‘Vertical Limit’

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High Times

Mountaineering doc dissects ‘Vertical Limit’

Writer David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This is not a review; rather, it’s a freewheeling, tangential discussion of art, alternative ideas, and popular culture.

DR. KENNETH Kamler has maneuvered his way up mountains all over the world. From South America to Antarctica, Kamler–a keenly introspective surgeon-turned- mountaineer–has hiked to some of the highest points on this planet, serving as expedition doctor on numerous high-altitude mountain ascents, including six on mighty Mount Everest. He’s helped map parts of that mountain for National Geographic Magazine, and has worked with NASA, scaling Everest to test high-altitude medical equipment.

Most notably, in 1996, he was team doctor on Everest during the infamous storm that killed climber Rob Hall and five others, a disaster that would have claimed more lives had Kamler not been there. He’s captured this experience, and others, in a new book, Doctor on Everest: Emergency Medicine at the Top of the World (Lyons Press; $21.95), a mesmerizing first-person tour through the mind and body of a high-level mountain climber.

To all of these achievements, add Kamler’s role as a gifted microsurgeon and his position as director of the Hand Treatment Center in New Hyde Park, N,Y. Taken together, it’s an impressive list, revealing one remarkable accomplishment after another.

And now Dr. Kamler has added one more to that list.

Last night he went to the movies.

“It’s really kind of an amazing thing, because I haven’t been to the movies in years,” Kamler admits, somewhat shyly. “The last film I saw was Everest, the IMAX movie, ’cause, um, I was in that.”

But that was then and this is now.

The film that lured Kamler into a theater this time was Vertical Limit, the rock ’em-sock ’em action flick starring Chris O’Donnell, Bill Paxton, and Scott Glenn. The film is set on Pakistan’s K2–at 28,000 feet, the second highest mountain in the world (after Mount Everest’s 29,035 feet). It follows a team of crusty mountaineers as they attempt to rescue three climbers–a ruthless millionaire (Paxton) and two others–who survived an avalanche but were swept into an icy crevasse near the summit. The rescue team, including one climber (O’Donnell) with a sister in the crevasse, is led by a toeless Zen climber with “issues” (Glenn).

The team hauls nitroglycerin up the mountain for poorly explained reasons.

Bad things happen. Stuff blows up. People fall down.

“I actually enjoyed the movie,” Kamler reluctantly confesses, “but don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation as a serious mountaineer.”

“I take it there are a few inaccuracies,” I surmise.

“A few?” Kamler says, laughing. “I think there were parts of Vertical Limit that were pretty gripping, but the story requires a suspension of disbelief that’s greater than the height of K2.

“I’ve never been on K2, but I’ve been on Everest several times, twice with NASA,” he continues. “The NASA expeditions were very well funded, but we didn’t have anywhere near the helicopters, computer stations, and throngs of champagne-drinking party people that the millionaire brought up to that base camp. Base camp in the movie looked like a cross between Mission Control and Mardis Gras.”

It’s true. To celebrate his attempt on K2, the millionaire throws what he calls “the highest party on Earth.” It’s catered. The kegs are flowing. It looks like fun.

“So,” I say, “base camps aren’t really like that?”

“They’re nothing like that,” Kamler insists. “Not with hundreds of people partying. That’s absurd. For one thing, base camp on K2 is at 15,000 feet, where you’ve got maybe half as much oxygen as you’d have at sea level. Trust me, when you can’t breathe, nobody’s in much of a party mood.”

Kamler ticks off a whole spate of other mistakes.

“First of all, any real climber in a crevasse like that,” he says, “would have just climbed out. They had all of their gear. On Everest we climb in and out of crevasses all the time.”

Next: none of the climbers carry oxygen.

“Oxygen is a must at those altitudes,” Kamler says, “especially with all the running and leaping these guys are doing. And nobody was using their goggles. Every climber and every rescuer in this film would have been snowblind within hours.”

Another thing. The millionaire and his team take a helicopter from base camp to 24,000 feet and plan to climb just the final 2,000 feet to the summit, a plan Kamler calls an elaborate suicide. “If somebody climbed suddenly from 15,000 feet up to 26,000 feet in just a few minutes, the sudden lack of oxygen wouldn’t be tolerated by the body. They’d be dropped onto the ice, gasping for air, just waiting to die.

“Besides, if you climb a mountain, you climb from base camp,” he says. “The mountain wouldn’t be considered truly climbed, by any serious climber, if you simply stepped off a helicopter 2,000 feet from the summit and then walked to the top.”

Worst mistake of all: in the movie, O’Donnell addresses the base-camp climbers, begging for volunteers. Kamler found this insulting.

“Climbers are always ready to risk their lives for another climber,” he says. “During the Everest disaster, nobody needed to ask for volunteers. The only questions were what to bring and when to leave.”

Those who do volunteer in the film are mostly kinda nuts.

Vertical Limit,” says Kamler, “reinforces the myth of the climber as cowboy, as a risk-taking daredevil. But real climbers tend to be softspoken, reflective, educated, intelligent. On off days in base camp, they read and write poetry, they play the violin.”

The violin? That doesn’t sound like a Bill Paxton movie.

“But it’s true,” Dr. Kamler says. “The attractions of climbing are quiet attractions. Climbing’s a thoughtful sport. Big mountains open you up to grand thoughts. In those quiet moments, you learn about your own limits. You discover what’s important to you.

“When all is said and done,” he concludes, “that’s the reason I do it.”

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Gentle Waves

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Gentle Waves don’t rock the boat

By Michelle Goldberg

ANYONE who witnessed the orgy of hype surrounding grunge in the early ’90s or advertising’s rapid embrace of electronic music in the last couple of years knows that terms like “alternative” and “underground” have become nearly meaningless. After all, what is a cutting-edge alternative to a society that bends over backward to épater itself?

Today, the homicidal rantings of Eminem are seen largely as the benign antics of the latest mediagenic enfant terrible. Last year’s most controversial artistic event, the Brooklyn Museum’s Sensation exhibit, was sponsored by Margaret Thatcher-boosting advertising magnate Charles Saatchi, a fact that no one seemed to find surprising. Shock, spectacle, raw sexuality, Grand Guignol decadence–its all the lifeblood of Western consumer culture.

It’s this atmosphere that makes distinctly tuneful, ethereal, and intelligent musical acts like the Gentle Waves–the side project of Belle and Sebastian cellist and sometimes singer Isobel Campbell–seem so oddly removed from the mainstream. I say oddly because it’s hard to imagine a record more accessible, lovely, and inviting than the Gentle Waves’ new Swansong for You (Jeepster).

A follow-up to last year’s Green Fields of Foreverland, Swansong offers a dreamy melange of kittenish female vocals, melodies derived from ’50s girl groups and ’60s folk, and chamber-pop arrangements that occasionally borrow from bossa nova and cocktail jazz.

It’s pure confectionery indulgence, full of shimmery celestial strings and pastoral reveries. Swansong would be exquisite whatever the social climate, but the lobotomized brutality of recent pop culture makes it especially welcome.

The album’s 10 songs form an empyreal haven, a place to revel in picturesque melancholy.

Unlike Looper, a band that spun off from Belle and Sebastian to explore whimsical indie electronica, the Gentle Waves hew close to the legendary Glasgow septet’s sound, focusing on worldly but pining pop ballads backed by cascades of luminous strings.

On several songs, the Gentle Waves consist basically of Belle and Sebastian with a few polarities reversed. Most of the players are the same, but Campbell takes Stuart Murdoch’s place as primary singer/songwriter. Murdoch plays bass on every song but one, and Belle guitarist Stevie Jackson appears on four, while Belle keyboardist Chris Geddes and drummer Richard Colburn contribute to five apiece.

In fact, no individual track from Swansong for You would be out of place on a Belle and Sebastian record. Yet Swansong as a whole is, if you can imagine, even softer and more delicate than any of that band’s albums. Partly that’s owing to Campbell’s tiny angel voice, which is breathy and clarion and almost impossibly pretty. Belle and Sebastian have always used strings, but here strings are far more prominent, with heavenly harp playing on two tracks and lots of violin, cello, and flute.

THE MUSIC is all spun-sugar, but Campbell’s wry morbidity cuts the sweetness and ensures that Swansong For You never grows cloying. Campbell seems to have picked up some of Murdoch’s famously incisive irony since the last Gentle Waves outing, though she’s always more plaintive than acerbic.

Even when the music is upbeat, as it is on “Sisterwoman,” a song with shades of girl-group harmony and jazzy, percussive soul, the sentiments are bleak, recalling the Smiths’ fey, fanciful gloom. Campbell’s voice trills happily over shiny horns, “Every day, every day, every day is a step to the grave.”

If anything, Swansong for You is comforting, since it quietly asserts the charms of introspection, isolation, and even sorrow, all of which are usually relentlessly stamped out by the shrill cacophony of mainstream music.

The songs pumped out through radio, MTV, and nightclub speakers may speak to those in the throes of hysterical passion or bacchanalian partying, but they’re willfully oblivious to life’s darker, lonelier places.

For anyone who’s ever felt lost, exhausted, shattered, or sad, Campbell’s music is a balm and a gift. In a world where garish vulgarity is the norm, music that glows with elegance and eloquence is the real alternative.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

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Yard Sale Bait

By C. D. Payne

AFTER THE BRIEF but manic fondue rage of the early 1970s, surplus fondue sets became a common sight at countless garage sales. Here’s my take on current popular consumer items likely to suffer a similar fate:

“Miracle” ab machines. Your internal parent craves abs of steel, but your inner child prefers to snack while watching TV. This dynamic works to keep yard sales well stocked with lightly used fitness equipment. Lucky shoppers can still score the occasional harvest gold Exercycle from when our parents’ generation was trying to pedal off the flab.

George Foreman grills. Like all oddball-function kitchen appliances, these grills will follow the pioneering waffle iron first to the back of the cupboard, then to the garage, and on to the yard sale. There to compete with discarded hot-dog cookers, burger warmers, sandwich pressers, salad shooters, etc. (Be honest, when’s the last time you shot a carrot at your salad?) A similar fate awaits those heavily promoted rotisserie ovens. Be thankful these devices are just passing through America’s kitchens. Imagine the shock to our overstressed electrical grid if they were all still sizzling those succulent low-fat kabobs.

Palm Pilots and their ilk. Yes, these gadgets are cool, but how many of us need to carry around a machine in order to remember our semi-annual dentist appointment? After the novelty wears off (and the batteries die), into the sock drawer they’ll go. A few years hence they’ll bloom like dandelions at 10 million garage sales.

Mini-wheeled aluminum scooters. In the 19th century, gizmo-minded guys rode around on bone-shaking contraptions equipped with solid-rubber wheels. Then John Boyd Dunlop perfected the pneumatic tire, and the bicycle brought efficient transportation to the masses. Now, unaccountably, we have regressed back to the hard-wheeled era. Junior may be clamoring for a scooter, but these machines have “hula hoop” written all over them. It’s scary to contemplate the immense factories in Asia that must be running triple shifts to churn out this future garage-sale staple. Our only hope may be to recycle them into walkers for aging baby boomers.

Yes, these now-hot items are destined for yard sales and thrift shops. But even heavily marked down, will they find any buyers? Well, here’s a clue: When’s the last time you invited the gang over for an evening of cheese fondue?

C. D. Payne’s novels are featured at www.nicktwisp.com.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Fair-Trade Coffee

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Fair-trade coffee: Coming to a cafe near you

By Tamara Straus

HERE’S A breathtaking statistic: The $3 many Americans shell out every day for a latte at Starbucks is equivalent to the daily wage of a Central American coffee picker. Nonplussed? Here’s another heart-stopper, specially designed for the nongourmet coffee drinker: Those $3.95 cans of Maxwell House and Folgers you pick up at your local supermarket, well, the beans that fill them are bought for around a quarter and come from corporate farms that use environmentally poisonous pesticides and clear-cut forests to produce the highest possible yields.

This may just serve as more fodder for those already sufficiently demoralized by the practices of big business. But what is interesting about such stats is they are being used to create a new American political animal: the ethical consumer.

True, the ethical consumer may pale in comparison to the do-gooders of old–the abolitionist, the suffragist, the fighter for civil rights or no nukes–since his primary act is figuring out how to ethically empty his wallet. Yet considering multinational corporations like Microsoft have annual revenues higher than the GNP of most countries –and deregulation in the United States is on the rise–ethical consumerism may be the best political weapon Americans have got.

Enter Fair-Trade Coffee

CONSIDER the example of fair-trade coffee, or “politically correct coffee,” as Time magazine has dubbed it. Fair-trade coffee sells for a minimum of $1.29 per pound–which goes directly to coffee farmers, not to “coyotes,” the middlemen who pay farmers usually no more than 35 cents a pound. It is grown on small farms, which tend to cultivate in the traditional way: under the rainforest canopy and without pesticides. And because fair-trade coffee has doubled farmers’ annual incomes, more than 500,000 people in 20 developing nations are now living above the poverty line.

Nothing wrong with that. Indeed, those who hear about the benefits of fair-trade coffee tend to support it. The only problem is that a nationwide advertising campaign is needed to get the word out, and large coffee retailers–the ideal candidates for such an effort–will not do it, since buying coffee at fair trade prices would cut into their profits.

“Oh, it’s the same old story again,” you might say. “Good ideas, impossible to implement.” But what is different about the fair-trade coffee campaign is that, thanks to a coalition of nonprofits, good ideas are being implemented using ethical consumerism as a bargaining chip.

Dutch Innovation

THE STORY of fair-trade coffee begins in 1988, in Holland, motherland of the international human rights movement. A group of fair traders selling coffee and other products at a crafts market decide to create a fair-trade seal–a label that will let customers know the product was bought at a decent price. They call the seal Max Havelaar after a bestselling 1860 book about the exploitation of Javanese coffee workers by Dutch merchants. In doing so, the traders remind their countrymen that coffee is a commodity tied to the history of colonialism.

In the same year, the Fairtrade Labeling Organization is founded, an umbrella institution for European certification organizations like Max Havelaar, which have begun to help coffee farmers create fair-trade cooperatives and connect them to retailers in the North. During the next decade, FLO’s members draw a whopping half million farmers. The reason? Coffee farmers receive a tripled-per-pound price and FLO’s arrangement eliminates their dependence on middlemen.

The farmers’ end of the bargain is also relatively simple. In exchange for letting TransFair England, for example, inspect their farms and collect 10 cents per pound on coffee sold, coffee farmers get the right to use the fair-trade logo.

By 2000, FLO’s efforts are a success. Fair-trade coffee cooperatives have spread from Guatemala to Indonesia, and the TransFair certification seal is found in 16 European countries as well as Japan and Canada. Worldwide, over 100 fair-trade coffee brands are sold in approximately 35,000 markets. Organic fair-trade coffee is also on the rise, as farmers are using their increased incomes to cultivate coffee without chemicals.

America the Late

Where were Americans during all this time? you might ask. Well, for one, wasting time over cups of joe. Americans consume an estimated one-fifth of all the coffee trade, making it the largest consumer in the world. Moreover, as anyone who lives near a Starbucks outlet knows, Americans have developed a yen for gourmet coffee, for cappuccinos and lattes and decaf mocha frappés.

This is the main reason Paul Rice, who worked with coffee farmers in Nicaragua for 11 years, founded a U.S wing of TransFair in the summer of 1999. “I just took the next logical step,” says Rice. “In Nicaragua I saw fair-trade coffee cooperatives find markets in Europe, and I assumed the same could be true for the United States.”

Rice started local. FairTrade USA’s headquarters in Oakland meant it could take advantage of the San Francisco Bay Area’s historic gourmet coffee tradition and liberal politics. Within four months, the Bay Area’s reputation proved true: 12 local roasters signed up to sell fair-trade coffee. Today 35 fair-trade brands are available in 122 Bay Area supermarkets and cafes. The city councils of San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley also have passed resolutions to support the sale of fair-trade coffee.

Fair-Trade Frappaccinos?

BUT FAIR-TRADE coffee advocates’ real coup did not come until April 2000, when Starbucks, which controls 20 percent of the U.S. specialty coffee industry, agreed to carry fair trade.

Of course, the agreement did not come without a fight. At first Starbucks refused to carry fair trade, explaining that until there was consumer demand it could not sell the politically correct bean in its 2,300 stores. But after being subject to a year long campaign organized by Global Exchange, a San Francisco-based human rights organization–a campaign that eventually culminated in plans to stage protests at Starbucks in 29 cities–the retailer decided to avoid a public relations nightmare and sell the beans.

“Fair trade gets the benefit back to the family farmer,” said Starbucks vice president David Olsen shortly after the decision was made. “It is consistent with our values.”

Starbucks’ decision to sell fair-trade coffee, however, does not mean the company will brew it in their stores. This will depend on “consumer demand,” say Starbucks corporate heads. So, once again, this will mean that Global Exchange and other fair-trade coffee advocates will have to prove–through a combination of grassroots organizing, educational outreach, and threat of protest–that a demand exists.

Deborah James, fair-trade director of Global Exchange, says that consumer demand is not the chief problem. “Since fair trade became available at Starbucks in October,” she says, “consumers have told us that they are buying it by the pound and that they want to see it as a ‘coffee of the day,’ something that Starbucks, it seems, will not do.”

Alan Gulick, Starbucks’ public affairs director, says the reason Starbucks does not serve fair trade as a daily brew is because “the volume of fair-trade coffee needed in not available.” Yet, according to Nina Luttinger, communications manager of TransFair USA, there is evidence to the contrary. She reports that in 1999, of the 60 million pounds of fair-trade coffee produced globally, only half sold on the fair-trade market.

“This meant that farmers had to sell their product through the usual channels and got paid much less,” says Luttinger, who doubts that the fair-trade coffee sale figures will be drastically different in 2000.

Is Fair Trade Just for Gourmands?

Still, Starbucks’ introduction of fair-trade coffee is a victory for the movement. And the victory extends beyond the creator of the Frappaccino. During the 18 months fair-trade coffee has been available on the U.S. market, the number of retailers has grown from 400 to 7,000, according to Paul Rice. In November, Safeway, the supermarket king, launched fair-trade coffee in 1,500 of its stores nationwide–a decision Rice says came about not through threats of protest but through the supermarket’s “enlightened self-interest.”

“Companies are coming to me now,” says Rice. “And some, such as Choice Organic Teas, have decided to eat the cost of buying fair trade rather than raise prices. They want to support fair trade, introduce it to their customers, and figure losing a few cents now is worth it.”

But what about the big guns of the coffee industry: Nestlé’s, Folgers, Maxwell House? “I think it’s going to be a challenge to convince companies who are paying less than 50 cents and selling it for around $4 that they should pay $1.29,” says James. “Fair-trade coffee successes so far have all been in the gourmet coffee industry.”

This fact makes activists in the ethical consumer movement cringe. For it raises the question of how wide the movement can be. Will enough Americans care about labor conditions in the Third World and the environmental problems created there by American coffee corporations to force real change in the industry? Will they, as James has decided, “never voluntarily put someone in a situation of poverty, exploitation, and debt just to enjoy a cup of joe.”

You may say no, but activists like Ronnie Cummins, national director of the Organic Consumers Association, argues that Americans have little choice: “We have an obligation to the environment, we have an obligation to human rights, to drive unsustainable coffee off the market. We need to reach that point, like when it became socially unacceptable to buy products from South Africa because of apartheid.”

The Fair-Trade Pitch

How fair-trade advocates will accomplish this sort of mass educational outreach depends on their mission and point of view. Rice, who works directly with coffee retailers, argues that the introduction of fair trade in the American gourmet coffee industry is having a domino affect. “Corporations realize they must meet the demands of their customers,” says Rice. “And if their customers want fair trade, they provide it.”

James, whose organization Global Exchange is focused on international social-justice issues, believes consumer knowledge about globalization is the key. She and her colleagues have tied coffee farmers’ work conditions to the more familiar issue of sweatshop labor.

“We call nonfair-trade coffee ‘sweatshop coffee’ because many Americans know about sweatshop conditions in Asia and Mexico,” she says. “They know the people who make Nike sneakers and Gap T-shirts are paid inadequate wages and work in unhealthy conditions.”

Cummins, whose Organic Consumers Association is devoted largely to environ mental issues, also uses the term “sweatshop coffee” in its activist literature. But he also tries to get consumers to think about agricultural and environmental sustainability.

“I tell people that the way coffee was grown for hundreds of years had a low impact on the environment,” says Cummins. “And that with sun-grown coffee–the ‘innovation’ of the international coffee cartel–what you do is chop down everything and use a lot of chemical fertilizer, pesticides and so on. In essence, you destroy the environment.”

European Sophistication

Activists like James and Cummins have wondered why Europeans are ahead of Americans in bringing fair trade to market. Since 1998, seven different products–coffee, tea, chocolate, bananas, honey, sugar, and orange juice–have been available with the fair-trade label in Europe. Fair-trade products were also available in Japan and Canada before the United States. Why are we were behind?

“In Europe the media [are] better,” says Cummins. “The political system is based on proportional representation. There are the same number of people here as in Europe who support Green Party ideas; the difference is they have 10 percent of the seats in the European parliament and we have no seats in Congress.”

Cummins adds there is mass support for organic food–and mass antipathy toward chemically altered or genetically engineered food–because of Europe’s Nazi past, which makes people extremely wary about a super-race of anything or genetic enhancement. The recent outbreak of mad cow disease is also an undeniable factor.

“We just can’t comprehend what it feels like to know that you might die because the government lied to you about industrial agriculture practices,” says Cummins. “Europeans now say: ‘Never am I going to just accept something because establishment science and the government tell me it’s safe.'”

As for a more sophisticated understanding of globalization, James says Europeans are ahead because they are able to tie the lessons of their colonial past to today’s global future.

“Europeans have a direct understanding that the system of agriculture we have now–where farmers are exploited and their products are unfairly sold–is based on a colonial system,” she says. “Whereas in the United States we do not feel responsible for the fact that in the Windward Islands of the Caribbean people there are entirely dependent on banana plantations because we put them there.”

James would like to link nonfair-trade coffee to the history of colonialism or the concept of “neocolonialism,” but she says, “If you bring up the word colonialism or imperialism here, people have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The Future of Ethical Consumerism

Although Americans may be somewhat blind to history, polls show they are awake to the present. According to a December 1999 US News & World Report poll, six in 10 Americans are concerned about the working conditions under which products are made in the United States and more than nine in 10 are concerned about working conditions under which products are made in Asia and Latin America.

This is good news for ethical consumerism. It shows that consumer choice based on criteria of economic justice and environmental sustainability has a future. But does it mean that ethical consumerism can grow beyond the 50 million Americans who supposedly practice it? Can ethical consumerism–without government support and positive mainstream media attention–be viewed as something other than the ultimate knee-jerk liberal issue?

Argues Ronnie Cummins: “It’s a very good historical trend that consumers are becoming more aware, but unless trade unions and churches, consumer groups and environmental groups work together–North and South–we’re not going to solve this problem. Sure, we can alleviate some of our bad conscience on a day-to-day basis, but that’s not getting to the root of the problem, which is unchecked globalization. Even if you can produce cheaper in China the hidden costs of doing something like that are pretty darn convincing.”

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Tobacco Company Charity Advertisements

Smoke & Mirrors

Philip Morris puts up good-citizen smokescreen

By Lori Dorfman

TOBACCO is not supposed to be advertised on TV, yet Philip Morris was there again last night. The ad told the poignant story of a woman who was helped by a donation that the company made to a domestic violence shelter. Philip Morris, the world’s largest and most profitable producer and marketer of consumer packaged goods, recently spent $2 million on domestic violence programs nationally, part of $60 million it spent on charity in 1999.

That same year, Philip Morris spent $108 million on the advertising campaign to tell us about it.

On Dec. 5, Philip Morris announced that it has given an additional $210,000 to domestic violence programs in California, including a $10,000 Doors of Hope grant to Catholic Charities of the Diocese of Santa Rosa, a community-based program that provides services to immigrant victims of spousal abuse.

There is nothing wrong with a corporation supporting good causes. But why advertise about it?

Philip Morris spent 80 percent more on its advertising than on its charity, almost $30,000 every day last year, so we would know what a good corporate citizen it is. This is what corporations do when they’re under fire. Philip Morris is using commercial speech to influence public opinion and political action.

Using advertising to influence public opinion and legislation is not new. In 1908, AT&T launched a campaign to remain a monopoly, followed in 1910 by the railroads using ads to influence local rates hearings, in 1916 by Bethlehem Steel to protest a government armor plant, and the same year by Armour and Swift meat-packing companies to prevent the breakup of their oligopoly. In the 1930s, Du Pont, General Motors, and the National Association of Manufacturers used ads to sell capitalism and refute President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal.

The domestic violence program and the rest of Philip Morris’ “good works” ad campaign follows in this tradition. The campaign is a smokescreen, specifically calculated to distract your attention from the company’s role in manufacturing, promoting, and selling a product that kills 420,000 Americans each year. (To be fair, judged by its 46 percent market share, Philip Morris tobacco is responsible for 193,200 of those deaths.) Philip Morris is trying to purchase goodwill by associating itself with the tremendously important work of domestic violence programs.

Philip Morris’ motives are transparent. Big Tobacco has never been more vulnerable. Every day, as new documents discovered in the litigation process are distributed, we learn more about its tactics to lure teens into smoking and thwart regulation. The Department of Justice is contemplating federal lawsuits. The Supreme Court heard arguments about whether the FDA should have jurisdiction over tobacco, and the U.S. Congress will now have to decide whether to make that happen. Philip Morris has much to lose. It needs public opinion on its side; it needs to be thought of as a good corporate citizen.

If Philip Morris really cared about preventing domestic violence, it would stop sexist advertising that objectifies women and contributes to attitudes that allow domestic violence to continue. It would discontinue the practice of using women’s bodies to sell cigarettes and beer. It would stop using the idea of independence and slender beauty to sell Virginia Slims. It would take its Miller Beer logo off the breasts of the “Laker girls” who entertain at Los Angeles Laker basketball games. It would recognize the well-established connection between domestic violence and alcohol and prohibit its beer companies from connecting sex with beer in their advertising.

THE REAL tragedy is that domestic violence programs have such a desperate need for funds that they feel they can’t refuse tobacco and alcohol money. It’s no wonder the programs feel desperate: nearly one-third of American women (31 percent) report being physically or sexually abused by a husband or boyfriend at some point in their lives. Where is the support from government, whose job it is to protect all its citizens? Why hasn’t Congress increased support for shelters so they don’t have to turn women and children away? Shelters for women who have been beaten and terrorized should not be at the mercy of tobacco and alcohol companies.

Philip Morris knows all about lobbying. Is it using that expertise in order to lobby for adequate resources so any woman who is battered has a safe place to go?

This campaign is not about domestic violence. It is about diverting national attention from the evils of the tobacco industry, evils that, through litigation, are finally coming fully to light. Philip Morris is hoping that the public and future juries will see its ads and think kindly of the company. Mostly it is hoping that Congress will not enact law that places the drug nicotine under the purview of the FDA.

If the company really cared about eradicating domestic violence, it would spend all its philanthropic monies on the program and none on advertising to tell us what a good corporate citizen it is. The contribution to domestic violence was simply a line item in Philip Morris’ advertising budget. The purpose of making the contribution was to advertise about it.

That is shameful.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Newsgrinder

Important events as reported by daily newspapers and summarized by Daedalus Howell.

Tuesday 12.12.00

A 29-year-old man was taken to Petaluma Valley Hospital after being a victim of a “kick and run” in the area of Erwin and East D streets, according to an ArgusCourier.com police report. A rash of the so-called “kick and run” incidents has broken out on playgrounds throughout Petaluma. The Petaluma Police Department has attempted to blow the whistle on the menace, also known as “soccer,” but the culprits only yell, “Hands!” and begin their tyranny afresh. . . .

Thursday 12.21.00

A 100-pound sea turtle found floating listlessly in the Sausalito Channel last weekend is on his way to Sea World in San Diego, where he will be locked up for the rest of his natural life. The federally protected Eastern Pacific black sea turtle (which means no turtle soup) was named Mothra by sci-fi fans at the Sausalito Mammal Center that initially received the wayfaring amphibian. A Sheriff’s Deputy discovered Mothra behind Sausalito’s Margaritaville Restaurant (it’s unclear why the deputy or the turtle was loitering in back of the nightspot). The Deputy told the Marin Independent Journal, “He was lethargic.” Well, duh, it’s a freakin’ turtle. With apologies to Aesop, who would finish first here, the tortoise or the cop?

Thursday 12.21.00

Marin County’s Judge Vernon Smith refused to hold Gerald Armstrong in contempt yesterday for his long-standing battle of bile against the Church of Scientology. Church attorneys filed a contempt motion against the former Scientology archivist for violating a judge’s 1995 order to cease criticizing the church and discussing his experiences as an employee there. As evidence, church attorneys submitted a ream of messages Armstrong had posted in the Internet newsgroup alt.religion.scientology. “There is a collision course between $cientology’s [sic] determination to dominate, and thus in some way, imprison people, and the people’s determination to have all men free,” wrote Armstrong. “Very stupid of $cientology [sic] to be on the wrong side of this battle.” Scientology was founded in the 1950s by former Hollywood scribe L. Ron Hubbard. He is presumed to have died in 1986 at the age of 74.

Friday 12.22.00

Paging Johnny Cochran: Louis Pelfini, a Petaluma family practice physician, was arraigned Thursday on charges that he murdered his wife last year, reports the Press Domcrat. Pelfini called 911 in November of 1999 and reported that his wife had committed suicide by putting her head in a bucket of water. Two pathologists concluded, however, that the 63-year-old woman was suffocated; there was no water in the woman’s lungs. “People don’t commit suicide by sticking their head in a bucket of water,” said Deputy District Attorney Brook Halsey Jr. “There were only two people there. And one is dead.” There’s a hole in me story, dear Liza, dear Liza . . .

Sunday 12.24.00

A partial solar eclipse blocked out a bit of the sun early Christmas Eve morning, reports the local daily. Those who snoozed through the celestial display will have to wait until the 24th century, when it next returns on this date. Why is a partial eclipse interesting, one might ask? “A partial eclipse of the sun is interesting because the moon is moving and blocking out a little part of the sun,” said Santa Rosa Junior College planetarium director Ed Megill (someday Ed will find his people and they will rejoice). The last Christmas solar eclipse was in 1954–oddly, that’s the same year that actor James Belushi was born. Experts warn that looking at a solar eclipse with the naked eye can cause permanent damage to the retina–the same as looking at James Belushi on screen.

Monday 12.25.00

Last-minute shoppers Meghan and Mason Mark, siblings from Sebastopol, received an unexpected gift from the Press Democrat. When interviewed for a capitalism-in-action piece, they had no idea their gift purchases would be published before their intended recipients could open them. This is what Mother Mark received from her children: “Candles, they are always good, and I bought my mother a vase,” said Meghan. The Grinchesque paper went on to reveal brother Mason’s surprise contribution to the holiday fete–smoked salmon–before tipping the young man’s hand yet again by quoting him as saying, “Personally, I think a wire Ethernet card is a great gift.”

Monday 12.25.00

Sonoma County sheriff’s deputies are searching for a man who allegedly fondled himself in front of a group of teens Wednesday evening in a Boyes Hot Springs park, reports the Sonoma Index Tribune. The suspect was described as wearing a baseball cap embroidered with “Just Call Me Grandpa.” One of the teens had a camera, and the suspect invited them to photograph his act. The junior pornographer attempted to take a picture with “the intent of furnishing law enforcement with the photo as evidence” before posting it on the Internet.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Wide-Eyed Gourmet

A signature dish loaded with pleasant memories

By Marina Wolf

WHEN I VOLUNTEERED to cook and coordinate my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner, I originally envisioned as the centerpiece a pork tenderloin or a rack of lamb–some festive piece of animal protein that would symbolize abundance (and cook by itself). But at the crucial moment, after the recipes had been tested and it was time to write the shopping list, I chickened out and reverted to lasagna, a family favorite that has become my trademark.

Marina’s lasagna, they call it in casual conversation.

But it is not my lasagna, any more than it is the lasagna of anyone who buys the same brand of lasagna noodles. The recipe is right there on the box, and I have to refer to it every time. The pasta aisle is always the first stop on the shopping trip;

otherwise I wouldn’t know the rest of the ingredients. My family sees me squinting at the box every year, and still the lasagna sits up there on a pedestal, along with green salad and garlic bread made with a head of garlic and an obscene amount of real butter.

That’s my signature supper.

Clearly, a trademark dish has little to do with originality. All it takes is repeated exposure with enough positive memories attached. It’s the opposite of “familiarity breeds contempt.” Trademark dishes require only an occasional familiarity, an acquaintance that is infrequently met and therefore cherished.

Take my mother’s rolls. They are fluffy and white, flaky from the dabs of butter that have been scattered through the dough. These rolls are, as far as I can tell, well within the capabilities of any moderately skilled home cook. The recipe was handed down through church cookbooks and family members. It is not a state secret. And yet the time it takes to knead and shape the soft dough renders them impractical for all but the festive table. This rarity gives the rolls a special haze of unattainability; otherwise they’d become just another piece of daily bread. Between holidays, even to this day, I ask about the rolls: When are we going to have them next? And when they do appear, wrapped in a dishcloth to keep warm, I pay attention.

Trademark foods aren’t necessarily a family matter, either. Occasionally on a Saturday morning, my friends will mention scones with a sigh and a look of longing. One friend of mine has as her personal dish a spiced carrot soup that has become a delicious harbinger of the colder months, as reliable as the ducks flying south.

Some dishes are more amenable to the trademark process, foods that look more complicated than they really are, for example (elaborately spiced foods or anything baked falls into this category, with bonus points for spicy dessert breads). And trademarking never involves creating something new. Sometimes all you need is a new mold for that Jell-O salad, and everyone will think you invented it.

The buzz is the key, and you are your own publicist, so if you want to be remembered for a certain dish, make sure to mention your specialty at other times throughout the year.

“Remember the time when I made too much lasagna and we ate it for a week afterwards? Remember the time when we stayed up until 4 making those doughnuts?”

Casually, over time, a cloud of warm memories will develop around your specialty.

Of course, living legends always are in danger of being pigeonholed, and 15 years after I learned to make lasagna, I sometimes want to flex my culinary muscle a little. “I can cook things other than this overcheesed casserole!” I cry, and search for something, anything, to shock, or interest, or expand my family’s palates. But no matter how well prepared, these feeble stabs at self-assertion are met with indifference.

Everybody wants the lasagna.

So in the end I just shrug my shoulders and fire up the hot water. It’s better to be remembered for pasta than for nothing at all.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Ahdaf Soueif

Ahdaf Soueif highlights changing cultural climate in Egypt

By Andrea Perkins

A CAPTIVATING read on many levels, Ahdaf Soueif’s novel The Map of Love (Anchor; $14 paper) is perhaps most valuable for its exposure of that permeable membrane between characters’ actions and the politics that surround them.

Using her character’s private lives to highlight the changing cultural climate in Egypt over a 100-year period, Soueif splices journal entries and letters with deeply researched historical events. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if the book’s politics are the backdrop to its personal stories or vice versa.

“The personal is the political,” Amal, one of the book’s two heroines, says at one point.

Soueif deftly reveals the inner workings of Egyptian high society from the beginning to the end of the 20th century, shattering Western misconceptions of Islamic culture, which still abound today. (When I told my grandmother I was moving to Egypt to work for a magazine, she was convinced that the minute I stepped off the plane I’d be taken hostage by terrorists and thrown into a harem full of scantily clad women.)

Having grown up both in England and in Egypt, Soueif maintains an ideal balance between East and West, displaying a deep understanding of both without pretending to be neutral or dispassionate about the plight of Egypt. She toys with (and eventually transcends) familiar literary genres like the “19th-century romance” and “the memoir of an Englishwoman traveling abroad.”

There is no precedent for this kind of book. Not only is it rare for an Arab writer to write in English, but it is rarer still for an Arab woman to write at all, especially about sex and politics.

The book starts in midsentence, as if the reader has casually stepped into the stream of time. It is 1997, and Isabel Parkman, a New York journalist, is struggling with her mother’s Alzheimer’s disease. While her mother, Jasmine, is losing her grasp on the past, Isabel’s obsession with her own history is triggered when she finds an old trunk in Jasmine’s house. The trunk belonged to Isabel’s great-grandmother, an Englishwoman named Anna Winterbourne. Though the journals and papers inside the trunk are written in Arabic, French, and English, Isabel pieces together what her mother has kept hidden: their Middle Eastern ancestry.

Isabel meets Omar al-Ghamrawi, a famous conductor and frustrated Arab nationalist. Enamored, she tells him about her assignment to go to his homeland to interview the Egyptians about the millennium. She also tells him about the trunk. He suggests she take it with her to Cairo, where his sister, Amal, might help her translate the Arabic journals. And it is through Amal that we arrive at Anna Winterbourne’s saga. Amal has just returned to Cairo after a dysfunctional marriage in England. She dives into the trunk’s story and learns that she and her brother are in fact Isabel’s cousins.

ANNA’S JOURNALS start at the beginning of the 20th century. After the death of her first husband, she travels to Egypt, hoping to find the light-filled world of John Frederick Lewis’ Orientalist paintings. Once there, however, she realizes that because she is English, the “real Egypt” is beyond her reach.

She soon finds that the restrictions placed on Arab women are not so different from those placed on women back home. Some aspects of Egyptian life actually afford her more liberty than she has known before. Conventions like the veil and mashribiyya screen (behind which women once sat and listened to the men’s conversations) provide her with the unusual power of invisibility. Subtly, Soueif suggests that “the veil” may be no more a vehicle of oppression than the caked-on makeup some women wear.

Soueif (with her doctorate in linguistics) makes language a major theme in The Map of Love, dwelling over its layers of embedded meaning. She also shows how language can be a used as tool of colonization and, at times, an obstacle to communication rather than the means of it.

Soueif’s careful chronicling of the turmoil that surrounds Anna, Amal, and Isabel becomes a “map” to the current situation in the Middle East, offering an angle not generally found in mainstream media representations of the region.

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Wide-Eyed Gourmet

Munching on McMuffins and vending-machine cuisine

By Marina Wolf

A JOURNEY of a thousand miles starts not with a single step, as might be supposed, or even with a single suitcase. It starts with the first Egg McMuffin.

Of course, this is my own journey. Yours may start with two tabs of Vivarin and a cinnamon roll, or a latte and a banana, with the peel flung ceremoniously out the window at the first on-ramp. We all have our own rituals for eating on the road.

Travelers cannot eat the way they do at home. Can we agree this is impossible? The fridge has been replaced by a malfunctioning cooler, the dining-room table makes way for the dashboard, and the trusty microwave has been replaced by a less savory-looking mini-mart model that has seen the inside-outs of too many overheated cheez-dogs.

Some travelers bemoan these changes; they become known as city folks, candy-ass tourists, or Californians (or whatever scapegoat state is next to yours). The savvy traveler adapts, thrives, and then comes to find a whole new sense of security in the away-from-home appetites that emerge.

Now, there may be people who lapse into uncontrollable veggie-eating and develop a fixation on dry, whole-grain toast. I don’t see a lot of them in my travels. Mostly I see other people like myself: we become pigs or kids or some happy combination of the two. Cleaning out the car at the end of a trip is like emerging from a dream, and the longer the trip, the weirder the dream: Did I really eat two packages of beef jerky, potato chips, 10 mandarin oranges, a whole package of menthol cough drops, a Mounds bar, a McMuffin, and three hash browns?

The funny thing is, much of what I eat when I travel, I only eat when I travel. I have no patience for jerky the rest of the time, but on the road it’s a soothing thing, salty chewing gum that lasts for miles. Ditto for the McBreakfast and all those oranges consumed in one 24-hour period.

It’s garbage, this on-the-road eating. But I don’t really want to change it, though I go through the motions of meal planning at the beginning of almost every trip. I start out with little bottles of orange juice and maybe granola bars, a gallon or two of water, my own thermos of coffee. But like a much-loved CD or the extra double-D batteries, these healthy ambitions get lost quickly in the inevitable entropy of travel. Granola bars crumble only to re-emerge two months later as empty wrappers from car-seat crevices (perhaps the seats have their own appetites, which include more fiber). Orange juice undergoes a miraculous transformation into weak, fast-food coffee (more caffeine, and the cups fit better in the rickety little cupholders). And any vows to eat salad for lunch and a well-rounded dinner come to naught somewhere between rest stop 15A and the “Next Services 52 miles” sign, when ranch-flavored corn nuts, a chocolate bar, and a breath mint suddenly seem like reasonable items on the lunch menu mainly because they’re the only things available in the roadside vending machine.

Not that I don’t have some standards when it comes to what I eat on the road. It can’t drip, thus eliminating many otherwise excellent foods such as mangoes, popsicles, and ramen noodle soups. It has to fit in the cupholder or the little change reservoir and be something that I can pick up without looking at. And preferably it leaves residue that I can lick off my fingers.

But basically I want something that has no relationship to my normal diet. I want to mark each trip as outside of my day-to-day life. I want to slip from conscientious to unconscionable as easily as we cross from one county to the next, and I’ll wake up tomorrow with the unspoiled appetite of a child.

Pass the corn nuts, please. The journey begins now.

From the December 21-27, 2000 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Gift Books

Three story collections will have ’em beggin’ Santa for more

By Patrick Sullivan

THEY WRAP up into neat little packages, they fit snugly under the smallest tree, and they’re cheaper than a PlayStation 2. Yup, books would make the perfect holiday gift, except for one inconvenient fact: Nobody reads anymore.

OK, perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration. Let’s be prudent. Let’s be diplomatic. Better to say that an awful lot of people don’t seem to have much time for reading in this busy era of virtual this and 24-7 everything else. (And no, all you grouchy ultra-literary types, we don’t want to hear your snarky little ideas for turning everybody’s television sets into flower planters.)

So, if you like books, or at least like giving books as gifts, you have two choices. Go ahead and give your nephew that unexpurgated version of Les Miserables (in the original French? Sure, why not?), and know that even the back cover will probably never be read.

Or (and this is the right answer, in case you hadn’t guessed) you could latch onto a literary form that’s been around for . . . well, a long time, but that seems more relevant than ever in our oh-so-busy age. And we’re not talking about porn.

Seldom has the short story seemed so strong. Some of the best authors of turn-of-the-millennium America are working in this form, which requires both boundless creativity and rigorous discipline from the writer–but only 20 minutes here and there from a reader.

First, check out what may be the year’s best bundle of short fiction: Emily Carter’s Glory Goes and Gets Some (Coffee House Press; $20.95). This series of linked stories mostly follows the adventures of sardonic young hipster as she moves from drug-addicted squalor to recovery in the bland Midwest to the appalling discovery that a shared needle somewhere along the way polluted her bloodstream with the AIDS virus. How does a 30-something recovering heroin addict with an incurable disease find new life and new love? Answer: Very carefully.

Carter’s prose is wild, exuberant, and sensual in the best possible way, full of both vivid neon images and sarcastic critical distance. Finely wrought, but never cautious, this is the end of the millennium the way it should be written.

Of course, not everyone on your list will appreciate the needle-sharp kiss of Carter’s fiction. For something more conventional–in both style and subject matter–try Light Action in the Caribbean (Knopf; $22), a new collection of shorts from Barry Lopez, best known for such non-fiction work as Arctic Dreams.

Lopez writes like a fox stepping across a field of new-fallen snow–lightly and carefully. With barebones sentences, he puts together deceptively simple-seeming stories that subtly take on flesh and trot gracefully across the page. Among the best of the work in this collection: “Emory Bear Hand’s Birds,” in which an Indian inmate shakes a prison to its foundations with nothing more than his knowledge of wild animals; and “The Deaf Girl,” in which a man wanders into a small town and watches from the porch of his hotel as a horrendous tragedy slowly plays out before his eyes.

Finally, there is The Best American Short Stories: 2000 (Houghton Mifflin; $13), a collection of shorts from 21 writers assembled by this year’s guest editor, author E. L. Doctorow (Ragtime). From Geoffrey Becker’s “Black Elvis,” in which an Elvis impersonator discovers the real power of the legend he has made his life, to Annie Proulx’s “People in Hell Just Want a Drink of Water,” this truly is among the best short fiction you’ll find on the shelves. Or under the tree.

From the December 21-27, 2000 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Vertical Limit’

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Gentle Waves

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Open Mic

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Fair-Trade Coffee

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Tobacco Company Charity Advertisements

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Newsgrinder

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The Wide-Eyed Gourmet

A signature dish loaded with pleasant memories By Marina Wolf WHEN I VOLUNTEERED to cook and coordinate my sister's wedding rehearsal dinner, I originally envisioned as the centerpiece a pork tenderloin or a rack of lamb--some festive piece of animal protein that would symbolize abundance (and cook by itself). But at the crucial moment, after...

Ahdaf Soueif

Ahdaf Soueif highlights changing cultural climate in Egypt By Andrea Perkins A CAPTIVATING read on many levels, Ahdaf Soueif's novel The Map of Love (Anchor; $14 paper) is perhaps most valuable for its exposure of that permeable membrane between characters' actions and the politics that surround them. Using her character's private lives...

The Wide-Eyed Gourmet

Munching on McMuffins and vending-machine cuisine By Marina Wolf A JOURNEY of a thousand miles starts not with a single step, as might be supposed, or even with a single suitcase. It starts with the first Egg McMuffin. Of course, this is my own journey. Yours may start with two tabs of...

Gift Books

Three story collections will have 'em beggin' Santa for more By Patrick Sullivan THEY WRAP up into neat little packages, they fit snugly under the smallest tree, and they're cheaper than a PlayStation 2. Yup, books would make the perfect holiday gift, except for one inconvenient fact: Nobody reads anymore. ...
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