Housing Crisis

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Through the Roof

Watching the American dream explode

By R. V. Scheide

While home ownership is rightfully considered the essence of the American dream, the desire to own a home is by no means uniquely American. Consider Wilairux Horpibulsuk, 37, who prefers to go by her nickname, Nong. When growing up in her native Thailand, Nong dreamed of one day owning a home just like her parents, a modest bungalow in a small village where all the members of her large extended family would be welcome. This June, if everything goes according to plan, she’ll realize that dream when she, husband Ken French and their seven-year-old daughter Rose move into a brand-new three-bedroom duplex in Cloverdale.

“All my life I’ve wanted a house,” she says, proudly showing off the bare wood-framed interior of the soon-to-be-completed duplex. Yet in a very real sense, her dream-come-true almost never materialized.

Since moving to the North Bay seven years ago, the couple has worked hard to save enough money for a down payment on a home. First they settled in San Anselmo, where Nong worked as a dental assistant and French, 45, tended bar professionally. Their combined incomes barely covered baby Rose’s formula and their one-bedroom apartment’s $925 rent. Saving money was out of the question.

Four years ago, to save money, they moved to Santa Rosa, where they rented a one-and-a-half bedroom apartment for $700 per month. They were finally able to start squirreling some funds away. Then the landlord raised the rent to $820. At that rate, French calculated they’d have to save another 10 years before they had enough. “I didn’t know how we were ever going to come up with the down payment,” Nong remembers.

Like tens of thousands of middle-class residents in the North Bay, Nong and French saw their dream of home ownership fading. The magnitude of the problem is stunning. “Affordable Housing for Everyone: Solutions to Sonoma County’s Housing Crisis,” a 2003 study by UC Berkeley doctoral candidate Nari Rhee and commissioned in part by the Service Employees International Union Local 707, found that “only the top 17 percent of households can afford to buy a median-priced home.”

Put another way, that number seems even more stark: less than two out of every 10 households in Sonoma County can afford to buy the median-priced single-family home, which sold for $324,500 in 2002. Since then the median has skyrocketed more than 39 percent, to $449,500 in February 2004. Combine that astronomical figure with what Rhee’s report calls “the large concentration of low-wage jobs in the current job market,” and it seems reasonable to project that Sonoma County is rapidly approaching the day when only one out of every 10 households will be able to afford the median-priced home.

One out of 10.

Yet incredibly, the run-up in home prices is perceived as one of the few bright spots in an economy that’s struggling to pull itself out of recession. It is perceived that way by current homeowners who have either profited or borrowed on dramatically increased home values; by the local daily, which recently published a celebratory story about the number of million-dollar area homes for sale; and it is even perceived that way by local mainstream economists, who in such studies as the “North Bay Economic and Employment Report for 2004” point out that “positive indicators for the economy . . . include a solid pace of house-price appreciation. . . .”

Ironically, this very same report notes that Napa, Marin and Sonoma counties all share a similar economic weakness: the high cost of living, primarily driven by high home prices and correspondingly high rents. And hidden deep in the report, in the final section on Sonoma County, there’s even an honest clue as to what might sour the region’s fledgling recovery: “Housing market suffers price correction as interest rates rise, diminishing homeowner’s equity.”

Translation? The Sonoma County real estate bubble just might pop. Make no mistake; by any measure, it’s a bubble. In that sense, it’s no different than the tech-stock bubble that burst in 2000 and led to the current recession. The tech bubble burst because high stock prices failed to generate dramatically inflated expectations for earnings. The housing bubble could collapse–in Sonoma County, the North Bay, California, the country and around the globe–for precisely the same reason.

While more than one mainstream U.S. economist has noted that investment has flowed from equities into the real estate market worldwide since the tech bubble popped in Y2K, the cheerleaders have yet to develop consensus on whether a new bubble in real estate has subsequently formed.

London’s Economist magazine pointed out the obvious last month. “House prices are at record levels in relation to average income in America, Australia, Britain, Ireland, the Netherlands and Spain,” the journal reported. “The main reason why house prices have been rising so rapidly in so many countries is the historically low level of interest rates, which has allowed households to borrow more to buy a home. The worry is that what started as a rational adjustment to lower interest rates has turned into irrational exuberance.”

“Irrational exuberance.” The last time that term was used in all seriousness was in 1996 by Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, during the initial price run-up in equities that resulted in the tech-stock bubble. This is the same Alan Greenspan who, since the tech bubble popped, has reduced interest rates to record low levels, fueling the loans that have heated up the nation’s housing market.

How hot is it? Last year, home prices in America rose 8 percent, including a blistering 15 percent spike in the fourth quarter. In Sonoma County, the housing market is even hotter, rising 15 percent last year alone. With wages and job growth during the same time period remaining relatively flat, more and more people are being locked out of the housing market.

“California continues to suffer from a lack of housing that is affordable for even middle-income families,” reports the California Budget Project in its study “Locked Out 2004: California’s Affordable Housing Crisis.”

“Workers face long commutes between housing they can afford and their jobs, and the high cost of housing leaves families with less income to spend on other necessities. . . . The American dream of home ownership is just a dream for many Californians.”

For middle-class families in Sonoma County, “nightmare” might be a more appropriate word. According to “Affordable Housing for Everyone,” the hourly wage required for one worker to qualify for the median-priced home in Sonoma County jumped from $28.54 in 1996 to $52.03 in 2002. Yet 67 percent of employees in the county earn less than $15 per hour. The annual income needed to afford the median-priced home, $108,000, is more than double the county’s median household income of $53,000.

The problem has not escaped the notice of local politicians. The need for more affordable housing was one of the dominant themes of incoming Sonoma County Board of Supervisors chair Mike Reilly’s speech at January’s State of the County breakfast.

“While low real estate vacancy rates and rising prices demonstrate that our county is a desirable place to live, we are facing a growing gap between employment and housing trends if we do not provide for affordable housing,” Reilly said. “Rather than wait for the situation to worsen, we are committed to working through all available channels, including updated zoning codes, collaboration between county and city governments, and seeking support from state and federal programs, to keep pace with our housing needs.”

In fact, it was just that sort of interagency collaboration that helped Nong and French purchase their dream home. The duplex is part of a 36-home “sweat equity” affordable-housing project being constructed by Burbank Housing Development Corporation, Sonoma’s County’s leading builder of affordable housing. The project, dubbed Ioli Ranch, is being financed by grants from the Cloverdale Redevelopment Agency, the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Rural Housing Service, the California Department of Housing and Community Development, the Housing Assistance Council, and the Rural Communities Assistance Corporation. Nong and French, along with the other low- to moderate-income first-time homeowners who qualified for the project, provide the sweat.

Since breaking ground on their duplex last spring, Nong and French have contributed a combined 30 hours of labor per week on their 1,200-square-foot home, helping to lay the foundation, raise the frames and nail up the sheetrock under the watchful supervision of Burbank’s experienced construction crew.

Nevertheless, there’s a lengthy waiting list each time Burbank announces a new sweat-equity affordable-housing project. Nong and French were on three lists before finally being selected. Like most of the families in Ioli Ranch, they’ve been enthusiastically putting in more than the required time, hoping to beat the project’s early-June deadline and avoid being penalized by Burbank.

“Most houses run about a month late,” French says. “People have been working hard here,” Nong smiles as her husband struggles with an outsized sheet of plywood. Burbank considers their labor as sort of an in-kind down payment. The nonprofit company also arranged the low-interest loan that financed the purchase of the $175,000 home. French figures that their labor, if the yearlong project comes in on time, is worth about $28 per hour.

It’s no sweetheart deal. Nong and French’s mortgage will run between $1,000 and $1,300 per month, a tough nut for a bartender and a dental assistant to crack. The contract with Burbank contains accounting devices that refinance the home if the couples’ income changes or the house appreciates in value. As French notes, the home is already worth more than $200,000 on the current market. To prevent new owners from “flipping” homes–selling short to capitalize on the overheated market–Burbank retains 50 percent of the appreciation on any sale until five years of ownership have elapsed.

In a sense, Ioli Ranch represents the final margin of affordability in Sonoma County. “Other than buying a condo, this is our last chance,” says Susan Herz, 30. She and her husband, Jason, 36, have also purchased an Ioli Ranch duplex. Susan works as a personal trainer; Jason manages a landscape gardening company. In 1999 they fled Southern California’s high real estate prices, hoping to buy a home in more affordable Sonoma County. With the arrival of a baby, they quickly found themselves hemmed in by high rent prices.

The mortgage on their new home will be considerably less than the $1,600 they’re currently paying in rent for a three-bedroom house in Sebastopol.The labor they’ve put in on the project constitutes a $35,000 down payment, money that would have been impossible for them to save.

The 36-home neighborhood that has sprouted virtually overnight in a vacant lot off Cloverdale Boulevard is precisely the type of in-fill development advocated by modern urban planners. Thanks to Burbank, which has been in operation since 1980, thousands of Sonoma County families have realized the American dream.

While Burbank’s efforts are laudable, as noted by the California Budget Project in “Locked Out 2004,” the roots of the affordable-housing crisis run deep: “Housing production declined significantly during the 1990s. Observers argue that the 1986 federal tax act and subsequent law changes made investments in rental housing less profitable on an after-tax basis. In addition, limits on property tax and other local revenues make sales-tax-generating development more attractive than residential construction.”

In other words, the property tax code has directly exacerbated the affordable-housing crisis by discouraging new housing construction and encouraging the spread of low-wage-paying box stores like Wal-Mart and Home Depot across the state, Sonoma County included. Such stores have earned the special ire of Martin Bennett, co-chair of the Living Wage Coalition of Sonoma County. He refers to the phenomenon as “low-road capitalism.”

“If you look at the North Coast as a whole,” Bennett says from his office at Sonoma State University, where he teaches history, “Low-road, short-term-interest-type developments have a lock on the decision makers at the county and the city level.” In Bennett’s view, Sonoma County is well on its way to becoming the next “Marin County, with a one-class society [the super rich] that has exported its affordable-housing problem. There is a degree to which this community is not acknowledging its own self-interest.”

Wages at box stores seldom exceed $10 an hour. Since 2000 the Living Wage Coalition has petitioned several city councils to enact an ordinance that would require all businesses that contract with local governments to pay a minimum $12.50 per hour. That, of course, is far less than the $52.03 per hour required to purchase a median-priced home in Sonoma County, but nearly double the state’s existing minimum wage of $6.75 per hour.

To gain some perspective on what passage of a living-wage ordinance can mean for at least some low-income workers, it helps to look at the California Fair Market Rent tables compiled by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. The tables measure affordability based on current rents and the prevailing minimum wage. In Sonoma County for instance, a single individual must work 90 hours at $6.75 per hour to afford the median rent for a studio apart-ment, which currently stands at $792 per month.

The Living Wage Coalition of Sonoma County, which is part of a larger, nationwide organization, has met with mixed success. In 2001 the Santa Rosa City Council rejected its living-wage proposal. Last year, the Sebastopol City Council passed a living-wage ordinance, and one is pending decision by the Sonoma City Council in early May. As the recent approval by voters for a new Lowe’s Home Improvement store in Cotati demonstrated, many residents have yet to make the connection between the low-wage jobs such box stores provide and their corrosive effect on the local standard of living.

Will Sonoma County break away from conditions where only one in 10 households can afford the median-priced home? It seems doubtful. Even when the economy was booming, local governments and affordable-housing advocates were unable to keep up with the demand that new jobs, a large percentage of them low-wage, created for housing. Only two things can possibly alter the county’s course: a radical solution or an economic catastrophe.

One possible radical solution comes from a native San Franciscan, a newspaperman-cum-economist for the most part forgotten today, Henry George. In the 1860s, scanning the growing city of San Francisco, where sand lots were selling for thousands thanks to rampant real estate speculation, George had a revelation. Why were so many people willing to pay outrageous sums for the privilege of living near San Francisco’s business epicenter, he wondered. What gave the land its value?

George postulated that what gave the land its value was the community itself. Was it not the very proximity to existing businesses and consumers that accounted for the astronomical prices being paid for land? Therefore, that value should be returned to the community, via a direct tax on land. The value of the land would relate directly to its productive capacity. The higher the productivity, the higher the tax. Landowners who chose to hold productive property off the market in hopes of capitalizing on future price increases would be forced to sell or face paying the tax, thereby making speculation impossible.

George later expanded on this theory, which became known as the “single tax,” in his 1879 bestseller, Progress and Poverty. His proposal was nothing short of revolutionary. With arguments that are still convincing today, he demonstrated how a single tax on land values might replace the country’s entire tax code, eliminating the need for income, sales and property taxes, levies which the rich generally avoided. Because land cannot be hidden like other assets, the rich would finally be forced to pay their due. As George noted in an 1890 speech in San Francisco, “Go then into our states, take our system of direct taxation. What do you find? We pretend to tax all property; many of our taxes are especially framed to get at rich men; what is the result? Why, all over the United States, the very rich men walk away from under those taxes.”

As progressives gained momentum with the approach of the 20th century, George’s single-tax theory was heavily in vogue; its proponents envisioned a steady source of revenue that would not only provide local governments the financial means for ensuring that all citizens enjoyed the fruits of progress, but end the serious economic depressions that have plagued capitalism since its inception by preventing speculative spikes in land prices, which George saw as one of the primary causes of downturns.

George’s theories were never fully implemented anywhere and fell out of fashion after WWI and the Great Depression. However, in areas around the country and globe that have been affected by rising home prices and declining wages like Sonoma County, government officials are dusting off George’s theories and repackaging them as land value tax, or LVT.

Since implementing its form of the LVT several years ago, Pittsburgh, Pa., has experienced a dramatic increase in development of its commercial and residential urban core, and the city keeps turning up on lists as one of the most affordable in the country. Certain cities in Australia have experienced similar results with the limited application of LVTs. England announced last month that it is exploring the LVT as a means of slowing down its runaway housing market. Radical problems sometimes require radical solutions.

And sometimes not. Many residents of Sonoma County are inclined to agree with the first part of county supervisor Mike Reilly’s breakfast statement–“Low real estate vacancy rates and rising prices demonstrate that our county is a desirable place to live”–while ignoring the part about the “growing gap between employment and housing trends if we do not provide for affordable housing.”

Like Marin’s “one-class society,” there may be a bit of snobbery at work here. Many homeowners fortunate enough to get in on the housing bubble before it expanded look down on affordable-housing developments. As “Locked Out 2004” points out, such sentiments run statewide: “[N]eighborhood opposition, commonly known as NIMBYism, has blocked or delayed construction of many affordable-housing projects across the state.”

Which is to say that people like French and Nong and Susan and Jason Herz can consider themselves fortunate. Those who haven’t gotten in on the craze will either have to sign up for Burbank’s latest project or wait for the bubble to pop. Will the region’s real estate bubble pop? Many Californians, particularly those in beautiful Sonoma County, seem to share a collective belief that home prices go only one direction: up. They might be sadly mistaken. As the “North Bay Economic and Employ-ment Report for 2004” points out, the key will be whether the Federal Reserve raises interest rates.

Alan Greenspan has quite a predicament on his hands. Historically low interest rates have fueled the enormous expansion of personal and corporate debt that’s helped pull the economy out of recession. Unfortunately, the trillion-dollar deficits amassed by the Bush administration require bonds to fund them, and because of low interest rates, investors are pulling out of the U.S. bond market. Some members of Congress have already suggested that Greenspan raise the base interest rate a full two percentage points, from 1 percent to 3 percent, to make bonds more attractive to investors and slow down the country’s rate of economic growth, which is perceived by some as inflationary. It’s a safe bet that Greenspan will delay any rise in rates until after the election, but a rate hike seems inevitable.

When it comes, it could send shock waves through the stock market and regional real estate industries, and there’s no scientific reason to believe Sonoma County’s charm will ward off the blow. Real estate bubbles pop slowly, but even the initial stages of a home pricing correction can be painful. Homeowners here might awaken to discover their $459,500 median-priced dream house is suddenly worth just $400,000, a change that won’t be reflected in the family’s mortgage payment.

Families on the margin who have purchased or refinanced their homes at the existing high rates may begin defaulting on their loans. Because much of the current recovery has been driven by a record rush of mortgage refinancing, the shock waves could spread into the economy at large, pulling it back into recession.

Perhaps Sonoma County will weather the storm. No doubt a slight downward price correction, combined with an increase in wages, would make the median-priced home affordable to many more prospective buyers. Or perhaps home prices will just keep going right on up, and only one in every 10 Sonoma County household will be able to attain the American dream.

The answer isn’t sexy: watch the interest rate. That will tell the tale.

From the April 14-20, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dave Gleason

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Wasted Youth?: Dave Gleason has over 200 new songs.

California Dreamin’

Dave Gleason in a golden state of mind

By Gabe Meline

After his third beer at the Washoe House, Dave Gleason launches into a passionate ramble. It’s a well-intentioned ramble, but a ramble nonetheless, about this dude Robb Strandlund. I’m thinking to myself, Robb who? It’s usually easy for me to ignore diatribes about obscure musicians, but Gleason has such a great knack for it, it’s hard not to hang on to every word. He looks me straight in the eye and oozes pure sincerity about the long-forgotten songwriter who penned the Eagles hit “Already Gone,” and I find myself promising him that I’ll attempt to seek out the incredibly rare Robb Strandlund solo album.

Dave Gleason has earned the attention. I have spent many unforgettable evenings watching Dave Gleason’s Wasted Days, and one particular image has burned into my memory. It’s of the band at the Old Vic jamming through Neil Young’s “Down by the River” with guest drummer Ivan Neville, fresh from a daytime winery show with his brothers. Neville and Wasted Days bassist Mike Therieau played off each other’s energy as if they’d rocked together for years, and Gleason soloed with fire and flash for 16 solid minutes, never losing steam. It was incredible.

As most nightclub-goers know, Dave Gleason’s Wasted Days have a reputation as one of the most exciting live bands in the Bay Area. Gleason himself is a marvel (“The Song Remains the Same soundtrack,” he clues me, “that’s how I learned to play guitar as a kid”), but his band is a sight to behold. Notching roughly 150 dates a year on their leather belts, Gleason, Therieau and drummer John Kent have exacted an amazingly tight knit from their long nights together. Many Wasted Days performances include three sets, plenty of guest musicians and countless cover songs in the NRBQ tradition, but slowly, more and more original tunes have crept into the set over the years. With the release of Midnight, California, the band’s second album of original material, Dave Gleason is establishing himself as a major songwriting talent. In fact, he just can’t stop writing new songs, of which he now claims to have nearly 200.

“It’s taken me a long time to feel like I have something worthy enough to come up with,” says Gleason about his recent flood of songwriting, “but I’m feeling pretty comfortable in my shoes at this point. I’m having a lot of fun now.”

Midnight, California harks back to the great age of California country rock, drenched in beer and covered in tumbleweeds. Simple, Jay Farrar-esque lamentations like “Listen to the Wind” and “Pullin’ Up the Tracks” pepper the album, but the title track shines like a spur in the sand. Odes to California come and go, but Gleason’s own Midnight, California ranks up near the best. With its verses about Highway 99, the San Joaquin River and the proud line “Can’t live in California unless you got some soul,” it deserves a special award from the state tourism board.

Gleason, who credits his dad’s record collection as an early inspiration, speaks of his home state with the wide eyes of a fourth-grader who’s just learned about the gold rush. “I love the history of California,” glows the lean, mustached singer over fish and chips. “It’s gone from the state of Merle Haggard and the highways getting built to where it is now. It blows my mind, and I love it.”

A contagious lust for the heart and soul of California country-rock music lies at the roots of Gleason’s every move, both onstage and off. He has thoroughly explored the Central Valley–“Probably trying to recapture some kind of country-music dream that doesn’t exist anymore,” he confesses–and two years ago settled in Cotati, where he lives in a 1920s house with his girlfriend, Sarah Wirt, and their ducks.

“This is a nice place to live,” Gleason says as we finish our roadhouse food. “Suddenly, I can breathe a little bit better.”

And yeah, I’m still looking for the Robb Strandlund album.

Dave Gleason’s Wasted Days perform a radio broadcast for West Coast Live Saturday, April 24, at 10am on KRCB radio, 91.1 FM. The band are also in-studio with Bill Bowker’s Americana show on KRSH 95.5 FM, April 21, at 10pm. For more info, visit www.dave-gleason.com.

From the April 14-20, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dgiin

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Olio: Dgiin is always better mixed with many flavors.

Musique Magicale

Dgiin’s got the international groove

By Heather Seggel

If you’ve tipped back a few brews at Jasper O’Farrell’s or Negri’s on a night when local band Dgiin are playing, you might be able to describe their sound to uninitiated listeners. But drop the words “French” and “folk” into the mix, and they’ll be throwing catfish in a pot and melting butter before you can stop ’em. It’s fair to say Dgiin have a hybrid sound, but while their music is extremely danceable, it owes more to the influence of Jacques Brel than Beausoleil. In short, they ain’t Cajun.

Thanks to that rigorous work ethic, the Guerneville-based band have attracted a loyal following over the past three years. “We’re really grateful for those fans, because they motivate more people to dance and make it smoother for us to communicate with the public,” says singer Mimi Pirard.

A bridge over the communication gap is sometimes needed, because though the band perform some songs in English and Spanish, most of their repertoire is written and performed in French. Mimi and her brother Gabriel, who plays guitar and also sings, are both French-American and grew up moving around with some frequency. Add to that a bass player, Jeff Lashar, with local roots, and drummer Paget (just Paget, thanks), who comes to the band by way of Belize, and you’ve got a complex, potentially unclassifiable sound to contend with.

A fan termed them a “French folk funk fusion” band, a description with which they mostly agree. Paget, who also acts as booking agent for Dgiin, expands the definition to include “world music, including R&B, blues, calypso, reggae and Latin styles.” A listen to their most recent CD, Absint (like their first, Spirits, the title is a play on the “gin/genie/djinni” blended spelling they chose for their name) confirms that all of these influences come into play in some way or other.

The influence of blues on Dgiin’s sound is enhanced on Absint with the addition of keyboard player Nathan Prowse, whose style moves from bar room piano to soul-drenched organ work. From the title track, a spare, arresting instrumental that pits hand percussion, bass and guitar in a sort of looping race, to the flamenco strumming and layered harmony of “Tristeza” or the more loose-limbed jam qualities of “Enchante,” the group manage to incorporate an atlas of influences into a very organic sound.

For the moment, band members work day jobs between gigs. Paget is the only full-time musician, playing in several local bands. But all are planning–and working–to make the band their job. That’s a common dream for musicians, but Dgiin have moved past the dream stage and are gradually making it happen, one step at a time.

This has meant getting out on the road to enlarge their fan base. The band toured Arizona last fall, and plan to return once they get an all-important van. They are making it happen through discipline and continually reinvesting in the band. As Mimi describes it, “Every time we have a gig, we don’t pay ourselves. We have a communal band bank account and keep all that money for projects, making new CDs, buying a van and so on,” with an eye to “ultimately [touring] France and the rest of Europe.” Paget adds, “We all want this to be our full-time gig, and to travel the world doing it. We’re very hard-working.” Unfortunately, that’s why the band he calls “Sonoma County’s secret” won’t be ours much longer.

When asked about their short-term plans, Mimi allows that the band will be pulling up stakes soon and heading down the coast. “We’re going to be moving to Santa Cruz pretty soon, and that will be our next step in terms of expanding [the fan base],” she says, assuring that they’ll still be playing up here as often as possible. They’ve just reprinted their first CD, Spirits, which features conga drumming by Johnathan McChutney, and they’re in and out of the studio working on a third album. Catch them while you can, but leave the Mardi Gras beads at home–they’ll just get in the way when you hit the dance floor.

Dgiin play Negri’s on Friday, April 16. 3700 Bohemian Hwy., Occidental. For details, call 707.823.5301.

From the April 14-20, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Breasts

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Venus Envy: When women expose their bodies, are they invoking their phallic potential?

Courtney as Metaphor

When did breasts become so damned scary?

By Richard Goldstein

Sure, it was a publicity stunt. When Courtney Love gave David Letterman a peek at her chest on March 17, and later did the same and more for some guy outside Wendy’s, she certainly had the sales of her latest album in mind. But I’m willing to cut Courtney a lot of slack. No woman in music today gets closer to Janis Joplin when it comes to channeling the primal. I got about as close to Janis as a rock writer could, and in those days you could get pretty close. I saw her neediness and confusion, and I watched as she was allowed to slip away. Her death from an overdose was a major reason why I stopped writing about music in the early ’70s–but that’s another piece.

I’ll leave it for dude nation to rate Courtney’s rack. Instead, I want to focus on breast baring as an act of power. It has a rich history in Western culture, one that merits mentioning at a time when female flashing has become a line of demarcation in the culture wars.

I’m not thinking of those naked majas and nurturing Madonnas that grace the realm of art. When you enter a museum, bare boobs are all around you. This hallowed setting sanctions the root reverie of heterosexuality that involves possession, domestication and control of the female body. That’s why the male nude is usually standing while the female nude is passively posed.

But there’s another, more active role for women in art. By the time Eugène Delacroix got around to painting Liberty Leading the People in 1830, the bare-breasted woman warrior was a signature of civic strength. Blame it on the Romans and their goddess Justicia (aka “Dike,” if you want to get Greek about it). Her nude figure stands in the lobby of the Justice Department. When John Ashcroft had it draped so that he could hold his press conferences in “decency,” he attested to the enduring power of women who expose themselves–and the anxiety they provoke in the religious right.

You don’t have to tell that to Karen Finley, the performance artist who poured chocolate over her naked body and stuffed food up her butt while incanting a poetry of pain and rage. Perhaps you remember how the pussy-chasing gents of Congress reacted to this gesture in the ’80s. I still vividly recall the first time I saw Finley perform, and the reaction of men in the audience. This was a club crowd, and they threw lit matches at her. It was a supreme gesture of male terror and revulsion. So it isn’t just the right that fears a naked woman what won’t lie still.

Because female exhibitionism carries this aura of violation, it unleashes all the demons of gender. That’s why breast baring has been utilized by generations of rebellious women. Last October, a group of Russian women went topless to protest the cost of electricity when the PskovEnergo company raised its rates. Last month, a group of women in Daytona Beach, Fla., marched topless to protest their rights as biker chicks to be bare. A group of 94 West Marin women took off all of their clothes last year to protest what was then merely the impending war in Iraq.

Ecuadorean female prisoners stripped to protest having been held without trial, winning hasty attention from the national prison director and a promise of court intervention. And in 2002, a group of Nigerian village women stopped the Chevron corporation from continued building of pipeline structures in their villages by simply threatening to disrobe.

In America, Isadora Duncan, the mother of modern dance, was the Karen Finley of her time, never more so than when she let her drape drop before a stunned audience. So, in a sense, was Sojourner Truth, the freed slave who became a powerful preacher–and one of the first activists to link the oppression of slaves and women. She was so imposing that she was often accused of being a man. In order to stop such slander, she exposed her breasts before a crowd in Indiana. It was one of the most important moments in American history, though you’ll never see it on a commemorative stamp.

Flash forward to the Super Bowl, when Janet Jackson stepped into the sexual maelstrom by allowing Justin Timberlake to rip her possibly pre-torn top. Consider the penalty the partners in this faux apache dance incurred and you’ll see the meaning of breast baring in a conservative time. Janet is cast in the slut role and punished accordingly, while Justin sails along on the unspoken assumption that boys will be boys where the bodice is concerned. In this rapine charade, Justin butches up his icon, and a wan apology is all the shame his sin requires. But the bad girl can’t say she’s sorry. She must suffer the contempt of those who relish watching her disgrace in slo-mo on every channel.

But entertainers like Courtney are often rewarded for being out of control, and the reinforcement accelerates their downward spiral. That’s what happened to Janis, and for that matter, Judy Garland. Baring the breast can represent a rebellion against this sacrificial rite. It’s a gesture of agency. Check out the manual of psychological disorders and you’ll see that exhibitionism is regarded as a quintessentially male pathology. When women do it, they lay claim to the phallus.

There’s something about a rampageous woman flashing men that resonates with power. You expect guys to rear back in horror, as they did before Sojourner Truth, or to throw lit matches, as they did at Finley. That was then and this is now. David Letterman was anything but fazed by Courtney’s desk dance. In his insouciance, you can glimpse the liberal man’s defense against the phallic potential of women. Don’t try to repress it–that’s for Republicans. Just sit back and enjoy the show.

If I have to choose between The Stepford Wives and MTV Spring Break, I’ll definitely opt for the latter. But at least conservatives take sexual transgression seriously. The liberal solution is to tame it by trivializing it. That way, male distance is maintained. The classic gesture of female incursion is neutralized. And ultimately, the joke is on desire.

Richard Goldstein is the executive editor of ‘The Village Voice.’

From the April 14-20, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

James Frey

Author James Frey.

Falling to Pieces

James Frey’s jaggedly beautiful story of putting it all back together again

By Michael Houghton

Every couple of pages, I keep flipping to the back book flap to look at the author’s photo. I want to see if I can make out the scars on his face: the half-moon of puckered tissue from the hole in his cheek, the spider web left over from the crisscrossing contusion slits in his lips, the four front teeth that were shattered from falling face first down a fire escape. I stare into his eyes to see if I can pick out the resolve and the pain and the whiplash of brutality that he endured, the clenched jaw of stubborn determination.

I keep looking because A Million Little Pieces (Anchor Press; $13.95) is the true story of first-time author James Frey’s beginning journey of recovery at an alcohol and drug-abuse treatment center. And it is one of the most jaggedly beautiful and defenselessly tender books to be published in years.

Step One: I admit that I am powerless over my addiction and that my life has become unmanageable.

Enter James Frey at age 23. Face shattered and slumped into an airplane seat, he’s en route to Chicago, barely conscious, covered in blood and vomit and snot, and has absolutely no memory of how he got there. There’s a vague memory of starting to drink a few days ago and brief flashes of drug ingestion in between, but absolutely nothing about the fire escape or being carried onto the plane. In fact, that’s all he has remembered of his life for the last few years: a million little dislocated and confusing pieces.

Step Four: I make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself.

The teeth-grindingly uncomfortable scenes are many and are rendered with writing that stabs into the images with minimalism and a sharp, galloping cadence: the skin-crawling bugs of withdrawal, the horrifying drug-free dental surgery, the all-too-well-pictured daily vomiting of dark blood and intestine bits, the menacing inside of a crack house.

But these are juxtaposed with scenes of such honesty and open tenderness as to induce tears. There are scenes where the most important thing in the world is to hug and feel the accepting love of his brother. Scenes where a pair of slippers is the most wonderful gift he has ever received. Scenes where he can’t stand to make his mother cry again.

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I try to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all of my life.

A Million Little Pieces is not just another drug story; it is not a preachy “how to quit” manual, nor does it romanticize the brutality it contains. The extreme images are more like an infected wound that must be cleaned to heal. Even in the midst of these episodes, there is a soul-broken, hard-headed beauty that takes away Frey’s potential repugnance and paints him with humanity and brittle hopefulness.

As he writes midstory, after taking his moral inventory, “It tells the truth, and as awful as it can be, the truth is what matters.”

‘A Million Little Pieces’ is due to be released in paperback on May 11.

From the April 7-14, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Blade Runner’

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: Author Richard Morgan looks ahead 500 years. –>

Cyberpunk visionary Richard K. Morgan takes on the future

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

Technology sucks. Thanks to Fandango.com–the newfangled Internet service that allows people to purchase their movie tickets from home–I am now officially screwed. Though I have arrived at Sony’s Metreon theater in San Francisco a full two hours early, naively planning to acquire tickets for the futuristic Jim Carrey film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I find that they are all sold-out. Sold-out! Every last ticket has been snapped up by obsessive web surfers. This for a late night screening on a Monday evening, no less. By the time I am joined by my guest, Glasgow-based cyberpunk author Richard K. Morgan (Altered Carbon), several other films have also sold out, though I’ve glimpsed less than two dozen people actually walking up to buy tickets.

“Ah, it’s the curse of technology, isn’t it?” remarks Morgan bemusedly. After a short discussion in which we come frighteningly close to grabbing tickets for Dawn of the Dead, Morgan–whose relentless new book, Broken Angels, continues the bloody adventures of body-swapping 25th-century badass Takeshi Kovacs–confesses a sudden, intense desire for a hamburger. Ten minutes later, we are seated in a fake ’60s diner, looking at posters from American Graffiti, eating cheeseburgers and apple pie.

Morgan mentions the upcoming big-screen incarnation of his book, the rights having been snapped up by Joel Silver.

“I’ve seen an early draft,” Morgan says with a shrug. “They’ve given Kovacs a daughter, to humanize him. They’ve taken this scary, heartless mercenary and given him the disfiguring scar of morality.” Even so, Morgan is looking forward to seeing how modern special effects will re-create the brutal, pitiless world he’s imagined for the year 2550. Citing Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner as an example of a science fiction film that still holds up after time, Morgan explains what he sees as the major problem with futuristic films and books.

“The thing about Blade Runner,” he says, “it was made 22 years ago, but it still looks like the future. That’s no mean achievement. I can’t think of any other science-fiction movie, with the possible exception of Alien, that still looks like the future. Every old science-fiction film about the future–and many of the books–seem horribly, horribly outdated now. There’s a shot of a computer and you think, ‘Aw man, I have something more sophisticated than that on my desk at home.’ In Blade Runner, you watch it today and it still looks like the possible near future.

“The great thing about writing novels set 500 years in the future,” he continues, “is that by the time I’m proved wrong, I’ll be dead. I’ll be spared all those embarrassing questions on whatever passes for talk shows in the future.”

“Unless they’ve downloaded your consciousness and jack you into a new body just so you can face the humiliation,” I reply.

“That sounds about right,” he agrees. “Keep people alive just so we can laugh at them in the future.”

“Which do you think is easier to imagine,” I ask, “a future that’s dark and dangerous and murderous but hard to believe in, or the kind of future we were promised at Walt Disney’s Tomorrowland, where technology is only used to make life better? It’s impossible to imagine that today. What we imagine now is something out of Mad Max.”

“To be honest, I think you could sell that in Disneyland quite successfully,” Morgan laughs. “A dystopian Tomorrowland, with attractions in which you’re equipped with sawed-off shot guns, sent out on a ride of some kind where you blast dangerous people as they come along. We could do that. What you can’t do anymore is give people a vision of a wholesome future. And in a sense, I think that’s our failing.

“We do tend to imagine the worst, don’t we?” he continues. “I know I do. In the future, I think it will be much the same, only with different furniture. Society only works as well as human beings behave themselves. In the end, technology won’t have much to do with how utopian or how dystopian our societies are. It will depend on whether we’ve grown up or not.”

“I just hope that in the future we’ve found a way to avoid missing movies,” I reply.

“I think we already have,” Morgan says. “I think it’s called Fandango.com.”

From the April 7-14, 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

Casa Nuestra Winery

By Heather Irwin

Lowdown: The groovy rainbow peace flag hanging outside was the first giveaway. The grizzled old dog that nuzzles you at the tasting-room door, then flops back to sleep on the floor, was the second. And the goats on weed patrol? That pretty much sealed the deal. “We’ve been called a Sonoma winery in Napa!” effuses the lone employee manning the tasting room in the funky yellow farmhouse and winery that is Casa Nuestra. Judging from the lack of Hummers in the parking lot, I’d certainly venture to guess we’re not in Napa anymore.

Vibe: Neighbors such as the Clos Pegase Winery, that multimillion dollar Michael Graves extravaganza, and the Sterling and Joseph Phelps estates, however, shatter the pretense that we’re anywhere but Napa. Casa Nuestra may have the folksy charm of many Sonoma wineries, but it remains firmly entrenched in a high-rent ‘hood. With just six employees and an annual production of only about 1,500 cases divided between seven wines (nearby Sterling does more than 200,000 cases annually), Casa Nuestra is a small family business surrounded by some mighty giants. But small can be good, especially when it means a dedication to doing something different, like the Loire-style dry Chenin Blanc (sorry, it’s sold-out), the unique field blend Tintos and the fact that the winery’s planning to dedicate a part of its Cabernet Franc vineyards to growing produce for the Napa Food Bank. When certain Napa vineyards are selling at $100,000-plus per acre, that’s some serious dedication. Take that, corporate pigs!

Mouth value: Despite their funky demeanor, Casa Nuestra’s wines don’t lack sophistication and intrigue. The most interesting wine is the 2002 Tinto ($25) “field wine.” Taken from its 10-year-old St. Helena estate (and inspired by its 80-year-old vines in Oakville), the field blend is a combination of nine different varietals. Planting a virtual “recipe” in the style of early European immigrants, field wines are rustic and imprecise, with undetermined amounts of Zinfandel, Cabernet, Carignane, Syrah, Gamay and other types of grapes thrown into the mix. And that’s the fun of it all.

Five-second snob: Casa Nuestra also features a 2000 Meritâge from their St. Helena estate. What’s a Meritâge? It’s really just a fancy name for Bordeaux-style table wines that didn’t meet the mandated requirements of being more than 75 percent of one type of grape or varietal. In Europe, wines are named for the region where they are grown (Burgundy, Bordeaux, etc.). In the United States, wines are described by the kinds of grapes used (Chardonnay, Merlot, Viognier). Because wines made with the same grape can be very different in characteristic and because wines containing less than 75 percent of one grape are slapped with the nasty “table wine” moniker, growers came up with the fancier Meritâge name, which combines the words “merit” and “heritage,” for wines that are a mixture of varietals.

Don’t miss: Just up the street in Calistoga is the Wine Garage, (1020 Foothill Blvd., Calistoga, 707.942.5332) featuring hard-to-find regional and international wines all under $25.

Spot: Casa Nuestra Winery, 3451 Silverado Trail N., Saint Helena. Open daily, 10am to 5pm. $5 tasting fee, refundable with purchase. 707.963.5783.

From the April 7-14, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Running Wolf Press

Feel the Love

Chip Wendt’s Running Wolf Press is all about the juice

By Jordan E. Rosenfeld

Chip Wendt, the owner and force of nature behind Running Wolf Press in Healdsburg, is looking for some juice. Not Napa grape; not Gravenstein apple. This “juice” comes from the flesh and bones of local writers creating what Wendt terms “needed” art, or more specifically, poetry.

Sniffing the air, flashing a grin as we make our way to a riverside Petaluma cafe, Wendt spins his philosophies. “Poetry is my core artistic legacy,” he begins. It is a legacy made possible, in part, by an inheritance that allows him to write, practice flamenco guitar and tend to the press’ priorities without the constraints of a nine-to-five job. “For now,” he adds.

“If you sit around writing poetry all day long, the heart gets lost in verbiage,” he says, acknowledging that, for many writers, the nose-to-the grindstone approach is what works. His method of poetry spinning is more meditative.

His poems often come while playing guitar, when he has lulled himself into that theta brainwave state of near trance. Within the theta, Wendt’s poems spawn.

“Spawn” might be an appropriate word to use for the formation of Running Wolf Press. After all, the impetus appeared to him in a dream about rivers.

In 1992 Wendt sailed from Long Island to Scotland with his father, crossing the Atlantic Ocean for 21 days without sight of land, and experienced lucid, cinematic dreams. In the most significant dream, he describes being in a rowboat, tooling down a rushing, brown river with none other than the great scholar of mythology and mysticism, Joseph Campbell himself. In the boat also sat a trunk containing all the writing Wendt had ever composed. Instructed by Campbell, Wendt was charged with pulling the boat alongside a big rock and setting his work on it, out of the flood. He was unable to complete this dream task, but when he awoke, his course of action was clear to him. “I knew,” he says, “I had to make a book.”

His first book, Teachings of the Serpent, and his new career, Running Wolf Press, were born together in 1993, as Wendt sought a way to put his poetry out in tangible form. “I was taking the phrase ‘desktop publishing’ literally,” he smiles.

What followed was a period of intense insomnia for Wendt. “Something burst open inside me,” he says. “I wrote several hundred poems. I had [compared] myself to the great writers through the physical object of a book; I experienced the synergy that occurs between poems that you have written when they are placed within covers.”

In the time between, however, Wendt was inspired by the work of the first Healdsburg literary laureate Doug Stout, and Running Wolf Press–whose named is inspired by Wendt’s childhood nickname–published Stout’s chapbook Urgent News in 2000, followed by Sonoma County poet laureate Don Emblen’s chapbook Want List and Other Poems about Aging.

He has supported a great number of local artists, producing inexpensively manufactured chapbooks in small enough quantities to make them affordable, but not chintzy. The books are produced with care and quality. The book that arose out of Wendt’s insomniac nights, Cold Valley, wasn’t published until 2001.

“I had to reconcile the part of me that wanted to live in a cave far, far away with my regular, daily life,” he says. “Up until age 28, I was a sort of hippie, spiritual seeker. I lived on communes, I joined cults, did lots of meditation–all the appropriate behaviors.”

“Writing Cold Valley settled me down,” he says. “I found I could go away without going away. The book was a weaving of the metaphor in which I could hold the family and the spiritual seeking.”

Cold Valley was also a book about place: the town of Healdsburg, the county of Sonoma, the bosom of Northern California.

“Everything I’ve done is local,” Wendt underscores.

“‘Local’ is a word that artists tend to shun, like it’s an insult, like it means that their work isn’t fabulous or grand.”

Here is where the juice comes in: from Wendt’s point of view, juice is what local artists have and produce and keep flowing, an electric creativity that pulses with life.

“High-cultured art that comes from the top down is like bones where the marrow has already been drained out,” he proclaims. “The marking of excellence in our culture is a damaged process. What we consider to be good is built around a model that values technique more than juice.”

This leads to the question of who and what Running Wolf publishes. Wendt doesn’t go scouting local talent, holding “call for submission” periods or asking to see every manuscript in a 40-mile radius.

“I follow the juice and the juice is in my personal connections,” he explains. “I go to a reading and I get deeply moved. There’s no attempt to be fair; there is just an attempt to follow the juice. Where fairness is concerned, more people must do what I have done. More poets must make books for themselves and for other poets.”

Admirers of Running Wolf Press–which has also published chapbooks by Healdsburg literary laureate Penelope La Montagne, SSU professor Jonah Raskin, Buddhist teacher and scholar Robert Hall and others–should not be discouraged by the limits on the manuscripts the press publishes.

“We don’t need to worry about whether Running Wolf Press is a more famous press than any other or how many books it publishes. My goal is to show people that you can do something that will make the world around you much better, without it being a big deal,” Wendt says. “As an artist, I came to learn quickly that you have to help hold up the art world, help create a pipeline for it.”

Capping off lunch, he produces a book, proclaiming, “You have to hear poetry today.” And he is right.

From the April 7-14, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Beats

Not Going Softly

The Beats raged against the night

By Jill Koenigsdorf

Those apt to quote the opening lines of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl (“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked / dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix . . .”), who have ceaselessly carried a tattered copy of Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems, or who considered Jack Kerouac’s On the Road to be a personal bible, will find nirvana in Sam Kashner’s When I Was Cool–My Life at the Jack Kerouac School: A Memoir (Harper Collins; $25.95), about his years at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colo.

I, myself, was such a person, a midwestern gal who never fit in with the madras shorts crowd. So when, in 1977, I heard about the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa, with Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, William Burroughs and Anne Waldman as teachers, I wondered what self-respecting poet could resist the calling?

Author Sam Kashner heard the calling too, and left for Boulder two years before I arrived. Little did he know he’d be the only student and that the school wouldn’t be accredited for his entire stay. Still, the Beats never educated in traditional ways.

There is a sweetness about When I Was Cool that makes it immensely likable. Kashner has all the star-struck reverence of a groupie yet reveals the foibles of his subjects without judgment. He is continuously candid and self-effacing, and that makes him a very appealing narrator. He begins, “I wanted to be in the picture: the photograph in front of City Lights Bookstore of Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky, and Neal Cassady. They had their arms around each other. They looked happy. They looked like friends. They looked like they understood each other. And Allen Ginsberg–he looked like me.”

As Bette Davis once said, old age is no place for sissies. By the time of Kashner’s arrival at Naropa in 1975, the Beats had already known each other 30 years and some of their brightest stars were dead; those left complained of bowel problems and missing teeth. Kashner became Ginsberg’s personal assistant, or as he terms it, “apprentice.”

The awe Kashner feels before the great poet is truly palpable, but the reader feels a certain injustice when his apprenticeship includes attempting to “save” Billy Burroughs (William’s son) from slowly drinking himself to death or babysitting Corso off heroin long enough for him to finish a book of poetry. Yet, by being given proofreading tasks and paying attention to the unglamorous detail, Kashner becomes privy to truly intimate parts of the poets’ lives: they confess to him, they cry in front of him, they hit him up for money, they take him to the Rockies to harvest marijuana.

Through Kashner, we see the Beats wrestle with aging: Allen Ginsberg’s fear of losing Orlovsky, who has a hankering to start a family, to a woman; Anne Waldman’s fascination with fame; William Burroughs’ remorse at having shot his one female love while playing William Tell in Mexico;

Gregory Corso’s jeal-ousy of the other writers’ fame and his heckling at readings. (I have my own memory of being flashed by Corso, trench coat and all, in the hallway on my way to class one afternoon.)

Woven into the mix is Buddhism, the odd scandals and excesses of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of Naropa, whom all the poets there followed and who had a fondness for sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.

When I Was Cool is curious in that it’s all the mess and recklessness of the poets’ lives that make it so readable, yet the narrator, by necessity, takes on the role of the responsible one, the one who stays home from protesting the nuclear power plant because it’s Parents Day at school and someone has to explain to the children that their parents are in the local jail. He remains an innocent, in many ways, in the eye of this hurricane of egos and talent and free love.

Ultimately, there is this respect and affection between Kashner and his mentors that saves them all, so that when it is time for him to “go out, dig the river, the people, and smell the world,” we know that on many levels, he did indeed become a part of that photo he so wanted to join.

From the April 7-14, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Preventing Sprawl’

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Grow Up, Not Out

Farmers and environmentalists work to prevent sprawl

By Joy Lanzendorfer

Every day, a new construction project seems to be breaking ground in Sonoma County. Rohnert Park has four Starbucks coffeehouses now. Windsor has a whole new downtown. Lots that have been empty fields for decades are suddenly laid with boxy frames, the rough beginnings of new buildings. There are new strip malls, new chain restaurants and new apartment buildings everywhere you go. No part of the county seems untouched by the rash of construction.

It makes some people nervous. As the county continues to grow, what will happen to our rolling hills and glistening coastline? Will the new development take over the entire county, creeping into the hills and forests like some sort of cancer of convenience?

A new report by Greenbelt Alliance and the Sonoma County Farm Bureau takes a hard look at this issue. Called Preventing Sprawl, the 28-page report looks at the history of land use in Sonoma County and makes predictions and recommendations for the future. The groups received a $200,000 grant from the James Irvine Foundation to develop the report. Its purpose is to educate the public and promote policy recommendations, explains Kelly Brown, spokesperson for Greenbelt Alliance.

“We’re looking at the report as a launching point for long-term collaboration between farmers and environmentalists,” Brown says.

An agreement on land use between an agriculture association and an environmental group is a fairly unusual occurrence. In many ways, farmers and environmentalists have different views about land, with the former group advocating its use and the latter urging its preservation.

Preventing Sprawl came out of the heated battle between environmentalists and farmers over the Rural Heritage Initiative that was on the 2000 ballot. It tried to limit sprawl by requiring voter approval for all general plan amendments in rural areas, thereby slowing the conversion of farmland into housing developments. Many environmentalists supported the plan, saying it would stop urban sprawl, while the agriculture community opposed it, saying it would put burdens on farm operations. Voters shot down the measure.

After the dust settled, members from both groups got together to find common ground. They found that even though their views on land differed, they agreed on many of the same points.

“In general, all sides want to protect agricultural land and not have sprawl occur,” says Lex McCorvey, executive director of the Sonoma County Farm Bureau. “We realize that growth is going to occur. It’s just a matter of where and how.”

The report predicts Sonoma County will add 130,000 new residents by 2025 and another 160,000 by 2040.

Despite the population increase, the report is surprisingly upbeat about how Sonoma County has handled growth so far. It says that Sonoma County’s general plan has been an “effective tool in managing growth” since its creation 25 years ago.

“There’s no doubt that the underlying policy of preserving agriculture and green land and separating communities has worked,” says Eric Koenigshofer, who spearheaded the report and, as a former member of the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors, helped develop the original general plan in the 1970s. “Twenty-five years ago, 60 percent of the population lived in the unincorporated areas and 40 percent lived in the cities. Today, that has flip-flopped.”

The report suggests that future growth should be confined within city boundaries along the Highway 101 corridor. Cities should grow up, not out. It also urges the restriction of single-family detached homes on large lots in favor of multifamily dwellings.

Critics of the report have said that the kind of life the report advocates shoves people into small, crowded spaces. Many people in Sonoma County dream of a house in the country with enough land around it for a garden and a yard for their kids to play in. They don’t like the idea of that dream being restricted more than it already has been by high housing prices.

But advocates of the report say that the growth is going to happen regardless. They are only trying to find the best way to deal with it.

“The county was magnificent when I got here in 1972,” says Koenigshofer. “If everyone who came here after that would just leave, it would be perfect. But no one gets to say that. Our goal is to manage that growth as best we can with the realities we’re facing.”

From the April 7-14, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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