Sonoma County Elections

Where We Stand

Vote for Hamilton: Petaluma City Councilmember Jane Hamilton wins our endorsement for the 2nd Supervisorial District. Hamilton has the experience the south county needs to help implement complicated transit improvements and nurture the region’s fast-growing economy.

A select list of local endorsements

Edited by Greg Cahill

THE PUNDITS, in their infinite arrogance, say you are a faded, jaded electorate. They say you’re too dazed by the glare of the presidential sex scandal to recognize that some of the most important decisions about the future of the North Bay will be made Nov. 3 at the ballot box. They predict you’ll sit at home that day and watch Melrose Place reruns.

We don’t buy that.

Be smart. Get out and vote. Here is a select list of endorsements to help sort through the issues. (For more endorsements, see “A Quick and Dirty Election Guide“).

Measures B and C

Reality check. In a perfect world, you’d get public policy and planning processes that please everyone–something that would be all things to all people.

In the real world, you get back-room deals and compromises that often leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Meet Measures B and C.

A recent public opinion poll found that 79 percent of respondents support Measure B, which calls for construction of two extra freeway lanes, a passenger-rail line, freeway interchange upgrades, bike lanes, and a few other bells and whistles. Yet respondents are just about evenly split over Measure C, an advisory measure authorizing a 1/2-cent sales tax increase over the next 20 years and requesting, but not requiring, that county officials spend the money on the aforementioned transit package. The sales tax measure is expected to raise about $627 million toward $950 worth of transit improvements (federal funds and other revenue sources will cover the rest).

The measures are the culmination of a decade of planning. Most recently, the proposed transit plan was crafted by a coalition of local conservationists (mostly the leadership of Sonoma County Conservation Action), business leaders, and public officials based on recommendations issued in a report by respected transportation consultant Peter Calthorpe.

Even Calthorpe’s report shows that the plan is flawed–expect to shave only about 1/10 of the time off your commute after we taxpayers have spent a billion dollars. And opponents, namely the Environmental Defense Fund, argue that the plan is fiscally flawed as well–it underestimates costs and fails to take into account expected cost overruns.

The supes say there’s plenty of funding in the tax measures.

Under the pay-as-you-go plan (in which projects are completed as the sales tax revenue accumulates), the EDF estimates, rail operations would not begin until 2015 and the highway widening would not be completed until 2016. If cost overruns occur, or if the public demands faster action, they say, the county may be forced to defer all other improvements and issue costly transit bonds to begin rail service by 2003 and get the extra freeway lanes built by 2005.

And what about that passenger-rail line? Only about a quarter of the increased sales tax revenue has been set aside for the train–about $175 million, barely enough to make one commute run per hour between Santa Rosa and San Rafael–and the plan doesn’t accommodate expensive southern storage facilities and other pricey items.

Indeed, the train is a weak link in the transit plan, since a public opinion poll earlier this year showed that while a majority of respondents favor a passenger-rail service, only 40 percent say they will actually use it and then only if it reaches Larkspur. Here’s the problem: At 40 mph, the train will require nearly an hour to travel from Santa Rosa to San Rafael (the proposed rail system won’t extend to the Larkspur Ferry to make a San Francisco connection because there’s not enough money to fund that stretch), the number of feeder buses from outlying areas will be minimal, and the buses will run infrequently at rush hour.

Not much of a deal, huh?

That said, after a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, Measures B and C still constitute the best plan. For instance, without the money these measures provide it is likely that the existing railway, whose freight operations keep nearly 40,000 trucks a year off Highway 101, will shut down. Even limited rail service is better than none. Also, defeat of the transit plan will deprive the region of $51 million for sorely needed bus improvements and $18 million for bikeways.

We agree with Sonoma County Conservation Action that the rail service should be built first to take advantage of $28 million in state funds that must be used for rail within three years and to lure commuters off the freeway, and we hope that the limited runs are just the first phase of a more complete rail service in the North Bay. We also applaud those conservationists–including members of the EDF, Friends of the River, Greenbelt Alliance, and the Sierra Club–who have either taken a stand against the transit plan or remained neutral (as is the case of the latter two organizations). Their energy and expertise will be needed to fight the bid to mine 6 million tons of gravel from the already damaged Russian River to be used in the freeway paving project, and to find ways to make this plan more workable.

Quite simply, commuters and the private sector need to recognize that the transit plan alone is not going to fix the North Bay’s commuter mess. Other steps are needed, and ultimately commuters must accept responsibility for altering their driving habits by embracing car pools and public transit.

And there are other low-cost options that should be considered to augment Measures B and C. For instance, how about better transportation system management plans that feature such incentives as staggered work shifts, telecommuting, or subsidized bonuses for employees who car-pool? And shouldn’t regulators fast-track a proposed ferry service from Petaluma to Larkspur? The list goes on.

Most important, Sonoma County residents should acknowledge that extra freeway lanes may help fuel suburban sprawl. Part of the key to the transit plan’s success is a campaign to focus growth in transit-oriented, mixed-use developments in downtown areas. In 1996, a majority of voters backed five urban growth boundaries, reining in development to what residents hope will be manageable levels. (Measure I would restrict development south of Petaluma to the Sonoma/Marin county line, and establish a UGB around the River City.) These are powerful land-use tools that must be guarded at all costs if the county is to exhibit economic growth while retaining its pastoral charm.

Vote Yes on Measures B and C.

2nd Supervisorial District

In a crowded field in June, Petaluma City Councilwoman Jane Hamilton stood out as the brightest candidate. However, a close race with Petaluma Police Sgt. Mike Kerns, a virtual political neophyte, forced a runoff election.

Hamilton remains a bright, thoughtful, and able candidate.

Favored by the local environmental community and backed by most of the City Council, this two-term City Council member and telecommunications manager gained kudos a couple of years ago for helping open the public dialogue during the divisive Lafferty Ranch swap debate. While she has been cautious in her support of Measures B and C, Hamilton backs the transit plan and has pledged to make sure that the county Board of Supervisors lives up to the intent of Measure C, if it passes, advising but not requiring supes to spend all funds from the sales tax increase on the transit fixes.

Her opponent is a 25-year veteran of the local police force who rose to prominence as the department’s spokesman during the Polly Klaas kidnap/murder case. He has twice been elected as a trustee to the Waugh School District and recently picked up the endorsement of retiring Supervisor Jim Harberson.

Kerns has never been involved in any significant planning decision, and that’s a serious shortcoming, considering that the Board of Supervisors is going to make crucial decisions in the next couple of years about the future of the region’s transportation and economy.

Those decisions should not be placed in the hands of a rookie.

Vote for Jane Hamilton.

From the October 22-28, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Stairway to Heaven

By David Templeton

For over five years, writer David Templeton has been taking interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. His guests have included Joan Baez, Larry King, Suzie Bright, Barry Lopez, and Ram Dass. This week, he ventures through heaven and hell with award-winning Seattle author Bruce Barcott, with whom he views the mystical epic What Dreams May Come.

I already knew that Bruce Barcott was an excellent writer, an award-winning author with a knack for describing the natural world so vividly that readers can all but smell, taste, and touch it. I also knew–from reading his book The Measure of a Mountain–that he’s a former philosophy major, holds a keen awareness of various schools of intellectual thought, is an accomplished backpacker, and knows all the words to the theme song from The Flintstones.

So, I was already pretty impressed.

But Bruce Barcott, I am further delighted to discover, also does a first-rate Max von Sydow impression.

Yes! We are going to hell now,” rumbles Barcott, adopting von Sydow’s thickly articulated baritone growl. “You want to go to hell, we’ll go to hell. Get in the boat. Don’t stand up.”

What has inspired this spontaneous homage is the film What Dreams May Come, which we have just seen, and in which von Sydow has a ripe little role as the surly “tracker” who leads a newly dead doctor (Robin Williams) across heaven and into hell in search of the doctor’s doomed wife. The film–a visually astonishing work with mind-blowing visions of the afterlife–was a bit gloomy and morose for my taste, and the character of an out-of-focus, heavenly “greeter” (Cuba Gooding Jr.) who spouts so many pop-psych aphorisms–“Your house has no windows; what is it you do not wish to see?”–that Barcott felt he’d wandered into a bad therapy session.

“Or a Deepak Chopra seminar,” he laughs. “After all that stale, New Age, Buddha-in-the-field stuff, Max von Sydow was a breath of fresh of fresh air. I couldn’t wait to go to Hell with him.”

There is plenty of hell–of a different kind–and of heaven too, in The Measure of a Mountain: Beauty and Terror on Mount Rainier. In Barcott’s award-winning exploration of Washington State’s mighty and majestic marvel, the Seattle-based author–a confessed acrophobic whose growing obsession with Rainier took him from its lush, low-lying meadows to the terrifying top of its icy summit–has written the eccentric biography of a passive-aggressive mountain, a mountain Barcott calls “the largest and most dangerous volcano in the United States of America.” In terms both geologic and poetic–with lots of personal insight and a double-dose of sharp-edged humor–Barcott lays into the monumental arrogance of the vast majority of mountain-climbers, but never denies the powerful draw of Rainier itself, a mountain so seductive and beautiful that many would give up their lives–and annually do–just to partake of its secrets.

Barcott, who admits to having thought a great deal about death while scaling Rainier, confesses to a somewhat utilitarian belief system when it comes to the afterlife.

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m a wimpy bet-hedger,” he shrugs. “I do think there’s someplace you go afterwards, and it appeals to the logical side of me–or maybe it’s just the Seattle side–that you would recycle souls, reincarnating back into someone else. That seems like a wise use of energy.”

“I’ve never thought it an unwise use of energy,” I counter, “to think that we might just become worm food and mulch, fertilizing the earth with our remains. Seems like a reasonable recycling of energy to me.”

He nods. “There’s that great Wallace Stegner quote,” he says. ” ‘The only thing I owe the earth is about three pounds of chemicals.’ “

“Three pounds?” I repeat. “Is that all?”

“Give or take a few ounces,” Barcott affirms.

In Dreams, the hereafter isn’t all that different, in its basic functions, from the bet-hedging Great Beyond that Barcott has described. There is reincarnation for anyone who signs up, and there is also heaven. In fact, there are countless heavens, one for each resident, custom-made to fit that person’s specific wishes and desires: Williams’ heaven is an impressionist landscape, still dripping wet with paint when he arrives. Max von Sydow’s heaven is an immense floating city with endless shelves all crammed with books.

As for hell, it’s the place for tormented souls and tragic suicides, people in such despair that, even in death, they can’t give up their unhappiness, and have fashioned their own tragic worlds in which to spend eternity.

“That whole suicide thing seemed a bit creepy to me,” Barcott notes. “What about someone who’s 67 years old and dying of cancer, and they decide to hasten their death by three weeks instead of lying there in a hospital dosed up on morphine? ‘Sorry. You’re off to hell. Should have waited three more weeks.’ It seems like an awful trick to play on someone in pain or despair.

“The whole other can of worms to open,” he goes on, “is the question: Who’s the line? Where’s the line between who gets into heaven and who doesn’t?”

Good question. In the film, God is pretty much just a rumor, kind of like on Earth; he’s “up there somewhere,” looking down, even in heaven, and there seems to be no so-called Judgment Day vibe going on; if you think you’re in heaven, you are.

Barcott once heard someone describe a way to determine if a movie is good or bad.

“The dividing line is the film The Truth about Cats and Dogs,” he explains. “Precisely neither good nor bad. So you’d say about a movie, ‘Gee, was it better than Cats and Dogs? Yeah? Well, than it’s a good movie. Was it worse? Then it’s a bad movie.’ So, using that system, what person, what life, would stand as dead center between heaven and hell?”

“Michael Milken,” I venture a guess.

“What about the normal person who leads a normal life, finally dies, and has an obituary three lines long?” he wonders. “He never did anything great, but never did anything especially bad. So does he simply pass on through because he doesn’t come close to Hitler or Pol Pot? Or is he judged according to little things, weighing every time he kicked a dog against every time he helped a little old lady across the street?”

Ah. The big questions.

“According to the movie,” I reply, “I guess it would depend on how happy he was during his ordinary, run-of-the-mill life.”

“Maybe his heaven will be Shopping Mall U.S.A. or something,” he observes.

“Which would serve as hell for other people,” I note. “They could save space that way.”

“Not everyone in Heaven is going to have good taste, you know,” Barcott warns. “My own hell,” he further remarks, “would probably be the first day of elementary school in a brand-new school where I didn’t know anyone. That was my childhood. We moved a lot. Every school year, I wanted to die.”

“Good hell,” I nod approvingly. “What about your heaven?”

“My heaven would be Max von Sydow’s library,” he answers. “That would be the main room in heaven house. The house would be a library, a bookstore, one room with eight or 10 of my best friends at a dinner party, and another with no one in it at all. Then there’d be a backyard, with mountains that came down to the ocean–but it would be an ocean with good waves and warm water.

“Would Mount Rainier be one of those mountains?”

“Sure, Why not?”

“And Max von Sydow? Would he be there in heaven?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Bruce Barcott is certain. “He’d be the librarian.”

Web extra to the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Jive 4

Jive Time

1) The Second Coming By Ashley Bowline

MOMMA SAYS the devil comes down on children that don’t eat their green beans. I keep five cans under my bed and put back more when I’m down to two. I eat one green bean a day, and it keeps me holy. I ain’t going to hell–even though I steal gum from Nanny’s purse on Sundays and sometimes only eat half a bean. Momma says Jesus is coming again, so I’ve decided that I have a good chance of being him. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see the light all around me; I think my holy glow is beginning.

Yep, at 10, I will start to save the world, and I’ll tell everyone the good news that I’m here.

The first thing I’d do as Jesus is get momma a house that don’t leak. Dad always promised to buy her a new house, but he lies. He’d be the next person I’d find, the bastard, and hit him with some lightning or use my halo to bind his arms and legs and throw him to a pool of sharks.

That’s if I could find him. We haven’t heard from him since he got out.

I’d probably make my sister an angel, that’s if she keeps sharing her tape recorder. When she’s selfish, acting like a sinner, I say I’ll call the demons on her. Anyway, she’d make an all right-looking angel. She’s got these crazy blonde curls that would fit right in on all those silly Christmas cards. She wouldn’t be holding a stupid harp though. She’d have a harmonica. She loves that damned thing, the one dad gave her ‘fore he left.

The LOVE: DADDY sticker is still there but smeared from her fingers.

Next, I’d make momma an Archangel. She’s good with the scraped knees and can pull a Band-Aid off without a hurt. Maybe she’d take care of all the kids that get killed and go to heaven, like my brother, Sidney. If I’d known I was Jesus last year, then I coulda saved him, but I’ve only been eating my beans for seven months.

Momma’d be real happy to see Sidney. We all miss him because he was so nice to everyone. If he was still alive, then he’d a made a better Jesus than me. Everyone would still think so ’cause he use to wave at everyone, and they waved back. You can always tell you’re popular by the number of waves you get. I don’t wave. It don’t matter ’cause Jesus is the most fucking popular guy in the world anyway.

Who woulda guessed he’d show up today. When I saw his ugly face at the door I ran for the gun. Momma saves it for burglars, but I figured he was worse than that. Anyway, I did it. He bled a lot. Momma won’t like having to clean it up, and it’ll probably stain. I’m waiting till she gets home, but I’m not worried much–I had my green bean this morning.

2) Skin Trade By Lynn Watson

A COPY of Playboy magazine dangles from his hand. He’s fallen asleep, his naked body half-covered by the cowboy blanket–all spurs and rope. His member is hidden, luckily, from view. Because I’m not supposed to be here in his room. I’m not supposed to be waking him up for school. He’s my older brother and tall enough to be popular, big enough to play high school football. I am the short kid sister, still unkissable, the imprint of braces making me untouchable. I’ve done my best solitary snake-in-the-grass trick of inching the doorknob open so quietly he hasn’t heard me. He’s making love to the naked body of the woman falling off the right side of his bed. Her thighs bulge over the edge of the mattress, her legs rolling towards the floor. He’s made love to her before. There’s not an inch of her body he hasn’t touched.

I’m in trouble. I’m in as much trouble as if she were his sweetheart and I’d walked in on them kissing on the couch. My only hope is to shut the door as silently as I opened it. Otherwise, I’m dog food. I’m a welterweight punching bag. He’ll pound me into ground round, sure I won’t keep my mouth shut. I tiptoe on the linoleum, a diagonal pattern of fleur-de-lis. The floor creaks. I freeze, then take another step. I’ll never walk into his room again, unannounced.

Behind the bedroom door, behind the barn, my brother conducts his secret rituals, dealing shares in the skin trade. It’s better than algebra or conversational French. He makes sure the knife is sharp, the blade thin, so the marks he makes won’t be noticed in gym class or football practice. Under the arms, inside the thighs, he carves himself, editing out the pieces of his life that don’t work. No one sees him cry.

The nude woman completes her descent as I close his bedroom door, her head flopping forward to meet her feet. She’s whole again, unexposed. She’ll be good for another ride, tonight.

3) Jeremy By Nan Rad

I MET HIM at a party at the grange on an extremely cold Humboldt night, given by an activist group in that Christmas spirit of only caring about your common man once a year. There were mounds of crab, chicken wings, French bread. But for some reason no one was eating. Maybe they were on acid.

I saw drums. That’s always scary because that could only mean one thing–drum circle. And to me, that means to get the hell out. I could tell it would be hard to pull Zoe away from the party, but I did carry a gun for those special occasions.

“Hey–aren’t you going to at least stay and smoke pot with me?”

It was one of those charming, housing-challenged men. He looked like Keanu Reeves, except dirtier, fewer teeth, and sores all over his arms. His name was Jeremy. I was dumbfoundedly smitten. God knows what attracts people, maybe it was that smell of garbage around him … but I’m sure it was his brown eyes. They reminded me of a wild animal’s. They were the eyes of someone who had been to the edge and back, then back to the edge for some more. Wolf eyes.

Wow.

Face cast toward the clear December sky, Jeremy explained in a sort of Jim Morrison immaculately stoned way, “I’m a nomad. I prefer to be called nomad rather than homeless. I’m so free.”

I want him. Fleeting thought.

I gave him my number when the dope was gone.

“Thanks,” Jeremy shouted.

“Are you nuts?” said Zoe, the one who has a boyfriend who is a bisexual heroin addict with a pierced tongue.

When I arrived home Jeremy called to meet him up at Moonstone Beach. I grabbed my sleeping bag and Mexican backpack and headed out the door.

My mind was devoid of all thoughts as I arrived at the beach, because if I had any thoughts, like the logical Vulcan types, I wouldn’t have been doing this.

I spotted the lone campfire. My hormones caught the scent of the wolf.

We mated that night. Wolfstyle.

He told me his tale, as I clung to his long, elegant, and filthy body. He did a “little” speed and he owned no socks.

After that night, I encountered Jeremy once more, hitchhiking on Highway 101. I pulled over, recognizing his loping walk. His thumb wasn’t out, but I knew he needed a ride.

He wanted a ride to a motel in downwardly mobile Eureka to “save” one of his many girlfriends. It was reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only woman that was unwittingly drawn to him. I was definitely the only one with a job.

We looked at each other, held each other. I had gotten used to the smell by now. We kissed. Jeremy took off the brown beaded necklace he had on. “Merry Christmas.” He put the necklace over my neck and tumbled toward the hotel.

His fur was still entangled on the clasp of the beads.

Coincidences and strange encounters.

Honorable mention Gator Hole By Marty Hamburger

THE SMELL OF ROT was thick and sweet; she gulped her breath. She gagged and vomited, recognizing the noise that awoke her. She opened her eyes, but the dark was thicker than the stench.

She panicked, struggled, and screamed as a nightmare became reality. She felt the mud, heard it sucking on her arms and chest. Her stomach seized in a wave of claustrophobia. It was the same feeling she had when she was little, trying to get the kittens from the big pipe under Grandmother’s driveway. Stuck to the waist, her arms at her sides, she wriggled herself free that time. Now the movement only stirred up the fumes, fresh stink, and another wave of vomiting. She rested her face in the bile and remembered having lunch with the cute boy from work.

She became aware of water. The rushing sound filling her head began making sense. It was the river, but now she was 10 years old at the family reunion. Diving in the murky water, she could hold her breath longer than any of the cousins. She reached the bottom and held on to a rock to stay in place. The sounds of boat motors and splashing swimmers surrounded her in that dark place. When her head broke the surface, the entire family had gathered at the shore to look for her drowned body. She got a good whipping for “pulling that stunt.”

The sudden throbbing of her leg ripped the nostalgia from her mind. She gasped, but the air was a rancid sock shoved in her mouth. She had nothing left to puke, but the retching didn’t stop for a long time. When it did, she remembered walking with the boy along the bank of the river.

Terror instead of bile jumped into her throat this time. Her mouth opened in the gape of a horrible sob that never came, just convulsed her body.

There hadn’t been enough time to react as the alligator lunged from the water. The boy grabbed her hand to run, but she slipped on the grass. The alligator bit her leg to the bone, then dragged her scuttling backwards towards the river. The boy came back, reached for her too late.

She spun in a death roll; the alligator pirouetted to kill her. She held her breath as the flesh tore from her leg. She was dragged to the bottom. She remembered the twisting and shoving, being pushed into dark space. She knew the habits of alligators. She was stored away under the water, left to rot and become easier to eat later.

In the pitch black, she didn’t know how long she had been in that putrid hole, but the terror shook her to life. With a final breath of foul air, she kicked and pushed.

The mud tried to hold her, but relented with a doleful sucking sound; she floated free.

Honorable mention The Little Metamorphosis By Jeff Elder

MR. MAN AWAKENED one morning and discovered that one part of his body had turned into a microphone.

He went to the bathroom to pee. It made a very loud sound.

Curious, and oddly stimulated, he touched himself. Such an ear-splitting screech of amplified feedback wailed through his apartment that he threw his hands up as though he were being held at gun point. He looked warily around, blushing deeply.

Mr. Man got dressed for work and walked out onto the street. A theater technician walked up to him, unzipped Mr. Man’s pants, tapped on the microphone several times, and said, “TESTING.”

The technician looked at someone in the distance and jerked his thumb up several times, calling for an increase in something. Then the technician left.

A smirky stand-up comedian approached Mr. Man, pulled the microphone from his pants, and began telling jokes.

“Is it just me,” the comedian asked passersby, “or is this microphone a little bit Freudian? I’ll tell you one thing–it’s more of a microphone than a megaphone, if you know what I mean.”

Mr. Man stood by, uncomfortable. He was afraid that if he objected, the comedian might make more fun of him.

Next, Mr. Man did a news break with an anchorman. “Very professional,” the anchorman intoned after the broadcast. “Good acoustics and a tidy circumcision.”

Mr. Man did a dance mix with a rap group, which made him feel macho and excited. And he did a radio show with a shock jock. That show was low key and bawdy, so Mr. Man just relaxed and hung loose.

After his big day of amplified and private exposure, Mr. Man returned home tired and went to bed early. He entertained notions of braving the feedback, of playing a whole screeching Jimi Hendrix national anthem. But instead he left the microphone alone and went to sleep.

He dreamed that a mute woman was talking to him in sign language. Silently she spoke with hands, which at times fluttered like doves and at times struck like hammers. This is what she said:

“Mr. Man, you have disappointed me sexually, not by doing too little as you always feared but by doing far too much. Sex should be a hummingbird, a purple rose, a single drop of honey. You have made it a nauseating professional wrestling match of absurd tauntings, corporeal hurtlings, and counterfeit results.

“I am changing you back now, because we have much to do. But I expect you to go slowly, to go carefully, and with the delicate humility of a pardoned prisoner on his very first morning of liberty.”

When Mr. Man awoke, his private parts had returned to normal. But throughout his life, on this very same day, sometimes he would awaken to find that his feet were cars, or that his hands were telephones, or that his body was a shopping mall, or his head a television.

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Cybersex

Sexy Ways

By H. B. Koplowitz

THE PRESIDENT isn’t the only one having trouble defining sex lately. With all the hanky-panky going on in cyberspace, who knows what constitutes infidelity anymore? Happily married person meets who knows what in a chat room. Chat leads to private messages, which leads to intimate e-mails, which leads to tumescent phone calls. Even if it doesn’t culminate at the Shady Inn, there comes a point at which the argument that cybersex isn’t sex begins to melt down.

The extent to which cybersex is affecting real sex, along with real marriages, families, and other relationships, has become a subject of hot speculation, but mostly anecdotal evidence, much of which can be found online.

At Self-Help & Psychology Magazine, Marlene M. Maheu and Kristin Levine are conducting a survey on “CyberRomance: CyberRelationships and CyberSex” for a forthcoming book. Of the thousand people who have filled out their online survey so far, about half answered “yes” to “Are cyber-sexual affairs safer than physical ones?” Seventy percent said they knew someone who has had a “cyber affair,” and 70 percent agreed that cybersex is a threat to traditional relationships.

What is this thing called cyber love? According to “Cyber Romance 101“, there is no one answer. But the site is a primer for cyber relationships, with links to books, articles, advice columnists, psychologists, studies, fiction, and first-person accounts of cyber lust.

The Center for Online Addiction claims to be “the World’s First Consultation Firm and Virtual Clinic for Cyber-Related Issues.” It is run by Kimberly S. Young, a clinical psychologist and self-described “cyberpsychologist” who has also written a book, Caught in the Net: How to Recognize the Signs of Internet Addiction and a Winning Strategy for Recovery. Young estimates that “1 in 5 Internet addicts are engaged in some form of on-line sexual activity,” and that while men are more likely to look at cyberporn, women are more likely to engage in cybersex.

The site has tests you can take to find out whether you have an Internet or cybersexual addiction. Symptoms include “hiding your on-line interactions from your significant other,” “feeling guilt or shame from your on-line use,” and “frequently using anonymous communication to engage in sexual fantasies not typically carried out in real-life.”

THE THEME “Cybersex and Cyber-Romance” takes up the first issue of Cybersociology Magazine. Some of the articles are scholarly, such as “Researching Cybersex in Online Chat Rooms: The Ethnographic Approach,” by site editor Robin Hamman. But there’s also a personal account of an e-mail romance and cybersex by a woman with a physical disability, and “Cyber-Charade,” by “Cara”, who describes the feelings and emotions of cybersex participants.

One of her poems, “Intimate Strangers,” begins: “Whirling through endless electronic realms/ You launched your lust upon electric currents/ Of cresting cybercircuits, wanting a fantasy,/ A lover who would create a magic moment,/ A mystery-space in time, oblivious as to why,/ Escape into a virtual world of intimacy.” Finally, there’s “Lust in Cyberspace“, “for those intrigued, fascinated, lured, and otherwise ‘hooked’ on the interdimensional relationships that evolve on this new horizon of cyberspace.” It is operated by “PlatypusMan” and “Looseal,” who met in a chat room, and Looseal’s best friend, “Vixen,” who enjoys computer role-playing games. The three also produce an online magazine called Art and Love on the Net.

The site addresses such questions as “Am I going crazy?” and “Is this addictive behavior?” As for “How can I ever explain this to family and friends?” it counsels, “Quite simply … you can’t. … So, don’t try. They will send you for therapy.”

The site presents two schools of thought on whether having an online relationship is cheating on your spouse. One is that it’s not cheating because there is no physical relationship. The other is that “if you give your mind to another, then you have given more of yourself than if you had physical contact. Giving your love and emotions to another can be viewed as the ultimate act of cheating. Take your choice. Whatever works for you.”

Cyber relationships can affect real-life relationships and threaten even the most stable of marriages. But cyber affairs don’t always work out either. First, there’s “cyber infidelity,” which is when someone in a cyber relationship begins cybering with someone new. “Oddly enough,” according to the site, “most people in a cyber relationship whose online love has a Real World significant other, don’t get jealous of the Real World relationship. It is the cyber cheating that causes the pain.” And cyber lovers who become real-world lovers often get suspicious if their partners still go online. “It’s no different than people who meet in the Real World. Trust is the key issue.”

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Recipe

0

A Recipe from Manuel Azevedo

The original “too-much-good-stuff,” this homey pork and seafood stew is redolent with loads of garlic, a haunting spice blend (which is also great for other dishes and marinades), and the best part of our latesummer harvest–juicy ripe tomatoes and sweet bell peppers. Serve with pinot noir or Chianti, and forget what your mother and Miss Manners say about wiping your dish with bread.

1 tbsp. olive oil 1/2 cup smoked bacon, diced 2 links linguisa, diagonally sliced 1/2 inch thick 1/2 pound pork loin, cubed 1 medium yellow onion, diced 2 red bell peppers, diced 1/4 cup garlic cloves, thinly sliced 3 cups tomato juice Portuguese spice blend: 1 tsp. paprika, 1/4 tsp. powdered cumin, pinch each of nutmeg, allspice, cloves, and cinnamon 1/4 tsp. red chili flakes 2 bay leaves 2 pounds mussels, scrubbed and bearded 3 medium tomatoes, diced 1 cup white wine or fish stock Salt and pepper to taste 1/3 cup chopped cilantro

In a large sauté pan, brown bacon and linguisa in oil over medium heat. Add pork and sauté until light brown. Add onions and bell peppers and sauté for 5 minutes on low heat, stirring often. Add garlic, tomato juice, Portuguese spice blend, red chili flakes, and bay leaves, and simmer covered for 20 minutes. Layer mussels on top of stewed mixture. Sprinkle diced tomato over mussels and add white wine or stock. Bring mixture to a boil. When mussels are open, salt and pepper to taste, sprinkle with chopped cilantro, and serve. Serves six.

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Local Rail Service

Rail Thin

Train time: In 1996, passengers inspected a self-propelled, diesel-powered Regio Sprinter like the one rail proponents would like to see offering local rail service.

How much train can you buy for $175 million? Not much.

By Janet Wells

WHEN COMMUTERS think about taking the train to work, they fantasize fast, convenient, and environmentally friendly coaches. Like Bay Area Rapid Transit. But BART, at an estimated cost of $115 million per mile, is a bit out of Sonoma County’s price range. With $175 million proposed in a pair of Nov. 3 transit-tax ballot measures to cover a 60-mile rail system, what can residents and commuters expect to get for their tax dollars?

Small and slow.

Measure B, the transportation advisory companion to the Measure C proposal to raise the county’s sales tax by 1/2 cent, doesn’t provide a detailed passenger rail plan. But the Transportation and Land Use Study that served as the basis for Measure B recommended making do by adding a bit of spit and polish to the current freight rail system: a single-track standard-gauge rail line that can handle a maximum speed of 40 mph, with 14 stations between Healdsburg and San Rafael.

Under that plan, the diesel-powered passenger rolling stock, as train cars are called, would run every half hour during peak commute hours and drop to 60-minute intervals until 10 p.m., when freight trains would get the right-of-way through the night.

“If you’re going to have commuter rail that’s really going to get people out of their cars, it has to be high-speed, comfortable, and get them from where they are to where they want to go. This system will do none of these. It takes an electric train like BART to move people,” says Richard Gaines, with the Campaign Against Wasting Millions. “I’m all for a real railroad, but I want something that’s up-to-date technology. There’s no point in putting good money after bad into a system that goes nowhere.”

Settling for a somewhat antiquated system that will likely attract a low ridership (a public opinion poll last year found that only 14 percent of rail supporters would actually use the trains) doesn’t bother proponents of the rail portion of Measure B. In fact, they consider it good business sense to start slow and build. “The beauty of it is that because we own it, we can repair it and buy rolling stock,” says Bill Kortum, board chairman of Sonoma County Conservation Action, which has endorsed both transportation measures. “It’s not like putting in an electrical system with huge up-front capital. You work your way into it.”

Dick Day, also an SCCA board member, agrees, “We’re looking at this for the long term. Rail will develop slowly. What we want is the cities to put their growth in areas close to the rail stations. It’s important that rail is available for Sonoma County residents.”

Suzanne Wilford, executive director of the Sonoma County Transportation Authority, says sources of funding for the $175 million rail system over 15 years include $20 million from ticket fares, $17 million from state transportation bond measure Prop. 116, and $138 million from increased sales tax revenues. Sonoma County also is in line to compete for additional federal funds for rail that could replace funds from sales taxes.

Overall, $92 million of the budget would be spent on upgrading tracks, signals, control systems, station platforms, communications, ticket vending machines, a maintenance facility, sidings, communications, and 25 diesel-electric rail cars. Those cars would likely be akin to a European-style Diesel Light-Rail Vehicle, which has diesel engines generating electrical power.

The $5.5 million annual operating costs, which include train operators, fuel, maintenance, sales, fare collections, insurance, and administration, deplete the remainder of the $175 million proposed budget over 15 years.

BUT CRITICS SAY that’s simply not enough to construct an efficient rail system that will lure drivers off of the freeway. A report released this week by the Environmental Defense Fund–an organization that boasts 1,200 members locally and opposes the transit tax measures–concludes that the rail line and proposed freeway improvements will fail to curb traffic congestion and sprawl. The report, prepared by EDF transportation program manager Michael Cameron, points out that the transit plan fails to list detailed capital or the operating plan for the proposed rail system. “The information that is available ignores altogether, or seriously underestimates, several costs,” the report notes. “For example, the plan does not account for a southern storage yard for rail cars, yet most functioning rail systems need storage capacity at both ends of the line.

“Additionally,” the report continues, “to operate trains at the frequency proposed, the rail system would need an automated control system to manage trains traveling in opposite directions on a single track to prevent them from colliding, yet the proposed rail funding falls $27 million to $40 million short of the full cost of this system.”

In the final report of the three-part series, scheduled for release Oct. 27, EDF will contend that any rail plan in Sonoma County would face considerable obstacles to success.

Still, part of EDF’s complaint is that the existing plan fails to state precise financial details that should be ascertained before the public commits to such a lofty project. “It makes no sense to make a down payment on a rail system if the rest of the financial needs have not been thought through and if there is no clear source of matching funds,” the report concludes. “The county simply cannot afford to gamble 20 years of transit funds on a system that has not been carefully designed and which has not been demonstrated to have a credible chance of successfully attracting riders.

“Other counties in California, notably in Los Angeles, have pursued similar strategies only to see total transit ridership decline even though total investments in transit more than doubled.”

In a recent interview, Cameron estimated that the rail project will experience major cost overruns that will lead either to a decision by county officials to issue pricey bonds or to drop parts of plan altogether.

Supporters of the rail system most often point to the South Bay when describing a passenger train service that is desirable, though that rail system is yet to be tested.

Sonoma County’s proposed rail system is comparable to the Stockton-San Jose line scheduled to start Oct. 19, says Arthur Lloyd, a board member of CalTrain (a commuter rail service on the Peninsula) and a retired Amtrak director. The line was going to have two trains in each direction daily, with a capacity of 3,200 passengers, but orders for more trains have been made before the trains have even started rolling.

“They went out to sell passes in advance and they are already oversold,” says Lloyd, a San Mateo County resident. “They started modestly and it’s just gone ape.”

“Incremental is the best way to start,” Lloyd adds. “I am absolutely horrified that some people say you can’t run a commute line on a single track. That’s what everyone starts with. Nobody will ride it? That’s pure unadulterated what-will-make-your-lawns-turn-green.” Lloyd throws in the caveat that the key to Sonoma County rail success may be convenient links with San Francisco, and even under the best scenario links from Santa Rosa to Larkspur are a long way down the line.

“[Rail planners] should talk about Larkspur if they have any brains,” he says. “The real market is San Francisco, and the best way to serve it is the ferry.”

Even if Measure B wins at the ballot box, rail advocates will face an uphill battle getting the passenger rail system implemented anytime soon. Sonoma County Conservation Action, which joined a coalition of business leaders and public officials to push the transit tax, is insisting that the rail system be given a priority. SCCA made significant concessions in its support of the sales tax measures, since thousands of tons of gravel for the extra freeway lanes will come from the Russian River, where gravel mining already has depleted the riverbed. It made that concession in the frim belief that Measures B and C offer the last chance for construction of a rail line in the county.

But the business community, which agreed to inclusion of the rail line, wants the extra freeway lanes built first. In the end, transit tax opponents say, the freeway expansion, with its predicted cost overruns, will use up a lion’s share of the sales tax funds, leaving the railway underfunded and too impractical ever to attract a signiicant share of riders.

Under the currently planned pay-as-you-go sales tax option, EDF estimates, the train won’t be on line until 2010.

Editor Greg Cahill contributed to this article.

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Turn of the Screw

0

Fright Night

Turn of the Screw.

Michael Amsler



‘Turn of the Screw’ delivers campy chills

By Daedalus Howell

REMEMBER that kid in sixth grade who thought he had devised the perfect visual pun when he showed you a cylindrical rod incised with helical threads and asked, “You wanna screw?” That kid now writes theater criticism and cannot forgo the sundry puns and innuendo lurking in the title of Main Street Theatre’s Halloween production, The Turn of the Screw (a gaunt retelling of the Henry James story by playwright Jeffrey Hatcher). Simply put, audiences are advised to “go get screwed.” You’ll like it.

A heap of gothic ballyhoo prime for Halloween consumption, The Turn of the Screw depicts a 19th-century governess (deftly portrayed by Jennifer King) embarking on her first gig at–where else?–a haunted manor. In her charge are the recently orphaned Flora and Miles, two troubled kids who are both apparently receiving tutelage in the black arts from the specters of two deceased domestics.

The new governess fixates on uncovering the manor’s back-story, which chiefly concerns the amorous foibles of a dead valet and the governess’ drowned predecessor. The spirits of these doomed lovers seem dead-set on evicting the children’s souls so that they may inhabit their bodies–a plan the new governess is determined to thwart.

Director Diane Bailey invigorates Hatcher’s bland script by investing the production with an interesting self-consciousness. The players fool subtly with the work’s tendency toward overt melodrama without undermining what is a genuinely freaky work. Campy asides are adeptly interjected throughout (most sound effects are comically produced by an offstage actor, and strobe-lighting abounds), which lightens what might otherwise be a brooding production. Hatcher’s script is the real ghost here, a pale shadow of James’ original work that relies too much on anecdotes, as characters recount events instead of enacting them. So be it. The two-person cast still succeeds in making it creepy.

King’s governess is joined onstage by Scott Phillips, who undertakes the schizoid task of portraying the play’s remaining characters, including a weirdo uncle, a nattering housekeeper, and the demon-child Miles.

Phillips particularly shines in his portrayal of young Miles. It’s no easy task for a grown man to play a little boy, but Phillips is convincing as he prances about the stage, flinging dollops of irreverence at the audience from his silver spoon.

King portrays the governess’ innumerable flights into hysteria with chilling mastery. Her frenzies increase naturally until she’s completely unhinged and flooding the stage with convulsing sobs. Her palpable fear inspires vicarious feeling. This is what makes the show scary: not the ragged thews of Hatcher’s plot, but the contagious horror transmitted by the players.

Beware: The Turn of the Screw will go home with you and weave itself into the fabric of your dreams, inspiring nightmares. To quell these nasty aftereffects, it is suggested audiences take some medicinal spirits. You might try some vodka and orange juice.

Main Street Theatre’s The Turn of the Screw plays through Oct. 31 at 104 Main St., Sebastopol. Thursdays-Saturdays at 8 p.m.; Sunday, Oct. 18, at 2 p.m., and Sunday, Oct. 25, at 7 p.m. Tickets are $12. 823-0177.

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Chef Manuel Azevedo

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Pot Pluck

Michael Amsler



LaSalette chef relies on roots

By Marina Wolf

HE NAMED his restaurant after his mother, but when Manuel Azevedo is pressed to name a specific food memory, his father’s fall-back favorite comes to mind. “This summer we had smelt, and I was trying to think of what would be a good use for them,” recalls Azevedo, the chef/owner of LaSalette in Sonoma. “Ding! I remembered my dad always used to do this dish. It’s almost something you forget because he ate it all the time. But it makes perfect sense. You lay out the nice black-eyed peas and put the freshly sautéed fish over them, a little drizzle of olive oil and handmade vinegar, and you slice up an onion really thin. It all clicked together, and it was a beautiful dish.”

He pauses and thinks. “But there’s a lot I go back to that my mom did,” he adds dutifully.

If Azevedo has a hard time picking out a single moment of culinary influence, it’s only because he’s been steeping in it from birth. Born in the Azores, Azevedo and family came to Sonoma from Portugal when he was 2 years old. His parents still live nearby and drop in regularly to keep an eye on what their son is doing with the Old World recipes. His mom even teases him by bringing over dishes that Azevedo hasn’t been able to figure out yet. “She kind of likes the fact that I’m some big-time chef, or trying to be, and she’s still got some little secrets,” he says.

But the soft-spoken 32-year-old brings to his restaurant work some traits that are peculiarly American, peculiarly his own.

That whole self-made-man thing, for example. After his first few jobs in restaurants (his very first, in fact, was a barbecue place that was once housed in the compact little building that is now LaSalette), Azevedo broke out into a series of typical early-20s jobs that culminated in his own auto detailing business.

But then, at age 27, Azevedo was given what he calls the “get-a-grip speech” by his fiancée, and he decided he’d rather spend his life cooking than doing anything else. His return to the restaurant biz was anything but triumphant: He had to start all over as a bus boy at the Kenwood Restaurant. Over the course of five years, he worked his way up to sous-chef, all while holding second jobs in catering. And studying. On his own.

Azevedo accumulated a library of cookbooks, and ate out as often as possible to get a sense of presentation and flavor from the other side of the stove. Four years into his autodidactic adventure, Azevedo almost purchased his own place. But the deal fell through, for which he has been appreciative ever since. “Having an extra year to put everything together made all the difference in the world,” he explains.

Azevedo’s travels added the final finish to his restaurant’s concept. He’s been all over the world, with most of his destinations either in Portugal proper or in one of its former colonies, not looking for specific ingredients, but for a feeling: What motivates the creators of dishes from certain regions? What are those people like?

“I’m looking to get the subconscious experience of dining and bringing it here,” he adds.

BY WAY of illustration, Azevedo points at two polar opposites on his menu: stuffed squid and cataplana. Stuffed squid, he says, is a typical dish from the Portuguese capitol, Lisbon; therefore it gets the sophisticated treatment: delicate garnish, small portions, china plate. Cataplana, on the other hand, is from a coastal region of southern Portugal, and feels much more relaxed in presentation. The fragrant tomato, meat, and mussel stew gets served to the table in its pan, with some slices of bread stuck on the side to soak in the juices. “It reminds people that this is peasant food, it’s just something thrown together in a pot,” he explains, “You let it cook and you put bread in it and you eat it. …

“Even the name ca-ta-plan-a“–Azevedo’s voice shifts momentarily into explosive, liquid Portuguese–“sounds like fun.”

Recipe for Cataplana à Algarvia.

Fun, yes. Frivolous, no. Azevedo has put a lot of research into his food. His readings are what led him to include more than continental food on the menu. “I wanted to incorporate former colonies into it, because it reminds people that Portuguese food is not just what you see in Portugal. Sometimes you have to search for it a little, because through time some of it’s been lost.

“But if you understand the depth of Portuguese history, then it ties in perfectly.”

AZEVEDO’S historical approach to food fits right in with his close cultural ties, and he has no qualms about claiming the cataplana, a more rustic dish, as representative of his heritage. “Definitely my family is more cataplana,” he says. “A good analogy might be, my wife’s from North Dakota–I don’t know if you want to mention this, it might get a lot of North Dakotans pissed off–well, the islands are like that. We’re considered the boonies, which we are, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, for crying out loud. So we’re very limited in a lot of things, technology, ingredients for food,” Azevedo says.

“The cuisine I grew up with was very simple, even simpler than anything you’d find on the mainland. So I grew up with that meat-and-potatoes kind of eating, everything in a big pot. I don’t think I’d have had a successful restaurant doing just the meat and potatoes, though. It would be like opening a North Dakota restaurant.”

From the October 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spins

0

Retro Grade

Robert Ascroft


New CDs showcase classic rock, bluegrass

Monster Magnet
Powertrip
(A&M)

MONSTER MAGNET has a simple idea: mix chicks, hot rods, revolution, and hell. What makes their slice of heavy metal special is that it’s retro as an act of defiance; they grandstand arena-rock values as if to stomp post-rock’s nondescript reductionism into ashes. They aim for the sound of pre-metal forefathers like Steppenwolf, the MC5, and Iron Butterfly; so as classic-rock revivalism, Powertrip is all Judas Priest and no Journey–that is, all gnarly biker anthems and no fake ballads. Monster Magnet seizes and squeezes metal’s time-honored male hyperbole, and while there’s a forest of comical god-myth obsession in lines like “I started humping volcanoes, baby, when I was too young,” there’s also the working-class grounding of lines like “I’ve paid all the goddamn dues that I wanna pay.” So crank the guitar solos up to 11 and march on to Valhalla!

KARL BYRN

Steppenwolf
Steppenwolf
(ABC Dunhill/Mobile Fidelity)

IT’S BEEN 30 years since the debut of this influential disc, which spawned the hit “Born to Be Wild” (which in turn spawned the term “heavy metal”), the anthemic anti-drug song “The Pusher,” and a handful of damned-fine bluesy biker-rock songs and white-eyed soul tunes laced with West Coast psychedelia and plenty of bad-boy attitude. (And there’re a couple of genuine clunkers to boot.) This time around, Steppenwolf’s debut album gets the 24k audiophile treatment from Sebastopol-based Mobile Fidelity. A bona fide classic rock album just got a whole lot better.

GREG CAHILL

Hank Williams Jr.
Your Cheatin’ Heart
(Rhino)

THROUGHOUT his career, Hank Williams Jr., has paid homage to his late, great father, country legend Hank Williams. In 1965, as a teen, he recorded this soundtrack of Hank’s hits to a biopic that starred (gulp!) the eternally tanned George Hamilton as his troubled dad. All in all, not a bad effort, though very rough in places. This new reissue, from Turner Classic Movies Music, adds 11 acoustic versions. Not essential, but a nifty curiosity.

G.C.

Doc & Merle Watson
Home Sweet Home
(Sugar Hill)

THANK GOD nobody turned this project over to Daniel Lanois or any other producer who would have left an indelible mark. It’s hard to believe that the late Merle Watson (killed in a tragic tractor accident a few years back) was just a kid and had been playing bluegrass banjo only five months when he and his famous flat-pickin’ guitarist dad, Doc Watson, laid down these tracks. But these duet recordings lay fallow for 30 years until bassist T. Michael Coleman called up Doc and asked if he’d like to overdub some new tracks onto that master tape featuring the next generation of pickers–Coleman, fiddler and mandolinist Sam Bush, mandolinist (and country star) Marty Stuart, and vocalist Alan O’Bryant on harmonies. The result is one helluva ghost band that brings Merle back to the front porch for some of the jaw-droppin’ bluegrass breakdowns. Simplicity and an unpretentious honesty come through the mix. What a tribute to a fallen backwoods hero. Highly recommended.

G.C.

Joshua Redman
Timeless Tales (for Changing Times)
(Warner Bros.)

IN RECENT YEARS, everyone from the Art Ensemble of Chicago to Herbie Hancock has been searching for a new set of jazz standards. Bay Area saxophonist Joshua Redman, 29, slips easily into this set of classic pop, R&B, and folk-rock songs, ranging from the Beatles (“Eleanor Rigby”) to Bob Dylan (“The Times They Are A-Changin'”) to Stevie Wonder (“Yesterdays”). The result is smooth yet remarkably satisfying, featuring strong improvisational solos–organic and fluid–that reveal a maturing player who continues to show great promise.

G.C.

From the October 8-14, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Full-Metal Racket

By Bob Harris

Someday soon, your MedicAlert bracelet may itself be hazardous to your health. You’re probably already familiar with the disposal problems of nuclear waste. There’s not much you can do with it, other than bury it, burn it, or maybe someday launch it into space, each of which poses different serious hazards.

And there’s an enormous amount of this stuff. The Department of Energy’s database reportedly includes over a million tons of stockpiled radioactive metals like nickel, copper, and aluminum.

Some of which is actually reusable. When the radiation is only at the surface, it’s pretty much almost possible to chemically scrub the hot spots off.

However, when the radiation goes deep into the metal, there’s no way to clean that out. But the metal companies see gold in all the metal that right now they can’t use. So they’re pushing for–and the Department of Energy is actually supporting–a new, relaxed standard for how much radiation is OK in a batch of metal.

As this month’s issue of The Progressive reports, the new public exposure standard they want is 10 millirems a year. What that means in terms of physics takes a while to explain, but what it means in human terms is simple.

The Nuclear Regulatory Commission has already done a study on the effects of a 10-millirem standard–and come up with figures representing almost 100,000 additional cancer deaths per year. That’s a million dead Americans every decade, just so some smelting barons can make a fortune.

If the new level becomes standard, apparently there will be no way of knowing, short of a Geiger counter, what metal in your life is radioactive–that includes the change in your pocket, the silverware in a restaurant, and even your zipper.

Y’know, I would think the administration would put a stop to this. They’ve already got enough problems with hot zippers.


Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of an enjoyable party? In the wake of this whole Fornigate thing, a person’s sexual past and future are now actually treated like a legitimate campaign issue. As if fooling around is any way to choose a leader: FDR and Thomas Jefferson had lovers, and Ben Franklin had entire harems, but Bonnie and Clyde were monogamous, so apparently the Barker gang was most qualified to lead America.

Y’know, the word congress itself is a synonym for sexual relations, which means that every time anyone ever uses the phrase “candidates for Congress” I always think of people cruising a singles joint for their next big score. The only difference being that, unlike our representatives, the folks in a nightclub at least paid their own way in.

Anyway, Republican Gary Muller in Indiana last week actually started making a big fuss over himself because he went out and signed a Fidelity Oath, swearing that he has never cheated on his wife, seduced an intern, or had a fling with a gay guy.

Well, bully for him.

Although you notice he left out houseplants and hamsters. Look, I’m not saying anything here, but maybe there ought to be an investigation …

And so this candidate for one kind of Congress–whose main qualification seems to be that he isn’t a candidate for the other kind of congress– is daring his opponent to sign a similar oath. It’s nothing less than a sexual version of 1950s redbaiting.

Call it Jenny McCarthyism.

So is this really where things are now–that upholding your zipper is actually more important than upholding the Constitution?

Is this the pledge every married guy seeking office will soon be forced to take?

I pledge allegiance to the bag
I won’t try and escape, it’s imperative
Cause she will go public, the witch is bad
And warn the nation
Of my Bod
I’ll be miserable
But she’ll deliver me busted
before all.

From the October 8-14, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sonoma County Elections

Where We Stand Vote for Hamilton: Petaluma City Councilmember Jane Hamilton wins our endorsement for the 2nd Supervisorial District. Hamilton has the experience the south county needs to help implement complicated transit improvements and nurture the region's fast-growing economy. A select list of local endorsements Edited by Greg Cahill THE...

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Recipe

A Recipe from Manuel Azevedo The original "too-much-good-stuff," this homey pork and seafood stew is redolent with loads of garlic, a haunting spice blend (which is also great for other dishes and marinades), and the best part of our latesummer harvest--juicy ripe tomatoes and sweet bell peppers. Serve with pinot noir or Chianti, and forget what your...

Local Rail Service

Rail Thin Train time: In 1996, passengers inspected a self-propelled, diesel-powered Regio Sprinter like the one rail proponents would like to see offering local rail service. How much train can you buy for $175 million? Not much. By Janet Wells WHEN COMMUTERS think about taking the train to work,...

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Spins

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Full-Metal RacketBy Bob HarrisSomeday soon, your MedicAlert bracelet may itself be hazardous to your health. You're probably already familiar with the disposal problems of nuclear waste. There's not much you can do with it, other than bury it, burn it, or maybe someday launch it into space, each of which poses different serious hazards.And there's an enormous amount of...
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