Tiburon International Film Festival

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Tiburon’s little festival that can

By Gretchen Giles

Like the incredulous tagline of the old Berkeley Farms diary ads (“Cows? In Berkeley?”), there is, almost incredibly, an international film festival . . . in Tiburon?

Yep. Now in its third year, this six-day event ambitiously shows some 240 films from 50 countries at the Tiburon Playhouse’s three screens, March 12-18. Eclectic and broad, offerings include films that were shot in Tiburon (such as Hugh Grant’s forgettable Nine Months, interesting solely because it was indeed shot in Tiburon), a look at the masterly state of modern Polish cinema and a tribute to Charlie Chaplin as seen through two new and revealing documentaries.

Film producer Saul Zaentz (Amadeus, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) joins producer Lloyd Silverman (Snow Falling on Cedars) and Pixar Studios’ Brad Bird to discuss the past, present and future of filmmaking in a Saturday morning panel. Director George Stevens (Shane) will be honored, as will Italian director Luchino Visconti (Death in Venice) and documentary directory Robert Snyder (Michelangelo)–all of which is rich but traditional film-festival fare.

What is most unusual about the TIFF is its slate of five movies made by Marin-based filmmakers.

San Rafael video producer and editor Jeffrey French is among them. An associate of Francis Coppola’s Zoetrope Virtual Studio, an online community of filmmakers, French workshopped every detail of his short feature, the 27-minute Win Each Way, through his Zoetrope Virtual Studio comrades.

Shot both in England and at San Rafael’s Mayflower Inn–as close as it comes to a traditional British pub on this side of the pond– Win Each Way concerns itself with a dart contest between two old chums. One has gone off to pursue his dream of becoming a professional jockey; the other has stayed in the village, and when he loses his life savings on a horse race in which his friend the jockey rides, the two settle the debt over darts.

French calls Win Each Way (the title is taken from English horse-racing slang) a “calling card” for the feature-length film he’s currently raising money and interest for. Titled Mugs Away, slang meaning that the loser goes first, that project is also about darts.

“My films aren’t really about darts, but darts are the backdrop,” he protests with a laugh. “I went to film school and was trying to find something that I felt passionate about to use as a [metaphor] for my feature filmmaking,” French says by phone from his San Rafael home. “I started playing [darts] six years ago and fell in love with it. I felt it to be a very beautiful sport, or rather,” he laughs, “it is while you’re playing it; it’s not much fun just to watch. There’s a lot going on at a dart board, a competition between two people–it’s like chess.”

Win Each Way has already screened in the U.K. at the Cardiff Screen Festival, but the Tiburon festival marks its rather grand U.S. premiere. French is hoping that this “calling card” will be enough to help him reach his rather modest–in filmmaking terms–goal of the $1 million needed to produce Mugs Away.

“I’m shooting this on a very low budget, and a lot of it will come from the good graces of people in Liverpool,” he says, explaining that that coastal city is eager to help artists in anticipation of being Europe’s “City of Culture” in 2008. With that deadline looming, Liverpool is madly helping artists in order to help get cultured-up, and French is obliging by setting Mugs Away there.

“They’ll loan me locations,” French explains, “and the film office there will help me with casting. Plus, I’ve been all over England and I just love that city. I really like the people. They’re very superstitious, and a lot of my stories are about how superstitions affect people’s lives.”

Promoting one film while scrambling to lay the foundation to make another is a full-time job on its own. French handles it sanguinely. “I’m very lucky that after 10 years of working in film and video production, I’ve been building up markers,” he says. “I’m calling them in now.”

The Tiburon International Film Festival begins on Friday, March 12, and screens films through Thursday, March 18. An extensive listing of all films and events is found at www.tiburonfilfestival.com or call 415.381.4123.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Cabbage

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Cabbage without the corned beef

By Gretchen Giles

A stupid and lazy camper often gets her comeuppance in the form of a bear, and this stupid and lazy camper huddled in her tent at 3am last summer as an adolescent male bear tore apart a zippered canvas cooler containing a week’s worth of fruit and veggies that certain stupid and lazy people had left out in the open air. When a weary dawn finally broke, apricot pits gooed over with the rich thickness of bear spit lay everywhere, the grapes had been trod and actually shat upon, the carrots had vanished, the lettuce was trompled, the apples were eaten and the melon had been broken and brutally slurped.

All that remained–untouched, inviolate and wholly intact–was one perfect green globe of damned cabbage.

When even a rampaging bear won’t eat that which seems destined to find its highest expression in cole slaw–a dish that the children believe is humorous to refer to as “cold slop”–how can we expect others to embrace its cruciferous goodness?

I admit that I came to this vegetable late in life, having read enough Irish novels describing the sickly smell of the stuff overboiling in water to have snubbed it at the store. But an Irishman who has never written a novel showed me that an epiphany awaited, a culinary aha! moment, naturally enough accompanied by plenty of butter.

Despite its limp, annual surrender when paired with its good buddy the corned beef, cabbage has a standalone gorgeousness when washed, cored, quartered and slow-cooked in generous amounts of butter. Cut the head tenderly, rinse well, shake the water from its leaves and place it in a large heavy pot over low heat. As it warms, use a wooden spoon to gently caress it into the butter until its firm quarters eventually yield to your ministrations. The result is unconscionably sexy, but warming and freshly simple.

I’m not too worried about contracting mad cow disease, but its arrival on these shores certainly highlighted several aspects of the slaughterhouse industry that make me literally gag when I stand in a mass-market supermarket surveying packages of beef. What this means to those closest to me is that we no longer eat beef, save the one $12 splurge on two pounds of the type of ground round coming from a pampered Bolinas animal who, after a lifetime of nibbling fresh greens on the sacred Marin County headlands, simply dies of gratitude before the rancher’s feet. (It tasted, one cannot help but note, no different than that which comes from an animal who had spent a cramped nightmarish existence jammed into a yard with thousands of other unfortunates.)

Which means that in one sad Sebastopol household, the cabbage will be served this year without the corned beef.

But slice up four lovely, crisp cooking apples to sauté in butter (a theme is emerging), and make a gorgeous mash of creamy Yukon Gold potatoes, perhaps dotted with crème frâiche and extra helpings of our friend butter, and the meat seems suddenly de trop.

The beautiful Nigella Lawson, the English Aphrodite of the cooking world, recommends uncooked cabbage for those nights when friends–yes, women–come over to talk about absolutely nothing for long, airy hours around the kitchen table. Adapting her recipe from the eponymous cookbook Best of Nicole Routhier, Lawson suggests that this is an Asian-style slaw, but not really. It’s best, she says on the iVillage.com U.K. portal, served on a large flat platter, “ideal for picking at with an outstretched fork over a drawn-out evening.”

Vegetarian goddess and veggie-painter Mollie Katzen recommends cabbage that’s been magically altered, specifically sauerkraut, as the “mystery” ingredient in her Savory Apple Casserole. Writing in her Enchanted Broccoli Forest cookbook, she notes that guests may wonder what’s in this dish, but that a secretive smile is the best response.

What’s most marvelous about these recipes is that any stupid and lazy sometimes camper with opposable thumbs who’s mastered knives and fire can make them. Take that, you bear!

Nigella Lawson’s Vietnamese Chicken and Mint Salad

We adapt from Routhier and Lawson, replacing metric with measurements Americans can understand. Mostly.

1 hot chile, preferably a Thai variety
1 large garlic clove, peeled and minced
1 tbsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. rice vinegar
1 1/2 tbsp. fresh lime juice
1 1/2 tbsp. Vietnamese or Thai fish sauce (nuoc nam or nam pla)
1 1/2 tbsp. olive oil
1 bunch of green onions, cleaned and finely chopped
1 small cabbage, shredded
1 medium carrot, shredded, julienned or grated
1 full chicken breast (two halves), cooked and cut into fine strips
1 large bunch of fresh mint, cleaned and chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. In a bowl, combine the chile, garlic, sugar, vinegar, lime juice, fish sauce, oil and onion. Salt and pepper to taste. Put to one side for half an hour.
2. On a big plate or in a bowl, mix the cabbage, carrot, chicken and mint. After the dressing has had a chance to marry, pour it gently over the chopped ingredients. Mix slowly and with patience (yes, Nigella demands patience!), until all is thinly and evenly coated. Taste for salt and pepper balance.
3. Serve on a flat plate with more mint chopped on top.

Savory Apple Casserole by way of Mollie Katzen

Katzen suggests using a 2-quart casserole dish, but we think that a 9 X 13-inch buttered baking pan makes serving this much easier. We also think that browning several fatty yummy sausages and sneaking them into the mix would be wonderful, but then again, we’re only fiscal vegetarians and emphatically not by choice.

1 tbsp. butter
1 c. minced yellow onion
2 tsps. dry mustard
1 32-ounce jar sauerkraut, rinsed and drained
6 medium-sized tart apples, unpeeled and thinly sliced
2 tbsps. flour
1 tsp. cinnamon
Dash of salt
Pinch of cloves
Dash of nutmeg
2 tbsps. brown sugar
1/3 lb. grated sharp cheddar
1/2 c. good bread crumbs
3/4 c. minced walnuts

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter the pan and set aside.
2. Melt the butter in a medium-sized skillet. Add the onion and mustard, and sauté over medium heat for about 5 minutes, or until the onion softens. Add the sauerkraut and cook for about 5 more minutes. Set aside.
3. Toss together the apple slices, flour, salt and spices in a large bowl. Add the sugar and mix well.
4. Layer the ingredients, beginning with the apple mixture, then the onion-sauerkraut mixture and half the cheese. Repeat the layers until all ingredients are used.
5. Sprinkle the top with bread crumbs and walnuts. Cover with foil, and bake for 30 minutes, then uncover and bake another 15 minutes, to let the top brown. Serve hot.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sweetwater

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It’s the biggest little roadhouse west of Texas. I branded Sweetwater with that several years back after then-owner Jeannie Patterson–a vivacious redhead who put her heart and soul into the rustic, wood-paneled place–asked me to contribute a quote to a program note for a tribute to the legendary Mill Valley nightclub. It wasn’t hype.

For nearly a decade I enjoyed an (almost) all-access pass to this little room with the big reputation (I once walked in on Etta James in the dressing room while she was clad only in her sweaty slip). In the ’80s, the Times of London hailed it as one of the best nightclubs in America; BBC-TV taped a blues special there in 1992.

Since then, Sweetwater has survived cranky neighbors, fiscal crises and changing times.

On Tuesday-Wednesday, March 16-17, the Sweetwater Saloon–owned since 1999 by Becky and Thom Steere–celebrates its 30th anniversary with 12 hours of music and the promise of big-name acts dropping in to mark this milestone.

The roster of artists that have crowded onto the club’s little stage reads like a Who’s Who of roots and rock music: John Lee Hooker, Carlos Santana, Mimi Fariña, Huey Lewis and the News, Aaron Neville, John Hiatt, Robert Cray, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Rory Block, Odetta and Townes Van Zandt–to name just a few. A couple of months ago, Train stopped by to warm up for their latest tour.

At Sweetwater, the once-in-a-lifetime show is commonplace.

After headlining the Oakland Arena during their “Money for Nothing” tour, Dire Straits dropped by Sweetwater unannounced, with two tour buses and an entourage of 70, to catch guitarist Mark Kopfler’s hero J. J. Cale, that night’s headliner. Knopfler, who had never seen Cale before, joined him onstage while the entourage huddled in the basement.

In 1989 Elvis Costello teamed up with Jerry Garcia and other rock luminaries for a night of unforgettable acoustic performances. And when film star Dennis Quaid, fresh from his leading role in The Big Easy, started to moonlight as a blues singer, he picked Sweetwater to hone his chops.

For years, the club served as a way station for an Austin, Texas/Bay Area axis that drew the Tailgators, Boozoo Chavis, Kim Wilson of the Fabulous Thunderbirds and many other Lone Star State greats.

But the real action was in the basement, with its low ceiling, exposed water pipes and gallery of autographed photos. Down there the poker table, with its well-worn green-felt covering, served as the focal point for stars and backstage crashers alike. Entertainers and guests often gathered around for a low-stakes game of cards and a few drinks.

None exhibited more enthusiasm for the game than country-soul singer Delbert McClinton and his band, which at the time included local keyboardist Mike Duke. This band was flat-out poker obsessed. They would load in their equipment, run through a quick sound check and then retire to the poker table. Hours later, the musicians would pause just long enough to hop onstage, only to return to the table right after the last encore.

But the peak experience in my 20-plus years as a music journalist–hell, in a lifetime as a fan–came in the mid-’80s after catching singer, bassist and songwriter Willie Dixon at Sweetwater on a rainy Saturday night. I had long cherished Dixon, who penned such blues standards as “Spoonful” and “I Can’t Quit You Baby.” His show was pure bliss.

Afterward his band straggled downstairs and settled around the poker table to play cards, scarf stacks of spicy chicken wings and share a few laughs. I hung out with Dixon and Patterson, listening as they told war stories about the fickle music business.

At four o’clock in the morning, an exhausted Dixon announced that he was going to the bus, parked down the street from the club, hoping the band would get the hint and follow him. They sat riveted to the poker table. Dixon started walking. I tagged along. Grabbing his old leather satchel, I headed up the rickety stairs behind this towering blues giant.

Outside the morning air was crisp and cool, the town dead quiet, the pavement shimmering after a light rain. Overhead, the clouds broke behind the bare trees to reveal a full moon. It was just me and Willie Dixon, his broad Stetson shading his eyes as we strolled down the narrow sidewalk. And then he started to sing–a deep, low blues moan. For the next three minutes, time stood still–like in a dream–and I was transported to blues heaven.

It’s never gotten any better than that, and I know it never will.

For details about the Sweetwater celebration, call 415.388.2820.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Swirl ‘n’ Spit

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Swirl ‘n’ Spit
Tasting Room of the Week

Chateau St. Jean Winery

By Heather Irwin

Low-down: You’re too sexy for the tasting room. A VIP like you is used to the red-carpet treatment. Yes, you have arrived, Mr. Big, but the ham-fisted way you hold a wine glass? That’s a dead giveaway that you’re not a student of the grape, baby.

Time for a proper education. For $15, Chateau St. Jean hooks you up with an insider tour of the grounds, a tasting of several reserve wines (that’s the good stuff) and a real-life wine primer all wrapped up in about 45 minutes. So now you can not only order a respectable bottle of wine at a restaurant, but also at least look like you know what you’re doing as you inspect, taste and swirl like a pro.

Vibe: Chateau St. Jean is casual uptown: premium wines, a lush Mediterranean garden, lots of gourmet goodies and oenophile gear in the tasting room, plus there’s the whole chateau thing. The home, which sits on the original 93 acres of vineyards, was owned by a single family until the mid-’70s, when it was bought by an extended family who renamed the winery after Jean Sheffield Merzoian, a wife of one of the brothers. But despite garnering some serious cred in the wine business (their 1996 Cinq Cépages Cabernet Sauvignon was named Wine Spectator‘s “Wine of the Year” in 1999, the first local wine to win the award), this is still Sonoma County, after all. Our tour guide, Tammy, had us sipping, swirling and spitting with gusto and laughing all the way through.

At the helm: Though the winery recently lost Steve Reeder, its master winemaker, new winemaker Margo Van Staaveren–wife of Don Van Staaveren, who served as winemaker from 1990 to 1997–has been a fixture at the winery for years and is known as the “palate” of the winery. Producing some 300,000 cases per year, Chateau St. Jean is part of the Beringer group which includes Beringer, Chateau Souverain and several others.

Mouth value: The tour gives you the opportunity for a reserve tasting, well worth the price. We especially liked the dry, grapefruity La Petite Étoile Vineyard 2001 Fumé Blanc, the Cinq Cépages 2000 Cabernet Sauvignon and the full-bodied Sonoma County Reserve 1997 Merlot– all only available on the reserve tasting. On the regular tasting menu, don’t miss the Sonoma County 2002 Johannisberg Riesling, slightly sweet and crisp and fully delicious.

Don’t miss: Now that you’re a big shot, you’ll need to keep it real. Work off that education with a big old burger just down the road at Heavenly Hamburger (4910 Sonoma Hwy., Santa Rosa, 707.539.9791). They’re greasy and cheesy, served with a side of onion rings and nicely toasted buns.

Five-second snob: Ever hear someone say a bottle is “corked”? Like many people, I can get halfway through a bottle before someone raises an eyebrow and asks if the wine has seen better days. The best way to determine whether a bottle is corked is to sniff the wine in the glass. Tammy compared it to grandma’s basement: when you go past a pile of 1952 Life magazines, you know that musty, old-paper smell. Corkage happens when a certain type of mold grows on the cork and imparts an off flavor in the wine. And a big P.S.: It’s “Jean” as in blue jeans or Jean Harlow. Leave the snobby French affectations at home.

Spot: Chateau St. Jean, 8555 Sonoma Highway, Kenwood. Open daily, 10am to 5pm. Wine tour 101 classes occur daily at 11am and 3pm; no reservation needed. $15 for the tour; $5 for regular winetasting. 707.833.4134.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Sesame Street’

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‘Sesame Street’ transcends nostalgia

By Sara Bir

If you’re nearing your mid-30s and are all sweaty in the palms because of it, just remember that you are probably younger than Big Bird. Sesame Street is in the midst of its 35th anniversary, which means that it’s time for all sorts of self-congratulatory fanfare from its creator, Children’s Television Workshop. Thus we have on our hands the 63-song boxed retrospective of Sesame Street musical numbers, Songs from the Street: 35 Years of Music. I don’t have kids, but if I did, I would not buy this for them. I’d buy it for me–which I did, and I’ve been continuously elated because of it.

From its relatively hipster-neutral packaging and format, it’s difficult to tell if Songs from the Street is aimed at adults craving nostalgia–especially in this age of revived flare pants, old-school Puma sneakers and fitted cap-sleeve T-shirts embroidered with rainbows–or at parents who want something besides the Wiggles to play for their youngsters. The hard fact is that no matter what age you are, “‘C’ is for Cookie” is a better song than anything Norah Jones, the Strokes or Outkast will ever produce.

Whatever the case, Songs from the Street allows the listener to hear some wonderful songs in the context of well-crafted music for grown-ups rather than educational music for kids. I purchased this set expecting to plunder some novelty fodder for mix tapes, only to find that the majority of all three CDs (which are arranged in semichronological order) merit listening to from beginning to end. On a busy Saturday, I played Songs from the Street at the retail store where I work (shhh, don’t tell ASCAP), and not one customer made a comment. That may be a backhanded compliment, but you can bet that if we played Barney songs we would have collected a great deal of vocal dissent.

We can credit the bulk of Sesame Street‘s mature appeal to three forces: Jim Henson (whose Muppets have always adhered to a wry, vaudevillian sense of humor); composer Joe Raposo (“Bein’ Green,” “Sing”); and former Captain Kangaroo screenwriter Jeff Moss (“Rubber Duckie,” “I Don’t Want to Live on the Moon”).

Listening to these songs, you can tell that they were made with their creators’ own amusement and pleasure in mind as much as their underage audience’s. Lena Horne crooning Raposo’s “How Do You Do?” to a timid Grover is sweet and intimate, and Oscar the Grouch’s duet with Johnny Cash on the Moss-penned “Nasty Dan” (who eats nails for lunch and never took a bath) would fit well on the set list of any of Cash’s prison concerts.

The other musical genius stroke of Sesame Street was to recruit such gifted famous folks and take full advantage of their creativity.

This shit rocks.

There’s a groovy dance track for example, circa 1972, wherein Stevie Wonder counts into a Talkbox against a reggae-steeped backbeat, and a Paul Simon performance of “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” that’s spiced up with an ineffably spastic little girl’s claps and ad-libs about birds and dancing–two things that have absolutely nothing to do with the actual subject of “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard,” but who cares when you hear the offhandedly inspired result.

And remember the cartoon segment of the psychedelic pinball game with all of the numbers flashing and this amazingly funky song with women singing to 12 (“Pinball Number Count”)? That, my friends, is the Pointer Sisters. Who knew?

Disc three features some more contemporary folks, including R.E.M. singing “Shiny Furry Monsters” with a Kate Pierson look-alike Muppet, and Melissa Etheridge bleating out a version of her “Like the Way I Do” revamped to address the letter u. Celine Dion’s number we can do without, though I guess it’s better to have Ms. Canadian Vegas on a kids’ show than, say, Ol’ Dirty Bastard. One ol’ dirty bastard, Steven Tyler, does contribute a cringe-inducing version of “I Love Trash” (why not Christina Aguilera?–she’s trashy).

Even without its famous-person-bingo-fun, Songs from the Street scores merit not from shallow pop-culture points but from music that’s good to listen to, and stuff that’s as tightly written as any Lennon-McCartney tune, solidifying the show’s role as a generator of pop standards and proving that Sesame Street has assumed the place of classic-movie musicals and Broadway shows as a source of songs that everyone knows.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

NASCAR Dads

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The politics of being a NASCAR dad

By R.V. Scheide

Pssssst! Allow me to let you in on a little secret: I’m a NASCAR dad. It’s not something I necessarily advertise all that much–my affinity for stock-car racing has been somewhat of a guilty pleasure for most of my adult life. There’s just something that’s more than a little bit decadent about a sport that features fossil-fuel-guzzling automobiles racing around in circles while the rest of the world steadily depletes the oil supply. But what can I say? I’m addicted to speed.

Since last year, when my creed was identified by Democratic Party pollsters as the coming presidential election’s demographique du jour, I’ve held my tongue as a steady stream of pundits and prognosticators lacking any knowledge whatsoever about the sport has patently stereotyped my kind. But now, with the election season heating up, it’s gone too far and I feel compelled to speak out on behalf of all NASCAR dads.

The breaking point for me came with this year’s Daytona 500, held on Sunday, Feb. 15. Daytona is the crown jewel in the National Association of Stock Car Auto Racing’s grueling 42-race season. It’s also the season opener, and though I’ve never attended, I’ve watched it live on television ever year since I was three. I’m now 44, which demonstrates, I think, the minimum level of commitment required to qualify as a true NASCAR dad: you have to have a history with the sport.

That, I have. I’ll never forget the crash-and-burn finish to the 1976 Daytona 500, David Pearson and arch-rival Richard Petty flying flat out at nearly 200 mph on the final lap of the two-and-half-mile super speedway, slamming off of each other in the final turn, both cars careening into the grass infield, Petty’s mangled Dodge stalling and Pearson’s battered Mercury limping to the finish line for the win. The 1976 Daytona is considered one of the all-time greatest races in any form of motor sports, and I watched it live on TV, screaming along the whole way.

The racing at Daytona has gotten slightly duller since the heady days when Petty, my boyhood hero and the acknowledged king of the sport, amassed 202 career victories, a record that will probably never be matched. Nevertheless, thanks to the booming popularity of NASCAR, which boasts 75 million fans nationwide, it’s the Daytona 500, not the Indianapolis 500, that’s today considered the “great American race.”

How do I know all this stuff? Because I’m a NASCAR dad. I look forward to the Daytona 500 more than I do the Super Bowl (unless the Niners or the Raiders happen to be playing in it). Apparently, I am not alone and Madison Avenue has taken notice. Stock-car racing, a sport pioneered by Southern bootleggers, has gone big-time mainstream. For the past several years, the commercials premiered on the Daytona 500 TV broadcast have rivaled the Super Bowl’s. This year, NASCAR dumped longtime sponsor R.J. Reynolds, favoring telecommunications corporation Nextel over the tobacco giant. It’s kind of hard to think of Jeff Gordon and Dale Earnhardt Jr. competing for anything other than the Winston Cup, but in the end, as all true NASCAR dads know, it still all comes down to the racing.

Which is why I tuned in Sunday morning, Feb. 15, at the appropriate time. I couldn’t care less that Jeff Gordon drives for DuPont or Junior drives for Budweiser or Tony Stewart drives for Home Depot. It’s fender-bending action I’m after, the visceral rush I get watching drivers push themselves and their automobiles beyond the limits, sometimes to victory, sometimes into the guardrail, and infrequently, in cases such as Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s fatal crash in the final laps of the 2001 Daytona 500, straight to meet their maker. That’s the kind of drama that makes other sports pale in comparison. NASCAR is a gateway drug, and I’ve been addicted since I was a small child.

Still, nothing in my 40-odd years as a stock-car-racing fan prepared me for the start of this year’s race. With all the chatter about NASCAR dads being the 2004 presidential election’s most sought-after swing voters (as soccer moms allegedly were in the ’90s), I should have been better prepared. Yet waiting for this year’s Grand Marshall, Ben Affleck, to deliver the customary, “Gentleman, start your engines!” I was caught totally by surprise when President George W. Bush trotted out to do the honors instead.

It’s the smirk that gets me. President Bush may be the most self-consciously narcissistic politician to ever hold the office. His thin, pinched lips betray a man who knowingly plans every public appearance for his own personal gain. “Gentleman, start your engines!” he seemed to thunder, “for the NASCAR dads are mine!” OK, he didn’t really say that last part. But that’s what the smirk meant, and in the days following the race, I watched with bemusement as media accounts seconded the notion that the entire NASCAR nation was solidly in the Bush camp.

“This is George Bush country here,” NASCAR chairman Brian France assured Reuters. In an Associated Press article, Texas driver Terry Labonte explained why most racers steer to the left but vote to the right. “I guess most of ’em just have a lot of common sense,” he said. “I like to say we’re true Americans. We don’t fall for as much crap as those guys on the other side of the aisle.”

So much for the drivers. But what about the fans? “The NASCAR dad voting bloc leans heavily toward Republicans, but Democrats are hoping to make inroads by emphasizing economic issues,” Reuters reported.

Just in case it wasn’t clear who the heck we’re talking about, the Miami Herald chimed in. “While there’s no clear agreement on who is really a NASCAR Dad, it’s generally accepted that the term should not be seen simply as a substitute for ‘Bubba’–the beer-swilling, tobacco-spitting stereotype that long has been a shorthand for stock-car-racing fan.”

So, let me see if I have this straight: the long-held stereotypical view of the stock-car-racing fan is that of a beer-swilling, tobacco-spitting Bubba? And the new improved NASCAR dad is a slightly more evolved species? Sound awfully similar to a Howard Dean stump speech on rebel flags and pickup trucks. Is this really who NASCAR dads are?

I don’t think so. I’m not going to deny that there’s a certain conservative element in NASCAR. After he retired from racing in 1992, Richard Petty ran for secretary of state in his native North Carolina, the birthplace of stock-car racing. I remember reading that his politics were somewhere to the right of Jesse Helms. That didn’t diminish his accomplishments on the race track to me, and it didn’t fool the voters of North Carolina, who unlike their Californian counterparts, declined to put their state’s biggest celebrity in office.

My point is that true NASCAR dads can see through this sort of subterfuge for the political pandering that it is. When it comes to the sport, there’s only one thing that matters. As Richard Petty’s racing son Kyle told AP about his colleagues, “I don’t care if they’re Republicans or Democrats, I just care if they can run fast.”

Running fast on the racetrack is what NASCAR’s all about, whether it’s the winding road course at Infineon Raceway in Sonoma County or the banked super-speedway at Daytona. This year’s Daytona was another nail-biter, with Dale Earnahrdt Jr. hanging on for the win three years after his father was killed at the very same race track. It was a historic finish, but is was not witnessed by President Bush, who took off in Air Force One slightly past the race’s halfway mark.

Leaving before the end of the race. That’s the kind of faux pas true NASCAR dads aren’t likely to forget.

True NASCAR dads probably already know that ‘NASCAR 3D: The IMAX Experience’ opens Friday, March 12. Soccer moms might want to call 415.369.6200.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘The Passion of the Christ’

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Bible scholar weighs in on ugly ‘Passion’

In its ongoing quest for the ultimate postfilm conversation, Talking Pictures takes interesting people to interesting movies.

Dr. Robert Funk is flabbergasted. That’s his word for it. As the end credits finally roll on Mel Gibson’s much-hyped The Passion of the Christ, I turn to gauge the final reactions of Dr. Funk, a renowned biblical scholar, historian and author who is best-known as the founder of the controversial Jesus Seminar and as director of the Westar Institute, a nonprofit advocacy group devoted to encouraging “religious literacy.”

With a shake of his head, Funk lets out a long, slow sigh and wearily declares, “Well. Gosh, I don’t know. I’m just flabbergasted.” Five minutes later, as we make our way out to the parking lot, he elaborates a bit, stating, “What in the world has Mel Gibson done in his life that he feels so guilty he has to make a God-awful film like that?” He adds, “Here’s my bottom line: this movie will set Christianity back 500 years. I think it’s that bad.”

Much has been written about The Passion of the Christ over the last several weeks, with interest reaching Ararat heights among Christian and Jewish leaders alike, all curious to see for themselves whether Gibson’s self-financed labor of love is as anti-Jewish as originally rumored (Funk feels it is, on a deep, subliminal level). Curiosity has been further heightened by early reports of the film’s over-the-top violence, and, according to Funk (author of A Credible Jesus and The Five Gospels), there’s been plenty of curiosity among the fellows of the Jesus Seminar.

An international group of boundary-pushing Gospel scholars, the Jesus Seminar was formed in the mid-1980s to shine scholastic light on ancient scripture, identifying those pieces of the New Testament that are historically supportable, and those parts that evidence shows were gradually made up over those centuries in which the Christian religion was first taking shape.

“How close do you think this was to what Jesus actually suffered?” I ask Funk, after we arrive, following a short road trip, at the Westar Institute’s Santa Rosa headquarters.

“Well, I don’t think it was very close,” Funk replies. “But then you have to remember that I think the Passion story is fundamentally a fiction. I don’t have any doubt that he was crucified. And I don’t have any doubt that the Romans did it, and that it was during the procuratorship of Pontius Pilate. But the Passion story we have today is fundamentally a piece of Christian propaganda, and I think it’s very important that we get that straight.”

While we’re setting things straight, what about the bizarre flashback to Christ’s hunky carpenter days, in which Gibson seems to be saying that Jesus (are you ready for this?) was the inventor of the chair.

“That was strange, wasn’t it?” Funk laughs. “Do you suppose that was a way to suggest that Jesus had prophetic foresight? Or was it just a spoof?

“If there had been more of that, it might have helped the film,” he allows. “It was all pretty serious, pretty heavy.”

Pretty heavy indeed. And the violence, the focus of nearly every scene, is everything it’s been said to be, and more. Passion wins the Gratuitous Gore Grand Prix, now officially ranking as one of the most violent movies ever filmed.

“I’ve never seen a movie that had so much meaningless violence!” exclaims Funk. “As I said before, Mel Gibson must be carrying an enormous load of guilt. You have to measure the violence in that film, in part, by how guilty he feels as a sinner. Of course, vicarious suffering is a very moving thing. It appeals to all of us and to some of our better instincts. It is often associated, in my mind at least, with survivor’s guilt, the kind of thing when two people go off to war and one of them gets killed, the other one doesn’t, and the survivor feels guilty because he wasn’t one of the victims.

“So to say ‘Jesus died for us’ is to appeal to a very fundamental emotion, a powerful emotion and, I think, quite a good one: to be grateful to people who are willing to suffer on your behalf, or who are victims of tragedies that you’ve escaped. I wouldn’t want to belittle that emotion, but unfortunately it’s often hooked up with guilt, and then it really becomes tragic. When it becomes associated with guilt, I think in the end it enervates and destroys the person who feels guilty.”

Concludes Funk, “I certainly think this movie tells us a lot more about Mel Gibson than it does about Jesus of Nazareth.”

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

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Family of Man

Who do the homeless resemble? That’s simple: look in the mirror.

By Angie Moeller

Last night my oldest son came in from a late-night pizza run with his teenage friends. It had been raining and he was wearing a wool shirt and knit cap. “You look cozy,” I commented as he breezed by.

“One of my friends said, ‘You look like a homeless person’–the rest of them just laughed,” he offered. Before I could respond, this son who has volunteered for a homeless shelter and helped pack boxes of emergency food for needy families countless times stopped me with, “I know, Mom–they don’t have a clue.” And I knew then that a sad irony had not been lost on him, either.

These were the same kids who had been spotlighted in the local paper because they’d “toughed out” a night in the cold in an effort to learn what it was like to be homeless. Of course, even before this pizza run, my kid had shaken his head over his classmates who thought they knew what it was like to be homeless after spending one night on the manicured lawn in front of their many-thousand-square-foot home, or because they had brought some unwanted cans from their family pantry to dump into a collection box at school.

Don’t get me wrong. I am deeply grateful to all the schools in our county who sponsored special events and projects during Homelessness Awareness Week. It’s just that I realized we’d missed the mark on some fundamental level. These kids still don’t realize who the homeless are–or what they “look like.”

What does a homeless person look like? Pull out your most beloved’s baby photo and set it alongside the one I saw today taken of a newborn baby girl brought home from the hospital to a local emergency shelter for homeless families. Those pictures will be identical images of perfection, innocence, unspoiled hope.

What does a homeless person look like? Imagine the gap-toothed grin of an impish six-year-old excitedly awaiting her first visit from the Tooth Fairy. That’s another image of a homeless person in our own neighborhood.

What does a homeless person look like? Heck, my kid’s friends aren’t entirely wrong. Because another picture of a homeless person is a 16-year-old boy in a wool shirt and knit cap. It’s just that this boy would die if his friends ever found out that he really does live in a shelter with his mom and little brother since his dad was laid off three months ago and hasn’t found work since.

The better question might be what did a homeless person look like, because, yes, right now some of them do look dirty, sick, unshaven, crazy even.

But what did they look like before? The answers would be the same.

He was a beautiful baby.

She was a gap-toothed, trusting six-year-old girl.

He was a teenager hoping against hope in the face of unimaginable despair.

My kid’s friends aren’t bad kids; they’re just ignorant. Even the well-intentioned ones, the ones who tried to take seriously the assignments intended to help them empathize with “those homeless people.”

Like I said, we really missed the mark on that one, and we’ll keep on missing the mark until we all realize that “those homeless people” could be any one of us. That face on the letter asking for your hard-earned $20 could be any one of ours, if we hadn’t had the fortune to have been born into a sound and loving family, or graced with some inner strength to make it through life’s disasters without falling to mental illness or addiction.

You look just like a homeless person.

Angie Moeller works for the Committee on the Shelterless, a nonprofit serving the homeless in southern Sonoma County.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Saline

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The FDA banned silicone breast implants last month. Should saline be next?

By Lila Rajiva

“It’s only salt water,” says the surgeon flapping the translucent rubbery disk. “If it bursts, it gets absorbed into your blood. The only problem is capsular contracture, and I’ve seen that only once and she was someone else’s patient.” The tired-looking woman in her 30s asks doubtfully if there are any other serious issues. “No,” he says breezily, “all you have to think about is how you want to look. I’ll take care of the rest.”

A week before surgery and with the nonrefundable down payment already made, a 30-page consent form filled with technical jargon is handed to her to sign. There is no time to study it in great detail, no explanations given, no videotapes shown of the procedures. “That’s just for the lawyers,” says the surgeon as she hesitates. “Look, anything can be fatal,” he adds. “There are more chances of your driving round the corner and being killed.” She signs.

Missing from this conversation, a paraphrase of the experience of one of about 300,000 women who undergo breast-augmentation surgery every year in America, was any reference to the findings of the most recent and extensive studies of implants that show that not only silicone but saline implants, widely regarded as safe, are health hazards.

Early last month, after an advisory panel recommended that the ban be reinvestigated, the Federal Drug Administration upheld the ban on silicone implants saying that more research was necessary to prove their safety. The original ban went into effect in 1991 following a public storm over implants fuelled partly by a 1990 CNN Face to Face with Connie Chung segment that showed leaking silicone gel poisoning the immune system, causing crippling arthritis, skin lesions and horrific disfigurements. The dangers of saline, which are less documented but equally worrisome, include bacterial contamination and hardening and deflation, leading to more surgery.

After the 1991 ban against silicone, 400,000 women pressed damages against manufacturer Dow Corning in a class action suit so extensive that Dow finally agreed to settle for over $4 billion. Aware that its long-term viability was in question, the company launched one of the most effective public-relations campaigns in history steered by the Washington, D.C.-based firm Burson-Marsteller, the world’s largest PR firm and the folks responsible for making over both the tobacco industry and Union Carbide.

How effective this campaign was can be deduced from the fact that within a few years the evidence against implants was being regarded as the epitome of “junk science.” In an interview in February 1996 with Frontline, Marcie Angell, editor of the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine and author of a 1996 book called Science on Trial: The Clash of Medical Evidence and the Law in the Breast Implant Case, claimed that a number of studies proved that there was no scientific link between implants and cancer or autoimmune disease. The implication was that hysterical women instigated by lawyers salivating for multimillion dollar fees were storming the Olympian citadels of medicine with junk claims.

However, the research Angell cited to support her contention was actually a better candidate for the term “junk” than what she attacked. It was also more insidious because it carried the imprimatur of prestigious institutions like Harvard and the Mayo Clinic. What casual readers could not know was that the 1994 Harvard study, like the others she cited, was damningly flawed in several ways:

* The sample size of 1,183 women was too small to study such rare diseases; included women with very recent implants (even one month); did not include women with ruptured implants; and followed the women for 9.9 years on average. Since most serious diseases that could be caused by silicone exposure would most likely develop several years after a rupture (and ruptures tend to happen after seven to 12 years), the study was almost set up for diseases not to show up.

* Astoundingly, none of the women was actually examined in person. The findings were all based on questionnaires and records.

* Only classic autoimmune disease symptoms were evaluated whereas silicone poisoning, a new disease, manifests atypical ones.

* Finally, two of the authors admitted under threat of perjury that they were paid consultants of implant manufacturers. One admitted under oath that he knew that Dow Corning had donated $7 million to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, a participant in the study.

Nor was this the only time the saintly New England Journal of Medicine had been surprised in bed with corporations. In 1996 the journal ran an editorial claiming that the benefits of diet drugs outweighed the risks without informing readers that the authors were paid consultants for companies that made or marketed one of those drugs, Redux, subsequently banned by the FDA in 1997.

In November 1997, the New England Journal of Medicine let the medical director of W.R. Grace and Co., a known chemical-industry polluter, write a review panning a book linking environmental chemicals to higher rates of cancer. And the journal itself concluded in a 1998 study that authors who have ties to corporations invariably act as shills.

The implant studies follow this pattern. The two Mayo Clinic studies were partially funded by the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons and indirectly by manufacturers; the other studies by Emory University and University of Michigan, funded directly by Dow. In fact, Dow’s general counsel bluntly stated that no studies were conducted without considering their impact on the implant litigation. Even so, the authors of these studies conceded that the absence of proof of a link was not to be taken as the proof of absence of a link. But that was drowned in the PR sound and fury.

Playing into the academic need for publications and conferences, Burson-Marsteller, the aforementioned PR firm, used ghost writers to co-author articles for journals, paid well-known professors to present evidence at meetings subject to none of the peer-review standards of academic conferences and was able to get questionable “positive” evidence front-page attention while negative results were buried inside the papers. When a larger study by Dow showed a 45 percent to 59 percent increased risk of rheumatoid arthritis as a result of silicone breast implants, it was abandoned midstream and never publicized.

Also undisclosed were memos that showed that Dow Chemical, the creators of Agent Orange and napalm, had known since the 1940s that liquid silicone could migrate to the brain, lungs and liver and damage the nerves and immune system. Since its subsidiary had been marketing the gel implants as safe for 20 years, this cover-up by the parent company resulted in punitive damages of $14.2 million for the company’s role in a poisoning that resulted in brain lesions and permanent disability for plaintiff Charlotte Mahlum in 1995.

In 2001, when the National Cancer Institute presented its most thorough study to date, of 13,500 women who had had implants for at least eight years, it was subjected to a media nip-and-tuck operation. Excerpts were speciously highlighted to create the illusion of a vindication of implants, though the actual findings were quite disturbing. True, implants were not linked with most cancers, but both saline and silicone were associated with two to three times higher rates of brain cancer, three times higher rates of lung cancer, and four to five times higher rates of suicide.

Another NCI study found a 21 percent overall increased risk of cancer for women with implants adding cervical cancer, leukemia, stomach and vulvar cancer to the other risks, including higher incidence of fibromyalgia.

While these studies did not establish a causal link, always an extremely difficult proposition, they are surely alarming enough to warrant a hold on all implant sales. In professional journals such as The Journal of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, The American Journal of Clinical Pathology, The Journal of the American Medical Association, physicians have voiced their strong concerns.

Yet in the public arena, exactly the opposite view has been prevailing. This is thanks to Dow’s stunning success in deploying so-called “astroturf” lobbying by phony citizen groups like Y-Me (funded by Dow, Bristol Myers Squibb and Plastic Surgeons Associated) and the reassuring “Nicole” pro-implant website (www.implantinfo.com) which, like surgeons’ websites that rarely present any sharply negative images and portray the whole operation in slick, glossy pictures, has been little more than an advertisement to lure unwary consumers.

Although they are required to, few doctors show patients the FDA site that presents photos of the serious disfigurements possible. Meanwhile, scholars like Michael Fumento of the conservative Hudson Institute, which receives agribusiness funding, likened the anti-implant evidence to snake oil and dismissed the postsurgical scarring known as capsular contraction a “minor problem” though contracture, a serious problem in 20 percent of cases, can even in mild forms make the breast as hard as a football. In extreme cases, the pain is so severe as to demand immediate surgery.

Like Fumento, Citizens Against Lawsuit Abuse, another corporate citizen group (funded by big tobacco, health insurance companies and Dow) and Advancement of Sound Science Coalition (also Dow-funded) beat their synthetic breasts over the scourge of frivolous suits based on fraudulent science. The truth is that product liability and medical malpractice cases amounted to only 2 percent and 4.4 percent, respectively, of civil cases in 1996; the bulk of frivolous suits are in fact pursued by businesses against other businesses.

The libertarian Cato Institute, which dubbed the ’90s the age of “junk” science and lumped implants in with alar and dioxins as a scare tactic of the anti-business flat-earth society, airbrushed Dow as a martyr. By 1995 when Dow filed bankruptcy, the company had conveniently whittled down the claims against it by more than a billion dollars. As its CEO told shareholders, Dow was actually having its most profitable quarter and the Chapter 11 filing was simply a strategy to get on with business.

The extent of Dow’s rehabilitation was shown by the fact that saline implants were approved by the FDA in May 2000, followed in a narrow vote by silicone in October, 2003. The decision was a shocking display of the incest between government regulators and the industries they regulate, as four out of the nine voting members were themselves plastic surgeons.

In this context, the FDA’s Feb. 8 reversal reinstating the silicone ban is a welcome decision, but it doesn’t address the question of saline implants. Although they were not studied separately, they were also a part of the Cancer Institute study. Saline has a shelf life and, once sterility is lost, has the potential for contamination by fungus and bacteria that can then cause systemic infections. It also has about a 30 percent chance of deflation in the first 10 years, a much higher rate than silicone.

Dr. Diana Zuckerman of the National Center for Policy Research for Women and Families, a critic of the saline implants, points out that once approval is given, manufacturers have no incentive to improve the devices, women gain an unwarranted sense of security and the FDA itself retains little ability to check if its guidelines are being followed. She points out that long-term effects aside, local problems are extensive and severe.

For example, one recent manufacturer study itself showed that during the first five years of having saline implants, 45 percent of breast cancer reconstruction patients required additional unplanned surgery, 28 percent had their implants removed, 36 percent had capsular contracture, 18 percent had implants that had moved to the wrong place, 18 percent had breast pain, and 8 percent had implants that leaked or deflated.

The rates of 10 other complications such as infections, tissue death and implants poking through the skin ranged from three percent to seven percent each. And these are only the results at five years postsurgery, when most implants have not deteriorated. Deflation and rupture caused by wear and tear, breast trauma, undetected damage or shell weakness are further significant complications; one study found that 70 percent of removed implants 11 to 15 years old were ruptured or leaking.

When the filling is silicone gel, the silicone can migrate to other parts of the body, cause reactions and be difficult or impossible to remove while the saline, if contaminated, can cause systemic illness. All this is besides so-called cosmetic complications such as alterations in shape or volume of the breast, mammography interference, chest pain and nipple discharge.

Neither the original surgery nor most complications are covered under insurance, so many implanted women end up spending tens of thousands of dollars. Although experts like Dr. Neil Rose of Johns Hopkins University state that typical autoimmune disease is unconnected to implants and just naturally much more widespread in middle-aged women than previously suspected, until controlled studies are conducted of 10 to 20 years in length for a sizeable population, all such conclusions are likely to be premature. Right now, implanted women are simply guinea pigs.

Dow’s strategy has succeeded in part because it has managed to appropriate the language of self-empowerment and present the ban as an assault on women’s autonomy. For their part, plastic surgeons have learned to label quite normal variations in breast size and appearance as deformities in need of surgical correction, using terms like hypomastia for small breasts.

If women’s choices were being enhanced, surgeons would also spend more time offering alternatives such as lift surgery or suction cups, which have had some success. But both of these are one-time remedies whereas implantation offers the surgeon the potential for repeat surgery, can be performed quickly by a specialist and permits a sizeable profit.

In other words, implants are a moneymaking hustle in which, since the risks are still unknown even to the experts, the informed consent of the patient is frankly inoperative.

In any case, cosmetic surgery that presents itself simply as a commodity open to the consumer’s rational choice forgets that surgeons are not vendors like car salesmen but trustees of their patients’ health. And when the science that is supposed to guide them dispassionately in their trusteeship is instead synthesized to manipulate the patient, the contamination of patient trust and the profession of medicine are likely to be as toxic as leaking silicone.

From the March 10-17, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Momcott’

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Marin mom’s campaign drive for cleaner cars

By Joy Lazendorfer

These days, it seems like every other car on the road is a suburban utility vehicle. You see them all the time, those large, boxy vehicles soaring down highways, lining up for gas and getting stuck in automated car washes. Considering that the North Bay is supposedly full of educated, earth-loving people, how can we explain the popularity of these vehicles, which have some of the worst safety ratings, highest emissions and poorest fuel economy of all the cars out there?

The answer, many feel, is misinformation. For some reason, popular impressions about SUVs are just wrong. Well-meaning people, many of them moms who use their SUVs to chauffeur the kids and pick up groceries, just don’t know the truth. They drive around thinking that their SUV is safer than a small car and isn’t that bad for the earth. They reason that if they want to pay more at the fuel pump, hey–what harm does that cause other than to their own pocketbooks?

In response, Marin mother Betsy Rosenberg has started a campaign to give other women the information she lacked when she purchased an SUV. The Don’t Be Fueled Campaign: Mothers for Clean and Safe Vehicles (www.dontbefueled.org ), which celebrates its first birthday on March 13, will soon be going national.

A radio journalist who hosts the one-minute “EcoTalk” segment on KCBS, Rosenberg says that she had a change in her karma when she got rid of her SUV and leased a Prius, Toyota’s hybrid car, instead. “I didn’t like my SUV,” she says. “I was never comfortable.”

When she switched from the SUV to the Prius, Rosenberg was amazed at the difference between the cars. But the real change came on March 13, 2002, when the Senate voted down legislation by John Kerry and John McCain to raise mileage standards on automobiles over a 13-year period. At the same time, the government was considering whether or not to drill for oil in the Arctic.

“I thought it was a no-brainer vote,” says Rosenberg. “But the legislation was defeated because special interests got involved. I was appalled and shocked. My own personal contribution had been so drastically reduced since switching from the SUV, not to mention my gas bill. I thought others would see it too, but that hasn’t happened.”

A year to the day after the defeat of the Kerry-McCain bill, Rosenberg launched Don’t Be Fueled. But, she says, the campaign is not anti-SUV. Rather, it’s a “momcott” urging automakers to offer more options, like hybrid SUVs.

The campaign has an online petition to voice these thoughts to automakers. The petition, which already has several thousand signatures, demands that car dealerships “maximize safety and fuel-efficiency in all vehicles, particularly SUVs, pick-up trucks and minivans.” When 10,000 people sign the petition, it will be sent to the three major car companies: Ford, General Motors and DaimlerChrysler.

But while the campaign is focusing on the supply of hybrid vehicles, it is also encouraging demand through a series of events in the community. “We want to be the foot soldiers who are out there in the community talking to the moms,” says Rosenberg. “We try to engage in conversation without blaming or judging them. After all, I was one of them.”

The campaign has reached at least one person. After hearing one of the lectures, Jan Newman was faced with buying a new car sooner than she expected when she was rear-ended. While she could have gotten any car she wanted, with Rosenberg’s information fresh in her mind, Newman tried out the Prius. “I thought, yes, this feels right,” she says. “I’m now on a waiting list to get one.”

The hype surrounding SUVs continues to be the biggest obstacle for groups like Don’t Be Fueled. Many people buy SUVs because of their associations with power, sex and adventure. But it is the consumerism that really draws them in, believes Newman.

“I have friends who have SUVs,” Newman says. “They have the TV in there, the CD player, a tape changer. Some even have refrigerators. They could literally live in their SUVs. They have fast-paced lives, and the SUV allows them to continue to live their fast-paced lives.

“But the flip side of that is that after awhile, you have to weigh your conscience against your consumer needs.”

From the March 3-10, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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Open Mic

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