First Bite

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Here’s how to place an order at L’Assiette, chef Amey Shaw’s new organic takeout restaurant in downtown Windsor: (1) show up hungry and bring along at least three guests as famished as you are; (2) crowd around the refrigerated food case right inside the front door, and start pointing at anything and everything that looks good; and (3) talk over each other, jostling if need be to ensure the clerk hears your request, as she furiously scribbles on her little note pad.

And here’s how to eat your L’Assiette loot: Lug it all home. Spread out your sea of little white cardboard boxes on a big table, hand out the forks and have at it. It’s like a culinary Christmas, unwrapping each other’s surprise choices.

Because free-for-all dining is the best way to take advantage of Shaw’s precious French-California-Mediterranean dishes, sold in pieces and by the pound. Yes, it’s possible to plan a sensible meal (appetizer, entrée and dessert), but it’s much more fun to graze on lots of little bits of this, many small bites of that.

Foodies familiar with Shaw will remember her from her previous Alta Plaza Café in San Francisco. In her new small-town home, things are more casual, with just a few bistro tables for patrons not prepared for the to-go concept. Recipes, though, are still meticulously crafted from the best local seasonal ingredients; ask, and Shaw will proudly treat you to a tour of her daily treasure baskets brimming with gems like heirloom eggplant, golden raisins and summer berries.

Our foursome swarmed in one afternoon about half an hour before L’Assiette’s closing time. Some 15 minutes later, we staggered out with a sampler’s feast. At home, camped around the kitchen table, we nibbled on ethereal salads of Casablanca lentils with house-made preserved lemon, garbanzos, flat leaf parsley and coriander ($11 pound); chunky baked eggplant and Gypsy pepper ratatouille ($11 pound); and brightly tart couscous with red onion, kalamata, feta, sundried tomatoes and cucumber ($12 pound).

We snapped up tastes of Rocky chicken breast stuffed with tangy lemon spinach and zingy tomato sauce ($13.50 pound), fat chunks of Atkins Ranch lamb with garlicky pesto and saffron-doused shrimp skewers with Catalan romesco sauce ($17 pound). A highlight was Shaw’s signature keen cakes ($3 each), plump, crisp-edged patties of toasted quinoa, minced mushrooms, white wine, mozzarella, Cheddar and marjoram. The panino ($7) was tiny but tasty, griddling nicely salty French Comté cheese with roasted poblanos and lots of almond-sage relish (love the tiny pickles alongside).

Finally, we finished with wonderfully nutty almond torte goosed with puckery rhubarb purée ($4), smoky chocolate pot de crème ($3) and a pile of fresh-from-the-oven pecan sandies ($1.35).

The only ant in our picnic was a thoroughly dull broiled chorizo-sage stuffed tomato ($3). It was a lone leftover, destined to be thrown out if we did not take it home, and insisted upon us by Shaw. Not that we blame her. A smart businesswoman, she recognizes out-of-control, order-happy customers when she sees us. In hindsight, we’re lucky that we got out of there without ordering the kitchen sink.

L’Assiette, 426 Emily Rose Circle, Windsor. Open for lunch and dinner, Monday-Friday, 11am to 6:30pm; Saturday, noon to 5pm; and Sunday, noon to 4pm. 707.836.9055.



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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.

News Briefs

August 30-September 5, 2006

TB’s still here

It may sound like something from centuries past, but tuberculosis is still a public health concern, whether the venue is school playgrounds, hospital hallways, poorly ventilated offices or anywhere else folks gather in close proximity. “Some people think TB has disappeared, but it still remains a problem, so they need to keep it on their radar screens,” says Terry Somers, a public health nurse for Marin County. Tuberculosis was once the leading cause of death in the United States. While the number of cases has dropped dramatically, the ease of global travel and the evolution of drug-resistant strains means the disease is still a threat. In 2005, Marin County had 10 cases of TB. Sonoma County recorded 11 incidents and Napa County had three cases in 2005. In 2004, California’s statewide rate was 8.2 per 100,000 people, well above the national average of 4.9. “TB is problem people should be aware of,” says Dr. Karen Smith, Napa County’s public health officer. “It’s frequently misunderstood, but it does occur in our society.” The TB bacteria usually attacks the lungs, but the kidneys, spine or brain can also be targets. For details, visit www.cdc.gov/nchstp/tb.

No butts

(Aug. 16), Santa Rosa will impose one of the nation’s strictest smoking bans effective Dec. 1. But critics charge that the new law targets mostly teens, poor people and the homeless, who have few spots to smoke other than public spaces. Wine industry insider Hans Dippel, founder of the annual CigarBQ fundraising event, is part of the opposition. “I don’t oppose a smoking ordinance,” Dippel explains. “I oppose this ordinance because there are so many loopholes. It’s a bad law. It’s absolutely a bad ordinance.” Dippel says the next step may be seeking a court injunction based on the law’s unconstitutionality.

Mitchell offline

Behind the scenes at the Point Reyes Light, the saga continues to unfold with soap opera-like grace. Three weeks ago, a judge issued a temporary restraining order prohibiting the newspaper’s former owner, Pulitzer Prize winner David Mitchell, from writing for or assisting in any way the Bodega Bay Navigator, which is now produced entirely online. Since May Mitchell has been under a permanent, three-year injunction to stay away from current Point Reyes Light owner David Plotkin, Plotkin’s family and the newspaper’s offices. Last fall Plotkin paid $500,000 for the newspaper, with an agreement that Mitchell would act as an adviser and not work for a competing publication in Marin County. Plotkin and Mitchell had a falling out, and the spat hit the courts. An Oct. 6 court hearing will examine whether the Bodega-based Internet publication violates the noncompetition contract.


Something Wild

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On July 11, a sizable group of Napa Valley’s upper crust assembled on the deck of Sterling Vineyards. They had taken the scenic tram up to the mountaintop winery, were sipping rosé and had found seats encircling a small opening where Napa County supervisors Brad Wagenknecht and Diane Dillon were trying to read a resolution–trying, because both had forgotten their reading glasses. Some friendly laughter accompanied the two as they traded a framed resolution back and forth, trying to squint at it from different angles. Finally, a news photographer removed the reading glasses dangling from her own neck and gave them up for the cause.

Dillon resumed reading the resolution, which dedicated July 11 as Land Trust of Napa County Day. In perpetuity, this day will be celebrated as the organization’s triumphant acquisition of the Wildlake Ranch property–3,045 acres spanning the ridge from Calistoga to Angwin. This brings Napa’s total protected land holdings to 10 percent of the county’s total area, 1 percent more than what is planted to vineyards, and could increase the county’s sparse recreation area.

For the Land Trust, buying the property was an uphill battle. In addition to the sheer amount of fundraising–a full 10 times more money was garnered than the organization had ever attempted to amass before–there was also a certain amount of tiptoeing. The Trust didn’t want to alert the highly active Napa real estate market to the property before the deal could be clinched. “It’s been a miracle at every level that let us pull this off,” says John Hoffnagle, executive director of the Land Trust of Napa County.

Since 1972, the scenic ridge–including the affectionately named Potato Hill, Old Baldy, Flat Top and Beehive hillsides–had been owned by the Duckhorn Hunting Club, a group of 13 landowners who used the area to supply their tables with venison. Last spring, they decided to put it up for sale.

Randy Dunn, 60, owns a small eponymously named winery in Angwin and has a special history with the land, as well as special access to it. He had long enjoyed hiking and riding on the property with his daughter, Jennifer, who died seven years ago at the age of 20 after the onset of a sudden illness. Dunn has tried to buy into the club since 1981, though someone else always beat him to the punch.

Friends with one of the members, Dunn had a tacit right of first refusal when the property was offered. With 18 parcels legally assessed for development, Dunn worried that the property would be snatched up by developers. He started trying to organize a group of people to buy it with him. “It wouldn’t have been possible without Randy Dunn, who was our inspiration,” Hoffnagle confirms.

Taking a break from fixing the water pump at his Angwin home, Dunn says, “In this valley, there are many, many people who would write a $20 million check, and it would be like taking you and me out for dinner. I had to be really selective about who I told about the property.” After about six months, Dunn decided to team up with the Land Trust, and by January of this year, they had raised enough money to show they were serious about the endeavor. They signed a contract with the hunting club. They had six months to finish raising the $20 million to seal the deal, and they were fundraising down to the wire.

One of the reasons Dunn wanted to win this battle so much was to save it from being mutilated. “I’ve been here since 1978, and Angwin is a beautiful place. Not because of the vineyards,” he clarifies, “but because of the trees. I’ve seen so much deforestation, not just a little here and there, but clear-cut.”

Dunn recalls his delight late this June when he convinced one Napan to donate during a Howell Mountain wine auction. She finally said she’d go in for “500,” which Dunn took to mean $500. She actually meant $500,000. Dunn hugged her.

As the largest individual donor, Dunn has himself donated $5 million, for which he had to take out a loan. His banker, Walter Scruggs, is a client manager at Bank of America. “Randy Dunn’s the only client that calls me when he wants to give money away,” he says. “Usually, people give away money in a situation where they already have a lot of it. That’s not the case with Randy.”

Bald eagles, bears and some 365 native plant species inhabit the Wildlake Ranch, which John Hoffnagle says will likely be transferred in the future to the California state park system or to a county parks and open space district, should Napa pass a bill this November to form one. This would allow the public to use the land recreationally.

The Land Trust chides in its conservation overview of the property: “As one of a handful of California counties which not only has no parks and open space district, but cannot claim even a county parks department, Napa County has been dependent upon State Parks for providing what few recreational open space opportunities there are in the county.” For now, the Land Trust is working to raise more money to maintain the property. Perhaps tomorrow it will help to begin Napa’s parks system.


My Mistress Methamphetamine

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August 30-September 5, 2006


Editor’s note: This is the fourth in our yearlong feature series on methamphetamine.

Carving a crooked path down Highway 80 at 3:30am on Sept. 20, 1998, I was arguing with my girlfriend on the cell phone when a CHP cruiser silently slipped in line behind me. Covered in tattoos and freshly released from prison, my passenger, Raymond Young, manned the stereo like the copilot from hell. Neither of us noticed the cops until they flashed their emergency lights.

No longer on parole, I was irritated. Young, a parolee under the influence of a controlled substance, was completely panicked. Methamphetamine was stashed in my underwear; more was hidden in the engine compartment. As a free man, however, I had complete confidence that the Constitution protected me from unreasonable government intrusions. Under the influence from days of partying, I felt 10 feet tall, bulletproof and on top of my game.

“Hey girl, I’m being pulled over. I’ll call you back,” I calmly said to my girlfriend before clicking off the phone, cutting off her protestations and profanities.

Once pulled over on the side of the freeway by the Antelope exit in Sacramento County, reality slapped me to attention. Always cognizant of how closely peace officers watch a vehicle’s occupants, I realized that Young’s meth-induced movements–and a few of my own–could escalate our situation. Raymond watched me as I looked into the rearview mirror. I saw two CHP officers walking up. This was not good.

Trying to soothe Young’s overstimulated nerves, I composed myself for the ritual of identification and registration. I would utilize my calming gift of gab. “I’ll be right back, homeboy. Don’t trip,” I said with confidence. “I got this covered.” I got out of the car.

Walking straight toward cops is a tactic I have always employed to head situations off before they escalate. Besides, since I wasn’t a criminal anymore, I felt under no obligation to let others dictate the parameters of my actions.

Within seconds, one of the officers had emptied my pockets and had taken me into custody so fast I could barely say a word. Watching them handcuff Young and force him to the ground helped me to understand that these officers were determined to make an arrest.

There were two of them. Officer Kim Penrose, a big-boned woman with short hair, ripped through the interior of the car like a contestant in a treasure-hunt game show. Her partner, Roger Pierce, a heavy-set man with a friendly demeanor, rifled through the trunk while surfing through the memory of my cell phone and pager. My girlfriend called back to finish our argument, and Pierce tried to set up a drug deal with her. She cussed him out as well.

The efficiency and sense of purpose displayed by these officers lent the scene an air of dire foreboding. I felt utterly helpless and confused. When Pierce placed a small amount of marijuana on the hood of the cruiser, I tried to downplay the significance. “No big deal,” I told myself, “that’s just a misdemeanor.”

But things steadily grew worse. Hundreds of small baggies that someone had given me weeks prior were placed on the hood. A buck knife that I had long ago thrown in the glove box. Some notes set down in my day planner that were suspected of being pay/owe sheets. Individually, none of this amounted to anything; cumulatively, these items caused the officers to intensify the search.

Whenever my most painful memory plays out, everything slows way down. Sounds from the police radio get drowned out by the beating of my heart. The air grows heavier when the hood of my car is popped open. Desperately, I will the searchers away from the stash. It’s all bad . . .

Penrose appeared from under the hood with 20 grams of meth and a digital scale wrapped inside a shirt. In a matter of minutes, two CHP officers simply working the night shift, not narcotic detectives specially trained to locate controlled substances, had amassed quite a cache of evidence. A small marijuana bud tucked into my day planner was found; a stash box I had long ago lost under the car seat was unearthed. And, of course, the meth in my underwear was discovered when I was later strip-searched at the Sacramento County Jail.

Since we both had lengthy rap sheets, Young and I faced life sentences under the “three strikes” sentencing law. Justifiably, Young blamed me. Arrested for possession of drugs of which he had no firsthand knowledge, he’d eventually be exonerated.

“I’m the one who’s screwed, Raymond,” I painfully admitted while sitting in a holding cell, coming down hard and feeling very stupid. “They found the shit under the hood of my car and in my underwear. I’m pretty sure I’m screwed.” Facing so much time, I would have changed places with him in a second, tattooed forehead and all.

Young had a parole hold that kept him in jail. I made bail. Once free, I fought the urge to jump bond. In my youth, I had always made things worse by acting on such compulsions. However, had I known the prosecutor would successfully motion the court to have me returned to custody only 10 days later, I would have run immediately.

Since I had similar drug-oriented run-ins with the law in ’96 and ’97, my attorney, Phil Cozens, guessed I would likely receive a life sentence. He was right. After the judge revoked my bail on Oct. 1, I received the penultimate punishment on May 7, 1999, of 26 years-to-life for possession and transportation of 20 grams of meth, a felony, and about five grams of marijuana, a misdemeanor.

My love affair with meth, began in the ’80s and hastily abandoned on the side of the freeway in the late ’90s, flourishes with others. She is a promiscuous mistress.

Crankster Gangster

Synonymous in my mind, speed, crystal meth and crank–to name just a few–are all uppers. While stimulants of all varieties have been around forever, speed first experienced widespread usage by soldiers in WW II, and then again by truckers, students, hipsters and bikers in the ’50s and ’60s. Uppers came in the form of diet pills or street speed manufactured by gangs of outlaw bikers, which could be easily and cheaply purchased.

Then the war on drugs began. When Congress passed the Controlled Substance Act of 1970, elevating methamphetamine to a schedule II drug–one identified as having high potential for abuse–the purchase of widely popular diet pills by prescription became very difficult. By regulating legal speed, the door opened for street speed “cookers” to take a larger role.

With little regulation of the chemicals used to cook crank, the purity of meth rose from 30 percent in the early ’70s to 60 percent by 1983. Though the chemicals and lab equipment could be purchased without too many obstacles, it took a skilled chemist to pull off the total synthesis of the very dangerous P2P (phenyl-2-propanone) method.

The bike clubs–particularly the Hells Angels, but also other clubs like the Outlaws and Pagans–considered P2P their economic niche. It didn’t take the DEA and FBI long to realize such unregulated chemicals composed the actual lifeblood of the industry. Law enforcement adjusted its strategy and went after the chemicals, the cookers and the bikers all at once.

Back in the day, if someone knew the right people and had the street credibility to be trusted, unlimited amounts of biker speed were available. However, the closer one got to the cooker–the bikers’ prized possession–the closer one got to death. These were serious folks, and it took one who was as equally serious to approach those at the upper echelons of the speed gangs.

For this reason, I generally stayed at least one step away from the bikers. Not exactly partial to their form of outlaw militancy, I did my own thing. Nonetheless, I frequently found myself on the brink of madness while under the influence of the P²P meth they manufactured. I had become a full-blown crankster gangster, a spinoff of the bike-club type, but just as independent.

New Chapter

Despite the demise of the bikers’ control of the speed trades, meth had already begun to make inroads into the mainstream by the early ’90s. Since P2P had become unavailable and most of the old-school cookers were in prison or deep underground, the meth industry simply shifted gears. A simple method allowed for the easy manufacturing of crank, using ephedrine or pseudoephedrine, the main ingredient in cold medication. Now the drug could be manufactured in less than 48 hours, and almost anyone could pull it off.

At the beginning of the war against the bikers, I went to prison in 1988 for my own meth-induced criminality. Young and crazy, I earned my bones–and a 12-year sentence for robbery, burglary, assault, drugs and weapons offenses–during a four-year crime spree. I held my polluted head up high as I entered prison for the first time at the age of 22.

Then reality hit.

Some time during my first year of incarceration, I decided to grow up. By the time I paroled in 1994, I had three years of college completed, numerous writing credits and an entirely new outlook on life. Through exercise, sobriety and academics, I found sanity. Stubbornly, I considered myself an ex-outlaw rather than a recovering drug addict.

In my new life without speed, I studied sociology at Sacramento State, did activist work for a prisoners’ rights organization and started a construction company from scratch. Certain I had found the love of my life, I planned on proposing to my college sweetheart and starting a family.

I closed the chapter of hardcore criminality and opened a new one where I assumed the role of employer, sole proprietor and undergraduate. Leaning toward a graduate education, I had come a long way from the pistol-packing crankster gangster who in 1986 severely wounded a mutual combatant in a street fight that involved a knife, a baseball bat and 200 sutures.

I swore that I had left that guy in prison.

Monster Awakens

Having no desire to use meth ever again and having turned it down easily on many occasions, it was my lack of understanding about addiction that led to an eventual relapse in the summer of 1995. Apparently, I had unfinished business with Mistress Meth. I ended up snorting a few lines with an old friend, Dennis. One of the few to make it through the meth wars unscathed, Dennis’ stories about the craziness I had missed while in prison inadvertently sucked me back into the lifestyle. I had made huge strides, but those couple of lines reawakened an illness that had been dormant for almost eight years.

Though it didn’t happen immediately, my increasing involvement in the meth game again affected my better judgment on almost every level. Forgetting how education, not construction, had been my saving grace, I mistakenly concentrated on being a contractor instead of pursuing a graduate degree. Unable to recognize true beauty, I lost interest in my fiancée and pursued a bevy of women of dubious character. Incrementally, I deviated from the solid short-, medium- and long-term game plan I had meticulously developed in prison. I prostituted the integrity of my business by mixing it with pleasure.

Pandora’s Box

Though a victory could be claimed in the drug war against the bikers, the Mexican drug cartels immediately filled the cookers’ void and put their own signature on the meth business. Flooding the market with cheap speed, they specialized in mass production, superlabs and unlimited Third World workers willing to do the dangerous, dirty work of cooking and distribution. California’s Central Valley became the meth capital of the world and is where most of the 6,700 meth labs seized in 2000 were discovered. While the majority are relatively small operations, the cartel’s superlabs can produce 10 to 100 pounds in a single “reaction.”

Cookers of street speed–those who maintained a death grip on every facet of the business–used to be Satanic alchemists who turned dangerous chemicals into huge amounts of cash and power for outlaw bikers and their progeny. Whether the bikers of old were the lesser of the two evils is hard to defend, but the government’s actions in regards to meth opened a Pandora’s box with the cartels and the micro-cookers that came into being in the ’90s.

With their origins in California, small-time meth operations began popping up all over the country as the relatively simple 48-hour method became a matter of common knowledge in the late ’90s. The use and abuse of meth, in addition to the clandestine labs, made inroads into states like Kentucky, South Dakota, Missouri, Tennessee, Indiana, Iowa and Oklahoma. Legislative response grew loud. Suddenly, meth had become an epidemic.Congressmen John Mica, R-Fla., and Tom Osborne, R-Neb., pushed the Bush administration hard in 2005. Mica stated that the meth epidemic had become “totally out of hand,” adding, “This needs to be done on an emergency, expedited basis.” Osborne called methamphetamine the “biggest threat to the United States, maybe even including al Qaida.”

Rather than concentrate on the difficult-to-corner Mexican-border gangs who produce the bulk of the nation’s speed supply, law enforcement focused on the small-time meth makers who rely heavily on the cold tablets. Officers who patrol popular hunting areas provided compelling testimony.

“Before 2000, we’d be hard-pressed to find a meth dump. Now it’s not uncommon to find two or three a week,” said Patrol Captain Dennis Whitehead in the April 2006 issue of Outdoor Life magazine. Whitehead works the Daniel Boone National Forest in Kentucky, one of the states hit hardest by the meth labs and the chemical waste they leave behind. Lowell Joslin, chief of law enforcement for the Iowa Department of Natural Resources, added, “It’s sad to say, but many of our best hunting and fishing areas are conducive to cooking and dumping meth.”

In the 2006 revision of the Patriot Act, new restrictions on the purchase of over-the-counter cold and allergy tablets that contain ephedrine were included in the controversial terrorism legislation. While the Patriot Act has suppressed civil liberties since its inception, the idea of limiting cold tablets like Sudafed came from an Oklahoma law which lead to an 80 percent decrease in meth-lab seizures since implemented in April 2004.

Contrary to growing opinion, the average meth addict is by no means a terrorist. In fact, the micro-cooker is more like a micro-brewer who endeavors to expand operations if a market develops. While some are perfectly capable of cooking off larger quantities, the micro-cooker is rarely able to accumulate the necessary ingredients to do so. They are mostly drug addicts and low-level hustlers; they are by no means cartels. Moreover, cooking meth doesn’t produce WMDs, and micro-cookers have nothing in common with Islamic extremists. Presumably, just like it did in the ’80s with P²P, the federal limitations on cold tablets will simply force the meth industry to shift gears yet again.

My Name Is Meth

Buried alive for the last eight years, I am exiled to a California prison for my drug-war transgressions. With an unimaginable 18 years until I’m eligible for parole, I find kinship with toothless, tattooed tough guys from every ethnic and gang affiliation imaginable. Where untreated addiction and chronic hepatitis C are balanced by racism, hatred and violence, I find resolve in the struggle for human rights.

As a 40-year-old nonviolent drug offender serving 26 years-to-life for driving down the road in possession of meth, I am still awaiting the opportunity to earn a release by participating in a treatment program. Instead, addiction is allowed to fester like an open wound. Prisoners spend unholy amounts of time suffering from a myriad of psychological ailments without even being required to identify the root causes.

Those serving moderate to short stints are simply released back into the world with little hope or chance to succeed. As if by design, California parolees recidivate at the highest rate in the nation.

Since 80 percent of this state’s prisoners are estimated to suffer from substance abuse and chemical dependency, prison officials began to implement in-prison treatment programs at the turn of the millennium. Yet only 8,000 beds were established to serve 170,000 inmates, the largest prison population in the country. Since so many drug addicts have co-occurring mental-health and addictive disorders, transforming prisons into therapeutic communities is the perfect transitional criminal justice methodology.

Except that this is California, where shoplifters and drug offenders serve life sentences alongside murderers and sexual predators.

I try to transcend the madness through a regimen of exercise, inside activism and literary endeavors. While the vast majority of prisoners exist in an untreated state of active self-destruction, I recently decided to study treatment for the chemically dependent while pursuing an AS in human services. As a would-be paraprofessional in recovery, I study the systems under which we are warehoused.

Up close, I see how untreated addiction works. When meth or heroin enters the institutional black market, I witness firsthand the worst humanity has to offer. The hopelessly addicted will say or do anything to get high–even use a syringe tainted with hepatitis C virus or run up huge debts with no way to pay except through victimization, bloodshed or the betrayal of a fellow inmate.

Like the correctional officers, I simply turn a blind eye.

And with no alternative, my own untreated addiction is exacerbated by imprisonment. I tragically broke my sobriety not long ago. My dreams were skewed, and upon waking, I realized that my affair with Mistress Methamphetamine had resumed. Tormenting me throughout the day as I pay for the rest of eternity, she beckons to me when I am alone at night.

Hell is on earth. I’m in it.

My name is meth, and I am not a monster.

I am Eugene.

Serving a life sentence for a nonviolent drug conviction under the ‘three strikes’ law, writer Eugene Dey is an inmate at the California Correctional Center in Susanville. His memoir, ‘A Three-Strikes Sojourn,’ received a 2006 honorable mention from the PEN American Center.


Listmania!

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August 30-September 5, 2006

Earlier this month, Pitchfork.com posted its “Top 200 Songs of the 1960s.” Thank goodness, because it had been a while since Rolling Stone‘s special “500 Greatest Songs of All Time” issue. What are we supposed to do until next month, which promises Spin’s “25 Greatest Live Bands Now!”–read actual articles?

People, myself included, love lists, especially when they contain words like “top,” “greatest,” “of all time” and “worst.” Both comprehensive and tidy, lists create handy folders for the great big, sloppy filing cabinets of pop-culture artifacts. The American Film Institute’s “100 Most Inspiring Films of All Time” informs our Netflix queues; Amazon.com’s reader-generated Listmania! suggests the best 10 songs with Kool Keith cameos for us to download. Theoretically, lists make our lives easier, more navigable.

But that’s not why they’re so popular. Lists draw us in because they justify the superiority of our personal taste. “This turd of a critic thinks Rubber Soul is better than Revolver! What a joke,” we can sneer happily, certain in the knowledge that we are right and they, the fat, self-satisfied media establishment, are wrong.

Rolling Stone‘s “500 Greatest Songs of All Time” is a fine example. A good friend of mine pointed out that the top-rated hip-hop song is Public Enemy’s “Bring the Noise,” which they ranked at 160. But at 142 is “Rock Lobster” by the B-52’s, which means that, according to Rolling Stone, “Rock Lobster” is better than any hip-hop song ever made. Nothing against “Rock Lobster,” but that’s simply impossible. This is not a disputable fine point; it’s a blatant error of omission, unless your target audience is a bunch of 40- and 50-year-old men obsessed with watching Martin Scorsese’s Bob Dylan documentary.

Once upon a time, lists did not matter so much; 50 years ago, there were about a million fewer pop-music albums to classify, crucify and canonize. Today’s rank-obsessed lists are driven equally by ego and passion–the passion that the author feels about the subject, and the belief that anyone else should care.

I must confess to forcing my fair share of lists on Bohemian readers over the years. They’re fun to write and completely self-indulgent. Who am I to say what the best 10 albums of 2004 were? I probably heard six new albums that year, tops. But I won’t stop composing lists, even if I’ve realized that it’s kindest to keep them to myself. When bored or nervous, I find it comforting to mentally review my five favorite bands ever before moving on to my five favorite songs ever, and I find myself luxuriating in a rare solace of peace and certainty in a world of war and chaos.

But those are my lists, my own private favorites; they’re not a fat, glossy excuse for a special issue. The boom of list-based criticism provides entertainment, but little insight. Lists are mainly groupings of sound bites, quick and easy to read. “The Top Wedding Songs Ever” might reveal something about the culture of wedding receptions and pop music, but it probably says more about its author’s fondness for the Grease soundtrack. In time, instead of ordering cultural artifacts, lists themselves will become cultural artifacts (imagine MTV’s top 100 all-time videos circa 1989, compared to MTV’s top 100 all-time videos now–scary).

Lack of intellectual merit does not prevent me from getting my list on–I get bored and lazy, too. Outside of Pitchfork.com’s occasional ambitious monstrosity à la “Top 200 Songs of the 1960s,” there are whimsical, dashed-off ditties like RollingStone.com’s list of the day, which is less about ranking than it is about shout-outs to cool stuff (“Best Rock Duets,” “Best Last Songs in Movies”). The advantage to web-based lists is the same as the disadvantage: user comments. As opposed to print, websites invite immediate participation, and nothing is more feedback-encouraging than a list.

But after scrolling through a dozen comments of dramatically varying eloquence, it’s difficult not to suffer from opinion overdose. The very quantity of feeling boggles the mind. You’d need a list to keep it straight. Maybe instead of bickering over what’s best or worst, we should enjoy things for what they are, when they are.


Wine Tasting

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Consumed in moderation, research has shown wine and beer to have substantial health benefits. So drink up. It’s good for you. Here are five reasons why.

Healthy Heart Red wine has been shown to lower the risk of a heart attack for middle-aged people by 30 percent to 50 percent. It’s also suggested that red wine may prevent additional heart attacks if you’ve already had one.

Fat Fighter Research has shown that red wine can raise HDL cholesterol (the good kind) and prevent LDL cholesterol (the bad cholesterol) from forming. Red wine may also help prevent blood clots and reduce damage to blood vessels caused by fat deposits.

A Breath of Fresh Air Research at the University at Buffalo has shown that white wine helps promote healthy lung function.

Better Bones Researchers believe drinking beer helps promote bone density through deposits of calcium and other minerals in bone tissue.

Stoke, Not Stroke The New England Journal of Medicine stated that light to moderate beer drinkers decrease chances of suffering a stroke by 20 percent.

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Letters to the Editor

August 30-September 5, 2006

Tiaras and tongue-piercings

I think this ( Aug. 16) is rather funny, because I am a Starbucks barista and I share many of the same views as you do, yet I am also strangely proud of where I work. I do feel slightly dulled down by the dress code and the lack of any color, style or personality that can truly be shown while being in full dress code. I personally wear a tiara every day to bring a little bit more of myself into my job. I have been fighting myself because I want a lip piercing so badly but I know I can’t have it if I want to keep working at Starbucks, and there is no way in hell I am going to trade my benefits for a piece of metal. In fact, I have a huge problem about the whole covering up of our tattoos and piercings. I think it looks way worse to be covering them up with sweat bands and Band-Aids.

As for the music, I play Senses Working Overtime as long as I am in the building. It’s the best music we have, and everyone else hates all the music we have as well. Every night at closing, we blast the music and sing as loud as we can because sometimes, with the people we have in our stores, wonderful ’80s music is all that can keep us going.

Next time you’re in your Starbucks, fill out one of the cards asking for your ideas on how to make Starbucks a better place. They have a special team hired to read all of them and changes are made from the input they receive. Maybe if enough people say they’d like baristas with personality and piercings and tattoos, we’ll have the chance to be who we want while doing what we enjoy.

Laura Hall, Seattle

Big uneasy

I just spent a week in New Orleans helping an organization called Operation Blessing gut and rebuild homes destroyed by hurricanes Katrina and Rita. With the anniversary of Katrina just past, it’s important that people realize what is going on in Louisiana and Mississippi. It’s been a year, and the residents there are still devastated. They live outside their damaged-beyond-repair homes in FEMA trailers. Most of them don’t even know where to begin.

The reality is that there is too much to do and not enough volunteers to do it all. I’m urging people everywhere to take time out of your busy schedules and help. The only way things are going to get restored is for us to step up to the plate. Please come work side by side with the residents of this area to rebuild and restore New Orleans.

Tara Lynn O’Sullivan, Santa Clara

Nonprofit thank yous

Heritage Homes of Petaluma wishes to thank all our faithful tour-goers who attended the 2006 Biennial Summer House Tour. Your support is essential for our preservation efforts in town. Thanks, too, for the more than 100 volunteers whose combined efforts were a model of cooperation and teamwork. Special thanks to the generous homeowners who opened their doors for our fundraiser. Every house and building sparkled with beauty and graciousness. Those who were not able to attend missed a rare treat.

Kit Schlich, Petaluma

Lies, damn lies and the lying liars

George Bush and his press secretary, Tony Snow, among others of their ilk, continue to pound us with the usual “with us or agin’ us” cant, which attempts to obfuscate the true facts.

They are as follows: The nation was united after Sept. 11, 2001. Bush, instead of working with that, shamelessly used 9-11 as a political opportunity. Despite the countereffective efforts of his defense secretary, our CIA operatives cornered a true enemy, Osama Bin Laden, at Tora Bora in Afghanistan. Without sufficient air support, Bin Laden was permitted to escape. In the greatest intentional fiasco in modern history, Bush invaded unrelated Iraq and eventually screwed that up in very predictable but horrific ways. Now he tells us that the only way we can be safe is to emulate the British, from whom we won our freedom in 1776 from unreasonable search and seizure. He, his cronies and his Fox News lackeys have the nerve to call those of us who disagree “traitors.”

Americans, raise your voices to stop this madness!

Ed Coletti, Santa Rosa

Dept. of Corrections

In last week’s Brief Sonoma County counsel Steven Woodside was mistakenly attributed. Remarks regarding Caltrans were actually uttered by deputy counsel Brian Nussbaum. We regret the error.

The Ed.
So glad that for once
it wasn’t my fault


The Byrne Report

August 30-September 5, 2006

Station Casinos of Las Vegas is in trouble. Indeed, the billion-dollar corporation that has partnered with the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria to front one of its money pits in Sonoma County is on the ropes.

Most Californians now realize that we were hoodwinked when we amended the state constitution a few years back to allow impoverished Indian tribes to run card games, craps and slot machines on their balkanized reservations. Ordinary people thought it would be a good idea for the descendents of those whom European ancestors enslaved and murdered to make a few bucks snatching dollar bills from gamblers. Fifty-five monster casinos later (with 40 more in the works), Californians, including lots of Native Americans, are starting to seriously rethink the issue.

It was recently reported that our jobless Pomo neighbors, the Dry Creek Rancheria Indians, were tricked into moving off their mountaintop land to allow for the erection of a super ugly casino and parking garage. In fact, only 9 percent of California’s Indians are getting any benefit at all from franchising their sovereign rights, such as they exist, to rich white guys handing out baubles.

One reason why the boys from Las Vegas are settling like locusts is because the legal doctrine of sovereign immunity has often been found by California courts to extend to white-owned firms that partner in business with Indian tribes and employ and serve tribal members on tribal land. But this doctrine–which was always based upon legal quicksand–faltered badly in 2004 when the National Labor Relations Board “reversed 30 years of precedent and extended its jurisdiction to on-reservation tribal commercial enterprises,” according to a paper by the Sacramento-based law firm of DLA Piper Rudnick Gray Cary. That firm litigates to “preserve” Indian sovereignty on behalf of the gambling corporations that wish to operate with impunity from the fair-labor and discrimination laws that protect working people. But DLA Piper’s client Station Casinos got slapped silly in the Placer County courthouse on Aug. 18. Superior Court Judge Charles Wachob ruled that the corporation that runs Thunder Valley Casino for the United Auburn Indian Community cannot hide from a civil lawsuit brought by employees.

Overturning its own ruling in November that the blanket of tribal sovereign immunity did extend to Station Casinos, the court ruled that, because of a twist of circumstance, the blanket is lifted. Station Casinos can now be pursued in state court by the seven women plaintiffs of Medina v. Station Casinos. They sued in 2004 to stop Thunder Valley Casino from allegedly sexually harassing female employees and allegedly practicing gender and age discrimination.

A linchpin of the women’s lawsuit is that under the United Auburn Indian Community’s gambling compact with the state, it was bound to protect the civil rights of employees by passing tribal ordinances “at least as stringent” as state and federal laws. More than a year after the women sued, the tribal council finally complied with this binding requirement of the compact

Oops. Here comes the catch-22. Judge Wachob decided that the proposed class action could now proceed against Station Casinos–which had previously been shielded by sovereign immunity–because “applying those laws to defendants would not impair the Tribe’s interests in governing on its lands as the Tribe has committed itself to abiding by those laws.” The court also found that Station Casinos may be considered as the de facto employer of the aggrieved women, since it is in charge of running the casino.

The new ruling undermines a widely accepted supposition that business partners of Indian tribes may violate the civil rights of employees at will. Moving beyond the requirements of the state compact, however, Indian nations do not have any such thing as sovereign immunity from federal laws.

Richard McCracken, an attorney for UNITE HERE, which organizes Indian casinos, recently explained why this is so in the journal The Labor Lawyer: “Indian tribes have some aspects of sovereignty, but these are frequently misunderstood and overstated. . . . The Constitution does not give Indian tribes any sovereign rights. . . . Such sovereign powers Indian tribes possess are limited to what is needed for self government.”

McCracken quotes important case law: “The sovereignty that the Indian tribes retain is of unique and limited character. It exists only at the sufferance of Congress and is subject to complete defeasance.”

That means the every scrap of independence obtained by Indian peoples can be vaporized by an act of Congress, which is geared up to restrict reservation-shopping. With a political and legal backlash to the civil-rights-crushing imperatives of the Las Vegas carpetbaggers growing, Station Casinos and its brethren are on the run in California.

or


Down and Out in Bodega Bay

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Back in the day: The ‘famous’ Exe Salmon was caught in 1924 and weighed over 61 pounds. From today’s perspective, that’s some fish story.

By Alastair Bland

Hard times have fallen on the men and women who catch and sell Chinook salmon for a living in Northern California. The federal government lopped off the first three months of the season, limited each vessel to a meager 75 fish per week for the summer and set a quota of just 20,000 fish for the entire fleet of boats between Point Arena and Point Sur for the month of September.

John Burke, 67, is a crab fisherman and part-time mechanic who has lived in Bodega Bay for 50 years. He nicely sums up the present situation. “Seventy-five fish? Hell no, it’s not enough to live on, and it don’t help much if they get a 15-fish week! A lot of [fishermen] are getting part-time jobs. I don’t even fish salmon anymore; I make better money working on the boats. But I won’t be very busy this year, because the fishermen don’t have any money and they’re all applying for disaster relief.”

The problems afflicting this year’s salmon season are easily traced back to the fall of 2002. The federal government granted alfalfa, potato and radish farmers in California and Oregon a surplus of Klamath River water. The river’s level dropped significantly, and the Klamath warmed to nearly 70 degrees Fahrenheit in the sun. A plague of parasites resulted, infecting and killing somewhere between 30,000 and 60,000 adult Chinooks as they moved into the lower reaches of the river. Some did spawn successfully, but due to the government’s continued mismanagement, the waters remained low and warm all year, and when the young smolts moved downstream toward the Pacific, a great many died.

The 2002 progeny would have been large, mature four-year-olds today, but only a few survived, and the current regulations were designed to protect these fish as they prepare for their upstream spawning journey this fall.

“Sure, the Klamath salmon mix a little with the Sacramento [River] fish, but we don’t impact the Klamath fish nearly as much as they say we do,” says Chuck Wise, a 65-year-old Bodega Bay salmon fisherman who has fished locally since the late 1960s.

Wise and most fishermen insist that their catch consists primarily of Sacramento fish, and he refers to a study conducted in 1998, 1999 and 2000. For a two-week period in each of those seasons, California Department of Fish and Game (DFG) officials removed a small chunk of flesh from each fish as the commercial vessels unloaded at the dock. Protein analyses revealed that for every 1,400 fish caught off Bodega Bay, just one came from the Klamath River. The rest were Sacramento River salmon.

Alan Grover, a senior biologist with the DFG, is currently working on ocean salmon fisheries management.

“Chuck’s right,” says Grover. “They aren’t taking many Klamath fish, though it’s more like four percent of the catch. But they’re not supposed to be taking any Klamath fish, and they should be thanking the federal government for letting them catch any fish at all.”

Grover defends the logic behind the tight restrictions. He says most years only about 300 California vessels make a full-time living fishing for Chinook salmon. Together, they account for approximately 90 percent of the total catch. However, more than a thousand vessels up and down the coast currently possess commercial salmon permits. Thus, the DFG and the federal government can never predict how many boats will actually be out there on the water pursuing the salmon.

“So we had to be conservative about it to make sure that the minimum required number of Klamath fish survives.”

Wise says that this year is by far the most restrictive season he can remember, yet California’s sport fishermen, allowed a limit of two Chinooks per day, have enjoyed all the liberties of every previous salmon season. They have enjoyed good fishing, too.

“The sport guys were out there getting limits for weeks,” says Wise. “The fish were thick right out front here, right when we should have been harvesting. One Saturday, 600 sport boats passed by the Coast Guard station here, and during the week there were between 200 and 400 out there each day.”

Wise, meanwhile, dropped and hauled cages for Dungeness crab in June to maintain some income, but the next month was tough.

“This July, we had no income whatsoever, and they took away May and June also. That’s half the season, and those are the months when we usually catch fish.”

When the commercial season opened on July 26, the fishing was outstanding. The commercial fleet worked the waters about 10 miles off the Marin and Sonoma coast, trolling metal flashing spoons and artificial squid behind the boat at 3 knots. They landed almost 10 fish per hour, and by the day’s end most vessels had 75 Chinooks–their entire week’s limit. This was not exactly a blessing, for the fleet now had to go back to the harbor, sell their fish and wait for six long days moored to the docks. When they finally returned to the water the next Wednesday, the salmon were gone.

“They should have set up a quota system or something,” says Wise, “so that we could have been out there fishing each day while the salmon were actually here. The way this thing has been set up is just idiotic. I mean, the fish are still out there, but the government won’t let us fish where they are.”

North Coast Fisheries, a receiver based in Santa Rosa, purchases Chinook salmon from approximately 60 local vessels and a hundred others in California and Oregon. Owner Mike Lucas says that in the average year his company receives about a million pounds–nearly one-fourth of the entire state’s catch.

“This season, we’re at about 6 percent of that,” he says, “maybe 10.”

Gutted, the average Chinook salmon weighs 14 pounds, ranging up to 30 pounds or more. At $5 per pound at the dock, a fisherman this season has a chance at making $5,250 per week–but that’s a long shot.

“Yesterday, I fooled around all day,” says Wise. “I burned 50 gallons of gas and got one fish.”

Wise and hundreds of other fishermen in California and Oregon turned to the federal government for help earlier this summer, and they were offered aid on a loan basis at 4 percent interest.

“But how could we pay back loans if we’ve got no income?” asks Dave Yarger, a 68-year-old Bodega Bay fisherman and president of the local Fishermen’s Marketing Association.

Relief came on Aug. 10, when Secretary of Commerce Carlos Gutierrez officially conceded that the season has been a disaster meriting grant relief. That could total $80 million.

“Don’t you think that’s fair, to get grants?” Yarger asks, quickly answering his own question. “I do. We didn’t cause this problem. We didn’t do anything. Low river flows did. And look, there’s not one of us that just wants free money from the government! We want to work! We want to stay afloat until they fix this problem. The government has just put us out of business!”

The 75-fish limit will persist until September, at which time the federal restrictions will grow even tougher. The entire commercial fleet will be allowed 20,000 fish–between 10 and 20 salmon per week per boat, depending on how many vessels actually take to the water.

But many have already quit.

“We’ve got a half dozen boats or so in the harbor here that haven’t even been out at all this year,” Yarger says. He reports that numerous fishermen have taken on part-time work as painters, welders, ranch hands and construction workers, and that the coastal economy is hurting.

“In a normal year, I spend $2,000 on gear alone” he says. “This year, I’ve spent $200. Multiply that by all the guys that are fishing, and that’s a legitimate disaster. There’s nothing before that’s ever compared to this.”

And still the recreational fishermen are enjoying free range on the open seas.

“They’re allowed to fish up at Fort Bragg right now, and we’re not,” says Yarger. “I had a sport guy come up to me a few days ago with a 35-pound salmon asking if he could borrow my fish scale for a minute. Now that’s like salt in a wound, isn’t it?”

Regional restrictions have made salmon fishing a tough vocation for several years prior to this summer, and Yarger says that the Bodega fleet is drifting together toward retirement.

“No young guys are coming in,” he says, shaking his head. “The government’s just making it impossible to make a living. I just can’t see making house payments and supporting a kid on these fishing wages. I think now the average age of the Bodega fleet is up in the 60s. I’m ready to retire.”

Fishermen are anticipating another poor year in 2007, for the Klamath River experienced further, though less highly publicized, water mismanagement in 2003.

“The population estimates on the three-year-old fish in the ocean is low,” says Wise. “It’s going to be another tight season next year.”

But perhaps these hard times are just one small part of being a fisherman.

“That’s really the thing about this job. It’s not just an income, because some years there just isn’t any. It’s a way of life.”



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The Pleasure of Problems

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the arts | visual arts |

Photograph by Brett Ascarelli Vertical vision: Hamilton’s tower, nearly complete on Oliver Ranch.

By Brett Ascarelli

On a recent sunny afternoon, art collector and patron Steven Oliver, 64, stands at the bottom of concrete cylinder. This is Oliver’s most recent sculpture commission for his eponymous 90-acre Geyserville ranch, where he lives with his wife, Nancy. Designed by the sculptor and installation artist Ann Hamilton, some of whose work belongs to the Guggenheim, the tower was poured from 1 million pounds of concrete transported to Oliver’s ranch in no less than 600 truckloads. The equivalent of an eight-story-high building, the tower has only one very tall story, which is open to the sky. Oliver’s voice echoes as he asks, “You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

He then leads the way up one of the two staircases still without railings (the structure isn’t fully complete, so the banisters haven’t been installed yet). A couple flights up, he stops to take a seat on a windowsill. He’s not out of breath, he’s just demonstrating how Hamilton designed the structure to accommodate the human body. After a moment, we continue. As the altitude increases, the width of the stairs decreases, and one feels an urge to hug the wall. Upon finally reaching the top of the tower, Oliver says, “I’m lucky to have this, but even more fun was working with her to design it.”

Oliver’s thirty-something son, Josh, is currently the project manager for the tower project, which has been in the making for two and a half years. When completed this fall, it will be used as a private musical experimentation and performance space, due to be christened by the Kronos Quartet.

On Sept. 15, the Arts Council of Sonoma County honors Oliver as part of its eighth annual Achievement in the Arts Awards. Locally, Oliver is the chairman of the SFMOMA board and has been a California College of the Arts trustee for 25 years. (He also holds an honorary Doctor of Fine Arts degree from that institution.) Nationally, he’s served as a chairman for the NEA and as a trustee for the Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden.

Known as one of the region’s most noted and enthusiastic collectors of contemporary art, Oliver used to hate it. Accompanying his wife to museums while she was finishing up her degree in American studies years ago, he had two ideas about contemporary art. “First, I thought it was a pile of junk,” he says with a laugh. “Then I thought, ‘I could do that.’ One piece [by Ed Keinholz] annoyed me so much that I went back during work the next day.”

Did he like it better upon return? “No,” he says, “I didn’t like it any more, but I was less dismissive and more curious. That’s the important part–it leads you to learn about yourself and the world.”

The Olivers started collecting art in 1978, foregoing a vacation to purchase their first piece, a drawing by Jim Dine. In the 1980s, a few years after acquiring the ranch in Geyserville where he and Nancy raised sheep for an organic lamb supplier patronized by such as Wolfgang Puck, the couple became frustrated with art’s increasing commercialization. Oliver says that he was dismayed by how much work “was tied to the financial pages.” This dissatisfaction came to a head during a dinner conversation when a friend congratulated him on the business acumen of his collecting. This wasn’t true; Oliver had never sold any of the pieces in his collection. The couple decided to start commissioning large, site-specific art that would be immobile. As such, they could not be put on the market as commodities.

Since commissioning Judith Shea to create the first piece in 1985, some 20 artists, many of them highly illustrious, have flourished at the Oliver Ranch. “I find changing the physical environment addictive,” Oliver says, looking over the summer-browned landscape which is home to 18 sculpture and audio-art commissions, including a transitory project by environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy that has long since assimilated back into nature.

Bruce Nauman, named one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people in 2004, created a quarter-mile-long staircase snaking up from the edge of the property all the way to the Oliver home. This sculpture is what prompted the couple to end their stint as shepherds, as the piece was to wind directly through the sheep’s breeding and weaning areas. Nauman’s untitled steps are the only sculpture visible from the road, and barely at that–the muted color of the concrete is camouflaged by the earth tones of the hill.

Oliver has an unusual background for an arts patron and advocate. He is an engineer and has been in the construction business since his 20s. As president of his own highly successful construction firm, Oliver & Company, he has built several North Bay beauties: Far Niente Winery, the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center, and the Oxbow School.

His construction and engineering background makes him a very hands-on collector, facilitating the fabrication of the giant sculptures around the property. “You dream it, we’ll build it,” he says. Oliver takes care of the engineering and the permitting aspects of the works, and even supplies an on-site live/work studio designed by David Rabinowitch and Jim Jennings, which is a remarkable piece of architectural art in itself.

“We free [artists] from traditional confines with no limit on size, scale, bulk or mass, within reason,” he explains of the ranch aesthetic. “But [the artists will] limit themselves more than I will.” Oliver likes watching the way artists solve problems and feels that his construction employees are better for being involved in the process, too.

Playing such a close role in the creation of the art thrills him, because it gives him more than just a first-row seat to the performance; instead, he gets to interact with the artists, often forming lasting relationships with them. “My children and grandchildren have grown up eating dinner with great artists at the table,” he says. “You have this incredible, rich life experience by knowing these people.”

Richard Serra, who worked on a series of sculptures Snake Eyes and Boxcars between 1990 and 1993, recently invited Josh to his opening in Bilbao. Oliver had to ask Serra, “Can I go, too?” (Serra had thought Oliver would be too busy.) “You can’t buy that as a collector,” Oliver says, drawing the distinction between simply collecting art that’s already been finished and commissioning pieces that haven’t yet been started.

By commissioning artwork, he and Nancy are often the first people privy to seeing an artist enter a new period in his or her work. Thus, Oliver has a multitiered relationship with the artists he patronizes. They are part family, part collaborators and part idols. “Artists are the greatest minds in the world,” he proclaims. From changing his political sway to making him reconsider seemingly insignificant habits, artists have shaped Oliver just as much as he’s helped them give concrete form to their ideas.

Modestly, he says, “I’m a glorified studio assistant.”

Brushing aside recognition for his own creative talents, Oliver begins the long walk back down the tower’s steps. He explains, “I’m a facilitator. I’m creative in solving the problem, but I’m not creative as in making the problem.”

Making the problem is what Steven Oliver lets artists do best.

Steven Oliver is honored at the Achievement in the Arts Awards on Friday, Sept. 15. A dance performance, conversation with ‘San Francisco Chronicle’ art critic Kenneth Baker, dinner and wine complete the evening. Hyatt Vineyard Creek Hotel, 170 Railroad St., Santa Rosa. $150. 707.579.ARTS.

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Letters to the Editor

August 30-September 5, 2006Tiaras and tongue-piercingsI think this ( Aug. 16) is rather funny, because I am a Starbucks barista and I share many of the same views as you do, yet I am also strangely proud of where I work. I do feel slightly dulled down by the dress code and the lack of any color, style or...

The Byrne Report

August 30-September 5, 2006Station Casinos of Las Vegas is in trouble. Indeed, the billion-dollar corporation that has partnered with the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria to front one of its money pits in Sonoma County is on the ropes.Most Californians now realize that we were hoodwinked when we amended the state constitution a few years back to allow impoverished...

Down and Out in Bodega Bay

Back in the day: The 'famous' Exe Salmon was caught in 1924 and...

The Pleasure of Problems

the arts | visual arts | Photograph by Brett Ascarelli Vertical vision: Hamilton's tower, nearly complete on Oliver Ranch. By Brett Ascarelli On a recent sunny afternoon, art collector and patron Steven Oliver, 64, stands at the bottom of concrete cylinder. This is Oliver's...
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