Fall Books

Autumn Leaves



New books for the new season

Compiled by Patrick Sullivan
and Marina Wolf

While you’ve been surfin’ the sweet summer away, Sonoma County authors have been laboring in the vineyards, preparing a new crop of fall books to ease you into autumn.

Sarah Andrews
Only Flesh and Bones
(St. Martin’s Press; $23.95)

A YOUNG GIRL’s repressed memory may hold vital clues to her mother’s murder in local writer Sarah Andrews’ fourth mystery. This time out, geologist/detective Emily “Em” Hansen finds herself unemployed and desperate. Her old boss dangles a job in front of her, but to get it, the straight-talking Em must get to the bottom of the killing of the man’s wife. An old journal and the woman’s traumatized daughter provide the only leads, but it’s not long before Em finds herself in the midst of danger as she closes in on a mysterious stranger who may hold the key.–P.S.

Cydney Chadwick
Inside the Hours
(Texture Press; $6)

THERE’S A DARK, ominous feel to Penngrove writer Cydney Chadwick’s latest collection of short fiction. Inside the Hours feels like that quiet moment just before a thunderstorm begins, when every second in the stillness seems to carry a terrible significance. Chadwick’s characters are a diverse bunch, ranging from a disgruntled poet to an anorexic adolescent girl to an aging dog-park vigilante. But this motley crew is united by one characteristic: their alienation in an world full of absurdity. Chadwick recently won the New American Fiction Award for another, soon-to-be published collection of her shorts, so the quirky, compelling Inside the Hours is just a taste of things to come.–P.S.

J. California Cooper
The Wake of the Wind: A Novel
(Doubleday, $22.95)

GUALALA WRITER J. California Cooper’s third novel offers a moving account of an African American family struggling to survive and prosper in the tumultuous world of the post-Civil War South. Cooper’s prodigious storytelling skills and energetic narration produce a folksy style of writing that’s tough to put down. Her work as a playwright (she is the author of 17 plays) seems to have given her an excellent ear for dialogue, and it’s not hard to see why she was once named Black Playwright of the Year.–P.S.

Arthur Dawson
The Stories behind Sonoma Valley Place Names
(Kulupi Publishing; $7.95)

EVER WONDER about what led to the naming of Hooker Creek? Want to know more about the ghost dog of Glen Ellen? If you’re looking for the inside scoop and dirty details behind the landmarks of the Sonoma Valley, then Arthur Dawson’s charming glimpse into local history is an excellent place to start. The Stories behind Sonoma Valley Place Names provides historical sketches, intriguing biographies of famous locals, and explanations for the naming of everything from Hippie Hollow to Kenwood to Hooker Creek (which was named after Civil War Gen. Joseph Hooker, whose penchant for loose women may have given rise to a new name for prostitutes).–P.S.

Matthew Gollub
Cool Melons–Turn to Frogs
(Lee & Low Books; $16.95)

SANTA ROSA author Matthew Gollub teams up with illustrator Kazuko G. Stone to introduce children to Japan’s most famous poet, Jobayashi Yataro, better known as Issa. Filled with haiku (“Climb Mount Fuji, Snail, but slowly, slowly!”) and gorgeous pictures of the Japanese landscape, Cool Melons follows Issa from his childhood, when he is sent away by his father, through his poetry career (he eventually authored nearly 20,000 haikus), to the birth of his own daughter and her tragic death. Issa himself passes away in the end, but not before he becomes known as the “Lay Priest of the Temple of Poetry.”–P.S.

Barry Kite
Damn! A Christmas Book with Sex, Violence, Drugs, and Fruitcake: The Aberrant Art of Barry Kite
(Pomegranate; $17.95)

THERE’S NO doubt about it: Santa Claus takes a beating in local author Barry Kite’s new picture book about Christmas. We’re treated to Santa being shot from the sky by hunters on the Thames, Santa’s severed head being carefully examined by curious scientists, and Santa being hung from a tree by a holiday lynch mob. Then, Kite moves on to Frosty the Snowman, and things really get ugly. … –P.S.

Jonathan London
THIS PROLIFIC children’s author produces seemingly dozens of crisply written books a year from his west county home; here we synopsize the most recent four. London’s publishers take great care of him by picking excellent illustrators for his work, but the story lines, full of simple adventures and engaging characters, carry the books on their own.–M.W.

At the Edge of the Forest
(Walker Books; $15.99)

BLOODY PRINTS are easy to follow in the snowy forest surrounding a farm. But when the farmer and his son track a coyote down with a gun, what they find makes the trigger much harder to pull. Illustrated by Barbara Firth.

Ice Bear and Little Fox
(Dutton Children’s Books; $15.99)

JOIN THE SIMPLE wandering journey, thrilling for its starkness, of a newly adult polar bear and the fox that accompanies him for the sake of leftovers. Warning: This book contains graphic depictions of seal carcasses. Illustrated by Daniel San Souci.

The Candystore Man
(Lothrop, Lee & Shephard Books; $16)

REMINISCENT of London’s earlier beboppin’ hero, Hip Cat, the candystore man weaves a loving community for the neighborhood’s children with licorice ropes and lots of jazzalicious good fun. Illustrated by Kevin O’Malley.

Hurricane!
(Lothrop, Lee & Shephard Books; $16)

A HURRICANE turns lazy island living, with snorkeling and the occasional scorpion in a shoe, into a howling adventure for two brothers and their family vacationing in Puerto Rico. Illustrated by Henri Sorensen.

Megan McDonald
Beezy at Bat
(Orchard Books; $13.95)

LIFE NEVER stays boring for long when the feisty, pigtailed Beezy is around. Beezy at Bat offers three new stories about the playful antics of this perky little girl and her friends, with colorful illustrations by Nancy Poydar.–P.S.

Art. Rage. Us: Art and Writing by Women with Breast Cancer
(Chronicle Books; $24.95)

SANTA ROSA artist Nancy Bellen is one of many Bay Area artists who contributed to this unique collection of artwork and writing. Art. Rage. Us is a powerful effort by over 70 creative women to engage and examine the subject of breast cancer. Their work communicates anguish, terror, anger, and hope as they relate the intimate details of their personal struggle with the disease and their search for healing. In every medium–through collage, painting, photography, and the written word–these women provide compelling perspectives on their illness and their effort to come to terms with the transformation of their bodies.–P.S.

From the September 10-16, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spins

0

Folkie Feelin’



New CDs spotlight bluegrass, folk greats

Ralph Stanley & Friends
Clinch Mountain Country
Rebel

Various Artists
The Harry Smith Connection: A Live Tribute to the Anthology of American Folk Music
Smithsonian Folkways

MAINSTREAM country music has gone to the dogs (again), but its country cousins–bluegrass and folk–in the waning days of the 20th century have emerged as vital art forms embraced by purists, alt-country buffs, and roots-music fans alike. The two-CD Clinch Mountain Country brings together bluegrass pioneer and banjo picker supreme Ralph Stanley with a wide range of bluegrass, country, and alt-rock acts. Everyone from Nashville superstar Patty Loveless (who damn near steals the show with her duet on the chestnut “Pretty Polly”), to bluegrass diva Alison Krauss, to alt-country rockers BR5-49, to the haunting singer-songwriter Gillian Welch teams up with one of the genre’s most prolific performers. Bob Dylan weighs in with a plaintive reading of “The Lonesome River” (Dylan’s first trip back to Nashville since 1969’s classic Nashville Skyline). Bay Area bluegrass favorite Laurie Lewis delivers a respectful “Old Love Letters.” And the inimitable Junior Brown storms “Stone Walls and Steel Bars.” Bluegrass album of the year–no doubt about it. Meanwhile, a venerable cast of characters that includes ex-Byrds head honcho Roger McGuinn, sometime REM collaborator Peter Stampel, John Sebastian, Geoff Muldaur, Dave Van Ronk, the Fugs, and children’s music legend Ella Jenkins can be heard on The Harry Smith Connection, a live tribute to the influential six-LP Anthology of American Folk Music (Folkways) that fueled the fires of such ’60s folk revivalists as Dylan, Joan Baez, Muldaur, Van Ronk, and others. Like the anthology itself–reissued last year on CD to great acclaim–this is essential stuff for any folk music fan.
GREG CAHILL

Garbage
Version 2.0
Almo

SO THIS HACK is listening to Garbage’s Version 2.0, and at one point he’s duped into thinking it’s the Pretenders, or maybe it’s Folk Implosion–no, wait, it’s the Bangles! and Curve!–and it soon becomes painfully obvious that Version 2.0 isn’t really an album, but rather a musical inbreeding experiment, and soon the singer, Shirley Manson, is repeatedly grunting, “Sweat it all out!” and instead of some angst-ridden vixen, she sounds more like a bored sorority girl standing in front of a microphone, filing her nails and complaining that she’s already done eight takes, and the hack remembers hearing something about these savvy, middle-aged record producers from Wisconsin who decided to form their own band and recruited some unknown Eurotrash babe named Shirley to star in their videos, and it all starts to make sense, and at a certain point he can’t take any more, and he rips the disc from the CD player and promptly escorts it to the local record store and gleefully hands it over for $5 in credit even though the evil thing cost him $15 a few days earlier, and when the clerk asks him what he didn’t like about it, he hears himself muttering something about “derivative, manipulative horseshit,” and he figures the next time he wants to blow $10 on a similar exorcism, he’ll buy a jar of laxatives and spend the spare change on something infinitely more productive, like maybe a 12-pack of Meisterbräu.

CHRIS WEIR

Anthrax
Volume 8–The Threat Is Real
Ignition

ANTHRAX’S new disc is rock at its best–that is, the music of triumph. Their own victories include sounding stronger after personnel changes and forerunning Metallica on the curve of ’80s thrash-metal survivors adapting to ’90s grunge and alternative trends. Volume 8–The Threat Is Real never abandons thrash’s fierce guttural precision, yet always aims for classic rock. A not-too-surprising reference is the Who, whom Anthrax quotes both on the “Pinball Wizard” power chords that open the bulletlike “Catharsis” and on the “Baba O’Riley” double-timed finale that ends the swaggering “Toast to the Extras.” Anthrax have matured, showing the vision and the skill to flirt with both alt-country and electronica, a feat that’s unlikely to be repeated this year.KARL BYRN

James Carter
in carterian fashion
Atlantic

SAXOPHONIST James Carter is unique among jazz’s post-Marsalis young lions as an artist whose irreverent good humor exceeds his respect for purist tradition. His latest disc, in carterian fashion, continues his use of avant-garde squawking and obscure quotes to season seemingly straightforward bebop. Here, it’s blues-based Hammond organ funk that gives Carter his grounding. He’s swinging and smooth one moment, but slides in and out of chaos with impish control. It’s not a question of whether a traditional like “Down to the River” is cooler than the wild guitar-driven title track; Carter has acceptable fun with both.
K.B

From the September 10-16, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

McgWired Nation

By Bob Harris

LET’S TALK about St. Louis Cardinals heavy hitter Mark McGwire. The guy was always a power hitter, but suddenly he’s the size of a condo, and now when he plays in Wrigley Field, they don’t worry he’s gonna break a window across the street, they’re afraid he’s gonna break the blimp.

This guy got big faster than Monica Lewinsky. And it turns out he’s boosting his testosterone with a mixture of creatine and some not-quite-steroid thing I can’t pronounce and God knows what other biochemical tweaking. McGwire’s post-workout snack probably includes two thirds of the periodic table.

And so Roger Maris’ home-run record (61) proved easier to obtain than a hall pass from Betty Currie, and some people are screaming it’s not fair, just because McGwire has suddenly sprouted bolts in his neck.

Yeah, well, Maris and Babe Ruth played in Yankee Stadium, where until the 1970s right field was about 11 feet behind second base. You can argue all you want about who’s a better hitter. That’s the whole point of pro sports, which exist mostly so guys in bars can scream at each other through beer spittle and feel they have a clue while their arteries harden and their jobs are being offloaded to Malaysia.

Get a grip.

Yes, McGwire is a chemically altered freakboy who corks his bloodstream instead of his bat.

And who isn’t these days?

How many of the very sportswritersand boy, there’s a contradiction in terms–who are so upset because McGwire eats amino acids regularly adjust their own body chemistry with caffeine, cigarettes, sedatives, antidepressants, and alcohol?

All of those are legal. So is everything McGwire consumes. Our entire society is built on better living through chemistry. We’ll all suffer the side effects later.

In the meantime, the man hasn’t done anything wrong other than excel in an era where scientists gleefully grow babies in test tubes, transplant baboon hearts into people, and grow human ears on the ass of a rat.

So, 62-plus home runs? We’re lucky we’re still counting in Base 10.

And the only real surprise about McGwire is that he hasn’t been cloned. Yet.

Y’KNOW, the president’s exploitation of women might be even worse than you think. My problem with Clinton (and the GOP) has to do with economic policies–particularly the turning of American labor into just another global commodity–which work really well for people who own stock, and really badly for people who wheel stock around.

Whatever Clinton did or didn’t do–and the weird rumors floating around make me think the only reason Paula Jones’ attorneys didn’t get an admission of sexual activity was simply a lack of imagination in their definition–the sad fact is, Monica’s chores were pretty much the only job Clinton has created for low-income women since he was elected.

Remember welfare reform?

Two years ago, trying to appease the right in an election year, Clinton signed a bill eliminating Aid to Families with Dependent Children for hundreds of thousands of struggling Americans–the vast majority being women, many single mothers trying to raise children. This was despite the brutally obvious reality that plenty were already working–albeit at minimum- and low-wage jobs, often under the table just to get by.

(“Under the table” is meant here strictly in the payroll sense, of course. Get your mind out of the Oval Office.)

Meanwhile, Clinton’s support of international trade agreements has made lower-wage jobs harder to find, and the weakening of health and safety rules have made those jobs harder on those who find them.

And for those who don’t find jobs, one final irony: Welfare laws now include strict provisions requiring unwed mothers to establish paternity, which means providing welfare officials a complete inventory of their sex lives. In many cases, they have to specifically recount to a judge when, where, how often, with whom, and so on–precisely the details which Clinton refuses to provide himself.

Let’s stop worrying about what Clinton did to one woman in his study, and start paying attention to what he (along with the GOP Congress) has done to every other American womanright on top of his desk.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. So far.

From the September 10-16, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Charles Frazier

Mountain High

Cold Mountain, newly released on paperback.



‘Cold Mountain’ delivers epic Civil War tale of coming home

By Don Shackelford

IT IS THE SUMMER of 1864, and a Confederate soldier is in a military hospital in northern Virginia. His war wounds have healed sufficiently for him to stare longingly out the window, gathering his strength and courage to begin his journey, alone and on foot, to his home at Cold Mountain, high in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.

Thus begins one of modern literature’s epic journeys, one that has precedence in tales by Homer, Dante, Joyce, Melville, and myriad others of the hard road toward home.

Charles Frazier has crafted a convincingly lyric story that has catapulted Cold Mountain (Atlantic Monthly Press; $13; newly released in paperback) to the heights of the bestseller lists. For once, here is a popular book that deserves all the dedication and readership it gets.

Frazier tells two tales here. One is of Inman, the disillusioned soldier and his travails; the other is of Ada, the genteel and educated young woman back home who is struggling to survive and make do in a war-ravaged South.

Like Penelope, Ada does not waste her time pining away. She learns, with the help of her young friend Ruby, how to manage the farm: planting and harvesting crops; raising and butchering animals; bartering for trade goods.

The book is equally about the wandering soldier and the maturity and awakening of a belle confronted with the harsh realities of her time and situation.

The lyrical beauty of the book is Frazier’s ability to vividly convey geography, time of day, mood, weather, the natural world, characters, and the slow shift of seasons without allowing the eloquence of his language to obstruct the view. Inman approaches a fellow resident in the hospital:

“The blind man was square and solid in shoulder and hip, and his britches were cinched at the waist with a great leather belt, wide as a razor strop. …

“He sat with his head tipped down and appeared to be somewhat in a muse, but he raised up as Inman approached, like he was really looking. His eyelids, though, were dead as shoe leather and were sunken into puckered cups where his eyeballs had been.”

FRAZIER USES the vernacular and the objects of rural mid-19th-century America to great effect. He has lovingly re-created the feel of the era–no small feat–so that the reader steps assuredly and completely into the book, and into the imaginative world that great novels have always evoked.

The large facts and the small details of the book ring true.

The sometime violent scenes have the feel of events as they happen, and the affection one feels for the two main characters can be created only by an artist who has convincingly conveyed the recognizable humanity of his people.

We care about Inman and Ada, and we worry about them, just as we do about people we know, except that the arc of their fictional lives lies before us in a few pages.

I approached the denouement of the novel with trepidation, not even sure I truly wanted to know what becomes of them, but ultimately unable to resist the hard tug of the story.

This novel of return should become a classic. It is an astonishingly sure-footed first novel. It also creates the kind of psychic disturbances of which great works of art are capable. It confronts war without being didactic, just as it eases toward love without becoming sentimental.

It is a novel that has stayed with me since I read it, one that demands attention.

Cold Mountain is a work of historical fiction that helps restore that somewhat rusty art form, just as it does the idea that a story with a beginning, middle, and end–a linear novel–can, when well told, still be a powerful hermetic experience, one that needs no deconstruction.

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Neck Line

By Bob Harris

BETTER PAY close attention, folks. Unlikely as this sounds, if you accept the faulty reasoning of two New York Times writers, I might be sending secret signals to Monica Lewinsky.

This just in: Tabloid journalism is now completely mainstream.

If you’ll remember, this space predicted six months ago that coverage of this whole Fornigate thing was gonna get desperate. Last week, no less than the New York Times finally put a complete impossibility on their front page, which means pretty much everybody else joined in the tabloid nonsense as well.

Obviously, it’s a lot simpler to report what the New York Times said, even if it’s goofy, than it is to come up with something on your own.

Vicarious journalism is much easier and gets better ratings than the real thing anyway.

Everybody, therefore, wrote that Bill Clinton might have worn a jazzy gold necktie on the morning of Aug. 6 as some sort of secret message to Monica Lewinsky on the date of her grand jury testimony.

Yeah, right–and if you play his speech that day backwards, it sounds just like “The Walrus Was Paul.”

Oh, well.

Unfortunately, the article (which, if you look closely, was based mostly on hearsay and unnamed sources in the prosecutor’s office) managed to de-emphasize an obvious, gaping flaw in the theory. Notably, Lewinsky couldn’t possibly have received any such signal after she went into the grand jury at 8:30 in the morning, and Clinton didn’t wear the tie until more than two hours later.

End of theory.

Which the reporters knew, since they mentioned it in the article–but only as if it was some sort of failure on Bill and Monica’s part, not the actual planned schedule of events.

Too bad.

Hey, so did you catch my secret signal to Monica Lewinsky? If you take the first letter of the first 11 sentences in this piece … they spell out, “But I Love You.” Which obviously I couldn’t possibly be saying, not that reality matters much anymore.

Even if you think I really am sneaking a hidden message in here, keep going and take the first letters of the first 15 sentences in this piece … and they spell out “But I Love You, Newt.”

Not exactly likely either.

Doesn’t mean I’m not expecting a subpoena any minute now.

You might not be hearing from me again for a while. …

ARE YOU WORRIED because you can’t remember things?

Your worry is probably part of why you can’t remember things.

Researchers at the University of California at Irvine have recently proven that there’s a direct link between stress and the inability to remember stuff.

Which I’ve been reminded of a lot lately.

As you’re surely sick of hearing, I once got all the way to the final of the Jeopardy! Tourney o’ Champs, and then got creamed by a professor from Berkeley. I only mention it because they rebroadcast the shows a couple of weeks ago. Which means once again I can’t buy a box of cereal without somebody in line saying, “Hey, you’re that Jeopardy! guy. … Boy, did you get creamed!”

Yeah, thanks for reminding me.

The new study makes sense to me now, however. Stress was one of the main reasons I lost. Stress, and a bunch of categories like:

Things Bob Doesn’t Know. Things Bob Used To Know, but Forgot. Things Bob Never Heard Of. Things Only One Person on Earth Knows, and He Lives in Cambodia. Restaurants in Berkeley.

I’m not even bothering with the buzzer at this point; I’m searching the podium for an Eject button.

Anyway. Stress. It makes you forget things.

Stress makes your body secrete a bunch of hormones called glucocorticoids, which are great for speeding your reflexes–just in case you need to fight off a sharp-toothed predator, for example–but don’t do squat for your memory.

In fact, glucocorticoids pretty much block the whole memory process entirely. Which makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint: You don’t really need to remember John Quincy Adams while you’re wrestling with a puma.

Which means that the more you struggle to remember something–which causes stress–the less chance you have of actually remembering anything.

Take it from one who knows.

But I bet I could still kick a puma’s ass on a Daily Double.

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Recipe

0

Pan-Seared Scallops with
Mango Confit, Arugula,
and Lime-Caper Butter

Frakes’ original recipe calls for “dayboat scallops,” meaning the largest and freshest available from that day’s catch. Your key words: “large” and “fresh.” Serve with sauvignon blanc or fumé blanc.

Mango Confit

1 large mango, peeled and dicedinto small cubes1 small red bell pepper, peeled anddiced into small cubes1/2 tsp. granulated sugar1/4 tsp. champagne or rice winevinegarSalt to taste

Place ingredients in non-reactive pan and bring to a gentle boil. Simmer 30 seconds. Remove from heat and cool.

Sautéed Scallops

12 large scallops Extra-virgin olive oil for sautéeing Salt and pepper to taste4 cups arugula, loosely packed

Season scallops on both sides and carefully place in very hot pan coated with oil. Sauté for about 2-3 minutes or until golden brown. Flip scallops over and cook another minute, or until just firm to the touch. Set aside on a platter and keep warm. Add arugula to scallop pan and toss until wilted.

Lime-Caper Butter

1 lime, juice and zest2 tsp. capers1/4 tsp. honey8 oz. (one stick) softened butterSalt to taste

Place ingredients in stainless steel bowl and mix with wooden spoon until smooth. Just barely melt in pan (so as not to completely break up the butter). Place 1/4 of the arugula in center of each plate, top with three scallops, then surround with confit, butter mixture, and parsley if desired. Serves 4.

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Clockwatchers

0

Temp Terror


Hemmed in: Parker Posey and Toni Collette endure office hell in Clockwatchers.

‘Clockwatchers’ takes a subversive look at the bleak world of the modern office

By

WHAT AN appropriate title Clockwatchers is. Director Jill Sprecher and her sister, co-writer Karen Sprecher, have that usual problem of budding independent filmmakers: How do you stretch out to the necessary hour and a half running time with only one hour’s worth of plot? There’s half an hour of wasted film spent developing the atmosphere of frustration and boredom in a dull business office. And this half hour seems especially redundant, since the best thing about Clockwatchers is its atmosphere.

The film is set almost entirely at Global Credit, an office where four temporary employees are dying a slow death of boredom. The ordeal of the clerical workers here will bring back every humiliating Kelly assignment you’ve endured. Sprecher doesn’t spare us footage of adults playing with Liquid Paper, torturing paper clips, and popping felt-tip markers into a chain to make the world’s largest pen out of them. Jittery fluorescent lights enervate these desk workers. Walls the bilious yellow color of Dijon mustard add to the oppression of the place. Global Credit is patrolled by middle-managers Debra Jo Rupp, Kevin Cooney, and Bob Balaban, authentically depressing martinets, counting the pencils, monitoring the personal phone calls, and using the phrase “It has come to my attention …”

As Margaret, a rebellious, sarcastic career temp, the comic Parker Posey steals the show so thoroughly that the rest of the movie is annoying without her. Posey’s angular frame and tart voice are the edgiest thing in this movie. But the main character and narrator is Iris–Toni Collette, as a big-boned mouse, again. Collette is the Australian actress who played the lead in Muriel’s Wedding and who co-starred as Harriet in Emma. She’s played one too many shy, plain girls. Collette is a large, strong-looking woman, and she could play a real hell-raiser someday. While the Sprechers unleash Collette at the end of the film, most of Clockwatchers has her shuffling through the picture with her hair in her eyes. It may be a quiet performance, but it’s not a subtle one.

The other two temps, in declining order of importance to the story, are Paula (Lisa Kudrow, of Friends), a dim aspiring actress who wants to take the stage-name “Camille LaPlante.” You could pretend Kudrow looks like Teri Garr, but she doesn’t have Garr’s merriment and poise. Kudrow shows all the tendencies of the slumming big television star in an art movie. Her acting is loud and meant to get attention. But Kudrow’s tight, brief clothes, her mugging, her gesticulation, are all easily upstaged again and again by Posey–who will do something scene-stealing like licking her own sleeve to get some barbecue sauce off of it, or commenting that “the smaller the person, the bigger the desk.” Jane (Alanna Ubach) is the last of the quartet, a mild little woman who is about to marry an unlovable cheating man, just for the sake of being married.

In the office where the four are on long-term assignment, a friendship builds. And then it’s shaken by a series of petty thefts; since the temps are the lepers of the office they’re the first blamed. Global Credit hires on a new office assistant–a perm, not a temp–who has all of the earmarks of a spy. (Helen Fitzgerald has the wordless part and she makes a large impression; as the bespectacled peculiar Cleo, she looks like Steve Buscemi’s weak sister.)

It’s a credit to the Sprechers that they don’t bring the film to a strong point–the characters drift apart instead of being driven apart, and the film comes to a delicate finish. But aside from this open ending, Clockwatchers is too cut and dried. Narration is almost always a failing in a film, telling what should be shown, stating what should be suggested. It’s far too apparent what Iris is thinking and what it all means: When she does something especially cowardly, she repents of it on the soundtrack immediately.

Temporary work almost never shows up in the movies. When it did appear–in that risible thriller of a few years ago, The Temp–it reflected the point of management, trembling in dread of the maniac the agency had sent over this time. While the Sprechers stress the boredom of temp work, they don’t give credit to the insouciance of it. There’s usually more than one agency in town. Give Clockwatchers credit, though. It’s talking about the workplace in a current film, and that is as dangerous as talking about sex in a movie was 40 years ago. When the atmosphere of dull-dog office work shows up in a movie (say in LaBute’s otherwise dismissible In the Company of Men), you’re really seeing something positively risqué.

Clockwatchers plays Sept. 4-8 at the Lark Theatre, 549 Magnolia St., Larkspur; 415/924-3311. The screening on Sept. 4 at 7 p.m. will feature Christine Macias from Working Partnership USA speaking about the film and temporary work.

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sears Point Raceway

0

Spin Out


Michael Amsler

Collision course: Marvin Krasnansky says plans to increase seating at Sears Point Raceway to accommodate 110,000 fans is a potential disaster for Sonoma.

Group urges county officials to put brakes on Sears Point Raceway expansion

By Paula Harris

ASK SONOMA Valley resident Marvin Krasnansky about the proposed $30 million expansion of Sears Point Raceway and this outspoken critic is more than happy to oblige: “I’m concerned about the total impact–the traffic, the noise, and what’s at stake for the future of Sonoma Valley, and what we leave our children and grandchildren. This is a critical period.

“Do we really want this to become racetrack haven?”

Spurred by the growing popularity of NASCAR races, the North Carolina-based raceway owners initially wanted to spend $30 million to increase seating capacity from 25,000 to 110,000, and create a huge new grandstand 110 feet high and nearly two thirds of a mile long. However, after a public uproar, they came up with a revised plan that proposes reducing the height of the grandstand to 75 feet and making other cosmetic changes to “camouflage” the facility.

Krasnansky, who describes himself as a former “pushy New Yorker,” is co-chair of the Sears Point Yellow Flag Alliance, a recently formed non-profit group of about 80 residents who says they’re “committed to preserving Sonoma Valley’s quality of life.”

The draft environmental impact report on the controversial project was released in the spring, and the public comment period ended in July. The final EIR will be released in the next few weeks and then will go to the county Board of Zoning Adjustments.

But the Yellow Flag Alliance has slammed the draft EIR, saying it contains many faults. The group is worried that the proposed major expansion will lead to massive gridlock on Highway 37, endanger the environment with noise and air pollution, degrade wetlands and scenic open space, and open Sonoma County to irreversible commercial development.

The Sonoma Valley Citizens Advisory Commission, an agency appointed by the city of Sonoma and the county Board of Supervisors, also unanimously rejected the EIR as “inadequate and incomplete.”

In fact, Krasnansky is so concerned, he did something about it that stirred up the debate even more. Last month, the retired public-relations executive rattled investors on Wall Street by paying a news service to distribute a press release on the Internet claiming that the county could shut down Sears Point because of noise violations. The statement contained written comments from Rachel Sater, an attorney hired by the Yellow Flag Alliance, with Brandt-Hawley and Zoia, a Glen Ellen-based firm specializing in environmental law. In her July 30 written comments, Sater told the BZA, “The EIR must disclose mitigation measures that would bring the raceway under existing and projected conditions into compliance with the county’s noise code. … The EIR fails to explain that noise levels associated with current operations violate the Raceway’s current use permit.”

Internet providers then electronically cross-referenced the press release with the company’s stock information. The Speedway stock reportedly fell by almost $1.50 a share at that time, but it is unknown whether the press release caused the tumble.

KRASNANSKY is unrepentant about the high-tech tactic, but Sears Point president Steve Page, who had to field calls from shaken portfolio managers and investors, criticizes the move. “It was impossible to say what effect it had on stock prices, but it did raise concern,” he says. “What worries me was the tactic itself. This is an open public process, and there is a right way to go about it.”

The information in the release was misleading, he adds, noting that the race track is not in danger of closing. Indeed, he says that Sonoma County has no noise ordinance. “The general plan lays out certain standards recommended for business and various land uses,” he explains. “Our use permit was modified in 1992 and incorporates a sound study that explicitly says Sears Point Raceway occasionally achieves noise levels in excess of county standards. To say we’re in violation of the use permit is incorrect.”

Sonoma County officials have acknowledged that the race track sometimes exceeds noise standards. However, there is no action pending against the facility and no citations have been issued in the past.

Meanwhile, the two sides have spelled out their positions in dueling ads, which have recently run in the Sonoma Index-Tribune. Sears Point officials say the proposed upgrades are intended to improve traffic management and reduce current congestion.

But the Yellow Flag Alliance is asking county government to scale back the proposed seating capacity by 60 percent. The group is urging the BZA and the county Board of Supervisors to cut the proposed seating capacity to 44,500, reduce the frequency of large events–especially during the height of the tourist season–and limit the use of the facility to motor sports.

The group claims the aggressive expansion is just the first lap in a long-term plan to accelerate Sears Point Raceway’s growth. The group charges that, based on the track record of Sears Point’s parent company at its four other raceways, “this grandiose expansion plan … represents just the first step to increase the number of major events, attendance, and other development at Sears Point.”

SPEEDWAY Motorsports Inc. of Charlotte, N.C., a publicly owned company with a market value of $1.15 billion, purchased Sears Point in November 1996. SMI also operates racetracks and entertainment complexes in Charlotte, Atlanta, Fort Worth, and Bristol, Tenn. These facilities are used for concerts and auto shows, and include condominium developments, office towers, restaurants, and private clubs with year-round memberships.

It’s a scary scenario for critics residing in this scenic, semi-rural area, with its backdrop of vineyards and rolling hills, known as the “Gateway to the Wine Country.” However, Page says there are no such plans for the 30-year-old Sonoma facility. “These allegations about potential rock concerts, etcetera, are not grounded in fact,” he says. “There’s no basis for this. Our use permit does not allow for it, and the statements are just intended to inflame and scare people.”

Krasnansky is not convinced. “They say they have no plans right now, but it gives them an awful lot of wiggle room,” he complains. “They need to justify their investment with increased use.”

Page says the company has listened and responded to public input and will continue to do so, but the goal is to fix a sports facility that is “seriously substandard.” He recognizes the battle ahead. “There’s a group of people that just don’t like the fact that there’s a racetrack in southern Sonoma County and will not be accepting of anything we propose as long as Sears Point continues to exist,” he says. “To them, somehow racing is an inappropriate [activity] for this area.”

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Space District

0

The Party’s Over


Michael Amsler

Open Space District gala gets grilled

Edited by Greg Cahill

AN EXCLUSIVE and swanky soirée dreamed up by the beleaguered Sonoma County Open Space District in recognition of its own members, which would have had taxpayers footing the $10,000 bill for upscale catering, fine wines, and entertainment, became the target of county officials’ ire this week.

Sonoma County supervisors were furious when they learned of the invitation-only party, which was to be held on Sept. 13 at Richard’s Grove and Saralee’s Vineyard on Slusser Road, northwest of Santa Rosa.

“I was aware that the Open Space District was doing an outreach program [which includes public hikes on protected lands and an art show], but the first I heard of a private reception using taxpayer money was on Thursday,” says Supervisor Mike Cale.

“My blood pressure elevated severely.”

A showdown occurred during Tuesday’s Board of Supervisors meeting when an embarrassed Open Space District Chief Dave Hansen apologized to the supes for not informing them of the arrangements.

Hansen said that, in light of recent “negative publicity” about the party, he wanted to postpone the reception until spring and solicit major sponsors and donors for a new event that would be open to the public.

“Seven unsolicited donors have already offered $3,000,” he told the supervisors.

“Publicity should have nothing to do with it,” shot back Supervisor Tim Smith. “Anytime public funds are used, the public should be included. I don’t want that message to be lost. You need to talk to us first.

“Precious public resources need to be spent for the public.”

A visibly angry Cale agreed. “It’s not about media attention; it’s about proper planning,” fumed the supervisor. “Failing to communicate with this body is not an oversight–it’s suicidal. Don’t leave me out of the loop again!”

Preparations had been made to celebrate the work of the Open Space District for some weeks, and 400 invitations had already been mailed out. Almost a third of those who were invited are employees of local or state government agencies.

The guest list also included 40 volunteers from the Open Space Districts’ two advisory boards, 32 appraisers and real estate consultants, 78 landowners, and 17 members of the media.

The tony gala was slated to feature food, wine, and beer catered by Mistral Restaurant of Santa Rosa, plus live entertainment.

County voters created the Open Space District, which is funded by a quarter-cent sales tax, in 1990. So far, the district has protected almost 27,000 acres of land, mainly through the purchase of development rights. That selection process has come under fire in the past. A recent performance audit criticized Hansen’s management of the district.

Hansen says he proposed the reception as part of a month-long effort to enhance the Open Space District’s public image. But supervisors said that holding an invitation-only party at the expense of the public was not the way to go.

Supervisor Paul Kelley told Hansen that although it’s a good thing to give volunteers recognition and show the public the value of the sales tax initiative, he had “serious concerns” about throwing an exclusive party using taxpayer dollars.

Kelley then asked Hansen the date for the party. When Hansen responded that there was no date set as yet, Kelley replied with more than a tinge of sarcasm:

“I expect you’ll let us know. … I’m sure you’ve learned and that we’d see those notifications in the future.”

Ouch!

From the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Laurie Gwen Shapiro

Pop Culture

By Jessica Feinstein

Rarely can a first-time novelist churn out such an unexpected surprise. Rachel Gannelli, the main character in Laurie Gwen Shapiro’s New York-paced tale The Unexpected Salami, is the quintessential Generation X poster child–overeducated, smart-assed, neurotic as all hell, and overcome with ennui. Her story, rich with hilarious observations, begins in Melbourne, Australia, where her self-imposed exile is about to come to a hairy end.

After chucking her WASPy fiancé and his Hampton summer home for an adventure down under, Rachel has found herself sharing a scummy flat with an aging rock band, the Tall Poppies.

Featuring Phillip (the egomaniacal lead crooner), Stuart (the heroin-addicted drummer), and bass player Colin (cute enough to be Rachel’s lust interest of the moment), the Tall Poppies are over the hill by rock-‘n’-roll standards–in their early 30s. By the end of the first chapter, Stuart has been killed in the middle of a video shoot by mobsters looking for payment, and the Poppies are jettisoned to instant international fame. Rachel, at the urging of her Jewish mother, hightails it back home.

This unexpected turn of events brings our heroine back to her overprotective parents’ Manhattan digs. They’re wintering in Miami, so Rachel bounces from one lame temp job to another, wondering what could have been if she and Colin had been able to let their love flower. Then, one afternoon at her favorite deli, she runs into her dead roommate Stuart, very much alive and still very much an addict. She whisks him back to the apartment and enlists her artist brother and college friend in a Florence Nightingale do-it-yourself detox fiasco, which sounds revolting but turns into a screamingly funny Three Stooges-esque scene as they chain Stuart to the bedpost and watch him withdraw.

Meanwhile, Colin’s narration is interspersed throughout in perfect Australian lilt–Shapiro’s ear for accents and slang is so acute that Colin’s voice echoes while being read. “I woke up once more with a spanking headache. As per my usual cure, I reached for my fags.” Once Rachel discovered the scam Colin has concocted to get famous, she’s furious and writes him off as a twit. Yet Colin’s account of the action renders him sympathetic (as well as pathetic) enough that we root for a happy ending for these lost souls.

Shapiro’s writing is sarcastic, but peppered with truisms only an upper-crust socialite could know–the way the neighborhoods are divided in Manhattan by class, the private-school lingo and the acerbic portrayal of the preppie wardrobe. She makes Rachel half-Jewish and half Italian as she suffers through the post-college, pre-career blues, and through her wit she reveals that her search is for much more than a job or a boyfriend: “I lacked a belief system. Hebrew School Saturdays and Catechism Sundays had long ago canceled each other out. … Atheism, or whatever this was, was damn depressing.” Ah–there’s that ennui that we 20-somethings find so adorable.

Rachel is a complete, autonomous character, though she has obvious autobiographical origins. Shapiro did live in Australia with a band, she did marry the bass player, and she knows New York better than Woody Allen does. The humor of The Unexpected Salami is tinged with discussions à la Seinfeld and hysteria reminiscent of Absolutely Fabulous, two of Shapiro’s favorite television shows. If they’re your favorites, too, you’d best expect to laugh through this one.

Web extra to the September 3-9, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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