Sonoma County Country Bands

0

Twangy Time!


Michael Amsler

Sonoma County hayride: Members of the new local band Twang–Sheila Groves, Steve Harder, and Charley Momey–mix dead-on bluegrass arrangements and deadpan lyrical humor.

Local acts hop on alt-country bandwagon

By Charles McDermid

BECAUSE Sonoma County is nearly as far from Nashville culturally as it is geographically, it may seem an unlikely place to observe an artistic shift in the world of country music. However, with such local bands as Cropduster, Clod-hopper, Twang, and the Feud, the alternative country movement, which is currently defying the creamy conventions of mainstream country, can be observed as close as one’s own backyard.

Labels abound for this inevitable reaction to the sanitized world of today’s pop-country: y’allternative, grange (as opposed to grunge), insurgent country, even No Depression, the name taken by a recently formed Seattle-based roots music magazine promoting “every kind of music but mainstream country.”

Whatever the term, it is clear that country music is in the process of rejuvenation, turning back and renewing itself at its source.

“Alt-country is getting more established as a viable subgenre. Initially we had to take people by the hand and explain what we were about,” says Rob Miller, president and co-founder of Bloodshot Records, a Chicago company specializing in such alt-country acts as the Waco Brothers and Split Lip Rayfield (a band that plays amphetamine-fast bluegrass using banjo, guitar, and a stand-up bass constructed from a Ford pickup truck gas tank and a single weedwhacker string). “Most of our bands exist as if Nashville hadn’t been around for the last 25 years.

“No one’s going to cite Ronnie Milsap as a stylistic influence.”

A glance at the stormy history of country music clearly anticipates the sneering opposition that alt-country now offers the country establishment. It’s the same diametric difference that existed between the first two recorded country artists in 1927: the Carter Family, the ultimate embodiment of rural, white, homespun values, and the “yodeling brakeman” Jimmie Rodgers, a rambling partier who lived hard and died young, lending greatly to the notion of country as “the white man’s blues.”

This division between the saccharine and the seedy led to the rebellion of the ’70s outlaw movement against the restrictive, increasingly pop-inflected Nashville Sound and is apparent today in the vast differences between the conservative, yet enormously profitable, world of mainstream country and the stylistically adventurous alt-country bands.

“I think [alt-country] is just people who like what country music is supposed to be,” says Danny Pearson of Sebastopol, the leader and founder of Clodhopper. “Real country was just singing songs for normal people–it’s centered around relationships and problems therein: drinking, joking, and such.”

Clodhopper, who recently opened for Emmylou Harris, titled their first album Red’s Recovery Room (My Own Planet) after receiving a certain inspiration from the dubious Cotati roadhouse of the same name. With an album review set to appear in an upcoming issue of GQ magazine, it not only bodes well for the band’s exposure, but marks the first time Red’s and GQ have ever been mentioned in the same breath.

“We’re not a cow-punk band, and we don’t play rockabilly,” explains Pearson. “We’re pretty much going for the balladry. Telling stories of life’s misadventures.”

This lyrical intent, coupled with Pearson’s claw-hammer banjo (“it’s the old-time mountain style–hillbilly hip-hop”) and a searing mandolin at times washed through a wah-wah pedal, makes Clodhopper an interesting, if elusive, addition to Sonoma County’s musical landscape.

Local favorite Cropduster provide nothing less than reverential treatment to the old honky-tonk style of Merle Haggard, Buck Owens, and the “cosmic American music” of Gram Parsons. “It was the stories in those old songs that attracted me,” explains vocalist/guitarist Andy Asp, whose own songs follow rightfully in the footsteps of the great honky-tonkers of the past, at once lamenting and celebrating the shady side of life.

Cropduster’s tightly harmonized sound and raucous live shows have built a loyal following. Their much anticipated debut CD, A Strange Sort of Prayer, set for release this fall from Petaluma’s Flying Harold label, should go a long way in determining the commercial viability of alt-country on the local market.

Interestingly, despite the obvious appreciation and aptitude for country music exhibited by both Cropduster and Clodhopper, neither band should expect any type of radio play from Sonoma County’s country radio stations anytime soon.

A representative at KFGY 92.9-FM (also known as Froggy), who wished to remain anonymous, states simply, “We play mainstream country; we don’t play alternative. We do all kinds of research, and research shows that people who enjoy country music will listen to our station. People like familiar artists. It’s the mainstream stuff that’s gotten us here. I really try not to argue with success.”

This is, of course, the correct business perspective. Fair enough: To mainstream country goes the money; alt-country takes the integrity. It’s inconceivable that these two camps ever wanted to share fans anyway.

“The country on the radio is mostly what I would call pop,” says local booking agent and singer Sheila Groves, whose new bluegrass band Twang features a mandolin, guitar, stand-up bass, frying pans, and a musical avocado (an inexplicable percussive device).

Twang plays traditional bluegrass (“We rehearse our butts off,” says banjo player Steve Kucera), the alternative angle being the engaging choice of unlikely cover material done bluegrass style.

“We do a whole TV-show medley–we start with ‘The Ballad of Jed Clampett’ and end with the theme from The Flintstones. We also cover Metallica and Motown stuff,” says Kucera. “We also do a disco medley and Ronnie Montrose’s ‘Bad Motor Scooter.’ It might not appeal to a purist. There is a certain mindset in bluegrass that the music is somewhat sacred and should not be touched. That’s great for them, but we have a broader appeal.

“We actually get into a banter with the audience. We work it into the show,” continues Kucera, whose own musical taste ranges from British ska to Japanese flutes. “A gimmick is fine, but what carries our group is the strong musicianship.”


Michael Amsler

Fresh crop: The Sonoma County band Cropduster has a new indie CD, A Strange Sort of Prayer, with a parcel of original songs inspired by classic country artists.

INDEED, the concept of “gimmickry” elicits a barrage from Bloodshot’s Miller. “I hate that mentality that you need a shtick to get noticed. That, to me, is the most offensive thing that gets thrown at us. If people cite or identify themselves with a gimmick and they’re making fun of it, it’s just ingenuous. There is a lot of jokey country out there that doesn’t understand what a dangerous thing this is.

“We’re not Goober and the Peas [an MCA recording act that performs Motown covers in a bluegrass style]–it’s inexcusable.”

If any band has a handle on this fine line it must certainly be the Feud. “A gimmick is something to grab the audience’s attention,” admits Feud member Paul Riley. “You have to have the talent to back it up.”

The music of the Santa Rosa-based Feud, who call themselves “rockabilly cowpunks,” provides a twist to the concept “you are everyone you ever met.” Accordingly, the Feud is every song they ever heard, and, needless to say, they’ve heard a great many (a belligerent take on Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man” is a frequent show closer).

Frankly, you’ve missed a definitive Santa Rosa experience if you’ve yet to see the Feud.

“The first goal of the band is to have fun,” explains Riley, “At this point our biggest influence in music right now is still beer. You know, the songs that beer taught us.”

From the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Leslie Brody

War Stories

Red Star Sister takes a fresh look at a turbulent period.



‘Red Star Sister’ offers wry view of the ’60s

By Patrick Sullivan

THE STORY of the 1960s has been told so many times, in so many ways, that it has attained the cultural status of a fairy tale. Whatever the ideological stance or literary talent of the teller, the tale tends to be full of the same fantastic clichés: Either Richard Nixon or Abbie Hoffman winds up wearing the black pointy hat, commanding squads of nasty flying monkeys (with the face of Henry Kissinger), and cackling “I’ll get you, my pretty.” History flattens out like a pancake, and whatever insights (political or literary) the period has to offer are buried in simple-minded moralism and self-indulgence.

To its great credit, Red Star Sister (Hungry Mind Press; $16) avoids that trap by offering readers an astonishing amount of honest self-reflection.

Leslie Brody’s autobiographical account of coming of age in the vanguard of the ’60s counterculture covers a lot of ground: Brody was a high school anti-war activist in suburban Long Island, underwent paramilitary training with the radical White Panther Party (where she earned the moniker “Red Star Sister”), got her head bashed in by San Francisco cops, forged a career as an alternative journalist, and journeyed to the Paris Peace Talks in a quixotic effort to end the war by meeting with the Vietnamese delegation. She even found time to attend Woodstock.

Early on in this ambitious account, the author serves notice that she has no plans to handle her youthful self with kid gloves: “`Perhaps it was instructive that my goals were not unsimilar to those of a Miss America contestant whose sappy calls for ‘world peace’ were an embarrassing annual cliché. Miss America wanna-bes could smile thousand-watt smiles, but they were fuzzy on how to achieve peace for humanity. I suffered no such doubts.”

On the other hand, she’s not apologizing either. Her mistakes and misadventures are legion as she hopscotches across the country carrying her red suitcase and negotiating the cultural minefield of the turbulent decade. She joins a radical Ann Arbor commune and gets a bitter taste of conformity and group-think. She experiences firsthand the machismo and paranoia that were the toxic bproducts of the long war between U.S. leftist paramilitaries and the FBI.

But she never finds a good reason to endorse the conservative condemnation of her generation: “I’m sure brats abounded, as they do in every age. They disturb people with new scientific and political theories, compose symphonies, and write poetry of staggering beauty and vision. I admit brats can be annoying, but I’d always rather be on their side.”

The book renders many of Brody’s experiences in wonderfully vivid terms. Her account of participating in an anti-war demonstration and being beaten to a pulp by the police is hair-raising and provocative. The claustrophobia of her classrooms on Long Island is also conveyed with subtle power: The independent-minded little Jewish girl often provoked the wrath of disapproving WASPy teachers determined to hold back the ethnic tide.

Unfortunately, in other cases, the reader is left hanging, waiting for a denouement or explanation that never comes. Brody took LSD and lost her virginity while experiencing Woodstock, all in one fell swoop. Perhaps the whole thing was simply too intense to fully convey, but the author seems not even to try, content instead to sum up in a few flat details. In this, and a few other cases, her account simply leaves us wondering what the hell really happened.

On the whole, however, Red Star Sister takes care to keep the reader involved and interested in Brody’s tumultuous quest to find a good place to make her stand as an activist, poet, and free-thinker. Particularly compelling is the author’s slow evolution as a feminist in the very male world of the revolutionary counterculture. Brody is far from a knee-jerk male-basher, but her deft account of the prevailing sexism still at work at the dawn of modern feminism is priceless (and often very funny).

In the end, Brody–who now teaches at California’s University of the Redwoods–leaves us with an intriguing view of a fascinating period. With Red Star Sister, she has opened up her red suitcase of mementos just wide enough to give us a glimpse of a life lived with relentless determination, a good dose of foolhardiness, and a deep thirst for real meaning.

From the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Dark Shadows

‘Touch of Evil’

By David Templeton

David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time out, he treats award-winning mystery novelist Julie Smith to her first viewing of Orson Welles’ seminal crime thriller Touch of Evil.

Frankly, I’m shocked.

Touch of Evil, directed in 1958 by Orson Welles–starring Charlton Heston, Janet Leigh, Marlene Dietrich, and Welles himself–just might be the greatest B-movie mystery film ever made. Heston himself says so, and he knows a thing or two about B films.

Furthermore, at the risk of sounding like some nerdy regurgitator of fervent film-school vernacular, I could make the case that Welles’ seedy, black-and-white film noir classic stand as one of the seminal works of its kind, and that many of the film’s stylistic and structural innovations–reproduced so often since then that they are now considered cliché–influenced a generation of filmmakers, including Alfred Hitchcock–who appears to have borrowed whole pieces of Evil for his own 1960 masterpiece, Psycho.

So it is shocking, in light of the film’s far-reaching influence and renown, that Julie Smith has never seen it. Julie Smith, ranked as one of the best living writers of popular mystery fiction–with over a dozen novels to her name and a closet full of awards–has never seen Touch of Evil.

“I haven’t,” she laughs, cringing in mock shame. “I confess! I really don’t know how I missed it.”

“Well,” I reply, pushing PLAY on the VCR, “We’ll just have to take care of that for you.”

The New Orleans-based author–a former Bay Area resident and one-time star reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle–is revisiting her old stomping grounds for a few days, maneuvering through a series of readings and book signings. Her latest novel is 82 Desire (Fawcett, $24.00), the eighth to feature resourceful New Orleans police detective Skip Landon (the first, New Orleans Mourning, won an Edgar Award for best mystery novel); like the preceding Skip Langdon mysteries, 82 Desire puts Smith’s hard-boiled heroine in the midst of a case that unfolds gradually, in the time-honored tradition of a big old onion, to reveal ever-deepening (and ever-surprising) levels of malevolence and deceit.

Sort of like Touch of Evil.

In the film, a stalwart Mexican police official named Vargas (Heston), while on honeymoon with his American wife (Leigh), witnesses a car bombing at the Mexican/American border. Arriving on the scene is the charmingly repellent Detective Quinlan (Welles, in the best performance of his career), a local hero with a perfect professional record; for every case Quinlan has investigated, he’s never failed to find the culprit. Ever. Vargas soon discovers why, as Quinlan develops into one of cinema’s greatest screen villains, a self-loathing Bad Man of monumentally vile proportions.

Much ballyhooed of late, Touch of Evil–wrested away from Welles after principal filming and edited without Welles’ supervision–has now been restored by Oscar-winning film and sound editor Walter Murch, who re-edited the film according to a 58-page memo that Welles composed after seeing what the studio had done to his movie. In the memo, Welles conveyed hundreds of changes–some obvious, most very subtle–and all of them have been followed by Murch.

It is this new-and-improved version that Smith and I had expected to see today. Unfortunately, upon arriving at the secret downtown screening room where the film was to be unveiled–in advance of its public release–we learned that only half of the film’s reels have arrived, resulting in the cancellation of the screening.

“What do we do now?” Smith asks, brightly.

An hour later–after borrowing the uptown apartment of a friend’s friend, having stopped at a nearby video store to pick up a copy of the movie, in its original form–we are finally back in business. As long as the VCR works.

“I have to admit,” Julie Smith appreciatively nods, as the credits roll over Henry Mancini’s ominous jazz-tinged score, “that it was pretty darn noir.”

“It’s still kind of a jolt,” I mention, in reference to the film’s more “out there” elements: the abrupt, upside-down presentation of a strangled corpse; a nightmarish “reefer madness” scene with crazed dope fiends and leather-clad, greasy-haired “dyke” caricatures lurching about threateningly while torturous rock music blares away; the loony, hymn-singing motel clerk (Dennis Weaver, of all people!).

“I was never bored, that’s for sure,” Smith grins. “But what a dark movie. And what a great character!”

“Quinlan?” I assume.

“Quinlan,” she nods. “He’s really the one you end up interested in. Not an unrealistic portrayal of a cop, either.”

“Average cops aren’t out there fabricating evidence right and left,” I reply. “Or are they?”

“Oh, I think some cops do that, sure. Real cops will fabricate evidence,” she affirms. “And yeah–they do it because they believe it’s the right thing to do. They believe the end justifies the means. So Quinlan is probably a pretty realistic character.”

For several minutes, our conversation skitters about. We touch on several other crime movies, ending with the mention of Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. That film–which Smith has seen several times–is “a study on the banality of evil.”

“I mean banality as in run-of-the-mill ordinariness,” she explains. “And yeah, to me evil is extremely banal,” she says. “Evil is two guys talking about cheeseburgers on their way to blow someone away.

“I have this theory,” she continues. “The detective story, on the whole, is about ‘mean streets,’ right? Anything can happen on the street. That’s where the evil is enacted. But where evil begins is in the ‘mean rooms.’ I’m talking about the places where child abuse takes place, certainly. But also I mean just plain everyday nastiness. The kind of tiny workplace evil that builds up until a mailman suddenly goes postal.

“We expect Evil to look really ugly,” she softly summarizes. “But more often it looks just like …” She pauses.

“Me and you?” I suggest.

“Well, I suppose we are capable of evil,” she laughs, shrugging. “Those seeds are in all of us. But my point here is that evil can look very ordinary. Imagine a drug trafficker sitting down for Sunday dinner, or sending his kids off to school while talking on the phone about the latest shipment. Quinlan is a good example of what I’m talking about. He looks like a law enforcement officer going about his routine business.

“But behind the closed doors, he’s committing monstrous acts of evil. He’s Evil, disguised as Good,” she says. “And evil–when it needs to–can be very, very, very good. More often than not, you never even know it’s there.”

Web extra to the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Highway 101 Traffic

0

Big Spender


Michael Amsler

Morning grind: Anyone forced to sit in the local commuter snarl on Highway 101 hopes that the proposed Calthorpe plan will fix the mess. Of course, some have their doubts. What would you do with a $780 million fix-it kit?

Say someone hands you the delicate future of Hwy. 101 and $780 million …

By Janet Wells

WE ALL KNOW what the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors, along with a consortium of political and environmental mucky-mucks, propose as the solution to Highway 101 traffic: Tax ourselves to the tune of $780 million over 20 years, and spend it on new lanes for the highway, passenger rail service, and bike lanes.

Seems like a logical, something-for-everyone plan, right?

But, really, who’s going to add 45 minutes to their commute by taking the train? Who’s going to put up with biking to work and arriving all sweaty and tired? And who for a minute imagines that one more lane in each direction is actually going to alleviate the traffic mess?

Consensus, while a solid democratic theory, often results in a mediocre solution based on the lowest common denominator. But what if compromise wasn’t necessary? What if off-beat, less-than-politically-correct ideas suddenly were welcomed as “visionary” and “creative”? Just imagine. Go ahead and fantasize: the anti-gas tax.

And forget public transit. It sounds so civilized and modern and clean, but no one’s ever going to use it (one public opinion poll showed that while more than half of local voters support the concept of a passenger rail line, only 14 percent say they’ll actually use it)–unless they’ve got real incentive.

How’s this for a motivator? Pay people not to drive. We subsidize farmers and corporations, why not ourselves? Here’s how it works: In November, we approve the new sales tax, along with a slightly modified advisory measure to earmark the money for Sonoma County DUH (Driving Unnecessary Here). An electronic device that attaches to your car records every day that the car isn’t started. At the end of the month, everyone with a registered vehicle goes down to the DUH office and picks up their share of the fund.

Saves the environment, and with $780 million to distribute, the plan provides extra income for drivers keeping the county’s 346,763 motor vehicles off the roads. Suddenly buses and trains are wildly popular because we’re getting paid to use them.

DUH!

We’ll even give the interest accrued in the account to the county for Russian River cleanup, playing fields, bike lanes, and other green endeavors.

Downside: dramatically decreased sightings of “Mean People Suck” bumper stickers.

SUV Lanes

WHY BOTHER building new lanes when every other car on the road is a sports utility vehicle? These poorly reined-in vehicles have no place in the Bay Area to really strut their stuff, and it’s so sad to see SUV owners desperately clinging to their fading youth by buying $40,000 4-wheel -drive gas guzzlers to foray to the office and ferry the kids and groceries through the wilds of Sonoma County.

So, SUV drivers, why not give yourself a big adrenalin rush? Test those motor reflexes and see if your clearance really is high enough, all the while doing errands. Consider this transit solution: If you’re in an SUV on the highway, you must drive on the unpaved left-hand shoulder, negotiating gravel, large chunks of disabled tires, metal, and garbage, precarious shoulder drop-offs, and those really pesky places where the shoulder meets an overpass railing.

The tax will go toward erecting a barrier to keep the SUVs in their adventure-fraught lane and force SUV manufacturers to comply with clean-air and safety standards so everyone else can breathe easier.

Downside: Urban SUVing becomes wildly popular, and the powerful new SUV lobby is successful in pushing through a program to remove all highway pavement, creating off-road-only thoroughfares.

Transit tax could stall in courts.

Choo-Choo Goes the Bus

“PAVE THE RAILROAD tracks,” an idea first proposed for Northern California in the late 1980s and bandied around by some bold Golden Gate Transit District directors, was resurrected by Windsor physicist Carl Mears as his solution to ever-increasing gridlock:

“Use the tracks as an expressway for buses,” he says. “The problem with rail is that there’s no way to get from the station to where you want to go.”

The new tax provides funds to pave the track–already owned by the Golden Gate Transit District in partnership with North Coast counties–from Willits to Larkspur Landing. The new Northern California Busway would provide a traffic-free express ride unhampered by inefficient car-pool lanes.

When the bus gets to a town, it simply hangs a left or right and takes passengers to a central spot.

While the North Coast Rail Authority might squawk at losing contracts to run freight on the woefully underutilized line, eminent domain has its time and place.

As Mears says, “When was the last time you saw a train on those tracks anyway? It’s time to put that resource to better use.”

Downside: The Busway Beanie Baby–free with every full-fare “alltheway” ticket from Santa Rosa to the Bay–becomes such a sought-after commodity that schoolchildren cut class in record numbers.

Mass-Transit Mania

“FORGET SPENDING money on the freeway–there are never going to be enough lanes,” says Santa Rosa artist Steve Keller. “I’d make mass transit feasible.”

To really do the job right, Keller would reroute Highway 101 around Santa Rosa to unite Railroad Square and downtown, and eliminate half of the city’s bus stops to speed up travel time (“Make people walk the extra three blocks”).

Then Keller would go wild with bike lanes. By all rights, Sonoma County should be a bicycling haven: gentle rolling hills, wide streets, great weather. Yet cyclists often encounter drivers who seem unable to grasp the concept of sharing road space.

“Seven hundred and eighty million dollars’ worth of bike lanes,” Keller mused. “That would build a helluva system.”

Downside: Bike helmets become a hot consumer item, causing violent outbreaks over Nike’s $475 “Air Brain Bucket” model.

FASTrain

GRATON RESIDENT Ian Riedel would spend his $780 million on the Forget Automobiles Speed Train system down the center of the freeway corridor.

“It would be visible to all motorists stuck in traffic, with obvious signs informing them how much faster they would get to where they want to go on the train,” Riedel says. In addition, he would build toll booths all the way down Highway 101, with electronic meters to register at what time and how often the vehicle passes through.

“The highest users would have to pay much higher vehicle registration fees, which would go toward subsidizing the train.” Oh, and one more thing, adds Riedel, who commutes on his 1975 Honda 400/4 motorcycle: space on the train for cycles–both manual and motorized–as well as fare discounts.

“You roll your cycle up a ramp, lock the front wheel, go to the dining car, and roll your bike off when you get to your destination.”

Downside: Sonoma County drivers, suffering from addiction to their cars, file a class-action lawsuit against the county, citing egregious daily pain and distress from being trapped in gridlock while the train zooms by with a merry whistle.

Supported by the ACLU, drivers win $780 million in damages.

From the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Nerve

Safe Sex



Literate smut that hits a raw nerve

By Greg Cahill

CYBERSPACE is a cold and soulless place. Or at least it can be. Perhaps that’s why a recent study found that folks who surf the Internet on a regular basis are more depressed than their Web-less peers. What the study didn’t figure out is whether those depressed Net denizens were depressed before they got there, and if their depression was simply compounded by hanging out with a lot of other depressed Web surfers.

And then there’s always the possibility that those depressed souls are feeling low because they weren’t getting laid and were attracted to the Net in the first place by the promise of the cheap thrills found in the hard-core sex sites that are proliferating like, well, rabbits.

Certainly, intelligent, quality erotica–and we’re not talking about the abundance of latex-clad fashion models on display on the Web pages of wannabe fashion fotogs–is in short supply. One exception is Nerve.com, a tasteful online magazine that has made its mark by featuring bright, often humorous erotic essays by such big-name writers as Norman Mailer and Erica Jong. Indeed, Jong’s take on the Clinton/Lewinsky affair, currently posted online, is funnier and more insightful than anything you’ll ever read or hear in the mainstream media on that vastly overcovered topic.

It’s a good example of the Internet’s alternative strength, and makes a good case for preserving free speech on the Net.

Nerve: Literate Smut (Broadway; $15) is a provocative, if somewhat more flaccid, print version of the celebrated online publication. Edited by Nerve.com co-creators Genevieve Field (who edited books for MTV in her pre-Nerve life), and Rufus Griscom (who deserves a lot of praise for leaving a job at the Wall Street Journal to bring the masses a better brand of smut), this original paperback throbs with stylish soft-core sex and literati.

Field and Griscom have culled some of the best of Nerve.com to include essays by Mailer, Sallie Tisdale, Rick Moody, Thom Jones, and even Dr. Joycelyn Elders (somehow you knew the former Surgeon General would rebound after getting trounced by Congress for suggesting that masturbation is a good thing). The brief, mostly upbeat stories about shame, habits, taboos, debauchery, and love are interspersed with erotic photos by Andres Serrano, Richard Kern, Sylvia Plachy, and others–all of which are fairly tasteful and identifiable, which is more than you can say about of the mystery body-part photos that occasionally pop up on the website (Is that a navel orange or a clitoris? Who knows? Who cares?).

Unfortunately, the aforementioned superstar writers are few and far between in this print version, which means one must sit through (or choose not to, as the case may be) essays by former sex-trade workers who give a glimpse behind the green door but usually fail to offer insight into what led them there in the first place. Still, essays like “Diary of a Live Nude Girl: Snapshots from the Lusty Lady” by San Francisco writer Cammie Toloui (who worked during 1991-92 at the “live” peep shows at the infamous Lusty Lady) help lend a sense of humanity, not only to the women who work in the sex-trade industry, but also to the mostly male customers who frequent these seedy businesses.

After all, it’s all too easy in this neo-Victorian era to dismiss the needs of folks who seek satisfaction at a strip show, adult video theater, or even the Web–a narrow mindset that ultimately denies the complexities of human sexuality.

As Dr. Elders suggests in her essay “The Dreaded ‘M’ Word”: “Sexuality is part of creation, part of our common inheritance, and it reminds us that we are neither inherently better nor worse than our brothers and sisters.”

That’s a lesson worth learning.

From the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Jars of Clay

0

God Squad

Much Afraid, and performing at LBC next week.

Norman Jean Roy



Crossover Christian rock with Jars of Clay

By Alan Sculley

IT APPEARS that Jars of Clay didn’t have that much to fear after all. The Nashville-based foursome–which in 1996 became one of the few Christian groups to cross over into the music mainstream when their self-titled debut CD went platinum and its single, “Flood,” broke into the alternative radio charts–had named their newly released second CD Much Afraid.

The title was a direct reflection of the uneasiness the band felt in the time leading up to recording sessions for the disc.

Keyboardist Charlie Lowell admits that the thought of following up the band’s popular 1995 debut had generated plenty of pressure for him and his bandmates (singer Dan Haseltine, guitarist Stephen Mason, and guitarist Matthew Odmark). Some of the expectations came from the group’s record label, Silvertone, which hoped for a second straight million-selling CD from the band. “I think a lot of it was kind of hearing people say, ‘What are you going to do, or what are you going to change, or how are you going to match the first record? How will you approach writing?'” Lowell recalls. “That’s when I think we started feeling some of the pressures.”

The band members were also acutely aware that fans from the Christian music market were also watching to see how Jars of Clay would respond to their crossover success. As the group was one of the first Christian acts to crack the mainstream pop charts, some Christian fans worried that its members would alter their music and message to build on their success.

“We do get quite a bit of e-mail,” Lowell says. “A lot of people were asking, ‘What’s your message going to be like on this record?’ I guess people kind of assumed that we’d do the obvious thing, which is do a lot more modern rock and kind of get out all the electric guitars and get in your face a bit more musically. Some people asked, ‘How are you going to write your lyrics now? Are you going to write them for the Christian audience or are you going to write them for the mainstream audience?’

“So there were a lot of questions, and we would kind of answer them by going, ‘Wait and get the record, because we’re excited about it and we think you’ll enjoy it.'”

At this point, Jars of Clay appear to have risen to the challenge. Much Afraid has sold respectably, while the first single, “Crazy Times,” gave the group the follow-up single new bands need to avoid any perception of a sophomore slump. But even without the success of the single, Lowell says, he would have felt good about the new CD.

“I definitely feel like it represents much more accurately where we are now,” he adds.

REFLECTING on the band’s achievements in the mainstream pop market, Lowell offers a few thoughts on why Jars of Clay have crossed over while so many of their peers remain limited to the Christian music market. “I think a little of it was the music and kind of the uniqueness of the acoustic guitars and the tape loops, which isn’t quite so unique these days,” Lowell says. “And the harmonies were kind of a signature sound, I guess, that stood out.

“But I think maybe lyrically that had a bit more to do with it. Dan Haseltine does the bulk of the lyric writing, probably 90 to 95 percent of it. I think he has a very human perspective that he writes from. And I think he does a really good job of incorporating our faith and letting that show itself naturally instead of forcing it or saying this song’s going to say this about Christianity or of the personal Jesus. I think he really reflects what we want to do, which is to not go into things having an agenda or not feel like we’re going to change the world or the alternative market.

“I mean, I think the only thing we want to do really is express how our faith affects us when we look at certain issues. And then other than that, just to love people we meet on the road and come in contact with, and hopefully bridge some walls between the Christian industry, or the church, and the mainstream culture.

“We see a lot of kind of people who’ve had bad experiences with the church, or have been abused, or maybe they’ve only experienced the televangelists or something like that,” Lowell concludes. “When they learn that we’re normal people and that we like a lot of the same artists that they do, and that we’re not there to judge them or to try to change who they are, they seem to relax a lot more.”

Jars of Clay perform Wednesday, Sept. 23, at 7:30 p.m. at the Luther Burbank Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. Tickets are $21.50. 546-3600.

From the September 17-23, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Pho Vietnam

0

Nam Sup


Michael Amsler

Good to the last drop: Forty lashes with wet noodles is easy to take at Michael Nguyen’s Pho Vietnam.

Souped up at Pho Vietnam

By Paula Harris

TRY PHO VIETNAM,” advised a friend who’d heard we were pining for the newly defunct Himalayan Sherpa restaurant in Glen Ellen. Julia told us she’d also been craving enticing ethnic tastes and she’d stumbled upon the Vietnamese noodle soup restaurant, in its unlikely Santa Rosa strip mall location, by chance. “It’s good,” she urged. “And great value.”

Enough said.

Located in the Food 4 Less shopping center off Stony Point Road, tucked between a Western Union office and a tax services place, Pho Vietnam looks decidedly no-frills. The well-worn linoleum floor and mainly unadorned walls set a functional rather than decorative tone. There are 11 tables with glass tops over dusky-rose tablecloths, but no flowers or candles. Instead, the tables are set with various condiment sauces, including bottles of Sriracha hot chili, hoisin, and soy. Wall dispensers hold plastic soupspoons, chopsticks, and doll-sized white plastic bowls for mixing sauce concoctions.

The restaurant does a brisk take-out trade, and there was a pleasant hubbub of activity as we took our seats. The clientele appeared to be mainly Asian. The service was friendly, though a bit rushed. We ordered the Goi Cuon ($3.25) spring rolls (vegetarian version) and received three translucent rice-paper wrappers crammed with chilled vermicelli, shredded lettuce, carrots, fresh cilantro leaves, and a touch of mint. These were served with a mild creamy peanut dipping sauce. It was a cool, refreshing, and light beginning.

Pho Vietnam bills itself as a “noodle soup restaurant,” and large steaming bowls (with diners hunkered over them) were in evidence on nearly every table. Each bowl contains an entire, nutritious meal. Sizes are small for $3.95, large for $4.50, and extra-large (read: kitchen sink-sized) for $5.25. The restaurant has a huge selection, but specializes in Hanoi-style beef noodle soups.

Our server recommended the Pho Tai Chin Nac (small, $3.95), a noodle soup brimming with eye round steak and well-done brisket. It was a daunting bowlful containing vermicelli in a flavorful clear beef broth, with huge thin slices of beef stacked and folded over like sandwich meat filling up the bowl. Hot and fragrant, this was probably a Vietnamese beef-lover’s delight, but it was all a bit too much for us novices to handle–especially with the designated plastic soupspoon and chopsticks.

Bun Tom Thit Nuong ($5.95) was another meal-in-a-bowl. The layers of goodies began with cold vermicelli, then salad consisting of bean sprouts, thin slices of cucumber, carrots, fresh mint, and coriander. This was topped with warm strips of crisp, smoky barbecued pork, and grilled butterflied shrimp, complete with tails and flecked with chili flakes and crushed peanuts. It was a great mingling of flavors and textures, both satisfying and exotic.

Mi Xao Dom Chay ($5.50) resembled a golden bird’s nest of crispy fried noodles, crowned with semi-crisp chunks of cauliflower, broccoli florets, scallions, baby sweet corn, green pepper, whole mushrooms, celery, carrots, and tofu, all lightly stir-fried in a tasty soy-based sauce.

Com Ga Nuong Xa ($4.75) was a lovely partnership of lemongrass chicken served over white sticky rice. A generous portion of tender barbecued chicken pieces was tinted slightly golden with an aromatic lemongrass-ginger marinade and decorated with fresh scallions and herbs. It came with a bowl of nuoc nam, a popular Vietnamese condiment of spicy fish sauce. Pho Vietnam does not serve beer or wine. We settled for a glass of (too strong) iced coffee with condensed milk ($1.70). There is also a selection of sodas and juices, including real lemonade.

The dessert-beverages we sampled next were unlike anything we’d experienced. The sweet sea drink Xam Ba Luong ($1.95) was an adventure in a glass. From the sugary water we fished out lots of weird and wonderful floating and sunken items, such as strands of fresh green seaweed, dried longan, barley, lotus seeds, lychees, and red dates. All it needed was a couple of sea monkeys. Unfortunately, the concoction was too cloyingly sweet to finish.

The Che Dau Xanh Banh Loc green-bean pudding drink ($1.75) was better. Moderately sweet and creamy, it tasted like a combination of rice milk and coconut flesh and contained strips of clear gelatin and small oval-shaped beans.

Julia was right. For massive servings of fresh Vietnamese cuisine at rock-bottom prices, it would be hard to beat Pho Vietnam.

Pho Vietnam
Address: 711 Stony Point Road, Santa Rosa; 571-SOUP (7687)
Hours: Daily, 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.; take-out available
Food: Vietnamese noodle soup specialties, exotic non-alcoholic drinks
Service: Friendly though a bit rushed
Ambiance: No frills, unassuming, functional
Price: Very inexpensive; priciest item is $5.95
Wine list: None
Overall:*1/2 stars (out of 4)

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Art for Life Exhibit and Auction

0

Life Work


Janet Orsi

People power: The 11th annual Art for Life exhibit and auction features work by 250 local artists, including Cloverdale sculptor and painter Carol Setterlund.

Art for Life fundraiser brings out the best in local artists

By Patrick Sullivan

FOR ANYONE laboring under the comfortable illusion that the AIDS crisis is over, Rick Dean has some unpleasant news. As the associate director of Face to Face Sonoma County AIDS Network, Dean has spent more than a decade working to provide essential services for people with the disease. He says the need for public involvement in the struggle has never been greater.

“Our caseload is at the highest point it’s ever been,” Dean says as he sits in his Santa Rosa office. “The good news is that people with AIDS are living longer. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t continuing to be our clients, continuing to have needs–different, more complicated needs. And, in addition, people are still becoming infected. So the need for our services is growing.”

But, while the need is clear, the fight to find funding for Face to Face’s important mission is tougher than ever. What’s a non-profit to do in this depressing age of donor fatigue and federal budget cutbacks? The organization’s creative response to that challenging problem has led to an annual art event that has developed into both a fundraising juggernaut and something much more.

For the past 10 years, the Art for Life auction has sold work donated by hundreds of local artists to benefit Face to Face. Somewhere along the way, the event became a landmark institution in the local art world, drawing artists and art collectors from all over the Bay Area and beyond.

“Art for Life is a prestigious event,” says Ina Chun, events coordinator for Face to Face. “Even if people don’t know it’s a fundraiser for us, they still want to come.”

“That’s always been the intention,” says Dean. “We didn’t want to attract only people who would come to an AIDS fundraiser. We wanted to make it about art.”

The event began in 1987, when an artist donated a piece to Face to Face. That donation sparked the idea of an art show, and now the list of participants reads like a Who’s Who of Sonoma County artists: Everyone from Jack Stuppin to found-object wizard 3-D Edddy is involved. Art insiders say that the prestige of the event and the worthiness of the cause have combined to arouse a passionate loyalty among local artists, who donate valuable pieces year after year. Some even create artwork specifically for the show. Indeed, last year Face to Face honored the 10 artists who had participated for all 10 years of the event. But even some of those who became involved more recently say they now can’t imagine not donating.

“I’ll participate every year that I’m asked,” says Carol Setterlund, a sculptor and painter from Cloverdale. “There are an awful lot of fundraising auctions out there, and I do donate to many of them, but [Face to Face] is the one I will always donate to.”

The pieces donated to Art for Life will be available for leisurely viewing by the public at a pre-auction exhibit opening Sept. 16 at the Friedman Center in Santa Rosa. That’s quite a change from the early days of the event, when organizers set a whirlwind pace.

“The first couple of years we did everything in one day,” Dean recalls with a chuckle. “We arrived at the Flamingo Hotel, received all the artwork, set the whole thing up, had the auction, cleaned up, and went home. … People kept saying that it was such a shame that we were collecting all this beautiful artwork and relatively few people were getting to see it … so we decided to let it stay up for a few days.”

Another recent innovation is sponsorship of the event by local businesses. That funding allows Art for Life to seamlessly pass along almost 100 percent of the money raised to fund AIDS-related services. (However, some artists do elect to take a small cut from the sale of their work.) What does that mean in concrete terms for people with AIDS in Sonoma County?

“The event really keeps us going,” Dean says. “Art for Life is our biggest annual moneymaker, and we really depend on it to keep the agency alive.”

In short, the money keeps Face to Face open and able to continue its valuable work, which includes street outreach programs, case managers who help sick people navigate the tricky maze of modern medicine, and assistance with housing. The last is extremely important for the agency’s clients, the majority of whom live on $650-a-month disability payments.

How stressful is it to put on an event that requires the work of over 200 volunteers? Dean and Chun admit it’s not always easy. But the rewards, they say, are spectacular.

“It just blows you away when you’re standing there surrounded by all that generosity and creativity,” Dean says with a smile.

The Art for Life pre-auction exhibit runs Sept. 16-18. Hours are noon to 7 p.m. on Sept. 16 and 18, and noon to 4 p.m. on Sept. 17. Admission is free. The Art for Life Auction runs from 3:30 to 7 p.m. on Sept. 19. Admission to the auction is $39. Both events take place at the Friedman Center, 4676 Mayette Ave., Santa Rosa. 544-1581.

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Disco Queen


Kerry Hayes

Dance fever: Ryan Phillippe finds new life under the spinning lights in 54

Dance floor diva Maureen Regan discusses the sublime decadence of ’54’

By David Templeton

Writer David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time around, he experiences the odd, gaudy glamour of the peculiar disco drama 54. His date: high-energy literary agent and one-time dancing queen–and Studio 54 regular–Maureen Regan.

MAUREEN REGAN leans forward, sliding her giant mocha latte out of the way to make room for her elbows. A dreamy, faraway look has drifted momentarily across her face. It’s the look of hopeless, unstoppable reminiscence–blossoming suddenly into full-blown nostalgia.

“How do you depict absolute and complete decadence?” she asks. “How do you capture the intensity of that on film?”

It is, of course, a rhetorical question.

“You can’t,” comes her answer. “You can give a taste of it, the general idea of it–but that’s all. That’s what Studio 54 was–absolute and complete decadence. It was freedom. You walked through those doors–if you were lucky enough to get in–and you were allowed to be totally free. But you had to be careful, and a lot of people got hurt.”

Maureen Regan–former disco queen, now a literary agent to the stars–has just experienced the deliriously trashy new film 54–the story of New York’s fabled Studio 54, its notorious co-owner Steve Rubell (deftly portrayed by comedian Mike Myers), and the starry-eyed stud-muffin (Ryan Phillippe), who achieves fleeting fame and fortune as one of the club’s legendary bare-chested bartenders.

The film, an entertaining but aimless stewpot of gaudy ’70s kitsch, succeeds best in its depiction of Rubell. The over-the-top extravagance of Studio 54’s shenanigans is resurrected in sufficient measure to give outsiders some idea of what kept regulars like Regan–who was a fixture at Studio 54–coming back night after night.

Born and raised in New York City, Maureen Regan–the younger sister of Regan Books publisher Judith Regan–was 18 and a freshman at NYU when she first began frequenting Studio 54. It was 1979, and, according to Regan, it was she who instigated the much-talked-about “Studio 54 food fight” when she flung a sticky handful of birthday cake at Christie Brinkley’s boyfriend (the now deceased Oliver Chandon). With dreams of becoming the next Donna Summers (she recorded one disco album, featuring songs such as “A Good Man Is Hard to Find; A Hard Man Is Good”), Regan remained a club regular until her graduation–around the time Rubell was busted for tax evasion and other charges and sent off to prison.

During that time, Regan went dancing almost every weekend.

“I loved disco,” she admits, with nary a trace of shame. “It gets a bad rap now, but no one can tell me that disco wasn’t fun.”

Nowadays, Regan is busy shaking a different kind of booty, having made a name for herself as the upstart literary agent who landed a million-dollar book deal for her very first client–Jefferson Airplane’s enigmatic Grace Slick. The book, Somebody to Love: A Rock and Roll Memoir, has just been published by Warner Books. With that success as her calling card, Regan has gone on to sign an eclectic stable of writers, artists, and “big names,” including actor Don Johnson.

A lot of years have gone by since my guest hung up her dancing shoes, but watching the movie tonight has catapulted Regan into a full-on sentimental reverie.

“Studio 54,” she tells me, carefully trying to explain the club’s appeal, “somehow encapsulated all the decadence of the ’70s into one specific place and time–all the players were there, all the celebrities, all the elements of drugs and music and sex. It was like the Roaring ’20s in Manhattan. Average people could mingle with stars–you’d be standing next to Andy Warhol or Bianca Jagger. It seemed as if there were no distinctions between the classes there. It was an illusion, of course–the stars would mingle with the common people, but then they’d retire to the private VIP room–but it was an amazing thing to experience.”

In the movie, the bartenders were stars in their own right.

“Oh, absolutely,” Regan agrees. “Forget the stars–most of my girlfriends were trying to get laid by one of the bartenders. That was their hobby, their goal. To be with a bartender from Studio 54, that was something special.

“I never did any of that, though,” she adds, laughing. “Fortunately, or unfortunately, I never engaged in any of the drugs, the sex, and all that other stuff that was going on. I watched. I saw it all. I pretended to have a sinus infection so I could turn down all the offers of coke. I was aware from the first time I stepped into Studio 54 that this was not life–this was a fantasy, and I knew that if you weren’t careful, you could get completely carried away in all of it.”

Another aspect of the Studio 54 experience–detailed in a number of the movie’s scenes–was the renowned difficulty of getting inside. Rubell apparently enjoyed wielding his power to choose who was in and who was out.

“It’s true, it’s true,” Regan affirms. “You’d go and you’d line up like that, you’d try to push yourself to the front–so you could show your face and pray that the guy standing at the door was going to like the way you looked.

“The thing about Steve Rubell,” she says, “is that he could be very sweet and very demonic in the same breath. He would sometimes leave a thousand people standing out on the sidewalk, when only a hundred or so were inside the club. He’d do it for the hell of it.”

She pauses, that wistful, nostalgic look returning to her face.

“I’m not saying it was all great,” she admits. “Some nights were pretty iffy. But, even so, it was a very special time.”

“Is it safe to say that you’re sad it’s over?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, slowly. “There’s a piece of me that wishes it could live in that moment again. I’m probably just remembering what it was like to be 18 and young and full of that incredible sense of aliveness–that freedom.

“And I’m telling you–that was the most alive I’ve ever felt in my life.”

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Medical Marijuana

0

Summer CAMP Busts


Michael Amsler

Goin’ to pot: Ed Learn and Will Larson had a run-in with local sheriff’s officials who claim the men had no authority to raise medicinal pot plants.

Medical-pot activists want local police raids to stop

By Dylan Bennett

IN THE AUGUST HALLS of the county administration building an old man with a leg amputated below the knee sits in a wheelchair. Nearby, a middle-aged woman missing her right hand and lower right leg talks energetically, while another woman with multiple sclerosis walks with hesitant steps.

They are all gathered for one reason: the right to grow and consume medical marijuana without police interference. That right became state law with Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act of 1996. But law enforcement officials have been slow to comply.

Fortified with hundreds of petitioned signatures and 10 speakers last month, medical marijuana supporters asked the county supervisors to turn down $250,000 in state funding for the Campaign Against Marijuana Planting.

Mary Pat Beck, Sonoma Alliance for Medical Marijuana spokesperson, argued that CAMP operations have victimized medical marijuana patients with busts by out-of-town CAMP officers whose gung-ho, guns-drawn tactics disregard local guidelines and violate civil liberties. “This appears to be an abuse of authority by an outside force,” says Beck.

The testimony of SAMM members, District Attorney Mike Mullins, and Sheriff Jim Piccinini sparked a discussion among the county supervisors that was sympathetic toward medical marijuana patients. But the CAMP funding was approved nonetheless as part of the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department’s $60.5 million budget.

“I am disturbed about continued reports I get of CAMP activities that are not consistent with county efforts,” says 5th District Supervisor Mike Reilly.

First District Supervisor Mike Cale, an ex-cop, says he is “not sure” CAMP has been operating with sufficient respect for civil liberties and the U.S. Constitution.

The CAMP money comes from the state Department of Justice and funds the salaries of a prosecutor in the District Attorney’s Office and two sheriff’s detectives.

Beck told the Independent that recent raids on medical marijuana gardens, both by CAMP and by local law enforcement officers following Sonoma County guidelines, have fostered a climate of fear and anxiety among chronically ill patients who worry about the security of their medicine and designated “care-growers.” Some, she said, are afraid to leave their homes for fear their prescribed marijuana will be taken in their absence.

Now, at the height of the pot-busting season, relief may be coming for the medical marijuana community. An agreement is in the works between Mullins and the Sonoma County Medical Association to allow a panel of physicians to adopt a verification process for medical marijuana patients. The plan would provide patients with certification from a panel of approved doctors recognized by Mullins.

Sonoma County Public Health Director George Flores, chairperson of the medical association’s medical-marijuana subcommittee, hastens to point out that the verification process would be entirely confidential between doctors and patients. Patients could then decide for themselves whether to share their verified status with the District Attorney’s Office.

“It’s a work in progress,” says Mullins.

Currently, law enforcement guidelines for distinguishing between legal and illegal marijuana give considerable discretion to police officers, but provide them with no information about what kind of pot gardens are appropriate. Beck says that even the existing guidelines, the same rules SAMM claims CAMP ignores, invade the privacy of individuals and need to be changed.

THE NEW verification agreement won’t come soon enough for three chronically ill men in Santa Rosa. In mid-August, sheriff’s deputies confiscated all their indoor pot plants when they weren’t home. The raid left them without the medicine they say is taken with the knowledge of their doctors and that has significantly improved their health.

Edward Learn, 33, and William Larson, 29, are both HIV positive. Larson, who is also diagnosed with wasting disease, is employed as the caregiver of his friend and next-door neighbor Robert Bohnenkamp, 72, who suffers from chronic cardiovascular disease, as well as glaucoma and arthritis. “The only other way Robert could cope with obstacles that have faced him in the last year would be a morphine drip and sitting in his home,” says Larson.

Bohnenkamp underwent surgery four times last year, and his lower leg was recently amputated.

“We do use marijuana medicinally, and we can’t afford it. Plus, it’s illegal to buy it,” says Larson. “So, under the provisions of Prop. 215, we decided to cultivate a small medical marijuana garden exclusively for the three of us. It worked out great for the last two years. We supplied ourselves with marijuana without involving any outside parties at all.”

Larson says their garden of 50 pot plants, all in various stages of maturity, provided a weekly harvest of about a half ounce for the three men. “A couple of joints a day was really plenty,” he says.

After his frightened landlady discovered the garden and called law enforcement officials, Larson claims to have called a sheriff’s detective about the medical nature of the garden. Larson says he invited the detective to visit the garden to observe its authenticity. Instead, “he starts to challenge the validity of my illness, of my partner’s illness, and of Robert’s,” says Larson. “And he doesn’t know anything about us at all. And then he challenges our role as caregivers.”

Larson left notes posted in his kitchen, reportedly verifying the men’s prescriptions. Sheriff’s deputies showed up at the house while the men were out, determined the prescriptions were invalid, and confiscated the plants.

Sheriff’s Lt. Mike Brown, who participated in the raid, says the letters of recommendation from Larson’s doctor were a few years old, so he contacted the doctor, who said he didn’t authorize medical use of marijuana.

“What are we left to do?” asks Brown.

What appears as heavy-handed police work to Larson may have been a sheriff’s deputy simply following the rules. Official guidelines for investigating medical marijuana require police to ask eight rather personal questions, including the name of the doctor who has prescribed or recommended marijuana; the nature of the illness the patient suffers from; the duration of the condition; and the amount of marijuana used per day. Refusal to answer the questions is grounds for arrest.

Police are also instructed to obtain a signed medical-records release from the patient, although refusal to sign the release does not result in arrest.

“The partial remedy that is being proposed by this process involving the medical association would go a ways to avert or prevent the kinds of circumstances … [in] which people are being questioned by non-medical providers about their medical circumstances, and possible intrusion into privacy and confidentiality,” Flores says.

Meanwhile, Lt. Brown agrees that local guidelines need improvement. “Quite frankly, that’s been one of the frustrating areas for everyone, including us,” he says. “No one has told us how many plants are appropriate for whatever condition. Unfortunately, it’s left at this point to the officer on the scene, and, quite frankly, we would welcome more direction in that area.”

But critics point out that the guidelines make no mention of pot gardens or what defines a reasonable amount of medical marijuana. The guidelines, they say, allow for arbitrary enforcement of the law.

Also, while medical marijuana growers like Larson note differences between seedlings and mature, medicine-producing plants, to Lt. Brown, “a plant is a plant.”

ATTORNEY WILLIAM Panzer of Oakland, co-author of Prop. 215, notes that the federal government gives eight authorized patients in the United States each a half pound per month, or two ounces per week. The city of Oakland now bases its new guidelines on the federal standard.

Brown expresses his disagreement with that policy. “That’s a lot of marijuana,” he says. “If we come to your house, and you have three or four plants or whatever, and you have a doctor’s authorization to have that for your condition–we’re out of here, we’re leaving you alone. We hope you feel better.”

Meanwhile, Larson feels terrible. “They are attacking sick and dying people right here,” he says. “I don’t understand what the war is on sick and dying people and elderly people in our community. There are no guns here, there’s no cash. There wasn’t even any dry herb here.”

SAMM also wants the county to adopt guidelines similar to those recently adopted in Oakland. Under those rules if patients cannot show a valid doctor’s approval they get a “fix-it ticket” and have two working days to show it to law enforcement officials. SAMM wants no bust of gardens with less than 150 plants unless there are indications of illegal activity. And if a police officer is unsure about a garden, photographs, sample leaves, identification, and affidavits are taken.

“We feel we have a very good working relationship with the sheriff and district attorney,” says Beck, “but it seems like Will and Ed have been taken advantage of. We don’t understand. We’re confused.”

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sonoma County Country Bands

Twangy Time!Michael AmslerSonoma County hayride: Members of the new local band Twang--Sheila Groves, Steve Harder, and Charley Momey--mix dead-on bluegrass arrangements and deadpan lyrical humor. Local acts hop on alt-country bandwagonBy Charles McDermidBECAUSE Sonoma County is nearly as far from Nashville culturally as it is geographically, it may seem an unlikely place to observe an artistic shift in the...

Leslie Brody

War StoriesRed Star Sister takes a fresh look at a turbulent period.'Red Star Sister' offers wry view of the '60s By Patrick SullivanTHE STORY of the 1960s has been told so many times, in so many ways, that it has attained the cultural status of a fairy tale. Whatever the ideological stance or literary talent of the teller, the...

Talking Pictures

Dark Shadows'Touch of Evil'By David TempletonDavid Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time out, he treats award-winning mystery novelist Julie Smith to her first viewing of Orson Welles' seminal crime thriller Touch of Evil.Frankly, I'm shocked.Touch of Evil, directed in 1958 by Orson Welles--starring Charlton Heston, Janet...

Highway 101 Traffic

Big SpenderMichael AmslerMorning grind: Anyone forced to sit in the local commuter snarl on Highway 101 hopes that the proposed Calthorpe plan will fix the mess. Of course, some have their doubts. What would you do with a $780 million fix-it kit?Say someone hands you the delicate future of Hwy. 101 and $780 million ...By Janet WellsWE ALL KNOW what...

Nerve

Safe SexLiterate smut that hits a raw nerveBy Greg CahillCYBERSPACE is a cold and soulless place. Or at least it can be. Perhaps that's why a recent study found that folks who surf the Internet on a regular basis are more depressed than their Web-less peers. What the study didn't figure out is whether those depressed Net denizens were...

Jars of Clay

God SquadMuch Afraid, and performing at LBC next week.Norman Jean RoyCrossover Christian rock with Jars of ClayBy Alan SculleyIT APPEARS that Jars of Clay didn't have that much to fear after all. The Nashville-based foursome--which in 1996 became one of the few Christian groups to cross over into the music mainstream when their self-titled debut CD went platinum...

Pho Vietnam

Nam SupMichael AmslerGood to the last drop: Forty lashes with wet noodles is easy to take at Michael Nguyen's Pho Vietnam.Souped up at Pho VietnamBy Paula HarrisTRY PHO VIETNAM," advised a friend who'd heard we were pining for the newly defunct Himalayan Sherpa restaurant in Glen Ellen. Julia told us she'd also been craving enticing ethnic tastes and she'd...

Art for Life Exhibit and Auction

Life WorkJanet OrsiPeople power: The 11th annual Art for Life exhibit and auction features work by 250 local artists, including Cloverdale sculptor and painter Carol Setterlund.Art for Life fundraiser brings out the best in local artistsBy Patrick SullivanFOR ANYONE laboring under the comfortable illusion that the AIDS crisis is over, Rick Dean has some unpleasant news. As the associate...

Talking Pictures

Disco QueenKerry HayesDance fever: Ryan Phillippe finds new life under the spinning lights in 54Dance floor diva Maureen Regan discusses the sublime decadence of '54'By David TempletonWriter David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time around, he experiences the odd, gaudy glamour of the peculiar disco drama 54....

Medical Marijuana

Summer CAMP BustsMichael AmslerGoin' to pot: Ed Learn and Will Larson had a run-in with local sheriff's officials who claim the men had no authority to raise medicinal pot plants.Medical-pot activists want local police raids to stopBy Dylan BennettIN THE AUGUST HALLS of the county administration building an old man with a leg amputated below the knee sits in...
11,084FansLike
4,606FollowersFollow
6,928FollowersFollow