Sex Books

Dirty Ink


Books we read so you don’t have to

By Shelley Masar and Gretchen Giles



A PROFESSOR of theater with an expertise in Shakespeare was once asked by his daughter for a quote to embroider as a wedding present for a friend. She hoped for something from the Bard, but her father was in ill-humor. Cynically he snorted, “Make your bed and lie in it.” For us mortals, the bed, connubial or otherwise, is no simple place. We bring our whole selves–conscious and unconscious, psychologically and socially determined–with us when we lie across it. The following books were selected with that in mind:

The Lipstick Proviso: Women, Sex & Power in the Real World
By Karen Lehrman
Anchor Books, 1997

LEHRMAN, A YOUNG journalist, tackles liberation, femininity, beauty, sex, love, power, and sisterhood with post-movement aplomb. The title refers to her assertion that one can wear lipstick and boss men around in the office with equal integrity. Part of her clarity comes from a glib briskness that will no doubt take her to the top of her profession. Her chapter on sex maintains that it may be in women’s interests and in accord with our biological nature to reconsider chivalry and monogamy, writing, “Chivalry corrects for the weaknesses of men, not women. A man who holds open a door for a woman is less likely to make a derisive comment about her breasts. A man who helps a woman on with her coat is less likely to force her clothes off at the end of a date.”–S.M.

A Guy’s Guide to Dating: Everything You Need to Know About Love, Sex, Relationships, and Other Things Too Terrible to Contemplate
By Brendan Baber and Eric Spitznagel
Main Street Books, Doubleday, 1998

WRITTEN FOR THE KIND of men, who, when they throw off their underwear, it sticks to the wall, A Guy’s Guide takes the vagaries of man/woman, man/man, woman/ woman relationships and jokes about them while imparting some kind-of good information. AIDS and condoms, STDs and date rape, are dealt with seriously, but Baber and Spitznagel are professional comics whose you-sly-dog tone informs this book with a fraternal tee-hee. Following a guy’s life from the first crush of kindergarten through the way-heavy shacking-up of his early 20s, A Guy’s Guide sees men as testosterone-driven fools upon whom women sometimes bemusedly bestow favors. And no one ever knows why. The first time I read it, I hated it. The second time, I giggled. Guffawed. Even tee-hee’d. Why was I laughing? For the sheer pleasure of not being a man.–G.G.

Lovers’ Guide Encyclopedia: The Definitive Guide to Sex and You
Edited by Doreen Massey
Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1997

THIS IS ONE fascinating encyclopedia, loaded with photos and illustrations–a visual feast. When it arrived, we flipped through it stunned, curious, yellow. No form of sexuality is beyond its pale. Everyone is affirmed. Photographs and reproductions of fine art save thousands of words. For example, an image of a gigantic phallus by Aubrey Beardsley accompanies the quote: “Most men fear that their sex organs are too small. A woman’s reassurance seldom helps to allay these fears, but business success sometimes helps.” –S.M.

Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man
By Dan Anderson and Maggie Berman
Regan Books, 1997

WE WERE CURIOUS enough about the book to ask the publisher for a manuscript copy to preview. This book dares, in the days of AIDS, to go where Armistad Maupin’s Tales from the City went before the sexual holocaust. That is, it plays with the campy, happy sensuality of the gay subculture: “In the gay world, we think too much is made by locking partners into being a ‘top’ or a ‘bottom.’ Even our friend Phil jokingly said, ‘I’m a bottom. Let the top do the work, get it in, get it over with–I want to go shopping.'” The thesis is that no girlfriend, nor most boyfriends, can tell you what’s going on in a “guy’s head or any other part of his body.” It’s a joyful how-to by a loving gay man and an uninhibited straight woman who know and care about each other very well. The sexually experienced and creative may find little that is truly new or inspiring, but it is a good refresher course if your technique has become sloppy. Illustrations help.–S.M.

From the February 5-11, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Oral Sex

Lip Service

Dream On: More people than you think are giving oral sex the big kiss-off.

Oral sex ain’t what it used to be

By July St. James

THERE IS NOTHING quite as embarrassing as being caught snoozing at the wheel while a whole sexual revolution is unfolding under your nose. Admittedly, this latest brouhaha with the Clinton/Lewinsky/oral sex debate brought it to a–ahem–head. First those reports a few years ago that Newt Gingrich was known to get a little lip service from young ladies other than Mrs. Gingrich. Now it’s allegedly President Clinton’s turn with a toothsome–ouch–Beverly Hills-reared intern. For politicians so partisanly opposed, their defense is remarkably similar: oral sex doesn’t count as infidelity.

Trend watchers of teen mores also file a disturbing report: The once-sacred “B.J.” (if intercourse was a “home run,” then oral sex was considered out of the baseball park) has been devalued as the coin of intimacy to worth only a few ducats more than a handshake.

Apparently there’s some serious rearranging happening on the sexual landscape nowadays. Beneath the tittering, the snickering, and the endless dirty jokes, inquiring minds want to know: Just what the heck is going down with going down?

Fortunately, the folks with their thumb on the big, throbbing pulse of society are more than happy to spill.

“There have historically always been images of oral sex, but it’s not what humans do naturally,” reports sociology professor John Gagnon, Ph.D. One of the country’s foremost sex researchers, Gagnon helped design the 1994 University of Chicago sex survey, a highly respected and comprehensive study of American sexual practices later incorporated into two books, The Social Organization of Sexuality (University of Chicago Press, 1994), and Sex in America (Little, Brown, 1994).

Dr. Gagnon thinks about sex–oral sex, anal sex, gay sex, what-have-you sex–a lot. But the difference between him and the Bud Man on the street is that the good doctor thinks intelligently about The Deed. And he’s used to folks coughing and blushing when they’re trying to ask him intelligent (one hopes) questions about sex–specifically oral sex.

“It still invites an enormous amount of nervous laughter,” observes Gagnon about this particular region in his probing study. Gagnon recounts a recent TV interview he watched, with Peter Jennings and a group of 20-something quotemeisters roundtabling about the recent Clinton troubles.

“Jennings couldn’t even get the words ‘oral sex’ out,” laughs Gagnon. “I think he was terrified that someone would say ‘blow job.'”

Gagnon notes that oral sex did not emerge as a widespread sexual technique until the 1920s. Called the “genital kiss” by marriage manuals of the day, oral sex–particularly cunnilingus–was recommended as a way to express intimacy between couples.

Given how tight-lipped we are about intimacy, you’d think that we’d be equally uptight about this most intimate of acts. Oh, but you’d be wrong.

In their survey of almost 3,500 men and women ages 18 to 59 of varying racial, economic, and educational backgrounds, Gagnon and his fellow researchers discovered that far more people have experienced oral sex than have not. But, who you are may well influence the, uh, outcome. Whites are about 30 percent more likely to engage in oral sex than blacks, while higher education also correlates with greater likelihood of indulging. Religion appears to have little influence on whether people give or receive oral sex except, not surprisingly, for those who consider themselves Religiously Conservative Protestants.

One presumes they’re on their knees enough as it is.

Age is another factor. The Social Organization of Sexuality exhibits a nifty graph correlating their year of birth with the likelihood that folks experienced oral sex. Starting from a relatively shriveled point for the 80-year-olds, the axis representing age projects to practically erect by the time it hits the 38- to 40-year-olds. For those keeping track, that would be the guys and gals who came of age around the tail end of the last sexual revolution.

Notes Gagnon, “I think the behavior [of oral sex] became less a behavior of intimacy [over the last 70 years] and more because one was technically competent. You used to do it only with someone you cared about a lot, but it has now become technology and technique.”

THE DOOMSAYERS predicting a new batch of dangerously immoral youth are also beating the drums of hysteria a bit too prematurely. That age-line axis begins to detumify for both men and women under 30 years old–surprisingly, though, at a much faster rate for men. It appears that the gender stereotyped for dreaming, thinking, and talking about oral sex is, well, dreaming, thinking, and talking about it. Period. Gagnon notes that a recent study of teens and sex indicates that oral sex–particularly fellatio– is sometimes used as an alternative to penetration, thereby allowing women to claim technical virginity. But, he adds, “that is not the majority.”

Gagnon also notes how men’s and women’s magazine portrayals of oral sex are a good indication of how it is viewed differently by the sexes.

“Women’s magazines treat oral sex in the traditional way–it’s something you do for intimacy in a relationship,” says Gagnon. “Men’s magazines detach oral sex from the relationship–it’s an experience in and of itself.” He adds another example: “When a man goes to a prostitute and pays for a blow job, it’s like getting your ashes hauled … but the same act is very different, symbolically, for women.”

Janet Lever, Ph.D., writes the Sex & Health column for Glamour magazine and, with Pepper Schwartz, Ph.D., just co-authored The Great Sex Weekend: A 48-hour Guide to Rekindling Sparks for Bold, Busy or Bored Lovers (Putnam, 1998). Lever agrees that men and women read very different meaning into oral sex. She mentions “glory holes,” an urban, predominantly gay phenomenon, where men place their penises in holes of public bathroom walls for totally anonymous fellatio. “That whole notion that neither party would know the other is astounding to a female,” says Lever.

She offers another insight into oral sex and prostitution. Because men may feel that giving oral sex to a woman is degrading, she notes, “there are men who do this with a call girl and who will not do it at home.

“Which,” she states in no uncertain terms, “is grounds for justifiable homicide.”

SO, BACK TO THE Clinton/Gingrich theory of oral sex vs. unfaithful-to-your-wife sex. Even the sex researchers find this defense hard to swallow.

“That’s a lovely way for a man to think,” Lever dryly responds. However, her research indicates that it is not as impersonal as the president and that other blowhard would have us believe.

“It’s not an everyday event,” notes Dr. Lever. “It’s still a birthday-special occasion event.”

Gagnon takes a milder, more scholarly approach to the debate. He points out that not just oral sex, but sex itself is an unnatural act–but he is speaking sociologically, not religiously.

“Sex is a cultural act and comes with an elaborately loaded set of meanings,” he says. Whether oral sex constitutes infidelity is a dilemma peculiar to the thinking mammal.

“Is oral sex, sex? Is it part of a relationship? What constitutes a relationship?” Gagnon offers up an array of the almost limitless permutations the human race asks itself when groping for values around its sexual behavior. “What we’re doing is struggling for meaning of the act.”

“Clinton may think that oral sex is not a sexual relationship, and it’s not uncommon that men think that,” he continues. However, the president, or any man for that matter, may answer quite differently depending on whether he is being surveyed by scientists or if his dearly beloved has a gun pointed to his head as she poses the question: “You only make that discrimination when you’re in trouble,” Gagnon laughs.

Lever offers one more observation on the difference between the sexes when it comes to the great oral debate: “It’s a major frustration of men that they don’t get oral sex, but you know what?

“They don’t give it much, either.”

From the February 5-11, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Fireworks Sales

0

Flying Sparks


Michael Amsler

Big Splash: Sales of fireworks by the Petaluma Swim Club prove so successful that the annual event pays for the rental of the water in which local youths swim, says club president Martin Lipman.

Petaluma non-profits worry officials will rekindle ban on “safe and sane” fireworks

By David Templeton

W ITH A GOOD FIVE months to go till the Fourth of July, the Petaluma City Council has taken temporary steps to avoid a public confrontation that would have amounted to an early –and potentially noisy–display of civic fireworks. A scheduled vote to ban the sale and use of all fireworks (the safe-and-sane kind, with showering sparks and razzle-dazzle), which was originally set for Feb. 3, was first postponed to Feb. 17. Now, according to Councilman Matt Maguire, the vote has been dropped from the agenda altogether, in part owing to a postcard campaign by the city’s many non-profit groups and youth sports clubs, most of which look to the annual sales of sparklers and showering fountains as a crucial fundraising event.

“It’s a non-issue at this point,” says Maguire, who had been leading the movement to establish the no-fireworks ordinance within city limits as a fire-prevention measure. “We did receive some postcards, but there are frankly a lot more important things before this City Council right now. We may take a look at it again further down the line, though at this point I don’t anticipate any further action this year. But I do think fireworks should be illegal in Petaluma,” he adds. “I just haven’t been able to figure out how to replace that revenue to the non-profits.”

Councilwoman Jane Hamilton–a candidate for the 2nd District supervisorial seat, agrees. Sort of. “I was impressed and swayed by a petition we received from the Fireman’s Association asking us to ban the sale of fireworks,” she states. “But I’m wrestling with it. I really am. I do hear the non-profit groups that truly have no other way of raising the kind of money they need to do the wonderful things they do.”

Mayor Patti Hilligoss is more to the point: “We should keep safe-and-sane fireworks in Petaluma. It’s the only way the non-profits can go on.”

According to Petaluma Fire Marshall Michael Ginn, the city has received nearly 800 postcards in support of continued fireworks sales. A petition with almost 1,000 signatures, according to Hamilton, has also been presented to the council. Should the issue have remained on the council’s agenda, a massive show of force was planned with representatives of various clubs, including the Boy Scouts, the Little League, Pop Warner Football, the Petaluma Swim Club, the McDowell Drug Task Force, and even a couple of ballet schools.

This grassroots uproar began last year when a fireworks ban was also narrowly averted; the compromise was a limit on the number of fireworks stands allowed–a maximum of 20–and the type of organizations that would be granted permits. With few exceptions–a couple of longtime, profit-based booths were grandfathered in–only non-profit organizations are allowed to sell the pyrotechnic confections, and for only six days before July 4. Wary that another move to ban the sales might come up this year, a loose coalition of youth sports groups stayed prepared for action, ready to raise a stink should the issue be brought up again by the council.

For the last several years only legal fireworks–designated “safe and sane” by the state of California–have been sold in Petaluma.

“The law is very restrictive about how personal-use fireworks can perform,” explains Ginn. “They can’t move, they can’t fly, they can only shoot sparks. No bottle rockets, no firecrackers. Which doesn’t mean you can’t have injuries or fires with safe and sane, only that the risk is reduced when they’re used appropriately and with adult supervision. Anytime you have fireworks, you have a potential for a fire.”

Even so, Ginn remains undecided on the subject. “As fire marshall, I’m bound to take the position that anything that could cause a fire should go,” he says. “On the other hand, there is no real history of problems with the safe-and-sane products in this city. We’ve had a few incidents over the last few years, but as far as we can tell, all of them were caused by illegal fireworks brought in from out of the county. And obviously I’m aware of the impact a ban would have on the non-profit groups.”

According to Martin Lipman, president of the Petaluma Swim Club, $150,000 was raised by the combined youth-sports clubs of Petaluma last year. The PSC itself–serving 75 swimmers year round–brought in $7,000 from its booth located beside the Washington Street swim center. “Those moneys made up 37.5 percent of our annual fundraising budget,” says Lipman. “They literally paid for the rental of the water the kids swim in. No other fundraiser we do all year brings in the kind of profits we raise in six days of selling fireworks.”

Michael Sparks, a primary fundraiser for the Petaluma Valley Little League, estimates that fireworks sales make up between 5 and 10 percent of its fundraising budget. Last year the club brought in $3,500. “That’s a significant amount of income,” says Sparks. “The loss of that money would be pretty devastating.”

Affirms Christy Earles, whose family participates in the Pop Warner Football program: “We will not be able to operate if we can’t sell fireworks. No ifs, ands, or buts. We depend on it.”

Though the fireworks sales will go on as scheduled this year–with selected councilmembers invited to a May safety orientation organized by Santa Rosa-based fireworks distributor American Promotional Events–it is not unlikely that the conflict will arise again next year. What happens if the ban is ultimately passed by the City Council? “Costs will go up exponentially,” shrugs Lipman. “All the clubs will have to stop giving scholarships to kids who can’t afford to participate. We’ll have fewer kids in the water and more kids on the street with nothing to do. Unless the city wants to give us the facilities for free,” he adds.

Maguire agrees that the city has an obligation to support its non-profits. “A moral obligation, if not a technical one,” he says. “Maybe we can help by closing off a downtown street one day for a giant bake sale.”

A bake sale? Wouldn’t it take an awful lot of brownies to raise $150,000? “The point is, it’s not an undoable thing,” he replies. “Other fundraising means are available. Look, the Casa Grande Anglers’ Club held a cake auction last year and sold those things for up to $100 each! At any rate, we still have to figure.”

From the February 5-11, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Blind Date

0

Blind Lust

Illustration: Detail from ‘The Birth of Venus’ by Sandro Botticelli.

Meeting–and doing it–in the dark

By Sarah Phelan

W HEN PHIL and Sabrina (not their real names) found each other through the romance ads, they both were desperately seeking sex and touch. For weeks beforehand, Phil had resisted the temptation to place an ad, figuring only losers use the personals. Eventually, however, he succumbed to his desires, as loneliness outweighed his fear of being a failure.

So what if he was one of those “men seeking women”? He rose to the challenge of producing one inch of witty, stimulating copy, shooting his wad of freely flowing creative juices into an ad that stood out from the usual collection, one that would lure the “beautiful brunettes” and “trim temptresses” on the prowl for a “sexy sweetie” or “wicked wizard” with whom to share magical, mystical moments. Not even the “hippie with beard, brains and bucks” nor the “galactic human seeking ascension partner” was a match for his piece. It read: Vegan Slut–sweet, soft-skinned, and safe, masseur, writer, teacher, good cook, back from Euroyears, pining for hungry touchmonkey with sharp mind, soft heart, and sense of humor, for funsex, and cuddlelove, more if we dare. Poly possible.

Deliberately avoiding descriptions of his appearance–which, in his opinion, “are almost meaningless, since people put their own interpretations on it, anyway–Phil focused on what he wanted, and showcased his personality through clever wordplays coupled with naughty suggestiveness.

His daringly original and direct headline caught Sabrina’s roving eye as she flipped through the classifieds in search of a likely prospect. To her non-vegetarian mind, the word “vegan” implied a concern for personal and planetary health and a potentially safe sexual partner. As for “slut,” that spoke to the sex goddess in her, especially since her ex-boyfriend had once joked that “whores do it for money, sluts do it for love.”

Either way, she hadn’t met a nice, available man in a long time, and she was feeling horny as hell. Obviously this guy wasn’t offering a long-term relationship, but strictly sex–which was exactly what she wanted. She called and left a short message, confirming Phil’s belief that it’s best to ask for all you want all of the time.

When Phil returned her call, Sabrina immediately fell in love with his voice and the thoughts behind his words: He was smart and articulate, her favorite type of man. What’s more, he didn’t disappoint the sexual adventurer in her. During their second phone call, he popped the question–of having telephone sex. Without hesitation she slipped into a fantasy lovemaking session with him–supposedly on the long and very slow late-night bus ride from Watsonville to Santa Cruz. After this exciting and intimate trip, they both wanted more. But, suddenly, the prospect of meeting in the flesh scared Sabrina. What if there was no physical attraction whatsoever between them? Or, worse yet, if only one of them was attracted?

Dark Passions

PHIL SUGGESTED a saucy solution to their dilemma: since they both liked playing mental games, why not play a forbidden one? He proposed they meet in the dark, do it in the dark, and then part in the dark. In other words, the ultimate blind date. Feeling wicked and brave, Sabrina accepted his weirdly intriguing offer. Her friends were appalled. “Suppose he has a horrible disease or is dangerous?” they warned. But Sabrina decided to trust her gut feeling: this would be a terrific experience and Phil would be a safe partner.

They laid their plans meticulously, choosing the night of the new moon for their twisted tryst. She would turn her car lights off as she pulled up into his drive, then put a hood over her head, so he wouldn’t be able see her face as she entered his house. Driving across town to his home that night, Sabrina felt incredibly aroused. As she knocked on his door, she felt “very bold, a word we both used about each other.”

The door opened. Sabrina couldn’t see Phil’s face or coloring, but she could see his slight build and height. She realized she’d never been with this shorter, skinnier body type before. She’d always had taller, bigger men. “Oh well,” she thought, “I’ll look in his eyes to see if he’s somebody I could find attractive.”

But her search for some sort of visual clue was interrupted. Almost immediately, he led her into his pitch-black bedroom, backed her onto his bed, and pulled her panties down. She left her boots on, “which was especially absurd, since his house has a strict no-shoes policy,” she laughs. More absurd was that suddenly she was making passionate love for an hour with someone she didn’t know and couldn’t see.

She admits that “one time I got a little afraid–when it got to be really rough and I had a flash that maybe I was wrong about this guy–but he sensed it immediately and eased up.” After Phil and Sabrina had boldly come where few others have gone before, she got up, her boots still on, and dressed. He took her to the door and she disappeared into the night, leaving them both to relish what they’d just done. She called him when she arrived home.

“We were excited and both agreed to do it again,” remembers Sabrina, reliving the thrill of it all.

This time, he told her he’d leave the door open and wait in bed. Although unsure of the layout of the house, she agreed. As she opened the door and stepped inside, a hand reached out and pulled her down to the ground “like a lion flooring an antelope,” Sabrina says. “This brought the excitement level up a lot and we made love right there on the living-room floor, then in his bedroom. It was during the day, so he’d taped blankets and thick bathroom towels against the windows to block out the light completely.”

Other than his body size, Sabrina couldn’t make out anything, except gradations of gray, charcoal, and a lot of black dark, although she admits she caught herself straining to see him.

Shedding Light

OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, they did it twice more and she “never knew if he was the man at the bus-stop, in the checkout line, or sitting in the same restaurant.” But by the fourth occasion, both felt it was time to shed some light on their relationship. Although they were afraid that they might lose their mutual attraction–and with it some great sex and fantastic fun–they agreed ahead of their date-in-the-dark that the lights would come on post coitus.

So, after making fantastic love one more time, they turned on the lights, very slowly. A candle at first, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, sitting on opposite sides of the room under the glare of incandescent lights, they saw each other for the first time.

It was an illuminating moment. Sabrina remembers how “strange it felt. I was curious to see him. His was a face I would never have stopped to look at. As I sat there digesting all this, he said, ‘So what’s it like to be with someone who’s not your type?’ ”

It was a painful question for both of them, as they felt the flame of passion suddenly sputter and fizzle out under the vicious scrutiny of their visual honesty. Sabrina’s heart “was physically hurting, because although I liked his voice, his mind, and having sex, a rejection was happening within me.

“I questioned that reaction because I thought it was really shallow of me to feel this way. But it wasn’t a conscious visual screening, but a deeper voice within me saying no. I might have been willing to try to get beyond the visual, but there were other things not right about the connection,” she admits.

Phil also felt guilty about his negative judgment of Sabrina. “It was shallow,” he confesses. “I have these visual templates in my head, so that when I meet a woman I’ll secretly say, ‘Cellulite! Hmmm. Not a fit subject.’ That won’t stop me from having a relationship with that woman, but it won’t be a physical one.”

Phil had to struggle with the fact that he’d “already been attracted to this woman, and had great sex with her. I fell for her sluttiness, her sense of adventure, and her boldness, but once I saw her, I wasn’t attracted anymore.”

They went to bed a few more times in the dark, but when they tried to make love in the light, the spark wasn’t there, and that was the last time they did it. Phil found the episode left him questioning “the importance of visual information: Is it a guardian at the gate, or do visual screens keep out wonderful potential lovers–and others?” But though the door to Phil closed, more exotic ones opened. Says Sabrina, “Since then, my life has absolutely been about that. I took a female lover, who’s been married happily for 10 years. The relationship became a love triangle with my lover’s husband involved as an extra pair of hands and lips. Using the personals opened me up for more adventures.”

From the February 5-11, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

The Sex Scandal

By Bob Harris

None of what I am about to say is necessarily a fact.
–Former Clinton adviser Dick Morris, in a KABC radio interview on the scandal

IF YOU HAD ANY FAITH left in commercial news reporting, last week should have killed it for good. Look, I enjoy good gossip as much as anyone. It’s fun to joke about comparisons to Watergate’s catchphrase: “By whom was the president blown, and when did she blow him?” Or the passive phrasing of Reagan’s Iran-Contra mea culpas: “Intentions were good. Mistakes were made. BJs were had.” In the span of mere days–Watergate unfolded for almost two years, remember–this ludicrously inbred subculture called the press managed to convince itself that President Clinton was about to be destroyed on the basis of … what, again, exactly?

CNN reported that a dozen of Clinton’s “close associates” were discussing a possible resignation. Other outlets repeated the rumor. Problem: it wasn’t true. The Dallas Morning News claimed a Secret Service agent was ready to testify that he had personally seen Clinton getting it on with Monica Lewinsky. Again, other outlets repeated the rumor. Problem again: it wasn’t true.

The mainstream papers are filled with lurid tales of semen stains, incriminating gifts, and secret testimony. Problem once more: no one reporting any of it knows for sure if it’s true. But there it is–in the papers, on the radio, and all over the TV. We’ll find out how much of it is actually true some other time. The inescapable conclusion? Truth–ostensibly the goal and purpose of all news reporting–simply no longer matters.

The only certainties in this case are the names of the players and the broad outline of the disagreement. Beyond that, we have only a mass of leaks, none of which can be independently verified. Leaks are not actual news. Ask Richard Jewell. Undaunted by this near-total lack of legitimate data, however, every TV network has now created special graphics and music (look for a John Tesh cover of “Monica’s Theme” from CNN to hit record stores any day now) to bookend the ongoing crisis–even when there’s nothing to cover.

All involved regularly interrupt their coverage of the story with commercials promoting even more coverage. NBC even broke into the Super Bowl pre-game–just to tell us that they didn’t have anything new to tell us. Never mind that newspaper polls across the country overwhelmingly show that most Americans think the media are spending way too much time on the case.

Strangely, in all the 24-hour saturation TV coverage, that little tidbit isn’t getting reported. Still, there are only so many times a bunch of news drones can tell an audience that absolutely nothing has changed–really urgently!–before the audience figures out that absolutely nothing has changed. So new angles are invented and presented as news.

Combing Monica Lewinsky’s life for new and thrilling details is a national pastime. Her yearbook photos have been burned into our skulls more firmly than our own high school memories. (Are those the only two photos she ever posed for? There are more and better pictures of alien spacecraft.) Finally, somebody found five seconds of Clinton actually hugging the girl, which we now see highlighted and looped and run back and forth like an illicit Cat Chow commercial.

Some media outlets are now even offering a bounty for anything new on Lewinsky. So alleged former lovers and boyfriends have begun coming forward. Prom dates, orthodontists, and newspaper delivery boys are surely close behind.

THE GERMANE POINT isn’t sex, it’s subornation of perjury, a charge that Clinton and Vernon Jordan have denied from the start. Which means that if Clinton’s initial statements imply that some contact did occur, the same strained theorizing indicates that impeachable offenses did not.

But it doesn’t get mentioned much. Instead, we’re assaulted with the insane implication that consensual sex between adults (if it occurred) is itself grounds for impeachment–so at least a dozen earlier presidents should have been removed from office–from the tongue-clucking mouths of self-righteous reporters and conservative pundits whose own lives couldn’t bear one tenth of this scrutiny.

Someday I’ll tell you the stories about which anchor got the gig by sleeping with the producer and which right-wing TV host once gave one of my ex-girlfriends fifty bucks for reasons you’ll have to imagine (speaking only on background and not for attribution, of course). This false moralism, incidentally, further legitimizes the president’s more puritanical opponents, some of whom have spent half a decade lobbing fully discredited charges at the Oval Office in a most un-Christian manner.

And yet, when Hillary mentions the existence of a group of right-wingers devoted to attacking the president on personal grounds, she’s derided as paranoid. Is she? Kenneth Starr is pursuing the Lewinsky tale via statements made in the case of Paula Jones … who is a ward of the Rutherford Institute, which is run by a crony of Jerry Falwell, a major player in perpetuating charges against the Clintons … which in turn are propagated in media outlets funded by Richard Mellon Scaife … who in turn is the main money guy behind the Pepperdine gig awaiting Kenneth Starr. (That is, when he’s all done subpoenaing underwear.) That’s a very small circle.

Far be it from me to defend the Clintons, many of whose policies I detest (as regular readers know), but is there indeed a bias to the way scandals are reported? You decide:

Linda Tripp announces that George Bush had an affair with one of his secretaries. No outrage. Linda Tripp announces that Bill Clinton had an affair with an intern. Swarms of reporters. Linda Tripp’s secret recording of conversations with Lewinsky–which definitely occurred–is, without question, a felony in direct violation of Maryland state law. No outrage.

The leaking of the tapes to the media–which definitely occurred– thereby obstructing justice by preventing the independent counsel from securing Lewinsky’s testimony via standard legal procedures, is itself, without question, a direct violation of federal law. No outrage.

The president is accused of a sex act–which may or may not have occurred and which is, without question, not a crime. Swarms of reporters. And so on. Look, I’m as titillated as anybody by the prospect of Clinton and Lewinsky getting a little Executive Action. I’m personally inclined to believe it might have happened.

How much truer a democracy we could have if only reporters spent one tenth this much effort examining campaign contributions, the performance data of our weapons systems, and the fine print of tax proposals and international trade agreements. Until that day comes, we’ll just have to settle for fancy graphics and theme music built around hypothetical blow jobs. And even at that, we still don’t know anything for sure.

The only thing we do know for sure is this: Maybe–maybe–a White House intern at some point decided to stimulate the president below the waist. And every time we turn on the TV, some producer is trying to do the same thing to us.

From the February 5-11, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Music of Harry Chapin

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Chapin Chaps

By Daedalus Howell

B IBLICAL BEAN-COUNTERS and equestrians alike can rejoice in the discovery of the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse–Sonoma County Repertory Theatre’s production of The Music of Harry Chapin, directed by Jim dePriest. Like war, famine, pestilence, and plague, more than two hours of antiquated folk music can certainly lead you to believe that the end is near–or at least make you wish it were. Before singer-songwriter Harry Chapin’s untimely death in a car wreck 17 years ago, the folk balladeer made his bread and butter penning introspective, epiphany-laden short fictions affixed to chamberlike musical mosaics.

However, the work hasn’t much of a shelf life–in the late ’90s Chapin’s paeans to lost love, bum steers, and what-ifs seem labored, didactic, and groping for poignancy. Imagine a soundtrack to an aborted musical based on confessional poetry. Worse yet: imagine Raffi for grown-ups.

The chief characteristic of Chapin’s music is a profound adoration of mush. His syrupy potpourri of sentimentalism is so virulent that friendship-cards shudder with envy. For all his ruminating, sophistry, and puerile discovery, Chapin’s music today displays little more depth than a pinprick.

Singers Cynthia Segar Carr, Jim Corbett, and Tim Hayes are the Peter, Paul, and Mary-lite whom director dePriest navigates through a veritable odyssey of 18 exhausting tunes (Chapin apparently reviled the radio-friendly notion of brevity). Carr, Corbett, and Hayes, undoubtedly Chapin zealots, are apt and able performers with voices more indistinct than flavorless–like vanilla, but nice vanilla. The three harmonize well and take solo turns in dutiful participation with the work, bobbing about Michael Mingoia’s simple set (a lamppost, a bench, a transitory phone booth) like gleeful marionettes. Hayes’ rendition of “W-O-L-D,” an epistle about an aging DJ chastening himself with regret, is the show’s best routine, owing to the performer’s confirmed ability to emote believably–Hayes acts as well as sings and saves 5.5 percent of the show.

But, oh, the material!

Chapin’s “Bananas” recounts a wretched trucking accident, in which a hapless, inexperienced driver loses his life and load (30,000 pounds of the eponymous fruit) when he careens far on a chancy curve. Not even a brood of deftly wielded Muppets could pull off such asinine crap.

In a timely, complaisant nod to the celluloid monolith Titanic, SCRT’s production includes Chapin’s giddy, black-humored “Dance Band on the Titanic,” proving decisively that the chilly deaths of 1,500 souls is something about which to laugh and sing. One wonders if the SCRT’s production staff went ransacking Chapin’s oeuvre for a pithy ode to slavery for an opportune Amistad tie-in.

And kudos to whoever nailed that form-and-content thing by electing to open and close the program with Chapin’s mundane ditty “Circle.” Golly, Superman!

Accompanying the three tenors are bassist David Lynch and pianist Carl Sokol, both adept instrumentalists whose occasional forays into sour notes at worst alleviates some of the humdrum of the production’s banal tonal landscape.

On a couple of tunes, Sokol even shows off a supernatural whistle.

Those unfamiliar with Chapin and his work can expect little guidance from SCRT. Detailed biographies of the performers are printed in the show’s program (Carr helms an a cappella act called the Carrtunes; Corbett’s alter-ego is “Mr. Music”; and Hayes enjoys painting, poetry, and kids), but Chapin receives only a terse endorsement from folk-hero Pete Seeger.

This is a bit unsettling to the uninitiated, but then, this production is not intended for the uninitiated.

This is an in-crowd endeavor. Non-Chapin fans need not attend, as opening night proved with an oft-teary-eyed house, audience members bleating noisily between tunes, chomping at the bit in cultic revel–harbingers of doom.

But hey–who’s paying the ASCAP fees, anyway?

The Music of Harry Chapin plays Thursday-Saturday, Jan. 29-31, Feb. 5-7, 12-14, and 19-21 at 8 p.m. Feb. 8 and 15 at 7 p.m.; Feb. 1 at 2 p.m. Sonoma County Repertory Theatre, 415 Humboldt St., Santa Rosa. Tickets are $12. 544-7278.

From the January 29-February 4, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Santa Rosa Geysers

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Tractor Troops

By Paula Harris

A DISTANT ROAR rapidly becomes louder as a convoy of 15 tractors, complete with police escort and driven by smiling jean-clad farmers, rumbles into downtown Santa Rosa on an overcast Tuesday afternoon, all to the cheers of curious onlookers.

The vehicles are decorated with various signs: “You Can’t Make Milk from Steam,” “Water: Don’t Dump It Down a Hole,” and “Drought Happens.” The tractor troops line up in precise formation in the Santa Rosa City Hall parking lot. Their mission: to persuade councilmembers to hold off on a plan to pipe up to 2 billion of gallons of treated Santa Rosa wastewater each year across their land through a 34-mile pipeline to a geologically active geyser near Alexander Valley.

Instead, the farmers want the water recycled to irrigate crops.

“We wanted to make a presence, make a statement, but the right statement,” says Mill Creek Winery owner and tractor rally organizer Bill Kreck. “I’m really pleased with the turnout.”

Adds Rue French, a longtime advocate of using treated wastewater for irrigation: “This brought tears to my eyes. This is a countywide representation.”

On the day the City Council was set to make a final decision on a controversial issue that has consumed 13 years and $20 million in studies, angry local farmers rode into town. Councilwoman Pat Wiggins, an advocate for ag reuse, says she was surprised to see the farmers’ last-minute rally. “It would have been helpful for advocates of agricultural reuse if the outpouring had happened during the process,” she says.

“But it’s not rocket science to know agriculture is our biggest industry and can use that water.”

Still, the show of agricultural force wasn’t enough to sway the council, which–after a five-hour, standing-room-only meeting attended by some 200 people–voted 5-2 to approve a plan recommended by the Board of Public Utilities to inject half of the city’s wastewater into The Geysers for the next 30 years. A consortium of geothermal companies will contribute $50 million toward the cost of the $132 million alternative-energy project. The cost to city ratepayers for financing the city’s share of the project is expected be $6 a month. The plan was one of six options considered by the board, including increased dumping of wastewater into the Russian River.

Outraged farmers and conservation groups promise to sue to stop the geyser project.

Some farmers claim that they had a solution for an all-agricultural, open-space, and urban reuse program all along, but that the BPU didn’t listen. And, according to a report issued by the Sonoma County Farmlands Group, the city could reap profits from the ag-reuse plan, whereas the geyser project would generate rewards only for the energy consortium. Kreck says the report is based on research conducted by city and county officials and reviewed by the Sonoma County budget analyst. It found that the ag-reuse plan would result in a net gain of $20.9 million over 30 years, whereas the geyser plan would end up costing the city $23 million over the life of the program.

“The out-of-pocket cost of $70 million is about the same to ratepayers, whether the option is The Geysers or ag reuse, but over a 20-year life [the ag-reuse option] would only cost $3 million in maintenance to the pipeline because there’s no rise in elevation,” says Kreck. “Plus, studies show that water increases productivity, which leads to more crops, [more revenue for farmers], and more sales tax to local government. The city and county would get $16 million to $20 million in taxes if the water was left in the ag community rather than going down a hole.”

Several other local farmers agree. “We’re here and we think we can provide a project that makes sense, and we want them to give us a chance to do that,” says Ed Grossi, a Penngrove farmer who grows organic vegetables and fruit. He has supported water reclamation for 10 years. “There would be a diverse use of water–for grapes, orchards, dairies, not just one commodity. It’s beneficial to the county to have a diverse [economic] base.”

UNDER THE AG-REUSE PLAN, farmers would donate the land and the city would pipe water to small ponds. Farmers then would build a distribution network to create access to water at a series of regional sites.

“I think [the city] should keep agriculture as an option,” adds Grossi. “They need a backup. The Geysers will take a minimum of four years to put in place. Let’s keep ag as a backup and have a fallback position if the geyser plan fails.”

The geyser alternative, which had so far had little opposition, may now be jeopardized by looming long and contentious litigation. “If you adopt the plan currently designed, we have no alternative but to oppose it,” William Payne, who represents the Madrone chapter of the national Audubon Society, told the council. The proposed pipeline route cuts through the 1,400-acre Macaymas Mountain Sanctuary at the north of Alexander Valley.

“They plan to put two big and noisy pumping stations at the Forever Wildlife Preserve there. This is headed for the Supreme Court–and how long is that going to take?” asks Kreck. “If the BPU thought they had a quick fix [with the geyser option], they’re wrong because they’re going to deal with the mother of all lawsuits.”

In addition, representatives from the Alexander Valley Association and the Alexander Valley School District say they have 18 concerns, specifically about noise and visual impacts of the proposed pumping stations and two-story towers, but have received no significant response from the BPU.

“You fail to address the issues concerning residents,” Les Perry, an attorney representing the Alexander Valley Association, told the council on Tuesday. “You’re proposing an industrial project in their rural environment.” The association also vows to sue the city, unless changes are made to the plan.

Field Stone Winery owner John Staten, representing eight wineries on Highway 128, says the wineries would lose $160,000 a month during the construction project .”We’d be moving to a confrontational situation,” he warns.

Some critics have also expressed seismological concerns because of the “unproven technology of injecting water into dried-up steam fields.” The pipeline would cross at least two active earthquake faults “Even with check valves, if there’s a major break, there will be a lot of water,” admits Santa Rosa Assistant City Manager Ed Brauner.

OTHER OBJECTIONS to the geyser plan include cost overruns, since the steel pipes would need to run along high elevations and undulating roads, and deterioration of the infrastructure of The Geysers.

Meanwhile, farmers are disappointed with the outcome. “It’s really unfortunate–ag may have lost a golden opportunity,” says west county dairy farmer Art Lafranchi. “Litigation is a virtual certainty. Ag reuse appeared to be the only solution that generally had acceptance. Now the city is putting all its eggs in one basket. I think ag could be a permanent solution.”

Councilwoman Noreen Evans says farmers are frustrated because many have been trying to work with city hall for years and feel rebuffed. “The economic impact of what they are proposing is so much greater than The Geysers; it will be several years before the geyser plan is operational. Something should be done in the meantime with the water. Plus, The Geysers is only a 20-year project–we’ve already spent almost 20 years looking at this, and agriculture will still be here in 20 years.”

The BPU next week will begin considering how to limit the noise and visual impacts of the disposal project and will seek ways to ensure that at least some of the wastewater is set aside for irrigation. Opponents say that, if there are no written guarantees addressing their concerns, they will start legal proceedings against the city in 30 days.

From the January 29-February 4, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Media Excesses

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Wag the Media

By Don Hazen

Remember back 20 years or so when we saw films like All the President’s Men and Under Fire ? Then, journalists were heroes, and the media–especially the Washington Post –were bulwarks against the excesses of power. Not any more. The mirror that is Hollywood, reflecting back the image of our culture, has a new vision of the media and it isn’t a pretty.

No place is the transformation of media to monster so complete as in Tomorrow Never Dies, the current James Bond flick. Here the arch villain, Elliot Carver, kills his wife and plots a war between China and Britain, just so his media empire can flaunt the scoop of the century, and give him paramount access to every television screen on Earth. Bond is, of course, among the most infamous Brits around, so think Rupert Murdoch and Robert Maxwell at the next level. Who ever thought of James Bond as a highly trained media watchdog?

“It’s my theory that they wanted an adversary for Bond that the public would really hate,” says humorist Art Buchwald. “Today’s movie goers are no longer intimidated by South American dictators or Russian generals. Recent surveys reveal that the public is scared silly by the media. So the producer decided to model the arch villain after a media mogul because he knew that the audience would really root for Bond to destroy him.”

While there’s a long history of the media as protagonist in films, Citizen Kane is perhaps the most memorable. But over the last two decades, journalists and television itself has increasingly taken its lumps. Most recently, Danny DiVito plays a corrupt editor of a sleazy Hollywood celeb rag in LA Confidential, and Dustin Hoffman a self-promoting newscaster in Mad City. Lest we forget Absence of Malice (1981), Broadcast News (1987) and The Paper (1994), which all show journalism in a less than favorable light. As critic Dana Bisbee writes, “Journalists are the new villains of pop culture.”

Hollywood is simply keeping pace with the public’s growing suspicion of the press.

But there is much more to the public’s feelings about the media than mere suspicion of the press. The public simply doesn’t trust or believe what it sees, hears and reads, and the media and Hollywood are actors in this drama. Perhaps Sidney Lumet’s great movie Network with its increasingly crazed visionary character screaming, “I’m not going to take it any more” foreshadowed the larger forces at work. But Network was in it’s own way hopeful thinking that by using the tube it would help people get in touch with their inner anger at the inanity of the tube by revolting. Nice try. An irony not apparent in the most recent entry in the media paranoia sweepstakes: Wag the Dog.

Now we have the new nihilism, best represented by the Barry Levinson-directed film. Robert DiNiro stars as Connie Brean, the powerful, undercover, presidential media-fixer with a lethal touch, and Dustin Hoffman, who plays the prototype, self centered, oily Robert Evans-type producer (Stanley Motss, the “t” is silent), who nevertheless has drive, eternal optimism and panache to get any production made.

Together these two guys create a fake war between the U.S. and Albania, with media mirrors and major manipulation assistance from virtual reality computer wizardry designed for TV news. “Why Albania? What did they ever do to us? What did they ever do for us?” asks Brean in the film. The goal of the war diversion? To save the unseen president’s election skin after he allegedly cops a feel of a Firefly (read: Girl Scout) visiting the White House.

Depending on your vantage point, Wag the Dog is either a funny satire, or enervating cynicism that contributes to the very problem it is skewering. But no matter what your take, Wag the Dog represents a new level of understanding of our mediated world–the interconnected web of politics, Hollywood and the media. Since today’s giant global media conglomerates shape virtually every aspect of media reality through the seamless dynamics of synergy–owning the programming and the capacity to deliver it–in news, music, radio, television, movies, Web sites and various other sources of entertainment, virtually any reality is possible.

Wag the Dog represents a long tradition of using Hollywood and creating images on behalf of making and breaking war, dating back to the Spanish American War. Brean provides some examples of the powerful images: naked Vietnamese girl covered in napalm burns; five U.S. Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima; British Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s V for victory. “You’ll remember the picture 50 years from now, they’ll have forgotten the war. Gulf War? Smart bomb falling down a chimney, 2500 missions a day, 100 days, one video of one bomb. And the American people bought that war.

“War is show business.”

The film’s behind-the-scenes media manipulations render the practicing news media and the president mere props in a larger game. Bizarrely, the only input the president has in the fake war scheme is to decide he wants a calico cat used in the fake Anne Frank-like scene in “Albania” on the movie set. Throughout Wag the Dog, we see technology, music, slogans and images–the best of Hollywood–all at the service of creating a virtual reality of no truth.

It’s no wonder that close to 90 percent of the public think media owners exercise too much control over the press. Nor should anyone be surprised when large numbers of Americans report that they feel powerless in a system they perceive is locked up by a hegemonic troika of corporate moguls, corrupt politicians and wealthy media celebs formally known as journalists.

Initially I was torn by Wag the Dog. I was taken aback by how subversive the film appeared to be. These days we don’t get much political satire out of Hollywood. Some movies stick with you and you replay them with delight; others start to turn on second and third thinking … which is what happened with Wag the Dog.

The film has some big holes. Washington Post writer Stephen Hunter takes the film to task for it’s naivete. A defender of the 4th Estate, Hunter writes: “It’s really unsophisticated about press culture and gullibility … Any moderately experienced reporter would prick this balloon with a half an hour’s worth of phone calls and begin to organize his Pulitzer acceptance speech … his book contract.”

New York Magazine ‘s David Denby explains: “Now satire doesn’t have to be responsible, but it does have to be internally coherent, and this idea, however funny, is so extremely opportunistic … that it falls into a variety of contradictions of it’s own making.”

The message of Wag the Dog is that our news media, the watchdogs of democracy, is so stupid or corrupt or both, and is so easily manipulated that it will cooperate in any lame-brain scheme. The great acting and especially the film’s fast moving, wisecracking, disturbingly likable political manipulator Brean is very seductive, drawing us in to a sweet, funny, nefarious world where it all seems just honkey-dory. I know this is satire, but why aren’t I happy? Unfortunately this is not the satire of Stanley Kubrick’s Cold War farce Dr. Strangelove or Tim Robbins’ ultra rightwing folksinger/senatorial candidate in Bob Roberts –it’s satire with no way out.

Wag the Dog is so dark that it provides no environment for encouraging questions. It has no moral force, no redeeming character, no center of conscience. The Anne Heche character, DiNiro’s sidekick, a youngish presidential aide, is chillingly played as an ambitious yuppie who never says no.

On the question of cynicism, director Levinson says, “Yes, the movie is cynical. That’s the point. But it makes the audience ask questions.”

Presidential aide Heche disagrees, but describes to the Boston Globe how it provokes questions: “I don’t think it’s cynical; I think it is truthful … we are not being told all of the truth about what goes on in this world. And the reason we’re not being told is that we don’t ask to be told. The point of a film like this is to get people to question just how much of the truth they are being told.”

There is a sleight of hand here. We’re being told that this kind of movie makes for a better democracy, but that is far from clear. Exactly what questions for the citizenry are provoked by Wag the Dog ? Do we really know so very little about what’s going on? Is there anything we could do about it if we wanted to? And most likely the inevitable: Am I paranoid?

How did Levinson get to making this movie, written by the famed wordsmith David Mamet? Apparently Levinson didn’t like the first script written by Hillary Henkin, nor did he like the book on which the film is supposed to be based, American Hero by Larry Beinhart. American Hero, a terrifically funny book about how a real war–Desert Storm–could have been created for television.

Levinson, however, was struck by one thing: “The only thing I responded to is the idea of faking, not a whole war, which is what the book gets into, but the idea that you could float out some visuals as a diversion.” Enter Mamet, who claims that he didn’t even read American Hero, which is too bad.

Politics may still be different than show business, but if Wag the Dog accomplishes one thing, it clearly shows how close these two worlds have become. Today we have a media system where major arms and nuclear manufacturers General Electric and Westinghouse own NBC and CBS; ABC is owned by Disney, America’s largest entertainment operation. And, historically, war is entertainment.

Time Warner owns CNN, who’s reputation was established and highest popularity achieved during the Gulf war. And now that MSNBC and Murdoch’s Fox have entered the 24 hour news/talk show format, all aching for that mesmerizing moment when all America is again glued to the tubes, do we doubt that there will be more war in our future?

Politicians, always looking to boost their popularity, will be no doubt ready to provide the synergy. Remember, two days after 241 Marines were killed in a terrorist truck bombing in Beirut, Ronald Reagan invaded Granada, a country with fewer than 100,000 people. Former presidential adviser Dick Morris was particularly revealing when he recently wrote: “In the aftermath of the Olympic Bombing and the assault on the American base in Saudi Arabia, many of us at the White House longed for a clear adversary against whom to demonstrate the President’s strength and decisiveness. We didn’t in fact fabricate one as DiNiro and Hoffman do in the film, but that wasn’t because we didn’t want to. Unfortunately, neither the FBI or the CIA could pin the blame on a bombable enemy.

“So our dreams of a macho response went unfulfilled.”

It looks like James Bond had the right idea. But in the future he may have to tackle both the media moguls and the political leaders if he is going to stop the next war.

Web extra the January 29-February 4, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Wild Greens

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Something Wild


Michael Amsler

Weed Like to Know More: Wild greens gourmet Doug Gosling eats his words.

Are they weeds–or dinner?

By Marina Wolf

T HE STRETCH OF TRACKS between Railroad Square and College Avenue in Santa Rosa is a short, bleak walk–10 minutes if you stay on the packed gravel and move at a brisk clip. But on a recent Sunday stroll there, I found enough berries, cooking greens, and salad fixings to even get the five sullen men sharing a bottle against the brick backside of a railroad warehouse dressing up for dinner.

Welcome to nature’s supermarket, open 24 hours, self-service only.

Few of us haven’t lingered a little in a dusty blackberry patch or dismembered a head of clover for the bits of nectar within. Such furtive encounters tap into our collective heritage from the earliest days of humanity, when foraging was the way we survived. Now we pay top dollar for gourmet greens while wielding a wrathful hoe at the bounty that pops up in our front yard. Oblivious to the irony, we may even plant domesticated produce in the exact same location where we uprooted its wild cousin.

But there are still a few people who maintain the original connection, in one way or another. The Occidental Arts and Ecology Center, for example, grounds its “weed policies” in very practical principles. “Weeds are good for the garden,” states head gardener Doug Gosling, who oversees the two acres of bio-intensive beds at the center. Thriving “volunteers” (“I have a hard time with the definition of ‘weed,'” he chuckles) keep the center’s seed bank diverse, and they also make an excellent living mulch, which holds down the soil and retains nutrients. And, of course, they’re good, dependable eating as far as the menu-makers at the OAEC are concerned. “I’d say that well over 50 percent of the salads we eat, all year round, are made of so-called weeds,” says Gosling.

And why shouldn’t the weeds take center stage? These brazen green marauders are more intensely flavored and, frequently, more nutritious than any froufrou cultivated green stuff. Early-spring favorites–dandelion, lamb’s-quarters, curled dock–have exceptionally high levels of vitamins A and C, which would explain why people of yore placed a great deal of faith in these greens as “spring tonics” after a long winter of poor provisions.

Even into the first part of this century, New York City opened Central Park each spring to the rummagings of Italian immigrants, who loved the tender young leaves of the radichielle (dandelion).

Nowadays you don’t want to do that: a clean civic lawn bespeaks a liberal hand with the herbicides. Fortunately, the urban landscape still abounds with foraging opportunities for those who are willing to stray from the beaten path. This has less to do with iconoclasm than with self-preservation: the beaten path has more cars and fewer buffers against them. A road might be lined with wild food to feed an army, but without a curb, surface pollutants wash off that road right into the soil. “There is no formula of feet away from the road to substitute for common sense,” says John Kallas, a wild-foods consultant who has been leading expeditions in Portland, Ore., since 1978.

Like Gosling, Kallas expresses a certain indifference to the term “weed.” “I get a much higher response when I call them ‘wild gourmet garden vegetables,'” he laughs. At any rate, most of his classes and field trips extend beyond weeds into the underexplored realm of eating the neighbor’s landscaping. “A lot of people plant things as ornamentals,” says Kallas, “and they either don’t know or don’t want to bother with the edible aspects.”

Asking permission is an essential part of foraging in a neighborhood; not only is it courteous, but it gives you a chance to inquire–nonjudgmentally, of course–about past and present gardening practices. You won’t always be able to find out, as in the case of abandoned sites and for-sale lots. But, as both experts say, unless you’ve been gardening your own land for years, there is never any way to know for sure what’s in the soil.

So with all these concerns about safety, why bother to eat wild foods at all? Wouldn’t it be safer and more convenient to go to the store?

MAYBE. Or maybe not. It’s true that, as a forager, you end up biting into a lot of bitter leaves and getting prickly things in your socks. You also have to be more aware of pollution than the average rose-smelling pedestrian does. But even an earnest grower of organic vegetables can legally be next to a major thoroughfare. And foraging connects you to your own food supply in a way that’s truly miraculous: finding wild food in the concrete jungle sometimes feels like tripping over a chunk of manna in the desert.

However, Kallas gives one pause when he talks about foragers’ motivations. “I think there’s an underlying insecurity about having to depend on the industrial food complex.” Hmm. How strangely millennial. And I must admit to an occasional apocalyptic fantasy of the Big One hitting and my being able to hole up in a hedge for weeks, emerging in far better shape than those who had to turn to looting the 7-Elevens.

But mostly I just like to play with my food, and foraging is an immediately gratifying way to explore and get messy. My fingers were purple for weeks when I picked olives from the trees around my apartment complex. I chewed happily on muddy wild radish leaves on the OAEC hillside. And when I bit into that inexplicable December berry near the railroad tracks, I hopped a happy little dance over the glittering fields of broken glass.

The Occidental Arts and Ecology Center hosts volunteer garden days every Wednesday, with a vegetarian potluck lunch (874-1557). For a more focused look at foraging, John Kallas offers his quarterly newsletter, The Wild Food Adventurer, for $12 a year. See his website for more details.

From the January 29-February 4, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spins

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Outta the Crypt


Tupac Shakur: Gang-bangin’ on Heaven’s door.

Tupac Shakur’s posthumous release

2Pac
R U Still Down? (Remember Me)
(Amaru/Jive)

DJ Shadow
Preemptive Strike
(Mo Wax/A&M)

ONE GLANCE at the Billboard best-seller charts will tell you that hip-hop music is as strong as ever; repeat listening verifies the genre’s depth and worth. Almost 20 years old, hip-hop is now understood not simply as rap, but as a whole funky umbrella of R&B, techno, global-fusion, indie-dance, and soul. Sonically, it’s always been about MCs and DJs, about singular voices shining in a form based on do-it-yourself assemblage.

Two recent from-the-vaults releases illustrate the growing fork in the road between hip-hop’s rapper-based old school and its dawning electro-auteur avant-garde. Tupac Shakur’s posthumous double R U Still Down? (Remember Me)–the rapper was gunned down in September of 1996 in Las Vegas–is a topnotch set from the compelling late-rap titan. Meanwhile, DJ Shadow’s Preemptive Strike compiles import tracks by this Davis-based producer into a set of sampled tracks with a human face.

Shakur’s release–seemingly, the first of a family-controlled, Hendrix-like flow of recordings–focuses on a vision beyond the numerous producers and party-time grooves; the key is Shakur as a vocalist and lyricist whose gift must be seen not merely as jaded truth-telling, but as a keen sensitivity for the hearts and minds behind his double-edged “Thug Life.”

Similarly, DJ Shadow knows that there’s more; his interludes and breaks are designed to speak to you. Tracks set up and unfold as if to transcend their own ambient groove, as if DJ Shadow is aiming more for your thinking cap than your dancing shoes. His samples are as obscure–his grooves as odd–as is Shakur’s ride on the time-honored P-Funk/Blue Note bedrock. Taken together, it’s like hearing hip-hop translate itself from an exciting past into a mysterious future.
KARL BYRN

Lecture on Nothing
Lecture on Nothing
(Pop Mafia)

WONDERFULLY ZANY, this studio project consists of scraps of words and sounds encompassing everything from gospel-hour organ and somber Alan Watts-like snippets to left-field funk overlaid with sexy female blandishments. “Strap It On” best illustrates this massive unruly experiment. Commencing with what sounds like the opening guitar figure from “Spanish Harlem,” the “tune” flaunts a crazy collage of voices: a Frank Sinatra sound-alike sunnily enjoining us to “wake up to reality,” futuristic vocoded interjections, and, lurking in the distance, the subterranean menace of a two-note synth. The implacable pulse of “The Art of Love'” is a funky Frankenstein fashioned out of a Stanley Clarke bass line, the Artist’s brazen black rock, and a mock Gurdjieff (by way of Robert Fripp’s cut-up recordings) babbling on about heavy petting. Interspersed is an ongoing, if incoherent, dialogue about the Heimlich maneuver. Of course.
NICKY BAXTER

Various Artists
Ay Califas! Raza Rock of the ’70s
(Rhino)

THE YEAR: 1974. The place: Sunnyvale. Electronics industry fat cats living the good life, though they haven’t yet gotten totally rich off the sweat of local Hispanics and hippy shop workers. I’m running a ripsaw at a lumberyard that builds specialty shipping cases for main-frame computer companies and defense-industry firms, staying alive on a steady diet of huevos and chorizo, Michoacan gold, and Latin rock. Late afternoon. Break time. Cold soda and a hot doobie behind the lumber stacks. Shorty and Pud crooning for rail-thin chicks over at the Atari plant. Radio blasting: Carlos Santana’s “Oye Como Va”; Tower of Power’s “You’re Still a Young Man,” a hefty helping of East Bay grease; and War–the ubiquitous “Low Rider” et al. The list goes on. The Latin beat goes on. Malo. El Chicano. Azteca. Sapo. Suevecito, baby!
SAL HEPATICA

From the January 29-February 4, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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