Viva Variety

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Viva, Viva!

Comedy Central Viva Variety show has plenty of punch

By Richard Byrne

THE INITIAL promo ads for Comedy Central’s Viva Variety should have warned viewers about the show’s penchant for rampant oddity. The show’s three “hosts”–Meredith Laupin (Thomas Lennon), Agatha Laupin (Kerri Kenney), and Johnny Blue Jeans (Michael Ian Black)–were greeted by a reporter (played by VV writer Ben Garant) as they embarked on a mission to bring “one of Europe’s most successful variety shows” to the United States. The ads were weird, more than slightly surreal, and yet almost believable–just what you’d expect from four cast members from the acclaimed MTV comedy series The State.

The viewers hooked by those offbeat ads were treated to one of the more wittily written comedy series ever to grace American television–a knowing lampoon of kitsch (both European and American) with sexy dancers (the Swimsuit Squad), cool music, and odd stunts thrown in.

“You know it’s a great job,” says Thomas Lennon, “when Run DMC are on one side, and someone’s throwing spears on the other side, and the dancers are warming up.”

The comedy on Viva Variety seems to thrive in the circus atmosphere.

Where else can you find Star Trek notable Walter Koenig (who played Chekhov) involved in a skit called “Chekhov Play Chekhov,” a Russian drama that magically sprouts Klingons? Where else can a studio-audience member play a quiz game titled “French or Gay”? When’s the last time Saturday Night Live did something as inventive as tell the story of Oedipus Rex in trucker lingo? And can anyone resist “live” pitches for sponsor products like “Fishibar,” “Baby Tastes Like Soup,” “Baby Quotes Castro,” or a Mace that’s lovingly called “Not Tonight, Not Ever”?

“It’s the best job ever,” says Lennon of Viva Variety. “We hang with dancers and freaks and musicians.”

Viva Variety actually grew out of a sketch that Lennon wrote. “Mine and Kerri’s roles, we’d always had in mind,” he says. “They were in the original. Ben played a character called the Secretary General. The show used to have a villain.”

That conflict eventually shook out to a more subtle conflict between cultures, embodied by a new character– Johnny Blue Jeans–who obsesses over the minutiae of late-’70s and early-’80s culture and revels in his role as a more-than-incompetent sidekick.

“We knew we wanted somebody out of sync,” Lennon explains. “We talked about it a lot.”

Garant adds, “We thought about what these characters would do to make the show American. What would Europeans do? Blue jeans!'”

Black’s combination of broad physical comedy and staggeringly hip idiocy (think of an over-the-top version of John Travolta’s turn as Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back, Kotter) as Johnny Blue Jeans is one of the show’s most appealing elements. Few actors would so brazenly, for instance, work with animals for laughs, as Black did in last season’s “Monkey Sports” spots, in which he double-dates with a chimp and, eventually, takes on pro-wrestling duo Harlem Heat.

Lennon also notes that Johnny Blue Jeans, as a character, “is the way for us to get everything that we love into the show from the early ’80s.” (Seeing Fred “Rerun” Berry and Dick Clark yuck it up with Black is a particularly wicked laugh sensation.)

The relationship between Lennon’s Mr. Laupin and Kerri Kenny’s Agatha, however, is the linchpin of the show’s humor. The characters were once married but are now divorced; Agatha’s boundless contempt and hatred of Meredith and Laupin’s slow, agonized burns as yet another verbal missile hits make for a hilarious parody of shameless celebrity couples.

Why host together despite the hate? “In their divorce settlement,” Lennon explains, “they each got one-half of the show. If they quit, they lose their rights to the show.”

From the May 7-13, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Lonely Planet

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Solar Souls

Lonely Planet.

Sheri Batemon



Cinnabar puts Lonely Planet in orbit

By Daedalus Howell

FLASH. In the 16th century, astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus advanced the theory that the planets of our solar system revolve around the sun and not vice versa as theretofore believed. In related news, for one last weekend, in their heart-rending restaging of Steven Dietz’s Lonely Planet at the Cinnabar Theater, actor-director Michael Fontaine and sole cast-mate Dwayne Stincelli advance the theory that emotional beings are compelled to orbit one another.

More than merely a reprise of Fontaine and Stincelli’s 1996 Actors’ Theatre production of the award-winning play, the duo’s current Lonely Planet (performed under the auspices of the Quicksilver II Theater Company) proves itself vital, essential theater in the enduring era of AIDS. It is a true success.

Meet affable, mild-mannered Jody (admirably deployed by Stincelli), a practical 40-something–a man to whom the notion of a “known quantity” is a hair’s breadth removed from rapture. Literally an amasser of “charted territory,” Jody sells maps, a vocation aptly metaphoric of the demystification the character requires as he navigates his world–in which he is gay and is paralyzed by incertitude on the eve of his first AIDS test.

The test is so portentous to the staid map-seller that he grows increasingly agoraphobic and sequesters himself in his shop, maintaining contact with the outside world only through his lovingly erratic friend, Carl (a wondrously warm portrayal by Fontaine). Prone to unannounced visits and bombastic laments, Carl is the proverbial loose cannon–loaded, however, with concern for Jody and unseen others stalked by AIDS.

Beset by a sudden existential paroxysm, Carl begins to dutifully retrieve the chairs of friends who have died of AIDS and store them in Jody’s shop. As countless chairs begin to throng the stage, what was initially an arresting and profound visual symbol of loss and bereavement becomes a veritable monument to those taken by the disease.

In time, Carl’s entrances betoken the inevitable and doleful stockpiling of chairs and the memory of those they represent–a ponderous endeavor playwright Dietz elects to mitigate with such epigrammatic salves as Carl’s characteristic line, “Irony is the penicillin of modern thought.” The effect is at once wry and heartening and confirms that such coping strategies, though husked in cynicism, are in fact pragmatic and necessary.

Throughout the production, both actors maintain first-rate performances. Stincelli’s Jody radiates warmth in deliberate pulses as, scene by scene, his icy reserve and psychic rigidity melt into the waterworks a play of this caliber is wont to turn on. Moreover, Stincelli conveys asides to the audience so effortlessly and with such a refreshing lack of actorly self-consciousness that one can hardly suppress the notion that he’s not actually acting but simply being.

Likewise, Fontaine’s Carl is a stirring amalgam of vulnerability and vigilance–a moving portrait of a man laboring under the duress of absolute calamity and striving to preserve, if not create, meaning as he collects his improbable chairs. Fontaine displays the uncanny ability to reveal the native soulfulness of his character without endangering his delightfully nervous pluck.

Similarly, as director, Fontaine manages to toe the work’s seriocomic line without ensnaring himself in its myriad possibilities. Like the flagrant distortions forgiven in maps for purposes of navigation, Fontaine’s interpretation suggests Jody and Carl’s frequent fantastical musings are also an attempt to retain perspective.

Fontaine and Stincelli’s immaculately designed set–replete with all things cartographic, including a glowing globe and countless packing tubes that all but waft must–provides the perfect forum for the characters’ antics, shenanigans, and breakdowns. Aloysha Klebe’s lighting expertly frames the play’s scenes and on several occasions exhibits a particularly adept use of the spotlight to identify the singularity of the character’s experience.

Lonely Planet is, in a word, stellar.

Lonely Planet plays Thursday-Saturday, April 30-May 2, at 8 p.m. at the Cinnabar Theater, 3333 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. Tickets are $10-$14. 707/763-8920.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

How America Eats

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Pizza, Pizza


Photoillustration by Magali Pirard

Where’s the beef? Blame it on Oprah if you must–the Texas beef industry does–but America’s love affair with beef has diminished among busy consumers, which is not to say we are a nation of health food freaks.

America’s eating habits are changing, but not necessarily for the better

By Bob Johnson

NO DOUBT about it: The people at Pillsbury like to poke. They poke their pudgy Doughboy dozens of times each week on national television while hawking frozen biscuit dough and boxed cake mixes, and now they’re poking around our kitchens. Two thousand of our kitchens, to be precise, in an exercise to determine “How America Eats.”

What did they find in our refrigerators and on our cupboard shelves? The answers may surprise–and perhaps dismay– you. Furthermore, they found that what we eat at restaurants usually is quite distinct from what we eat at home.

We’ve been hearing for years that Americans’ consumption of beef has been on the decline. The Pillsbury study confirms this contention. In 1987, the last time Pillsbury’s spies trained their microscopes on our kitchens, steak was rated as our favorite food; by 1997–whether rare, medium, or well done, grilled, broiled, or blackened–it had fallen to fifth place.

During that same 10-year stretch, hamburgers dropped from sixth place to 10th, perhaps explaining why today you can buy a McDonald’s burger for 29 cents on Wednesdays or a Burger King Whopper for 99 cents any day of the week.

Hot dogs also dropped a notch in popularity, from third in 1987 to fourth in ’97. But as nutritionists point out, it would be a stretch to cite that as an indication of beef’s sagging popularity. More likely, it’s a sign of the public’s slowly increasing disdain for mechanically separated turkey, pork, water, salt, corn syrup, dextrose, sodium phosphate, sodium erythorbate, and sodium nitrate. Bologna sandwiches also fell from favor, from eighth place to out of the top 10, but we won’t go into the non-beef ingredients contained in that one-time lunchtime favorite–after all, this is only a 892-word story.

While beef and “near-beef” dishes have seen better days, several other staples are holding their own. Ham sandwiches maintained their No. 2 position, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches improved from fourth to third, cheese sandwiches went from seventh to eighth, and baked chicken held steady at No. 9.

Casting cholesterol concerns aside, the two dishes that registered the greatest gains in popularity both happen to feature cheese as a primary ingredient. Macaroni and cheese jumped from 10th place to seventh, and taking over the No. 1 position, ascending from fifth place in 1987, was … drum roll, please … pizza!

Yes, it’s a great day in Sonoma County for Clo the cow.

WHAT CAN WE LEARN about ourselves from all these data? A number of things. We like to talk about health, but don’t like to do anything about it.

As a society, we’re not yet willing to sacrifice taste for more healthful food. Despite all the studies that show how a poor diet can lead to heart disease, cancer, and other life- threatening afflictions, we continue to take the George Bush approach to nutrition: “Hold the broccoli.” Given the choice of a fat-laden pepperoni pizza or a nearly calorie-free salad, most people would choose the pizza. Steak or chicken? Steak. Mac and cheese or pasta salad with light vinaigrette? Mac and cheese.

When it comes to satisfying our taste buds, we prefer “in your face” to “subtle.”

We’re addicted to full-flavored foods, just as we have evolved to prefer flavorful beverages–hence the proliferation of sushi bars and Thai restaurants along with designer coffee bars and microbrew beer pubs. Especially when we go out to eat, “bland” is a four-letter word. “Would you like some black pepper for your salad?” Absolutely. “Hot sauce for your taco?” Por favor. We’re in a hurry.

As our lives have become more complicated, time has come to be viewed as a precious commodity. When it’s time to eat, we look for shortcuts. To enjoy a steak at home, one must first go to the market and select a cut, take it home, season it, and then cook it, checking periodically to make sure it’s not being overcooked. On the other hand, to enjoy a pizza at home, one need merely pick up the phone and place an order, instantaneously freeing up time to attend to any number of other chores while someone else does the baking. Is it any wonder pizza has supplanted steak as our favorite food?

These days, it’s impossible to wheel a cart down a supermarket aisle without encountering a bevy of products formulated (designed might be a better word) to help the purchaser save time. Hamburger Helper. Prewashed, cut, and bagged lettuce. Minute Rice.

Paradoxically, despite the proliferation of cookbooks, we apparently don’t like or don’t want to cook.

Or, at the very least, we don’t like to spend a great deal of time in the kitchen. Of our 10 favorite foods, according to the Pillsbury researchers, not one is difficult to prepare. Six of the 10 are sandwiches or sandwich-style dishes, which can be assembled in mere minutes, and the other four require only minimal preparation. And even though the bologna sandwich disappeared from the list, it was replaced by the equally easy-to-prepare turkey sandwich.

Times have changed and time is tight, so we prepare our meals quickly, ingest them quickly, and move on to the next item on the day’s “to do” list. Investment brokers would chew on those facts, crunch the numbers, and tell you it’s a great time to buy stock in Pepto-Bismol.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Cropduster

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Cow Punkers


Michael Amsler

Countrified: Cropduster–can they take the heat of the kitchen?

Cropduster–no honky-tonk angels

By Charles McDermid

INFILTRATING the weekly band practice of local favorite Cropduster was a great idea. After all, talking about music holds about as little truth as singing about football, so what better way to get the real skinny on Santa Rosa’s most enigmatic band than to catch them, gloves off, at their most honest musical moments?

The rehearsal quickly shows why Cropduster slip out from under any conventional labels. The members, strewn about drummer Jamie Voss’ living room amid a cacophony of cheap beer and equally cheap friends display an enormous range of communication.

Quoting from countless years of acquaintance, these jokers run the gamut from easy camaraderie to caustic criticism, from technical mastery to goof-off improv, from bad jokes to sincere revelation.

“We’re all good friends, so if we weren’t together playing music we’d be here doing something else,” says Justin Barr, 27, the band’s pedal-steel guitar player, glancing quickly to his beer can as if to suggest exactly what that “something else” might be.

This and similar sessions have resulted in a music that could be described as modern honky-tonk. (“Regressive American music,” is Barr’s apt description.) Far from being a send-up of corny country notions, Cropduster offer an understanding and appreciation of a genre that shines through in performance.

If the music of Merle Haggard, Buck Owens, and the Flying Burrito Brothers seems an odd fit for the 20-somethings of Sonoma County, understand that Cropduster belong to a growing list of local musicians who’ve realized that recent forms like punk and its grungy alternatives are in the tailspin of their veracity and have looked elsewhere for suitable outlets.

“This was a punk band a few years ago. We played full-on electric guitars, trying to make it loud and fast,” says Barr. “Then we brought in a steel guitar to countrify some obscure punk songs, and these became the songs we liked the most.

“Now we’re working on toning it. Less volume and fewer notes equal more soul.”

LESS VOLUME has yet to signal less fun at the band’s live shows. Their humor and exuberance have established a loyal following, and if it somehow turns out that the upbeat sound and good-time themes facilitate libation, so much the better for the band and the venue.

“We play to social settings, so drinking has become a unifying theme,” admits electric guitarist Brian Fitzpatrick, 27, whose self-penned, cautionary ballad about alcoholism may very well be the band’s most poignant moment. “The bottom line has always been music.”

Cropduster obviously have a good time selecting, learning, and ultimately ripping through a large repertoire of classic country cover songs (Hank Thompson’s honky-tonk anthem “The Wild Side of Life” and Gram Parson’s “Oh, Las Vegas,” to name just two), but it’s the original numbers featuring the lyrics of vocalist/guitarist Andy Asp that provide the group’s most impressive and ambitious aspect.

“It was the stories in those old songs that attracted me,” explains Asp, 27.

He doesn’t mix motifs. His own stories follow rightfully in the tradition of country’s singer-songwriters. Within a lyrical tradition that spawned such humor as “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy” and promoted such macho pathos as “A Man Doesn’t Cry,” Asp manages to weave a modern element into his compositions. His story lines mirror those of the great honky-tonks, lamenting and celebrating the shady sides of life, but in this case the sentiments and locales are both identifiable and more than vaguely familiar.

Rounding out the band is bassist Paul Hoffman, whose presence next to Voss’ up-tempo drumming supplies the band’s rhythmic base.

On top of this come Fitzpatrick’s leads and Asp’s rhythm changes. Riding atop the entire ensemble is Barr’s whiny laptop steel.

Don’t be surprised to see at least one of the band bring out a mandolin for rootsier numbers.

Cropduster are now in the mix-down stage of their first CD, a yet-to-be titled effort for Petaluma’s Flying Herald label, set for release soon.

“It’s something we want to look back upon in 20 years with some pride,” agrees the band.

If these guys can take the party into the studio, show off their enjoyment of the form, and manage to tell a few good stories, they might just be on the right track.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Birds

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For ‘The Birds’


Michael Amsler

Bad hair day: Tippi Hedren’s terror pales in comparison to the anguish unleashed by a group of Petaluma teens on the unsuspecting audience that attended the 1963 premiere of The Birds.

How I found my wings at the world premiere of Alfred Hitchcock’s horror classic

By Richard Benbrook

Thirty-five years ago this month, famed director Alfred Hitchcock released the film The Birds. Petaluma political cartoonist Richard Benbrook, then 13, recalls the night he and his friends pulled a bold prank at the film’s opening. This is excerpted from a longer essay entitled “Dirty Copper.”

FOR ME AND MY PALS, the 1960s began without a hint of how they would conclude. The decade that was to end with long hair, paisley prints, great dope, and willing girls with flowers in their hair started out with a shitty-looking sneer and a cigarette clinched in its teeth.

Every guy I knew wanted to be bad in 1962 … . Some of us–like my chum Ralph, who had a passion for James Cagney movies–were more successful than others.

That year, a major motion picture company from Hollywood came to our then-small town of Petaluma to make a film, creating an incredible stir. The director was Alfred Hitchcock and the movie was The Birds, a horror film about birds viciously turning against humanity. The primary location for the shoot was the tiny coastal village of Bodega Bay, but many of the cast and crew lodged in and around Petaluma. An air of hysteria surrounded the event. Everything written was either “birds this” or “birds that.” I remember learned professors on local radio and TV expounding on whether such a terrifying event might actually occur in the natural world.

The notion of birds being objects of fear seemed stupid, but it didn’t stop us from cutting school and hitching out to Bodega Bay on several occasions to watch the proceedings. We got to see Hitchcock direct his star, Tippi Hedren, in several scenes. I remember a lot of fake blood and thousands of stuffed, inanimate birds perched on buildings and telephone wires. It was a boring, time-consuming process to watch and we were disappointed.

Our last trip there was made memorable only by the fact we were kicked off the set. During a lunch break for the crew, Ralph, realizing that no one was around, decided to throw a rock at a big stuffed raven on a fence post. Naturally, it sparked a competitive thing with the rest of us and soon we were all firing away at the target.

When the security guard who collared us began questioning why we weren’t in school, I decided it was a good time to leave. I apologized and said something brilliant like, “We didn’t know it was one of his birds.” Despite the smooth line, it was difficult to snow the guy, with Ralph snarling and spitting curses in the background. We headed home that afternoon gladly putting Bodega Bay and its phony birds behind us for good–or so we thought.

Many months passed before a second wave of hysteria concerning the movie struck. The big news was that the film was finally complete and there was to be a grand premiere in Petaluma. Our city government was rolling out the red carpet for the celebrities and other movie bigwigs who would be in attendance. Everyone who was anyone in our community would be there. The town was abuzz–it was a bona fide happening.

But dark forces were afoot in our little town. Some high school boys, a bit older than us, had the inspired idea of smuggling live birds into the theater on the big night. Their plan was to strategically release them during the moment in the movie when the birds attacked the villagers. In order to work well, the stunt would require many volunteers.

Ralph and I each met the stiff criteria to qualify: possession of a coat; a ticket to the premiere; and an incredible lack of intelligence.

We met the older boys in their pickup truck several blocks from the theater on the night of the premiere. The searchlights were visible in the distance, swaying back and forth in the evening sky. The ringleaders were farmboys and they had sacks of doves and pigeons in the bed of the truck. All of us were really nervous. I’m sure, that like myself, many of the volunteers had never held a live bird before.

The one I was issued felt strangely lightweight and fragile, and I was afraid I might break its bones. It kept trying to peck me until I finally got a crude grip on it and stuffed it inside my jacket. Ralph seemed uncharacteristically subdued throughout. I don’t think he had ever held a bird before either.

He and I were the first two conspirators to make the dangerous passage through the brilliantly lit ticket booth and lobby. A large crowd milled about and all the hubbub worked to our advantage. I was both relieved and amazed when we successfully smuggled our birds inside undetected. We hurried to our seats and scanned the audience for fellow partners in crime as they arrived after us.

The air was electric, everything was going to plan.

Up in the balcony sat the cluster of VIPs with their smug smiles and shiny heads, nobly gazing down upon their minions. I was experiencing a smug satisfaction myself in the knowledge that I knew something they didn’t. It fueled my resolve. I felt a stealthy sense of mission and destiny–I felt like John Wilkes Booth.

Unfortunately, there was a glitch in our plan–a major one. Alfred Hitchcock hadn’t provided any of us with the script to his movie, so we had no way of knowing that the inane plot would drag on for an eternity without any major bird attacks. After a while things started coming unwound. Sporadic disturbances began occurring in the audience, some murmurings in one area, then a woman’s shriek in another, followed by the sound of flapping wings.

Men with flashlights appeared, escorted several individuals out, then suspiciously prowled the aisles and shined little penlights on various suspects. I feared if they did this to Ralph he might react and blow our mission. I was also concerned that my pigeon might have died, as it had not wriggled for a long time.

But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Alfred Hitchcock came through for us–a massive bird attack commenced on screen. In unison, Ralph and I stood and threw our pigeons skyward into the flickering beam of projector light. Dozens of other conspirators must have done the same because the theater suddenly seemed as thick with birds as did the celluloid skies of Bodega Bay. People were screaming–some in terror, some in anger. There was a dazzling three-dimensional quality to it all.

On screen, a vicious seagull pecked at Tippi Hedren’s beehive hairdo, while in the theater a woman with the exact same hair style ran screaming up the aisle with a terrified pigeon tangled in hers.

The houselights came up and people began pointing out the culprits to the authorities. Ralph and I were quickly fingered. We, along with our cohorts, were taken to the lobby, where the cops made us each hold our jackets open for inspection.

Good, small-town detective work. Inside the linings of our coats was ample evidence to send us all up the river.

SOMETIMES wonderful things happen in unexpected situations–epiphanies, if you will. It may have been the fantastic merging of the movie with our own reality that night; even the bird theme resonated strongly, as Petaluma’s sole claim to fame until then had been for chicken and egg production. But whatever it was, all the dots connected in my mind at that moment, and the completed circuit somehow illuminated the totality.

For the first time I saw the world on a much broader, more transcendent plane.

I looked over at Ralph in this entirely new light and he was glorious. I saw his rage, his beautiful rage, for what it essentially was–heroic defiance. Ralph instinctively knew that these small-town cops were in truth agents of some vaster, more menacing force that fed on the likes of us much in the same way Hitchcock’s birds fed on the villagers.

And he was right. It was another hand of this same power that would a few years later draft him into its military and send him off to a senseless war where he would die. But that was to be later.

But at that moment, on that wonderful night in Petaluma when everything converged and searchlights lit the sky, Ralph was wondrously fierce. Looking back now across the decades, I can view his defiance and courage like an unheeded bellwether for our generation, at once comic, tragic, and sublime. “Look, Copper,” I will forever remember him snarling directly into that big policeman’s face, “you can’t pin this chickenshit rap on me!”

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Holy Land Maps

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Chart Action

Michael Amsler



Collection maps centuries of history

By Patrick Sullivan

THESE MAPS, what they do is, they make history come alive.” Leaning forward in his chair, face lit up in a broad smile, Arnold Sternberg obviously has a passion for his subject. Of course, he’s not talking about the sort of maps that hung on the wall of your fourth-grade classroom. Rand McNally charts may do a fine job of tracking name changes in the volatile former Soviet Republics, but let’s face facts: The flat empiricism of modern maps doesn’t exactly inspire passionate engagement.

In this era of satellites, airplanes, and hand-held Global Position-ing Systems, we seem a long way from the ancient romance of the “Here there be monsters” that long-ago mapmakers once used to fill in blank spaces. Modern technology has replaced mystery and heroic exploration with coldly efficient accuracy. But Sternberg’s collection is something rather different.

Soon to be highlighted in a special exhibit co-sponsored by the Jewish Community Agency, the retired Santa Rosa resident’s maps date back to the 16th century and are the work of accomplished cartographers from some half a dozen countries.

These are not mere bloodless guides to political and geographic boundaries. Their elaborate charts, illustrations, and cartouches display a dramatic fusion of science, art, and religion. Oh yeah–and politics. After all, Sternberg’s maps exclusively chart the landscape of the Middle East, so, they naturally drip with rich history and contested terrain, both psychological and literal. Here we see a rebellious Jonah being tossed into the waiting maw of the infamous whale; the Egyptian army drowning in the Red Sea after the Israelites have safely crossed miraculously parted waters; and cedars from Lebanon being towed to Jerusalem to erect the Temple of Solomon.

Whatever these documents may lack in literal accuracy, they make up for with colorful illustrations of how dead centuries have interpreted the universe. “They are very different from the maps that people use nowa-days,” Sternberg says. “Many of them are hand-colored documents, very elegant, very finely drawn. They became works of art as they were updated and retired from active use. Every Dutch home, for example, used to have a map hanging on the wall.”

ANCIENT CARTOGRAPHY was a science of the sea. According to Sternberg, early cartographers often mapped from the ocean as they approached the coast. First the Dutch, then the Italians, the French, and then the British gave birth to great mapmakers as nations took their turns as the world’s dominant maritime powers.

Sternberg’s collection is a broad sampling from many of these styles and nationalities. Assembling a collection like this is no easy feat. It was, in fact, some 10 years of work for the tireless Sternberg. During daylight hours, he vigorously pursued a career in government service, coordin-ating California’s State Housing Department. But he also spent countless hours rummaging through the basement display rooms of antiquarian bookstores, sifting through theater posters and the remnants of estate sales in search of ancient maps of the Holy Land.

When he found something worth having, the haggling would begin.

“I certainly wasn’t a wealthy collector,” says Sternberg. “I just started buying maps before they were popular. Now many of them are so expensive that I can’t touch them.”

This burning passion for the cartography of the Holy Land was kindled in part by a stint in the Israeli armed forces. Sternberg served in the U.S. Navy during World War II and later fought in the 51st Battalion of the Israeli army during the hard-fought 1948 War of Independence. His unit helped break through the Jordanian siege of Jerusalem and then clashed with Egyptian forces at the north end of the Gaza Strip. Suddenly, a young man born in Boston was marching through places out of biblical legend.

Now, on the 50th anniversary of that war, one of Sternberg’s favorite stories is about how old maps helped win Israel’s independence. He relates with some relish how Israeli army commander Yigal Yadin (a noted archeologist) found a tricky solution to the problem posed by a well-positioned Egyptian army encampment in the Sinai Desert. Yadin studied ancient maps to discover an old Roman road, which he used to send a column of jeeps out behind the Egyptian base and mount a devastating sneak attack.

Sternberg’s dreams for his collection, however, now run more toward ending conflict in the Holy Land. He believes these documents are a powerful demonstration of the continuity of Jewish people’s attachment to this area. But he also sees signs of hope for peaceful coexistence in his collection. “Given what’s going on right now in the Middle East, I hope people will find some new insights in these maps,” Sternberg says. “The imprints of at least three different cultures, civilizations, religions are illustrated there. There was that coexistence then, and that does give you hope for the future.”

“Four Centuries of Holy Land Maps” runs May 1-June 14 at the Sonoma County Museum, 425 Seventh St., Santa Rosa. The reception is Saturday, May 2, from 2 to 4 p.m. For details, call 707/579-1500.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

TV Fan Fiction

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Vulcan Love Slave


Michael Amsler

The Xena-Philes: On the Net, fan fiction enthusiasts can mix and match characters from their favorite TV shows. In fanfic cyberland, Xena the Warrior Princess can chum along with The X Files agent Dana Scully. Or the psychopaths on Homicide could create a really bad hair day for Ally McBeale … .

Fan fiction lets you project darkest fantasies onto favorite shows

By Zack Stentz

I don’t know why in the world you think this is hot, Mulder,” Walter Skinner laughed mockingly. “This is not hot, this is pathetic.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Fox Mulder, pulling him closer, and lightly nuzzled the back of his neck.

“Well, okay, just be patient, it’s gonna get better, just give me a minute,” Mulder pleaded. His free hand caressed the muscular thigh he was leaning against …

MAN, how could I have missed that episode of The X-Files? Actually, it never aired, except in the overheated imagination of a fan named J. Bast, who decided to include the moist little scene in a Internet-posted story called “Harder Than It Looks.”

Welcome to the strange world of television fan fiction, where the aficionados of various TV programs hijack their favorite fictional universes and describe what they’d really like to see happen within them.

Modern fan fiction (“fanfic” for short) traces its origins to the pre-television world of written science fiction fandom, in which the line between professional storytellers and enthusiastic story consumers was much more blurred than in the contemporary mass media. Fans of the authors of classic science fiction would often try their hand at writing stories set in the fictional universes of their idols, and some even used these early efforts to launch respectable professional careers of their own.

For example, Psycho author and prolific TV scribe Robert Bloch started as a teenage H. P. Lovecraft pastichist, and his adoration was duly rewarded: Lovecraft created a young hero named “Robert Blake,” then gruesomely killed him off during the course of his story “The Haunter of the Dark.”

Star Trek, with its devoted fan base and appeal to science fiction enthusiasts, was the first TV show to get the large-scale fanfic treatment, and fan-written fiction played a major role in sustaining interest in the series during the 10 years that separated the show’s cancellation from the kickoff of the movie series. Fanfic stories were typically typed up, photocopied or mimeographed, bound, and sent out over the fan grapevine or sold and traded at conventions, screenings, and other events that brought lots of Spock ear-wearers under the same roof.

Fanfic writers trained their sights on other shows and movie series as well, and the advent of the Internet led to an exponential growth in the field as writers could cheaply and easily disseminate the fruits of their creative labors.

What about a TV show inspires viewers to write their own adventures for the characters in them? A passionate fan base and an interesting fictional universe seem to be the two major criteria. That’s why many, but not all, fanfic stories are inspired by science fiction and fantasy series. A search through Yahoo! reveals fan-fiction sites devoted to Star Trek, Babylon 5, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Xena, The X-Files, Chicago Hope, Law and Order, and Due South (!), among others, with none at all devoted to megahits like Seinfeld, Friends, or Touched by an Angel. And it’s somehow difficult to imagine a person mustering sufficient enthusiasm to sit down for several hours to crank out his own Major Dad or Full House story.

The stories themselves vary widely in quality and content. Some of the stories posted to newsgroups such as alt.tv.x-files.creative or alt.tv-star-trek.creative are downright unreadable, while some of the Due South and Star Trek: Voyager fanfic is better written than many of the actual episodes aired. “Star Whores,” a hilarious X-rated parody of you-know-what, has been circulating on the Net for years and has attained the status of a classic in its (admittedly disreputable) field.

“I’ve seen fanfic better than that episode” is a common Internet dis against a poorly written show, and “Why don’t the writers look at fanfic ideas to inspire them?” is a common lament.

The answer to the latter question is that, for legal reasons, most TV staff writers are prohibited from reading fan-written fictional treatments of their shows without explicit authorization. “If I opened a message that had a story idea in it, I’d have to stop reading immediately, ” says one former Star Trek writer who often logged onto Internet discussion groups.

“I could have gotten into a lot of trouble otherwise, if someone claimed that an episode we ran was ripped off from his fanfic story.”

Despite the prohibition, however, it’s clear that the writers of at least some of the shows out there are aware of what fans have done with their characters, as we’ll see later.

And long before the Friends cast visited ER or Detective Munch from Homicide showed up on the X-Files, fanfic writers were eager practitioners of the crossover story– endless scenarios in which agent Scully meets Buffy or an Imperial Star Destroyer takes on the U.S.S. Enterprise. Far more interesting than the crossovers or the military stories with their mind-numbing descriptions of the characters’ sci-fi armaments are the fanfics that deal with the otherwise unexplored inner lives of TV characters and their relationships to one another. It’s here that the speculations and longings of a show’s fans come right out into the open.

ONE MAJOR category of fanfic is the sort practiced by “Relationshippers,” enthusiasts whose main concern is that two characters who on the screen remain apart get together in a romantic manner. Much has been written on the delicious sexual tension of the X-Files‘ Scully/Mulder relationship, and if Chris Carter won’t oblige them by putting those two lonely agents in the sack together, they’re happy to do it themselves. (The famous Rolling Stone cover was Carter’s way of saying “Nyahh-nyahh, this is the only place you’re gonna see these two in bed with each other.” In another shot, he even put himself in bed with stars Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny!) Other “relationshipper” cabals revolve around Buffy‘s Willow and Xander, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine‘s Odo and Kira, and Babylon 5‘s Sheridan and Delenn.

Then there are the “Slash” enthusiasts, who are sort of like Relationshippers in leather and nipple clamps. The story quoted at the top of this article is typical Slash fanfic. So named for the “/” between the characters’ names, Slash fiction imagines a universe in which TV’s favorite male pairs (Kirk/Spock, Starsky/Hutch, even Simon/Simon) engage in explicit, often sadomasochistic sexual encounters with each other.

Like TV fanfic in general, Slash got its start within Star Trek fanfic, with the first recorded K/S story dating from 1976. While some Slash stories are genuinely funny and/or sexy, most are mind-numbing in their repetitiveness. For example, almost all the Trek slash stories seem to involve a situation in which Spock goes into pon farr (Vulcan heat) with Kirk as the only available sexual surrogate.

The non-convincing nature of most of the actual gay sex in fanfic shouldn’t come as a surprise. According to scholars who have studied the subculture (and the Slash culture has been a popular subject for senior theses and Cultural Studies doctoral dissertations with titles like “Pass the Crisco, Spock”), the literary form’s main practitioners and consumers aren’t gay men but rather heterosexual women. These females with a taste for the literary rough trade even run their own annual convention (Escapade: A Slash Slumber Party, held this year Feb. 6-8 in Santa Barbara), and the most popular Slash website (at http://slash.simplenet.com) is subtitled “For girls who like boys who do boys.”

Explanations for the appeal of Slash fiction to some women are legion, and typically involve convoluted academic natterings about female appropriation of dominance and experimentation with gender roles and the like. What many commentators ignore is the most obvious explanation of all: Many of the female fans simply get off on Slash fiction, for reasons not dissimilar to the well-documented male fascination with lesbian sex. But while many mens’ love of girl/girl action is common enough to have become a punch line (“The lesbianism was the only reason I went to see Basic Instinct,” said the late great comedian Bill Hicks. “If I had been the one editing that movie, the only person picketing in front of the theater would have been Michael Douglas, wondering where his part had gone”), the notion that many women might have the same interest in what their male counterparts do with one another in bed still strikes many as shocking and unthinkable.

The major Slashed science fiction franchises are well aware of what these women are writing about their trademarked characters, and the studios’ reactions to this unauthorized fantasizing has been predictably hostile. Actor/professional weirdo Crispin Glover attempted a few years back to make a documentary about the Star Trek Slash subculture (tentatively titled The Captain’s Log), but had to abort the project when Paramount refused to let him use copyrighted material. Paramount also ordered Deep Space Nine actors Alexander Siddig and Andrew Robinson (who play Dr. Bashir and Cardassian spy Garak, respectively) from engaging in ribald speculation about their characters’ true feelings for each other at fan conventions, while Lucasfilm several years ago launched its own crackdown against the burgeoning crop of Luke/Han, Luke/Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan/Darth Slash.

BUT more interesting than the heated denials (Gene Roddenberry in his novelization of Star Trek: The Motion Picture actually had Kirk emphatically state that he and his virile, green-blooded first officer were “just friends”) are the winking acknowledgments of the Slash subculture by some of the targeted shows’ creative principals themselves. Most famously, Xena‘s writers have made an art form out of milking the Xena/Gabrielle subtext for all it’s worth. Actor David Soul once stated that he believed Starsky and Hutch was essentially “a love story about two men,” while David Duchovny often riffs on the Skinner/Mulder theme in interviews. “Yeah, he’s my bitch,” Duchovny recently deadpanned to a Los Angeles radio station.

“The only problem with Mitch [Pileggi, the actor who plays Skinner] is that his bald head means there’s nothing to hold onto when he starts to buck.”

And a milestone in the annals of Slash fanfic was reached in March of this year, during the second episode of a particularly convoluted story from the X-Files‘ ongoing “mythology” arc. Toward the end of the show, the redoubtable agent Mulder dukes it out with his nemesis, the hunky but duplicitous double agent Alex Krycek. And in the first actually aired example of Slash, Krycek proceeded to pin Mulder to the floor and kiss him square on the lips.

Within hours, the X-Files Internet newsgroups lit up with “Did you see that?” messages, and screen-captured frames of the “kiss heard round the world” were posted on multiple websites. It was difficult to decide what was funnier, the exultations of the Slash fans and “Mulder/Krycek Romantics” or the embarrassed explanations of the show’s stodgier viewers. Some of the same viewers who rush to analyze every word spoken or glance exchanged between Scully and Mulder as if it were the Zapruder film brushed off the smooch as a Judas-like sign of betrayal or a cultural manifestation of Krycek’s Russian heritage.

A far likelier explanation is simply that series creator Chris Carter simply enjoys screwing with the show’s viewers, and knew that these five seconds of screen time would be the fan equivalent of dropping an M-80 down an anthill.

Still, one might think that Slash fans would object to their fantasies actually being incorporated into the shows they love. In an age when TV production has become increasingly impersonal and remote from the viewers, fanfic in general and Slash in particular can be seen as subversive acts that tweak the characters’ corporate owners, sort of like the old “Black Bart” bootleg Simpsons T-shirts.

But with the shows’ own creators now hip to the game, it’s unclear what role fanfic will play in the future of TV viewer behavior. Again, look at the Mulder/Krycek kiss: With text like that, who needs subtext?

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Babes in Arms

The CIA gets ’em while they’re young

By Bob Harris

A LOT OF FOLKS who think “bandwidth” is the main reason Wilson Philips broke up are still worried about the dangerous, titillating content on the World Wide Web.

Granted, there’s some really, um, interesting stuff out there, as I discovered one night while looking for vegetarian recipes. I didn’t even know a turnip could bend that way, much less stay in that position. But the good news is, there are about a dozen really simple software solutions out there that work just fine.

My sister has two kids of impressionable age using the Internet all the time, and the only thing we usually worry about is carpal tunnel syndrome.

However, there’s a new site on the Net that has even me worried. It’s designed to entice your kids into thinking it’s OK to snoop around, lie to people, kill them if need be, and generally behave as if the ends justify the means.

I’m referring, of course, to … the CIA Kid’s Page.

And you thought Ronald McDonald taught kids dangerous habits.

Designed to appeal to children as young as 6 years old, the CIA Kid’s Page (whose address, you’ll notice, I’m not giving out) includes flashy graphics, a gallery of spy devices, and a geography quiz that legitimizes the site as educational, even if the context is creepy.

Imagine “Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?” in which you’re trying to hunt her down and kill her, and you’ve pretty much got the flavor.

It looks as if some major focus-grouping went into the design. There’s a cuddly, huggable, explosives-sniffing dog named Bogart.

(Which, if he was sniffing out marijuana, would have been a clever name, but nah. He only sniffs explosives, at least on company time.)

There’s a history of the CIA, which somehow manages to omit half a century of political assassinations, mind-control experiments on U.S. citizens, cooperation with drug dealers in Asia and Central America, the overthrow of democratic governments, and the safe-housing of Nazi war criminals.

After all, it is a child’s view of the CIA. Just like the one Congress and the newspapers get.

There’s even a friendly pigeon guide, obviously intended to subtly make satellite surveillance seem playful and normal. Direct quote: “Hi, kids! My name is Harry Recon, and this is my twin sister, Aerial.”

The bird is possibly the cheesiest thing I’ve seen all year. And also the most paranoia-inducing. It’s a lot like turning on the tube and discovering Barney wearing a trench coat and sunglasses.

Sing along, everybody: “I watch you, you watch me … ”

ONCE AGAIN, we Americans have something to be proud about, another scientific study that proves our position of leadership in the modern world.

According to a new report by the Centers for Disease Control, U.S. citizens are No. 1 among all the residents of all developed countries in … shooting each other.

U-S-A! U-S-A!

Bring it on, Canada, we’ll kick your national-health-care-receiving ass.

We even beat out Northern Ireland, an actual war zone. Makes you proud, don’t it?

The numbers are per capita, so we didn’t win on size. Just pure lunatic violence. You’re almost 300 times more likely to shoot somebody here than if you live in Japan. Of course, in Japan, you’re about 3,000 times more likely to make a living by knocking people down with your enormous stomach. So we still don’t have a monopoly on weirdness.

Here’s a perfect of example why we’re Top of the Pops: The state of Kentucky has just made it legal for ministers to carry concealed handguns while delivering sermons.

Apparently there has been a string of people pulling out shotguns at the end of services and walking off with the collection plates.

Which means somebody has been taking the words “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” a little too seriously.”

So the Kentucky legislature voted 76-9 to let the God guys pack heat.

Excuse me, but somehow I can’t see Jesus–avatar of forgiveness, messenger of peace, bestower of slack on humanity–giving the Sermon on The Mount with a nine strapped to his hip. Maybe I missed something.

I guess, for some people, turning the other cheek is just a way of buying time to reload.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Hate Crimes

0

Danger Zone


Michael Amsler

Hate stops here: District Attorney Mike Mullins, left, looks on as Allen Odom, a member of the Sonoma County Human Rights Commission, displays a new sign intended to help raise awareness about local hate crimes.

Hate crimes forum draws mixed review

By Paula Harris

WE NEED TO DO something,” says Lorene Irizary, director of the Sonoma County Commission on Human Rights, talking about a rash of recent local reports of bigotry. “We want people to feel part of a solution and not powerless.”

Irizary joined several dozen community members and law enforcement officials last week at a forum at the Guerneville Community Church to develop an effective way to deal with hate crimes in the county. Among others in attendance were Sonoma County Sheriff Jim Picinnini, Sonoma County District Attorney Mike Mullins, and 5th District Supervisor Mike Reilly.

The forum was well timed, but underscored the complex nature of hate crimes in the county–several people protested that sheriff’s deputies themselves were guilty of hate crimes against local gays.

Still, following recent reports of a man allegedly stalking and raping four members of Sonoma County’s lesbian community–an assailant who has reportedly vowed “to get them all”–and an incident last week in which Ku Klux Klan hate literature was placed inside copies of a local newspaper and distributed to homes in five neighborhoods, the call for a renewed look at hate crimes in Sonoma County was well received overall.

Irizary has known about the frequently underreported problem in this community for a while. Two years ago, the Sonoma County Commission on Human Rights held countywide hearings on the issue. Both commissioners and participants, including city council members, representatives from the American Civil Liberties Union, and members of local law enforcement agencies were struck by the magnitude of local hate-related incidents, aimed primarily at the gay and lesbian communities in the Russian River area. “People were surprised at what was happening in our own community,” recalls Irizary. “We don’t always see it or hear it. When we start hearing testimonies of individual incidents, we realize the problem is bigger than we thought and it’s happening right here.”

The commission then began an ongoing effort to halt crimes that are motivated by real or perceived issues of race, ethnicity, national origin, religion, age, disability, gender, or sexual preference. Together with the District Attorney’s Office and the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department, the commission established the Sonoma County Hate Crime Prevention Network to combat hate violence.

As part of that effort, a weeklong education program for west county residents this week was timed to correspond with the start of the tourist season in May. “During the tourist season, there are more hate crimes in the Russian River area,” explains Irizary. “We wanted to have training for business owners and employees, specifically at gay resorts on the Russian River that become targets or have incidents so they can learn how to help de-escalate hate, how to respond, and what type of information to capture for law enforcement.”

THE REV. JIM Spahr, president of the North Bay chapter of Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays says harassment in schools is still going on. “In Petaluma, there has been a gay-related youth suicide every year since 1995,” he says. PFLAG claims that there were 2,529 reported episodes of anti-gay harassment and violence in 14 U.S. cities in 1996, a 6 percent increase over 1995. Overall, anti-gay violence rose 102 percent from 1990 to 1995.

According to Picinnini, in 1996 there were 13 hate crimes reported in unincorporated areas of Sonoma County; in 1997, seven; and two so far this year. “But I don’t believe these numbers,” says Picinnini. “A lot of these crimes go unreported, and we need to have community involvement to have the courage to report these.”

Reilly agrees. “Some people are reluctant to come forward to law enforcement to report they have been victimized,” he says. “We want to actively track behavior. We want to create a safe environment for people to come to the table.”

However, several individuals spoke candidly of their outright distrust of law enforcement officials. “I’ve walked the planet a long time as a gay man and have been a target for hate… . The police protect me but are also my persecutors,” said one man, who asked Picinnini: “What are you doing to educate your men on the police force? What about their value systems and what do they believe about me?”

Picinnini replied: “A majority of our men and women in uniform treat people equally. We tell [deputies], ‘Whatever beliefs you have, you are to put them aside when you put the uniform on.’ “

The man shot back: “I will hold you accountable. I will be in your face about accountability.”

Another gay man claimed to have been beaten up by sheriff’s deputies in his home. “I know inside my soul and heart that I was the victim of a hate crime. Unfortunately, the hate crime was from the sheriffs,” he said.

And yet another man claimed that when he tried to report a hate crime after a neighbor allegedly had ordered his rottweiler to “kill the faggot,” the deputy had refused to mark the correct box on the report designating the incident as a hate crime.

“I don’t think you understand what a hate crime is,” he complained to the sheriff. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on your part.”

“I would not feel safe in the custody of the Sheriff’s Department,” agreed Pastor John Torres of the Metropolitan Community Church of the Redwood Empire, who is so concerned about the problem of bigotry that he has formed an Interfaith Response to Hate Crimes to effect a united response to verbal abuse and violence directed at gay men and lesbians in Sonoma County. “A lot of what’s happening is happening in the Sheriff’s Department. What specific ways are you raising consciousness?” he asked Picinnini.

Picinnini responded that his department is undergoing cultural-diversity training. He has also appointed a liaison between the gay community and his department.

“What we need to do is be very intolerant of the first symptoms [of bigotry],” says Mullins. While hate crimes are a specific section of the penal code, he adds, they are hard to classify. According to Mullins, it’s often difficult to determine whether to prosecute an incident as a hate crime, particularly when free speech muddies the issue. “We cherish our First Amendment so much, we allow it to be abused,” he says.

From the April 30-May 6, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Free Fall

By David Templeton

David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time around, he meets up with award-winning New York poet Hal Sirowitz to see the obscure art-house love story Niagara Niagara.

“Wow! What a tragic movie,” mutters Hal Sirowitz, as he steps from the darkened theater into the bright light of the afternoon. Perched on the sidewalk, blinking–ever so slightly stunned to be back out in the wide noisy open of the city–he spies a nearby bagel shop. Sizing up the flow of rush-hour traffic between ourselves and our destination, we lower our heads and make an energetic dash for it; as we do, Sirowitz continues his on-the-spot synopsis of the film:

“It’s a love story, really. A tragic love story, very metaphorical,” he says between breaths. “Funny part is, you almost think its going to be Bonnie & Clyde–violence, lots of violence–because you see that the two characters are being pulled, pulled in that direction, and you wonder if they’re going to right go over the edge, you wonder if they are going to be pulled right over the edge by the force of their fate, like going over Niagara Falls. Niagara’s a force that people try to harness–to get at its energy or to become famous by riding over the falls on the inside of a barrel–but you can’t really control Niagara. So in the end it’s a tragic story.

“I liked it a lot!” he adds.

Hal Sirowitz has a way of conversing–repeating words, revising and refining his thoughts as he goes–almost as if he’s improvising several drafts of a poem as speaks; just like the metaphorical Niagara that his mind is currently swimming in, this undeniably quirky poet does have a way of pulling you right down into his words, and then over the edge alongside him.

It’s a talent that has served him well: Sirowitz, who works as a special education teacher by day, has appeared on MTV’s Spoken Word Unplugged, NPR’s All Thing’s Considered, PBS’ United States of Poetry and was a hot act when he toured with the traveling Lollapalooza Festival, headlining on that alternative spectacle’s all-important Spoken Word Stage. Then there was his sensation-making 1996 book of poems, Mother Said (Crown), which branded him numerous titles and descriptions, including “a young Philip Roth,” and which paved the way for his newest book, My Therapist Said (Crown, 1998). Presented as little nuggets of questionable advice from his therapist, these poems are short–seldom more than a dozen lines–but not necessarily sweet; each has a way of being laugh-aloud funny at the same time that it is sad, disturbing, insightful, and, more often than not, kind of wise and wonderful.

Which might also stand as a description of Niagara Niagara, the obscure little art-house flick that has so inspired Sirowitz this afternoon. It’s the tale of two emotionally wounded shoplifters, an abused young man (Henry Thomas), and a headstrong woman (Robin Tunney) who happens to suffer from the nervous disorder Tourette’s Syndrome. On a whim, they hit the road in search of a black Bobbie styling head (don’t ask), which she believes can be found only across the Canadian border, at the edge of Niagara Falls. The farther they get from home and her medication, the less certain is their love–and their destiny.

“Have you ever been to Niagara?” Sirowitz wonders, taking a seat at our table. “When I went to Niagara, there was this museum about the barrel riders, all these poor, poor people who thought that if they went over the falls in a barrel they’d be famous. Only a few of them ever survived, and they never really got famous. Some of them went around in circuses and Wild West shows, but nothing big really ever happened for them.

“But they hoped for it,” he points out, “the way we all hope for happiness when we fall in love, the way we allow ourselves to plunge over the edge because of love.

“Love is one of the few things that can change the world,” he continues, as the ever-creepy strains of the song Sea of Love begin to play overhead, “because love can change your life. It changes your whole life. In the movie, this guy falls in love with this woman, and she’s totally different from him, she’s no good for him, yet he stays with her. It reminded me of some of my relationships, trying to make something work even when it’s just not possible. There are all these forces against it ever lasting.

“I’ve fallen in love. But it’s never lasted. Love is a beautiful thing, but it’s temporary. That’s probably why I identify with this movie. He loved her, but he couldn’t save her. She was beyond his reach.

“I like the metaphor when they came to that intersection, and the arrows were pointing in all directions,” he muses. “See, she was trying to just go forward, in a straight line, toward the goal of getting that toy. But life isn’t like that, it isn’t a straight line. Life has stops and turns and surprises and decisions. In this case they made a wrong decision. They went the wrong way. But they did it for love.”

When I wonder what Sirowitz’s now-famous therapist would say about this movie and its tragic heroine, he laughs.

“She’d say I shouldn’t go out with her,” Sirowitz grins, “because of course, of course, she’s exactly the type of woman I’d be attracted to.”

Web extra to the April 23-29, 1998 issue of Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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Free FallBy David TempletonDavid Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time around, he meets up with award-winning New York poet Hal Sirowitz to see the obscure art-house love story Niagara Niagara."Wow! What a tragic movie," mutters Hal Sirowitz, as he steps from the darkened theater into the bright...
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