they are questionable, he dispenses with her viewpoint completely by noting that when challenged she “sputtered” and “lost the crowd.” Conversely, the people he agrees with “point things out” and “correctly observe” and are all quoted at length. He then spends the entire second half of his article quoting a single secondary source, a business magazine, to counter his grossly distorted view of the DASA position. What a waste of ink and paper and your readers’ time.

Susan Tremblay, Glen Ellen

Lambasting the latte liberal

Regarding Sept. 27: I’m from the Rust Belt. I grew up in a labor town, have paid dues to three unions and support organized labor. When S.F. hotel union workers struck two years ago, I refused to cross picket lines. It cost me my business. I also ran a non-profit agency in Spokane, Wash., for three and a half years. In partnership, I created, developed and implemented a range of social programs. Our client partners were poor folk–homeless families, singles and street kids as well as scads of physically and mentally disabled people, broken war vets and marginalized elderly living in run-down dwellings.

I’ve seen the pain, and I’ve felt my own. But it’s one thing getting screwed by business-is-business Republicans. I expect that. Unfortunately, I’ve come also to expect well-intentioned Beemer & Brie latte liberals to do the very same.

And that drives me up a freakin’ wall!

Paul Potocki, Rohnert Park

Dept. of aaarrrgggh!

In last week’s of Lobby Hero and I Am My Own Wife (“Secrets & Lies”), a stupid editing error made by a stupid editor–and there is only one–tangled up the caption. Lobby Hero is enjoying a hit run at the Sixth Street Playhouse in Santa Rosa, not the Rep in Sebastopol (that’s Wife).

Also, thanks to the icy-voiced gentleman who left a chillingly furious message informing us that each and every single bloody time we report on the talents of actor Steven Abbott-with-two-tees, we misspell his surname. Apologies are not even adequate, Steven. Come on down for a hug when you can.

The ed.
Lounging in the loge


Meet the Maestro

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the arts |

C’est la vie: Bruno Ferrandis’ curiosity and intelligence lead him.

By Gabe Meline

On a rainy afternoon in October, Bruno Ferrandis is settled in front of a fourth-floor window overlooking downtown Santa Rosa. In the approaching week, he will be officially instated as the new conductor of the Santa Rosa Symphony, and he explains in no small detail the most important lesson he learned about the position while studying in New York with Leonard Bernstein.

“Lenny was a superb musician, and he was able to communicate so well,” Ferrandis says, sipping from a mug of hot tea. “But before everything, he was himself. He was not playing a role, he was just being himself. If he needed to use the word ‘fart’ in rehearsal to make a tuba or brass player understand what effect he wanted in the music, he would not hesitate one second.”

Like Bernstein, the 46-year-old Ferrandis excels at the art of being himself. He speaks six languages, has a taste for the avant-garde in dance and opera, has worked with film director Atom Egoyan and studies ancient Hebrew and Greek for pleasure. Those expecting the stiff upper lip of a traditional classical director will instead see a charismatic man of gusto when Ferrandis makes his inaugural walk to the podium on Oct. 14.

On this rainy day, having just traveled from his home outside of Paris, the maestro is lively, expressive and earnest; the more excited he gets, the more endearing and fractured his English becomes. He continues on about Bernstein.

“In Europe, people tend to be more reserved or academic, especially the European maestros,” he frowns. “Either they put a tantrum on you if what you do is not correct, or they reserve their opinion and they give it to you out in a very plain, academic way. And Lenny was all but not that! Everything was all the contrary.”

Dressed in a simple black suit, Ferrandis’ tall frame is topped with dark hair showing slight, emerging strains of gray, his wide eyes textured with equal parts of experience and vigor. While speaking, he looks directly at his subject in a locked gaze, making elaborate, nondescript gestures with his hands. He holds his fingers up into numbers, draws outlines of imaginary objects, simulates piano playing on the edge of the table and routinely punctuates his phrases with small motions, as if reaching for a baton.

Although he has been immersed in classical studies from the age of five, he explains that “it’s part of my history to listen to other music, because my parents are not classical-music-based, they have a different background. We were listening to the Pink Floyd, my father finding the group very interesting; the sounds were modern for the time, it was not your classical rock music. I listen to a lot of different things in my life. Always. I’m curious. By nature, I’m a very curious human being.

“I am always being impressed with people like Sting,” he continues. “Very much impressed with his capacity to not only invent a song with very good lyrics but also the orchestration beyond. Very, very simple and very well done. As pop singers, there’s Björk. I don’t know if you know that person, Björk. The Icelandic person. Incredible person! And as a youngster, since I practiced double-bass, I was very much taken by all the American funk people. I was impressed with Jaco Pastorius, I was impressed with people like Stanley Clarke, with Earth, Wind & Fire, with Stevie Wonder. Again, very much intrigued by the orchestration. Frank Zappa–a very interesting feature of American music. A very rare person, a very special artist.”

Despite the looming influence of American iconoclasts, Ferrandis says that he was not much of a troublemaker as a child. “My revolt was more inside than outside,” he explains. “What I hated about the French academic system is that in France, you are rigidly imposed what to do, what to learn and that follows that.”

When he left his studies in France to accept a position in London at the age of 21, he found he had much more breathing room. “The Anglo-Saxon system of teaching is to give you the output,” he says, “and you take the material, and you do what you can with it. You sort of manage it. Your way. And that, I really appreciated the difference.”

Since then–including a 10-year run at Juilliard leading the Opera Center and the Pre-College Orchestra, picking up extra money playing after-hours piano in various Manhattan bars–Ferrandis managed his music career in his own way. He worked with a variety of modern composers including Pierre Boulez and Luciano Berio, and he has conducted all over the world, from Israel to Hong Kong, covering most of the standard classical repertoire as well as conducting a real-time score for Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, one of his favorite films.

“I must say that the movies of today have disappointed me greatly,” he laments, launching into an overview of the silver screen. “I think that on the French side and on the American side of moviemaking, today there is no poetry. There is nothing that transports you very much so, other than production and lots of materialistic costs.”

“But in general I am an old-timer,” he adds. “Something like Spartacus by Stanley Kubrick is a great movie for me. The music is extraordinary. There’s always a link between the music and the film for me. I like Charlie Chaplin very much for his sense of being the saddest and the funniest at once–the extremes of life.”

“I like some, some of Woody Allen’s movies. Not all, but some. I like very much the movies where the dialogue is very strong. The scripts are very important. Lubitsch, Ernst Lubitsch. I like also Japanese movies, the old ones. The Seven Samurai. Also, I have a liking for certain types of Italian movies. Fellini’s Prova d’Orchestra, Comencini, Rossellini.”

Ferrandis expresses similar zeal for the opportunity to premiere modern classical works alongside repertoire standbys. “We have the Magnum Opus Project,” he says, alluding to the new works commission project funded by patron Kathryn Gould, “which is very reassuring to me because I would not have come to a place where new music was completely barred from being in the program. Now, what I want to do is to promote that music, but to do it with taste, and to do it by not mixing the ingredients at the wrong moment–like you do when you do cookery.”

With a plan to relocate to the Bay Area with his fiancée and two-year-old daughter, Ferrandis is unconcerned about coming to America amidst heated political atmosphere. When asked his feelings about this, he gently bites his hand, pondering his words carefully. “First of all,” he says, “even as I apprehend myself, as a Frenchman, the judgment of all American people has changed about this war and its necessity.

“I don’t know more than that and I don’t want to judge on that,” he says. “All I can say is the people of this community have been extremely nice to me, and I’ve never felt any rancor or any kind of negative feeling about that fact that I was French. On the contrary, it is all positive.”

Ferrandis’ real burden comes from taking the place of longtime, much-beloved music director Jeffrey Kahane, and understanding the oversized shoes that he has been asked to fill. “Mr. Kahane is a wonderful artist and a great conductor,” he says, “and on top of it, a great pianist, which I envy very much, since I am not! I have a very big sense of responsibility. I’m very honored, very excited to be here, to fulfill that position. And now, I let the public judge on my work.”

The public, of course, has already spoken its approval for Ferrandis with his triumph in the Santa Rosa Symphony’s homespun version of American Idol last season, in which seven guest conductors vied for the podium. “I loved the fact that the audience had their say, children had their say, members of the board had their say, musicians had their say,” Ferrandis enthuses about the unique process. “I feel that my election, so to speak–it’s not political because it’s artistic, but it is an election–was at least done in the most possible democratic way. I loved it.”

Looking out the window, I ask if he has noticed the banners draped along the streets of downtown Santa Rosa, proclaiming his arrival. “Yes, I’ve noticed that, to my dismay,” he laughs. “I would not have necessarily presented it that way, put myself on a banner. But I think, ‘Why not?’ It’s what is felt with the orchestra. I am a man of consensus. I like that everybody’s happy.

“I am very confident that we are going to do a good job together,” he concludes, “and that we are going to work hard in order to present the best possible music-making.”

Bruno Ferrandis conducts the Santa Rosa Symphony in works by Shostakovich, Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky with guest soloist Joyce Yang performing on piano, Saturday-Monday, Oct. 14-16. Saturday and Monday at 8pm; Saturday rehearsal at 2pm; Sunday at 3pm. Wells Fargo Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. $6-$49. 707.546.8742.



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The Byrne Report

October 11-17, 2006

The advantage of being chief spokesperson for the United States of Commerce is that no matter what kind of stinky garbage you say smells like dahlias, the mainstream media and the public it hypnotizes will treat you as a sane, trustworthy person. Case in point: desperate to terrorize the American people into voting for his congressional henchmen (Democrats as well as Republicans), President George Walker Bush deflected criticism last week with his trademark rhetorical question: “Would we be better off if Saddam Hussein were still in power?”

Of course, the real question to ask is, “Would we be better off if George Walker Bush was not in power?” Let’s see: about 3,000 American troops have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, while we have murdered at least 100,000 ordinary civilians and a few fundamentalist rats who used to be on our payroll. In the summer of 2001, Bush was repeatedly told by high-ranking intelligence officials that an al Qaida attack was imminent and did nothing to prevent it.

Despite the refusal of the New York Times to use the c-word, it is a fact that civil wars have been rocking Iraq and Afghanistan for two years. While occupation-created death squads rule the streets of Baghdad– Halliburton, Lockheed Martin, Parsons, Fluor, Louis Berger Group, URS Corp. and Perini Corp. pocket tens of billions of dollars in sole-source war contracts that are shoddily managed and seldom completed. Tutored by American bureaucrats, the Iraqi and Afghani governments are kleptocracies. With the economy strangled, Iraqi children expire from lack of medicine, healthy food, energy and drinking water.

Iraqi journalists exposing the corruption of government officials are arrested and tried under American-approved laws criminalizing speech that ridicules the government. Meanwhile, back in the fatherland, Congress strips away centuries-old habeas corpus rights, while encouraging Bush to wiretap his political enemies and torture and indefinitely detain anyone who irks him, while his cronies make off with several trillion bucks from the state treasury. To paraphrase Huey Long, “When fascism comes to America, it will call itself antifascism.” That ugly phenomenon is now emerging, sustained by war profits, the Patriot Act and self-replicating memes labeled “freedom” and “democracy” that are, in reality, polar opposites of those concepts.

Now I will say that which many horrified Americans think and few dare to voice: The world would be better off with Saddam Hussein in power. For one thing, that would mean we did make the worst mistake in American history and invade Iraq on a completely transparent pretense. Check it out: Bush’s own father believed the world was better off with Saddam in power because his secular blend of democracy and autocracy and petrodollar-funded public works kept the religiously divided Iraq from fragmenting and hurting oil company profits. In fact, the Iraq of the pre-Persian Gulf War and blockade days had an impressively engineered physical infrastructure, socialized medicine, universal education, plenty of food, millions of healthy children and the rights of women were enshrined in the constitution. No more.

Ever since Bush “liberated” the country with bombs and random murders, the limited human rights and advanced standard of living that Iraqis enjoyed under Saddam have vanished. Iraq has gone from being fairly well off under a dictator to being the most dangerous, polluted, bloody spot on the planet. And the horror of Iraq today is courtesy of Bush, Rumsfeld, Rice and the coterie of cold-blooded neocon traitors who have hijacked America’s mind and purse with their antidemocratic agenda. Iraqis must long for the relatively golden days of Saddam, beastly as he was. So should we.

History will hold us accountable for tolerating the reprehensible Bush regime. Fattened by consumer credit, we cower in front of our televisions, hoping it will all blow over and that the Democrats will save us from economic and political backlash. No way: scratch a Democrat, find a Republican. They are all beholden to the corporate forces that installed Bush into high office and kept Saddam in power for so many decades.

Decent-minded leaders would have turned 9-11 into its opposite by recognizing that the true enemies of the world are poverty, imperialist war, religious arrogance, environmental destruction, cultural decadence and market-driven selfishness. Now, as Bush asks us to reflect upon his post-Saddam world, an international poll shows that our cruel, unjust, unwinnable war on the Iraqis has brought worldwide opinion of America to a new low.

Bush is viewed as posing a greater problem to life on earth than Islamic terrorism or Iran getting nuclear weapons or China buying Saudi oil. Can’t you feel him itching to use his weapons of mass destruction? Bush is a much bigger threat to all of us than Saddam ever was or could be.

or


Table Score

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October 11-17, 2006

In the individually plugged-in worlds of Match.com and MySpace.com, face-to-face interaction can sometimes seem like so much more work than a simple IM. Holed up in front of our computers all day, we send winks and laughs to each other electronically, post new pictures of ourselves on our websites of choice and tune out the world around us to the sounds of our favorite playlist.

But how are you supposed to greet someone you’re meeting for the first time when you already know so much through online conversations? I’m a proponent of the good old-fashioned method of hitting on someone in a bar, the grocery store or a restaurant. And during my time as a waitress, romantic flutter of some sort is an almost nightly occurrence. I’ve never given my phone number to a customer, but I have batted my eyelashes just enough to increase my tip percentage without coming across as overbearing. I’ve also become adept at kindly turning down date offers ranging from the friendly (“What do you like to do on your days off?”) to the not-so-subtle (“What time are you off?”).

I was recently asked out by a customer at the restaurant where I work. Although I do not plan to dine with him, I’d consider it if I was not already involved with someone. And because this often-hit-on waitress does not usually consider taking a tableside flirtation to the next level, I thought I would pass along this gentleman’s method.

Rule #1: Err on the side of politeness. This gentleman was dining with another male friend, and both of them were friendly as soon as I approached their table. They had many questions about the menu and listened attentively to my answers. The two engaged me in conversation for several minutes each time I visited their table, but were also attuned to the fact that I had several other tables to attend. Being overly obvious about your attraction to your friendly server will only turn her off completely, and demanding too much attention when she is at your table will annoy her. Follow the server’s subtle body language: if she lingers at the table, rearranging silverware and pouring you more water and wine, you’re in the clear to chat. If she is looking around, has her body turned away from you and doesn’t respond with more than a short yes or no, it’s time to cut the conversation short and wait until she comes around next time.

Rule #2: Buy whatever your server tells you to. Yes, I am trying to make a buck, but I’m not going to sell a table some expensive bottle of wine that’s not very good. If you’re willing to drop coin (and this man was) and you’re listening to everything I say, I’m going to notice, and you’re going to have a nice dinner because I know what I’m talking about. Questions about the menu show an interest in the food, and attentive listening to the answers and following the server’s recommendations are a subtle way to show you are interested and that you care what the server has to say.

Rule #3: Subtlety, subtlety, subtlety. When I’m serving you, it’s my job to talk to you. If you’re overtly hitting on me, that makes it hard. We’re not in a club or a bar; you’re out on the town and I’m in my place of employment. Don’t put me in a sticky situation. Once, when working at a venerable four-star Healdsburg institution, a table of two young, attractive, wealthy and overall despicable men got drunker and drunker and more and more forward. They wouldn’t take no for an answer when inviting me to join them for a cocktail in a faraway town. A couch was offered as a sleeping place, and then one joshed the other that where I was really wanted was in bed. I responded tartly with “Oh, well if that’s the case, why don’t I just give you my phone number and you can come over later and we’ll have sex?” The men looked at me, astounded, meekly paid their bill and left the restaurant. That one-liner came directly from my manager.

Rule #4: Tip 20 percent. This is always the proper tip amount. Any less, you’re a cheapskate; any more, you’re desperate.

Rule #5: Leave the restaurant before it’s too late. By the time those two gentlemen left my place of employment last night, it was late, but I didn’t yet hate them. I was having a good time with my manager and the bartender trying to figure out how the one man was going to drop the question, and I was right: he’d spent an overly long time signing his credit card slip, and I figured he was writing me a note.

Writing a note is the best way to ask your server out. A direct question is awkward either way–if the server says no, you’re stuck feeling like a jerk and have to leave the restaurant in shame. If the server says yes, he or she will be mercilessly teased by co-workers (restaurant people have eyes in the back and on the sides of their heads; they see everything that goes down on the dining room floor), ruining the date before it ever takes place.

On his way out the door, this particular gentleman handed me a folded piece of paper, saying, “This is for you.” He could’ve left it in the check presenter, because a waiter is the only one who ever touches a check presenter unless a manager picks it up, in which case he will hand it to the waiter without opening it. (Unspoken service rule #435.) I appreciated his boldness, as it was the only bold thing he’d done all night and then he was on his way out the door.

The note had his name and telephone number. On the next line, he’d put the name of another restaurant I’d recommended. The next line read, “Tuesday [my next night off, which he’d ascertained through questioning]. 8pm. Dinner? Call me!”

This is the perfect way to do it. Put everything completely in the server’s hands, leave before you embarrass yourself (see co-workers and eyes, above) and don’t be too disappointed if you don’t get a call back. This man was attractive, well-spoken and polite.

Beats finding out your Match.com date lied about her height by a foot and has terrible taste in shoes anyday.

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.

Wine Tasting Room of the Week

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Sure, it has titular echoes of any of a number of shabby sci-fi flicks, but Senate Bill 1380 heralds something of a marketing coup for Sonoma County wine. In an effort to pump up the brand muscle of area wines, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger on Sept. 28 approved the alpha-numerically-known bill (apparently sans pithy nickname), which requires a wine to be made of at least 75 percent Sonoma County grapes in order to bear the name “Sonoma” on its label. Wherever the remaining grapes are sourced will, I suppose, remain the dirty little secrets of the wineries. If any percentage, however, hail from Sonoma’s Monte Rosso Vineyard, we shall all be very pleased.

Monte Rosso hovers above the village of Agua Caliente from the southwest side of the Mayacamas Range, on the outskirts of Sonoma. At a recent press junket, aptly dubbed “Monte Rosso Day,” several colleagues and I tasted the wares of a variety of wineries that source fruit from the 125-year-old vineyard. The array was dizzying–literally. I had to steady myself with a firm grip of the table during our buffet luncheon, lest I be thrown off my mental merry-go-round and onto the wagon. This was my own fault, of course. Red plastic cups of the ilk most often seen at college keggers were dispensed as personal spit buckets, but the concept proved too counterintuitive for me to follow. “Who spits out fine wine?” my id asked my ego, to which my superego pointedly replied: “Professionals.” The irony of praising the winemaker while dumping his life’s work into a spittoon, however, proved unfathomable to me, not to mention rude. To wit, I swallowed.

Among Monte Rosso’s flying circus of wine is St. Helena-based Louis M. Martini, the vineyard’s owner, whose 2004 Monte Rosso Syrah ($50) recalls a strawberry and vanilla Life Saver Pop (“swirl” edition), followed by a quick drag from a cigarillo and a pinch of potting soil. Its wardrobe would consist of corduroy coats with elbow patches, turtlenecks and hush puppies, but wears it deliciously well. A similar smoke note makes a cameo in the Watkins Family Winery’s 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon (poured in preview, the vintage has yet to be released), a long goodbye kiss from a former lover who has just dashed a cigarette and applied very-berry lip balm after a redemptive coffee date. It’s at once familiar, wistful and vaguely astringent–a loaded premise that goes down with deceptive ease. The 2004 Rancho Zabaco Toreador Zinfandel ($45), by contrast, resonates with roasted nuts and pomegranate arils. Strutting pleasingly onto your palate, it won’t go until you whistle “Carmen.”

For more information on Monte Rosso grapes, go to www.louismmartini.com, www.watkinsfamilywinery.com and www.ranchozabaco.com.



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First Bite

Biting into a shiso leaf, also called perilla or Japanese basil, is tantamount to tasting what a forest smells like: woodsy, invigorating and damply mossy. Served alongside a slippery cut of sashimi, with its almost peach-fuzz texture, the shiso leaf is the ultimate garnish. But the delicate flavor of shiso has been unfortunately absent from these parts. Until now.

This spring, a new sushi restaurant, Shiso, opened in Sonoma to fill the gap. On a recent weeknight, my trusty foodie partner and I wandered in hoping at long last to get some quality Japanese food in wine country. Although startlingly pricey, the menu is impressive, offering a range of traditional fare–sushi, nigiri, sashimi, hand rolls–as well as shared plates of cooked food for those who are squeamish about eating raw fish. They also offer omakase, where the chef surprises diners with a variety of dishes off the menu.

While deliberating over our choices, we drank the Otokoyama sake ($18 for a carafe) from an extensive list of some 14 sakes and 22 wines. We were pleasantly surprised by the dry, crisp rice wine despite our server’s diplomatic warning that it wasn’t her favorite.

Eventually, we made our food decisions. First came three seared Hokkaido scallops ($14) with heirloom tomato salad, avocado mousse and shiso oil, a masterful combination of delicate, California-inspired textures and subtle flavors. Next came the summer sashimi deluxe ($31), 15 pieces of jaw-droppingly delicious fish, including North Coast albacore, salmon, maguro tuna and toro. The toro was a genuinely transporting experience, buttery and rich, everything that toro should be but rarely is. When only one piece remained, my partner began negotiations. “OK, let’s talk about how we want to do this.”

We were still hungry, so we ordered a special roll, the Shiso Hawaiian ($15): spicy albacore, avocado and cucumber wrapped in a colorful combination of seaweed, mango and maguro tuna. Again Ed Metcalfe, the 39-year-old chef-owner, wowed us with an unpredictable combination. The sweet, slippery mango played delectably against the texture of the fish. Now merely greedy, we ordered melt-in-your-mouth anikmo, a monkfish liver topped with a classical Japanese garnish of grated daikon radish mixed with chili ($9) and a very good freshwater unagi ($4).

My only minute complaint was that a restaurant of this quality shouldn’t have linoleum tables. And if the lights had been dimmer, it would have been more romantic. But it doesn’t matter–I am already in love with Shiso.

Shiso Modern Asian & Sushi Bar is open for dinner Tuesday-Sunday; last seating around 9pm. Happy hour, 4:30-6pm. 522 Broadway, Sonoma. 707.933.9331.



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

Sweat and Tortillas

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October 11-17, 2006

Text and photographs by Brett Ascarelli

On Tuesday, Sept. 26, before the sun had quite risen, eight hot air balloons hovered in the sky over Napa. Presumably, the tourists within the balloons smooched, proposed marriage or took snapshots.

If they had had incredibly powerful zoom lenses, they would have seen harvest workers at Dickerson Vineyards who had been at work since 7am. Two groups of roughly 15 workers moved across the vineyards with the acuity of hungry birds, gathering Zinfandel grapes for Ravenswood Winery, which makes a single-vineyard designate from this fruit. (Robert Parker has called the wine “the Heitz Martha’s Vineyard of Zinfandels.”)

The workers, overwhelmingly Mexican, sprinted through the rows of grapes, stopping quickly to cut bunches off the vines. After filling small bins each with some 40 pounds of fruit, the men hoisted the grapes up over their heads and deposited them into a two-ton bin pulled by a tractor. Pouring their grapes into the container, they called out to Jorge Garcia, the crew chief, who noted their progress on a clipboard.

Harvest work only lasts a couple of months and is sporadic. Sometimes the men labor every day; other times, they just work here and there, depending on how many grapes there are to pick. They usually work between three and five hours in a day, making between $8.70 and $9.80 per hour, depending on seniority.

Pumped with the adrenaline of running up and down the vineyard rows, the men were grateful to break for a short “lunch” just before 9am. Sitting on the ground around a portable grill, they made tacos from shared ingredients they’d brought from home. Some 15 minutes later, they made their way back out to the vineyards, bins in hand, clearly weary, but ready for the race to begin again.

Later that morning, the hot air balloons landed, littering the valley with tourists anticipating a luxurious day winetasting, lunching and sleeping soft in area hotels.

Following is a look at one morning in the life of the harvest at Dickerson.

Bin there: Rodriguo Hernandez carries a full load of grapes in the early morning sunlight.

Head shot: Andres Carrera, one of the workers for Wight Vineyard Management Inc. this harvest, is just visible above the grape vines.

Agua: Grape pickers at Dickerson Vineyard take a minute to hose off the dirt before eating an early lunch.

9am lunch: Rodriguo Hernandez waits for tortillas to brown on a grill brought by the crew chief of this group. Lunch is fast–only 10 to 15 minutes. Many of the workers bring lunch from home to share with each other.

Tailgating: Manual Vera, 55 (left), Salvador Vera, 44 (middle) and Manuel Juarez (right) share a quick midmorning bite in the makeshift vineyard parking lot before heading back to work.

Deep fruit: Manuel Vera, 55, who lives in Calistoga, has spent 30 years working with grapes. Here, he gently rakes the fruit, distributing it evenly in a two-ton bin.

Beatific: Calixto Castredon, 29, who lives in St. Helena, takes a break from picking grapes from the old Zinfandel vines to smile for the camera.


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First Bite

Sweat and Tortillas

October 11-17, 2006Text and photographs by Brett AscarelliOn Tuesday, Sept. 26, before the sun had quite risen, eight hot air balloons hovered in the sky over Napa. Presumably, the tourists within the balloons smooched, proposed marriage or took snapshots.If they had had incredibly powerful zoom lenses, they would have seen harvest workers at Dickerson Vineyards who had been at...
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