Al Gore

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Friends of Al

By Doug Ireland

Now that Al Gore is mulling over the choice of a criminal lawyer, the race to succeed Bill Clinton in 2000 has suddenly undergone a sea change. Only a month ago polls showed Gore’s reputation for integrity higher than Bubba’s; now Gore is sinking like a stone. A Los Angeles Times survey released last Friday says that the veep’s approval rating has plummeted a vertiginous 30 percent, to only 34 percent.

The appointment of an independent counsel to investigate Gore’s role in the Donorgate scandal is now inevitable, but the revelations that Gore illegally used his White House office to raise hard money for the ’96 campaign are only the beginning. Any probe will ineluctably lead to a dissection of the entire Gore fundraising operation, and the sleazy characters who people it.

There’s Floridian Howard Glicken, who was a key fundraiser for Gore’s ’88 presidential campaign and who collected $2 million for Clinton/Gore last year. A longtime friend of the veep and his wife who has hosted book parties for both in his Coral Gables home, Glicken headed a gold-trading company that was indicted by the feds two years ago in a major case involving drug-money laundering. Glicken escaped prosecution only by cutting an immunity deal with prosecutors; the company was penalized $375,000, and Glicken’s partner went to prison for 27 years. Glicken was in and out of the White House at least 50 times, and used the access he bought with campaign cash to grease the way for his clients south of the border–to whom, according to the Wall Street Journal, he sold himself as a key Gore Latin America adviser.

There’s Noach Dear, a race-baiting right-wing Democratic City Councilman from Brooklyn. Dear ran Gore’s ’88 presidential campaign in New York and raised another $2 million for the ’96 campaign from his power base in the Orthodox Jewish community. He was also a business partner of convicted Medicaid swindler Eugene Hollander, a nursing home magnate. In 1993 Dear was caught siphoning monies for his personal and political use from a charity he headed, Save Soviet Jewry.

There’s Nate Landow, a Maryland developer who was a key founder of the neo-conservative Democratic Leadership Council and the financial godfather of Gore’s ’88 campaign. Landow had raised bales of cash for Jimmy Carter and was slated to become ambassador to the Netherlands–until reports that he’d been involved in casino and hotel construction deals with members of the Gambino and Meyer-Lansky cartels forced him to withdraw from consideration. In ’96, after an impoverished Oklahoma Indian tribe shelled out $100,000 for Clinton/Gore in return for promised help in reclaiming mineral-rich tribal lands, the DNC put the Cheyenne/Arapaho leaders in touch with Landow’who, they say, tried to shake them down for 10 percent of any revenues from the land if it were recovered.

Of most immediate legal concern to Gore, however, are the campaign cash collections of Peter Knight, who headed Gore’s House and Senate staffs until he became a pricey K Street lobbyist in 1989. Gore engineered Knight’s appointment as chair of the ’96 Clinton/Gore campaign, for which he personally raised $19 million, much of it from clients doing business with the federal government. And Time reports this week that the Justice Department is already investigating Knight’s dealings with Assistant Energy Secretary Tom Grumbly, a former Gore staffer under Knight who turned the department’s multibillion-dollar toxic waste cleanup fund into a political pork barrel.

Grumbly awarded Knight’s lobbying client Bill Haney a $33 million contract to test a toxic waste cleanup process. He kept renewing it despite repeated warnings from government scientists that Haney’s process might not work, was not cost-effective, and presented serious environmental and safety risks. Haney and his business partners gave a total of $182,000 to the Democrats in the last election cycle, with many of the contributions being made on the very days Grumbly renewed Haney’s contracts. Gore himself delivered an Earth Day speech at Haney’s home plant in Massachusetts, praising the businessman as “a shining example of American ingenuity.” Indeed.

Gore’s man at Energy also gave another Knight client, Fluor (Daniel?) Corporation, a $5 billion contract to clean up toxic waste at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation in Washington. Fluor and its PAC coughed up $203,000 for the Clinton/Gore fundraising machine in ’95-’96, including $100,000 only two months before the Hanford contract was signed.

This by no means exhaustive list of Gore’s corrupt cronies and their shady doings tells us why an independent counsel investigation will stretch out well into the 2000 campaign and sink Gore’s candidacy. And all of this underscores why radical campaign reform is the only way to take politics away from the special interests and give it back to the people.

Web exclusive to the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Last of the Red Hot Lovers

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Mistress Maker


Betsey Bruner

Go Figure: Ed Brown as Kashman in River Rep’s ‘Last of the Red Hot Lovers.’

‘Lovers’ sexual revolution is still red hot

By Daedalus Howell

ONCE ITS GLOW-PLUGS are warmed, River Repertory Theater’s production of Neil Simon’s uproarious comedy Last of the Red Hot Lovers has all the torque and combustion of a diesel engine.

Directed by Tiana Lee, the play is a snapshot of the sexual revolution’s diaper days as observed by one Barney Kashman, a middle-aged seafood restaurateur living in New York City in the late ’60s. Barney (excellently deployed by Ed Brown) is financially successful and, by all accounts, happily married–yet he pines for the intrigue of an extramarital encounter.

Set entirely in his mother’s East 30s apartment, replete with Naugahyde sofa bed and rotary phone, each act introduces a new woman with whom Barney attempts to commit infidelity. The results are varied and epiphanies abound.

Thirtysomething Brown is both convincing and hilarious as the 47-year-old, buttoned-down Barney. Bespectacled, with spray-gray hair and deftly painted crow’s feet, Brown gives a delightfully jubilant performance that complements Simon’s punchy yet germane text.

Brown draws Barney as a goosy, handwringing, overgrown teddy bear, managing to engender empathy rather than contempt for the would-be adulterer. Barney is not ignoble; his lifelong monogamy and faithfulness have simply left him understandably curious.

In Act 1, Barney conspires to meet the trashy, hard-boiled Elaine Navazio (capably played by the gum-smacking Debbie San Angelo), who has made a delusive pastime of her own infidelity. San Angelo manages to depict the character’s romantic resignation with a world-weary coolness despite the little chemistry between her and Brown.

By the second act, however, the show truly ignites when gorgeous, frenetic London Sawyer makes her stage debut as dingbat, schizoid Bobbi Michele, a wannabe actress and cabaret singer who lets on to being the hapless dupe of many a libidinous machination.

Sawyer portrays Bobbi with dizzying energy–preening, pouting, and sashaying about the stage, a sort of Marilyn Monroe­meets-Peter Pan­on­the ­back-lot of Laugh In. Sawyer is a real discovery for SoCo theater.

Jeanette Fisher is admirable in the role of Zelda Michaels, a depressed married woman who claims to have enjoyed only 8.2 percent of her life. Zelda, a friend of Barney’s wife (whom we never meet), thwarts Barney’s advances by constantly clutching her handbag and braying morosely about the shambles that her marriage has become. Fisher, returning to the stage after an absence of several years, makes a considerable comeback here, playing Zelda as a wide-eyed, stricken, and defeated woman whose revelations play genuinely with only granular evidence of schmaltz.

Director Lee and Ricardo Zelaya share credit for the subtle lighting design, and the set, a joint effort devised by Lee and Terrence Sherman, effectively replicates a cozy studio apartment rigged with nooks and passages that optimize the stage’s tight quarters.

Last of the Red Hot Lovers is a fine play that flourishes in the apt hands of River Repertory Theater–well worth the scenic drive to Jenner.

Last of the Red Hot Lovers plays Friday-Sunday, Sept. 26-Oct. 11. Jenner Playhouse, 10432 Hwy. 1. Friday-Saturday at 8 p.m.; Sunday at 2 p.m. Tickets are $8-$10. 865-2905.

From the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Oliver North

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Oliver North Throws a Party

By Ruth Conniff

Yes, the Cold War is over. I know because I attended Oliver North’s victory celebration at the Capitol Hill Hyatt in Washington, D.C. The July 8, $150-a-plate dinner marked the American triumph over the Evil Empire in the worldwide battle for democracy and freedom.

“We won,” North declared. “Reagan saved the world from communism.” The party was held on the 10th anniversary of North’s testimony before Congress in the Iran-contra hearings. And North estimated that fully 10 percent of Congress was there to revel in the moment with him. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many members of Congress since I was subpoenaed,” he said, peering out at the audience.

Sen. Orrin Hatch, R-Utah, made the opening remarks, claiming credit on behalf of Republicans for the fall of the Berlin Wall and the contra victory in the Nicaraguan elections. “How many more generations were you willing to consign to totalitarianism?” he demanded of the “liberals in Washington.” He denounced the Clinton administration, which “never had the guts to put on a uniform, never had the guts to go fight for this country, and doesn’t have the guts to do what’s right today.” Sen. Jesse Helms, R-N.C., led us in the Pledge of Allegiance, after first praising Ollie North as “a genuine American hero.” Little Orphan Annie sang the national anthem. Stanton Evans, the master of ceremonies, introduced Annie (aka Randall Brooks, of Broadway musical fame) by explaining that Ted Turner and Jane Fonda have announced a campaign to get rid of “our American heritage” by doing away with the national anthem and replacing it with “America the Beautiful.”

“Well, this is our answer to Ted Turner and Jane Fonda,” Evans announced. As Little Orphan Annie warbled “O say, can you see,” an enormous American flag rose slowly behind the head table.

The audience of about 500 people rose for the invocation by the Rev. Linda Poindexter (wife of Iran-contra conspirator Admiral John Poindexter).

“The Lord be with you,” she said. “And also with you,” the audience responded. Then she thanked God for guiding our American leaders, “especially President Reagan.”

Apparently we’d all been caught in a time warp. President Reagan? “After all, he’s the one we’re really honoring this evening,” North said (graciously ignoring Reagan’s refusal to endorse him in his failed Senate run, not to mention Nancy Reagan’s explicit denunciation of him in the crucial final days of his campaign).

Reagan’s ghost cast a long, broad-shouldered shadow over the North event–just as it did during the 1996 Republican convention, which at times seemed more like a requiem for Ronnie than a promotion of current Republican politics.

Besides being so obviously backward-looking, this Reagan nostalgia seems odd because of the total whiteout of George Bush, who was as invisible at the North event as he was at the San Diego convention. The Republicans seem to prefer to act as though there never were a 42nd president. (Bush, ironically, played the role of eraser in the Iran-contra affair, pardoning Caspar Weingberger before trial, along with five other alleged Iran-contra conspirators, and thus, according to independent counsel Lawrence Walsh, completing the Iran-contra coverup.)

And just why are conservatives eulogizing Ronald Reagan and the end of the Cold War anyway, eight years after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, and somewhat ahead of Reagan’s actual demise?

“There’s a sense among conservatives that we really haven’t celebrated this one cause that brought so many factions together, which was the Cold War and ultimate victory in it,” says Keith Appell of Creative Response Concepts, the public-relations firm in Alexandria, Va., that helped put on the Oliver North event. “We think Ronald Reagan was the guy who set the tone for the end of the Cold War. Victory in Nicaragua was really the end of communism, and celebrating that needed to be done.” Not to mention the fundraising potential. “It never hurts to raise a few bucks,” Appell acknowledges.

Since his sudden rise to fame during the Iran-contra hearings, Oliver North has become a right-wing cash machine. Financial statements he filed when he ran for the Senate in 1992 showed that he had raised more than $20 million since the Iran-contra hearings, mainly through a massive direct-mail operation. His non-profit organization, the Freedom Alliance, which he built up from his legal-defense-fund mailing lists, collected $150,000 from the “Celebration of Freedom Tenth Anniversary Gala” alone. A recent issue of The Free American, the Freedom Alliance newsletter, has an article on the group’s new headquarters two miles from the Dulles airport in Virginia. The building “also houses Oliver North’s bulletproof-vest company,” the article points out. During North’s Senate race, the non-profit group got in trouble for leasing office space to North’s private businesses, without collecting some $88,000 in rent.

The Freedom Alliance appears to exist mainly for the purpose of promoting North. The group distributes op-eds in which North rails against feminists, gays, and President Clinton’s “flower-child foreign policy.” It hosts conferences for young conservatives, and it supports special causes like the Michael New legal-defense fund. (New was the U.S. soldier discharged from the Army in 1996 for refusing to wear a U.N. insignia and serve under U.N. command in Macedonia.) Besides generating lots of money, the idea of promoting Ollie North and reliving the conservatives’ glory days fits into a broader public-relations strategy. Keith Appell calls it “doing Reagan.”

Appell’s PR firm has been growing rapidly in the last few years. Business is booming for such clients as the Christian Coalition, Newt Gingrich, and Regnery Publishing. In addition to promoting the conservative triumph over communism, the firm has drawn directly on the Cold War mentality in other ways.

After The New Yorker published an article by Jane Mayer criticizing Regnery and author Gary Aldrich for failing to distinguish between fact and libelous gossip about Clinton’s sex life, Creative Response Concepts put out a barrage of press releases that smacked of red-baiting, tarring Mayer as a left-winger and a radical feminist.

“Doing Reagan” isn’t just a matter of tapping into any old, anti-communist vein, however. It’s a whole marketing concept.

“You’ve seen a number of events on Capitol Hill in the last couple of weeks, where we’re bringing in working families and showing how tax cuts benefit them, setting up the bully pulpit, doing a lot of talk radio, doing events with family farmers, handing out mock $500 checks,” says Appell enthusiastically. He pulls out clips from the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the Los Angeles Times to bolster his point.

“Congressman Don Manzullo [R-Ill.] met with some family farmers and here’s a picture of him standing with them on a flatbed truck!” Appell cracks himself up, giggling with delight at this PR coup. “It’s great! It’s working!”

“This is the Reagan approach–a classic example is Reagan going to the Berlin Wall toward the end of the Cold War. … He could have given a speech anywhere, but he gave it in front of the wall. That picture captured the very essence of the Evil Empire.”

So “doing Reagan” means … ?

“What we have done is to get more pictures,” says Appell.

That, in a nutshell, is the Reagan strategy. And Oliver North is nothing if not picturesque.

Of course, there are still those teensy problems with violating international law and subverting the U.S. Constitution.

North was convicted in 1989 of three federal crimes: aiding in the obstruction of Congress, accepting illegal gratuities, and destroying documents related to arms sales to Iran to finance the illegal contra war. He was fined $150,000 and sentenced to 1,200 hours of community service.

But a year later, the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled that, because North testified under immunity before Congress in 1987, the conviction would have to be reviewed to make sure none of the witnesses were influenced by North’s immunized testimony. After key witnesses said that they had, in fact, been influenced by testimony North gave before Congress, independent counsel Lawrence Walsh dropped all charges.

At the celebration dinner, Jesse Helms assured us that everything North did in the Iran-contra affair was “absolutely legal and authorized by law and by the president of the United States.”

Rep. Dan Burton, R-Ind., who is heading the House of Representatives’ investigation of the Clinton administration’s campaign-finance scandals, was nonchalant about the Iran-contra affair. He hinted that the Boland Amendment, which cut off aid to the contras in 1984, was made to be broken: “The Boland Amendment, which was passed by the liberals in Congress, was just another obstacle and obstruction to the fight against the communists,” Burton explained. “Ollie North found innovative ways to help, and I congratulate him for that.” Burton and other speakers at the gala made it clear that subverting Congress and running a covert war were minor issues, compared with the larger battle against international socialism.

“Ronald Reagan gave hope to America,” Burton said, to a round of applause. “I remember when Ronald Reagan stood in front of the Berlin Wall and said, ‘Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall.’ “

Rep. Dana Rohrabacher, R-Calif., spoke with admiration of working with North in the Reagan administration. “He was just a guy who worked upstairs from me at the White House. We always knew he was running all over the world doing all kinds of crazy things,” Rohrabacher chuckled. “We didn’t know what he was doing! I remember at one point going to talk to Ollie [during the contra war] and saying, ‘What can I do to help?’ He told me some things I could do–none of them were anywhere near the line of legality–but he said, ‘You don’t have to do that, we have some people who will take care of these things.'”

Rohrabacher, now known as the “surfing congressman,” has a Web page featuring pictures of him surfing, as well as his thoughts on surf culture and the relative merits of different types of boards. During college, master of ceremonies Stanton Evans told us, Rohrabacher helped found an organization called the Committee for the Prevention of Nuclear Peace. Its motto was, “We already have enough bombs to blow up the world 10 times over, so a few more can’t hurt.”

One of the men seated near me, whose wife works for Oliver North, pounded on the table in a fit of hilarity over this quip, and passed the wine bottle. Rohrabacher closed by saying, “Ollie is a great example to youth.”

Rep. Helen Chenoweth, R-Idaho, a favorite of militia groups in her home state, spoke after Rohrabacher. Evans introduced her as “a modern Joan of Arc on behalf of U.S. property rights.” Chenoweth is fighting “the collectivization of land by the government” out in Idaho, just as many heroic women fought against Bolshevism in the former Soviet Union, Evans said.

Dressed in a pink suit and sparkling earrings, Chenoweth spoke breathlessly about the first time she saw Oliver North on TV during the Iran-contra hearings: “I saw this young colonel who promised to tell the truth. And I thought, ‘My goodness, this is going to be unusual.’ And for the next days and weeks I was riveted to the television set … What was it that riveted all of America? … True leadership and true love of country and a dedication to duty we’ve seldom seen. … The more I’ve gotten to know Ollie North, the more I saw what it was that gave him that riveting quality of leadership– and that’s his close and abiding relationship with God, the creator of the heavens and Earth.”

The woman at my table who works for North nodded solemnly.

Rep. Bob Barr, R-Ga., testified that Oliver North would be an asset in the war on drugs. He noted the Peruvian government’s policy of shooting down airplanes carrying drugs, and said, “This is the sort of approach Ollie North would take. It’s gotten the drug traffickers’ attention.”

Actually, North took a much more complicated approach to drug traffickers in Latin America. “You will recall that over the years Manuel Noriega and I have developed a fairly good relationship,” North wrote in an e-mail message to his boss, Adm. John Poindexter, at the National Security Commission on Aug. 23, 1986. In the wake of news stories about Panamanian Gen. Manuel Noriega’s involvement in the drug trade, Noriega had appealed to North: “In exchange for a promise from us to ‘help clean up his [Noriega’s] image’ … he would undertake to ‘take care of’ the Sandinista leadership for us,” North wrote to Poindexter.

In a 1985 notebook entry, North recorded a weapons purchase by the contras, with U.S. assistance, from a supplier in Honduras: “14 M to finance [the arms] came from drugs.”

Another set of memoranda and purchase orders tracks more than $300,000 paid by the Nicaraguan Humanitarian Aid Office, overseen by North, to a major U.S. marijuana trafficker to ferry supplies to the contras in his airplane. The plane had also been used to run drugs.

Other documents show North intervening on behalf of known drug smugglers, including José Bueso Rosa, a Honduran general and CIA liaison who was arrested for conspiring to import $40 million worth of cocaine into the United States to finance the assassination of the president of Honduras. Bueso assumed his American friends would keep him out of prison. “Our major concern–Gorman, North, Clarridge–is that when Bueso finds out about what is really happening to him, he will break his long-standing silence about the Nic Resistance and other sensitive operations,” North wrote in an e-mail message to Poindexter. North recommended that he and his colleagues “cabal quietly in the morning to look at options: pardon, clemency, deportation, reduced sentence.”

All of these declassified documents come from the National Security Archive, a public-interest research library in Washington, D.C., which obtained them using the Freedom of Information Act after a long legal battle with the Reagan and Bush administrations.

The drug evidence, while damning, is not much worse than North’s direct testimony before the Iran-contra committee, in which he admitted that he lied to Congress, created false documents to throw investigators off his trail, and conducted secret deals with terrorists and arms merchants.

But since he got off on the technicality related to his immunity, North now presents himself as entirely innocent of the very crimes he confessed to committing.

His supporters are sanctimonious about North’s guiltlessness and the relative depravity of the Clinton administration.

“Can you imagine an administration of which Ollie North was a part bringing illegal aliens into the country to vote? Committing mail and wire fraud? Racketeering? Obstruction of justice?” Georgia Rep. Bob Barr asked, without any apparent irony. “Ollie, we need you now.”

Is Oliver North running for office? Before North’s speech, the lights dimmed, and what looked suspiciously like a campaign film began to roll: “Ollie North: Always the Courage to Stand Up for Freedom.”

Pat Buchanan was a supporting actor in the film, recounting North’s performance in the Iran-contra hearings. “You could feel the air go out of the liberals in this town when they realized they weren’t going to break anybody,” Buchanan said.

The film featured clips from the Iran-contra hearings. The audience booed as the congressional questioners, who looked like plodding bureaucrats, bullied our hero, the brave, straight-shooting Marine. Then came a montage of politicians praising North for his courage at the hearings’ close. In the end, North was vindicated.

But then, alas, “his quest for the Senate was not to be,” the voice-over said. Still, “his quest continues.” There were shots of North doing his nationally syndicated radio show. “No one, not even Oliver North, knows what the future holds. But one thing is certain. In the quest for freedom, Oliver North will be there.”

“You have to figure out relatively soon in life what’s worth dying for,” North said, looking pensive at the end of the film. “You also have to figure out what’s worth living for. I’ve figured out this country is worth living and dying for.”

Cut to footage of the collapse of the Berlin Wall.

The film was made specifically for the banquet, not for any political campaign, according to North’s staff at the Freedom Alliance. North does not have any immediate plans to seek office. Although “a lot of people are curious, especially with the news articles regarding Governor [George] Allen stepping down,” says the Alliance’s Dee Dee Lancaster.

But with the Virginia governor’s race now in full swing, and the Senate race still three years away, it doesn’t look as if North will be running again any time soon. Meanwhile, he serves his purpose as an icon.

North got a standing ovation when he stepped up to the microphone at the banquet. The ordeal he went through during the Iran-contra hearings, he said, “was about this very document I carry with me until it’s tattered and torn–the Constitution.” He pulled it out of his pocket and waved it at us.

Then he told a long story about the hearings. It was a great telling, full of humor and pathos. He described how nervous he was. He talked about how he prayed, as he waited, surrounded by security guards in a little locked room outside the Senate: “God, if an earthquake ever hits Washington, let it be now.”

A little old lady slipped up to him as he was entering the hearing room on the first day–somehow getting past security–and handed him a card, which his attorney, Brendan Sullivan, grabbed from him. Sullivan kept the card throughout the hearings, setting it on the microphone stand during North’s testimony and putting it back in his pocket at the end of the day. A curious reporter finally demanded to know what was on the card. Sullivan slowly took it out of his pocket, looked at it, then put it away again, before replying: “The answers.”

What’s really on the card, North told us, is Isaiah 40:31. He carries that with him until it’s tattered and torn, too. The verse reads: “But those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”

Two honored guests at the banquet were Adolfo Calero, president of the Conservative Party of Nicaragua, and David Jacobsen, a former hostage held in Lebanon by the radical Shiite Islamic group Hezbollah. North accompanied Jacobsen home, after taking credit for his release.

Calero and Jacobsen both thanked North. Jacobsen told the moving story of his release and trip home in November 1986 with the mysterious William P. Good (North’s code name), who gave him a verse of the 23rd Psalm inscribed on a baseball cap.

The white-haired Calero also gushed. “I’m so proud to have been part of that task force that saved civilization,” the former contra leader said. He got a standing ovation. “But there are still great problems in Nicaragua,” he pointed out, including more than 50 percent unemployment. He made a special plea for Nicaraguan immigrants in the United States–“40,000 who have been living here and who have no future in Nicaragua and are facing deportation with this new immigration law.” The irony of Calero asking the assembled conservatives to loosen the immigration law was lost in the hoopla.

After sponsoring a covert war that ultimately killed 30,000 people in Nicaragua, and waging a long destabilization campaign against the Sandinista government, Oliver North and his colleagues from the Reagan administration are taking credit for Nicaraguan democracy.

But the elections in Nicaragua–held in 1992 by the Sandinista government, and in which the Sandinistas peacefully stepped down–did not represent the victory the contra supporters in the United States were looking for. They were aiming for the military overthrow of the government.

And, of course, they were subverting democracy at home to try to achieve it. Now the Republicans are casting themselves as the triumphant good guys in the global battle between good and evil. And they are trying to revive the whole musty, Cold War narrative to energize their movement. Who knows? Maybe it’s good for one more round.

“Oliver North as the standard-bearer of the right gives you a sense of the shallowness and ethical dearth of the conservative movement in this country,” says Peter Kornbluh, who, as a senior analyst at the National Security Archive, is an Iran-contra expert. Kornbluh has watched with a jaundiced eye as Oliver North takes his place next to G. Gordon Liddy and Bob Dornan in the rogues’ gallery of conservative talk-radio. “All that’s left for them is to rabble-rouse on the radio, and, in North’s case, to raise lots of money through direct mail from ignorant souls wholly unschooled in the great treachery to the Constitution that North committed,” he says. “If that’s their symbol, so be it.”

Web exclusive to the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Jive 3

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Jive 3


Magali Pirard

Further proof that while chickens may lay,
people lie

Edited by Gretchen Giles

LIARS, BRAGGARTS, AND DREAMERS–man, are we lousy with them around here. The more than 100 submissions received for our Jive 3 personal essay-writing contest packed a dose of fibbery that would make Pinocchio’s nose splinter, would make George Washington blush over his hatcheted cherry tree, would put even Walter Mitty at a loss.

The long and winding Jive history began three years ago in a coffee shop, as, while trying not to spit as we blew-cooled coffee, we noticed that all around us were scribbling, furrow-browed scribes, notating the margins of books, looping across the pages of diaries, and inking up torn scraps of scratch. “What the heck,” we muttered, foam arched in an attractive manner across our lips, “are they writing about?”

In the past two years of hosting our Java Jive contest, we seem to have answered that question: They, you, the public at large, are writing about sex.

Sex is great stuff; we love it. But year after year of writing and reading about that mysterious woman in the corner with the black beret whose emerald green eyes have a hint of a smile about them grows a bit stale.

So this year we mixed it up, exhorting you to lie, and lie you did. Gone is the java; the jive remains. In addition to sex (and there was still plenty of it; after all, this is the No. 1 topic about which to lie), we got anger, joy, reflections on aging, and plenty of tomfoolery. Of the five top winners, someone even told the truth.

We offer big wet smacking thank-yous to judges J. J. Wilson of Sonoma State University, writing instructor Scott Reid, Maureen Hurley of the Russian River Writers’ Guild, Readers’ Books’ co-proprietor Lilla Weinberger, and SRJC writing instructor Guy Beiderman–last year’s Jive winner. Hugs also to Carolina Clare of North Light Books and to Tom Montan and Jane Love of Copperfield’s Books.

Lovely heaping thanks to all who submitted–even the writer who expanded on the word coprophilia–and we are grateful to have had to happily haggle over the work of Rebecca Alber, Susan Bono, Ric Escalante, Stephen Gross, Nancy L. T. Hamilton, Liz Hanna, Kate Kinsey, Suzanna McGee, Dean Musgrove, Liz Sinclair, Tim Stires, and Elva Zimmerman.

And that is no jive.

1. [Untitled]

Who am I (&I)? Rastapunk, funkologist, cantakerous deductologist. Metaphysician, yawnmower, Socratic numbers cruncher. I am an enigma wrapped in a puzzle, shrouded in a large Eskimo woman named Irene. I am the “King of All Mediocrity,” and the court jester of Clintonlot. I’ve got a rip in the fabric of my space-time continuum and I just lost another buttonhole. I am the watcher and the peacetalker,I am the self-infected wound on the scab of indifference. I am deep ecology and televised cacophony. I am an ironic godhead to all dispossessed, anemic tax consultants. I am second homeless. I have puce-colored hair. I am a debit card in the side of consumeristic madness. I am Crush Limbaugh, and a nude Gingrich. I stand naked between these lines, yet adorn the golden robe of curiosity as to a brighter meaning and a wider waistband. I don’t work for peace, but rather leisure for it. I am Marilyn Hansen and Madonna McJackson. I am the thought police raiding your vice-filled subconscious and I will water your suburban lawns. I don’t eat cheese. I don’t brush after everymeal. I am the barcode tattooed on your wrist and the iridescent gadfly in your soup. I am the jukebox anti-hero and the Huck Finn floating down the stream of your consciousness. I am the FedEx of change and the splinter in your mind’s eye. I am unorganized religion and the phlebotomist in the vein of society. I rue the passing of Crystal Pepsi and feel dance fever was the pinnacle of civilization. I believe power-sweating should be an Olympic sport. I secretly know cumin is the devil’s spice. I’m starting a No Doubt cover band called No Doi. I practice tarot reading with Star Wars trading cards. In conclusion, I feel everyone should praise the obvious, go for the gusto, and inflict deadly accurate mime control.
– Ocean Moon

2. I Am Probably Not the Buddha

Remember you must be your own light. The Truth is your light and your refuge in this world. Life is suffering.–The Buddha

Those who seek the Truth need look no further than the bottom of their child’s diaper pail.–Catherine Lloyd (Probably Not the Buddha)

I am clearly not the Buddha. In fact, the chances are pretty slim that the Buddha’s even in my neighborhood. For one thing, I doubt he plays tennis and everybody in my neighborhood, it seems, plays tennis. Unless they’re on life support, in which case I suppose they might be the Buddha. I mean, they’re sitting in one place, leading the contemplative life, if you will (unless they’re brain dead, in which case maybe 95 percent of their soul has attained nirvana and the other 5 percent is stuck in the body like a foot in a railroad track).

I really can’t say, probably not being the Buddha myself.

There are a number of other very good reasons why I am probably not the Buddha. For one, I ovulate. Ovulation has traditionally been a handy means of eliminating prospective religious leaders (Aimee Semple McPherson and the Virgin Mary being notable exceptions). Besides, it’s hard to live on the day’s wages from begging when you also have to buy panti-liners with the spare change.

Two, the Buddha ascended into nirvana several thousand years ago. Since we only get one Buddha every 100,000 years or so, I estimate (using my limited command of mathematics) that another one shouldn’t be showing up until around A.D. 90000, at which point we’ll either be shooting through the galaxy in giant BBs like Jodie Foster in Contact or we’ll have all taken our place in the afterlife and left the planet to the cockroaches and the sharks.

Three, the Buddha sat down under a bodhi tree at the age of 35 and didn’t get up until he was the Buddha. I’m only 34, so there’s still time, but there aren’t any bodhi trees in Santa Rosa (I don’t believe). I don’t think the Santa Rosa plum tree in my backyard would suit since the smell of rotting plums on the ground and the fresh ones dropping from the branches would certainly not be very conducive to a meditative state.

That said, there are also a number of very good reasons why I might be the Buddha: for one, like the Buddha, I have small breasts, favor jeweled hair ornaments, and wear dresses because I look hippy in slacks.

Two: The Buddha spent six years with the hermits of Uruvilva, denying his body food and comfort. I spent six years changing diapers and eating the crusts of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches while working part-time as an accountant. The parallels are evident.

Three: The Buddha had one child. A boy he named Rahula. Rahula (very) loosely translated means “gets in the way of my career.” The child eventually forgave his father for dumping him with his grandpa when he saw him floating in the sky on a lotus throne.

To get the same effect with my own kids, I’d have to be floating on a hamburger bun bathed in a halo of light from the Golden Arches. It could happen. . . .

Or maybe not. I don’t know. There are strong arguments on both sides for me being the Buddha. I suspect that the chances that I am not the Buddha might be fractionally more likely. That’s why I’m saying that I’m probably not the Buddha. Either way, there is one thing I do know for sure and that is that you are probably not the Buddha either.
– Catherine Lloyd

3. How I Invented the Smoothie

I am Sonoma County adventurer Jacob Openspace. The world is my hackey-sack. This is the story of how I invented the Smoothie.

The year was 1972. My plane crashed in the Sierra, killing everyone else on board and leaving me without food. I was surrounded by desolate, icy peaks. I would have eaten my fellow passengers to survive, but that is against my principles. You see, I am a vegetarian.

Suddenly I spied wild strawberries under the ice. One propeller of the downed plane spun at a perfect purée pace. Crawling on my belly through the flaming hull of the plane, I found a baby’s bottle. Remembering that the child’s mother wore only natural fabrics, I hoped against hope as I tore off the rubber nipple. Oh, thank God! Soy milk!

I added the ginseng I always keep tucked in a body cavity for just such emergencies. Suddenly, a voice behind me!

“I’ve noticed you gathering ingredients. I’d like to make an offering,” gasped a beautiful young nun. “That ginseng thing was unnatural,” she said. “But, like the Wise Men, I’d like to give frankincense and myrrh.” I tenderly declined and left her to die.

I poured my precious yield into my Greenpeace hardhat and strapped it to the propeller. Just then a fireball shot from the engine, narrowly missing me but perfectly toasting wheatgrass and barley growing wild on the peak. I scooped them up and slid on my belly toward the kitchenette of the plane, in search of a cup.

Only Styrofoam! Damn these planet-poisoning airlines! Then I remembered a handsome listener-supported-radio commuter mug I’d spotted in the cabin. It was in the hand of a passenger who had just made the ultimate pledge.

As I savored the first sips of my nectar (the mug happened to contain just the right amount of honey left over from tea), a rescue chopper appeared over the peaks. I looked back on the wreckage of airplane and human lives with misgivings: another 30 seconds and I might’ve found some bee pollen. But as I leaped from the rocks for the rope ladder, I knew I had discovered something.

Next episode: I invent the phrase “What goes around comes around” in a small but deadly Russian River whirlpool.

– Jefferson Elder


4. Word Meadow

I am a born writer. I emerged from the womb screaming not at the shock of the world but at my lack of words to describe it. A few days later, the first poem drooled from my lips.

Perhaps I sound like I am bragging. I am not. To be born with a gift means to claim no credit for it. Any talent I possess I owe to my ancestors, a long line of saga spinners, skalds of the courts, readers of runes, farmer-poets and warrior-poets who could choose from over 100 expressions for sword: skull-crusher, pale-maker, corpse-pain, screamer, blood-waker. The sun was called day-star, sprinkler, grace-shine. The tongue? A word-meadow. All of this in the oral tradition, preserved in the communal memory. When the art of writing finally reached Iceland in A.D. 1000, it was an instant success. During the long dark winter nights, the old sagas and ancient verses were copied onto sheepskin, then passed along through the centuries from one sod hovel to the next, surviving Black Death, avalanches, earthquakes, floods, famine, and the tyranny of the Danes. At times the island’s population nearly died out entirely.

On the second day of Easter, 1875, my five-year-old grandfather woke to a day black as night; by noon he could no longer see his own hand in front of his face. Mount Askja had erupted, spewing ash so thick that it not only blocked the sun for three days, but destroyed a third of the island’s farmland, an event eerily resembling the apocalypse prophesied in the pagan verse Song of the Sybil (as set down by my ancestor Snorri Sturluson in the 13th century):

The sun turns black

Cast down from heaven are the hot stars

Fumes reek, into flames burst

The sky itself is torched with fire . . .

Well, would you know more?

On a sunny evening the following July, my grandfather’s family joined the thousands fleeing Iceland for a marshy, flood-prone reserve on the shores of Lake Winnipeg. The gush of words continued even here. In the midst of their first disastrous winter, those settlers that hadn’t died of starvation or smallpox started, of all things, a newspaper which printed the first immigrant poet of New Iceland, my distant relation Guttormur Guttormsson:

O kin of volcano and floe-sea

Cousin of geyser and steep.

Even the sparse journal entries of my Great-Uncle Sveinn evoke a certain poetic resonance:

January 16: Cold, snowing.

January 17: Cold, snowing.

January 20: Cloud, heavy frost.

To this day, Iceland publishes more books per capita than any other nation on the planet. I could go on, as my people are wont to do. The words run quite literally in our blood. Yet I’ve inherited other legacies, too, from these Icelanders who spend half of every year drenched in light, the other half sunk in darkness. Polar moods. Days so black they pass for night. The word-meadow is my haven. Well, would you know more?
– Christina Sunley

5. [Untitled]

I am a waitress. I’d much rather tell you I am a writer, a student, a wife; still, I am a waitress. A food-server, a “Miss,” and sometimes a “Ma’am.” Depending on what you think of my performance you leave me some cash, laid gratuitously on the table for services rendered. A Freudian tip. The busboys neatly stack the green bills. They get 15 percent of everything I make. The food chain continues.

I am merely the messenger, a conduit, the harbinger. Between kitchen and customer I walk to and fro, relaying a code. Like the government, I modify the message to keep you both placated and at peace. I dodge bullets from the cooks as I put in your special order and then take it off the check because you dislike your own creation. I answer questions like the best of game-show contestants: “No, the Caesar is not fishy,” and “Yes, it will be enough food for you.”

I have poured your beer into a wineglass because you like drinking it that way. I have asked the chef to wash his hands before making your meal because you don’t like germs. I have sung “Happy Birthday” to a dead and buried nine-year-old on her birthday because her mother wanted me to. “This was her favorite restaurant!” she explains tearfully, as I clear her third margarita glass, drained.

I am wait-staff; I am serving-wench; I am a Lady in Waiting; joined at the tip to you, the Guest in this crazy dance of social service. We play our chosen part of serf or king, sitting or standing, mother or child. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s merely the system. And besides, my astrological chart says I’m aspected to serve humankind. I just thought it would be more like Mother Teresa or the Peace Corps, but service is no longer romantic when done for reward.

I have called you a cab after too much wine, and called you worse for the same reason. I have held your head in my lap after you had a heart attack in my section and talked about your children while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. I am Hang Man champ, hanging out at the counter with kids grown bored of parents who prompt, “What do you say?” and then forget to say “please” themselves.

I am the voice that read you the entire menu because you forgot your glasses. I am the ear into which you whispered “I don’t have any money,” after you ate your dessert. I am the one you stiffed because your meal was too expensive and you needed money to buy cigarettes. I am playful yet efficient, pleasant, and fast–which is most important since you have a movie to catch in a half-hour. I am at your disposal; I am at your beck and call. But that’s OK. I’ve heard good things come to those who wait.
– Jill Haugh

Honorable Mention[Untitled]

Susan Fleming is a prince. She is adept at many things required of the descendants of czars and kings. She is jovial yet speaks with a commanding bellow changing the mind of the Oracle of Diana.

Susan Fleming is copper- and golden-precious. She is worth sifting sand in excavation of her for centuries. She is a discovery like Lucy and humans walking upright.

Susan Fleming is alive so that we can live. She casts no fool out.

Susan Fleming sews hope into the breast-pocket of God.

Susan Fleming is walking across the kitchen; the rhythm of her steps reverberates through us all.
– Susan Fleming

Runners-up

People Can’t Place My Accent

By necessity, tribal custom was hard in the Ural Mountains. Sensing early and correctly that my myopia was the sort of handicap that could very well lead to my being left outside the village walls after dark for the wolves to dispose of, my parents worked tirelessly to teach me a skill that would benefit the community. I developed a knack for whittling accordion reeds, which positioned me as a valuable trade commodity. And so it was to save the life of their son that my parents traded me to a roving band of polka gypsies for two goats, a Maharaja slalom ski, and a large wagon that my folks later used to make the long trek to Kashmir, where they now make a comfortable living screen-printing Mao Zedong, Buckminster Fuller, and Martha Stewart T-shirts.

I labored on accordion reeds the entire Atlantic passage. But not all of the days were spent below-deck with a small knife in my hand surrounded by a pile of cane. Many a happy afternoon was passed with what I came to think of as my new family on the deck of the wave-tossed ship. The gypsies would fling me overboard so as to help me perfect my newly acquired swimming abilities, and in thanks I taught them the classics: the theme to “Gilligan’s Island,” “My Sharona,” and a tune that they earned a certain following with in resorts throughout the Poconos, a polka version of “I’m a Lineman for the County.” My given name had long since been forgotten, as the gypsy clan had embraced me as one of their own and had taken to calling me Mookie ‘Boom-Boom’ Ignatious, a name I still treasure today.

We landed in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and my first taste of America was a corn dog and a strawberry slushy. The gypsies ended my indentured servitude when they did a quick cost analysis and discovered that buying accordion reeds at music stores cost much less than clothing and feeding me. Heavy of heart, I set off down the road on my own. In the damp, still night, the sad gypsy voices carried far after me, ” . . . a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.” Aside from the clothes on my back, all that I could call mine was piled on the inverted hood of a ’64 VW bug that I dragged down the road behind me by a rope tied about my waist. I didn’t know where I was going or how I would get there. Something pulled me west, either a subliminal desire to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine in Kansas, a longing to visit the birthplace of Phyllis Diller, Lima, Ohio, or maybe just blind ambition and momentum. I cried myself to sleep that night in a dumpster behind a 76 truck stop and dreamt of polkas, the open road, and stale Stuckey’s pecan logs.
– Bradford Rex

[Untitled]

As I scrubbed one of my two cookie sheets down to the finish this morning, I realized that I expected it to be my last cookie sheet. I found, in that light, that I wanted to make it look like new, like I just bought it yesterday. That I cared about it slightly more than might be considered normal; that it was something more than a temporary transport for chocolate chip cookies: it was the Last Cookie Sheet I Would Ever Own.

This is a sobering way to start the day, but I was not as alarmed as I once would have been. It was strangely peaceful to view the metal rectangle in this light, and I scoured the corners with a small pleasure, dried it carefully, and put it away gently, sliding it in next to its twin.

I seem to have reached an age where taking care of what I already own has great merit. Me! The mother of mañanaism. How did this happen?

It’s enough to make you want to bake cookies.

“Things” rarely arouse my lust these days. I have a recurring fantasy of taking armloads of Things I already own, running out of the house into the street, and dumping them–running back into the house, doing it again. In this dream, all I feel is a growing, yelling freedom, some Boston Tea Party yippeekaiyah. (Oh, how I want to go back and rearrange the letters in that last word; I can see so many possible pairings. I know Bruce Willis would know how to spell it right. But even Bruce Willis doesn’t inspire all that much lust. I’m just going to let it go. Let go.)

So, how’d this happen to me? Childless, I’m becoming a “granny,” an LOL. Maybe a BOL. I grow old, I grow old, I will wear my leggings-with-a-big-top rolled.

I move into these ideas and see they are true, and so much nonsense falls away, snakeskin of my earlier lives. In my time I’ve considered more carefully the selection of peaches than the selection of men to be my partners; gone through 4,000 hair rollers now rusting in East and West Coast landfills; seen all the episodes of Star Trek and assumed that whatever didn’t work could be readily replaced, repaired, reinvented.

I’m tired of transitory relationships with the insignificant.

My brothers would laugh and say, “Not if it was a 20-year-old-with-a-tight-butt insignificant”; but they haven’t gotten here yet. Maybe they never will; maybe they can hang forever in the place where nothing meets. I just can’t. I am hoping–in fact, I’m betting the farm on my hope–that there is time enough left for one last reinvention of me: into a person who knows what to value and protect and what to let go of, into a creature with metal.

This is gonna take some real elbow grease.
– Popy Metropolis

Celebrate Jive 3 with our winners, judges, and the Independent staff when we host a reading of these gems of genius on Wednesday, Oct. 1, at 7 p.m. Featured readers include our judges and honorable-mention winners. Copperfield’s Santa Rosa Annex bookstore, 650 Fourth St. The reading is free–as is the grub–and open to all. For details, call 527-1200.

From the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Pesticide Use in Sonoma County

0

Toxic Tide


Michael Amsler

Sign of the Times: Notice warns of methyl bromide use in a local vineyard.

Pesticide use on the rise

By J. Beck

A PUBLIC-INTEREST group announced Sept. 18 that statewide pesticide use is on the rise, but farmers and state regulators claim consumers have nothing to worry about. In the report “Rising Toxic Tide, Pesticide Use in California, 1991-95,” Pesticide Action Network scientist James Liebman found that in that five-year period pesticide use increased 31 percent, from 161 million to 212 million pounds of pesticide-active ingredient.

In Sonoma County, where an average of 49 pounds of toxic active ingredients were applied per harvested acre, the intensity of pesticide use ranked sixth among all counties in California at nearly twice the state average.

But California Farm Bureau spokesman Clark Biggs says PAN “conveniently” chose 1991 as a starting point because it was near the end of an eight-year drought and farm acreage was relatively lower than subsequent years. The state Department of Pesticide Regulation released a 1995 pesticide-residue report the same day, finding no trace of pesticide residue in 64.6 percent of 5,502 marketplace samples. The state report found pesticides below the legal limit in more than 33 percent of the samples and notes that about 1.6 percent of the samples contained illegal levels of pesticide. Department director James Wells says, “This [state] report indicates a high level of grower compliance with pesticide laws and regulations.”

But PAN says that’s not good enough. According to its report, the use of cancer-causing pesticides increased 129 percent between 1991 and 1995. Gregg Small, director of Pesticide Watch Education Fund, says, “California should be at the cutting edge of sustainable agriculture and promoting non-toxic approaches to pest control. Instead, we find our state agencies doing very little to reduce the use of pesticides.”

As a result, the widespread use of toxic agricultural chemicals damages both human health and the environment, PAN claims.

“This is not surprising because pesticides are created to be poisons,” the report notes. “Epidemiological studies have shown an association between pesticide use and increased numbers of birth defects among both farmer and non-farmer residents of agricultural regions.”

The report adds that 1,000 cases of acute occupational illnesses linked to agricultural pesticides are reported each year in California. And recent studies have focused on the role of many pesticides in disrupting hormonal balances in wildlife and humans.

PAN found that of all the crops in the state, grapes–including those cultivated for wine and raisins–receive the most pesticides: 59 million pounds in 1995, of which 49 million pounds were sulfur. The PAN report notes that while sulfur is not a systemic poison, it is acutely irritating to the skin and eyes, and is the pesticide causing the most reported worker injuries in California.

Despite a plan to phase out the use of methyl bromide–a powerful fumigant widely used in the local grape-growing industry–the amount of the controversial chemical used in cultivation actually increased, from 14.7 million pounds in 1993 to 17.5 million pounds in 1995.

A 1995 Lake Research public-opinion poll showed that that trend runs counter to popular views about pesticide use: 79 percent of Californians believed it is important to reduce pesticide use, and 87 percent favored labeling foods to describe pesticide residues.

But toxicologist Carl Winter, at the University of California at Davis, says the most important point to consider is not the frequency and overall amount of pesticide usage but the amount of consumer exposure. “Almost any chemical is toxic at a certain dosage. The dose makes the poison,” Winter says.

His department has found no major health risks posed by eating state produce, he says, adding that he hopes consumers do not shun fresh fruits and vegetables because of the report’s findings. The largest potential health risk confronts the workers who handle the highly concentrated pesticides in the field, he concludes.

Still, PAN is calling for fewer pesticides and more public access to information about the extent of their use. Currently, the state Department of Pesticide Regulation is supposed to keep accurate and accessible reports on the use of agricultural chemicals. According to the report, Gov. Pete Wilson and pesticide manufacturers have been trying to cut in half the state mill tax that funds a large portion of the DPR’s $25 million annual budget. “Such a serious cut in the DPR’s budget will seriously compromise the agency’s ability to track, let alone reduce, pesticide use in California,” the report concludes.

PAN wants the DPR to produce annual reports detailing and summarizing pesticide use in the state by crop, by county, and by toxicity. It wants the state agency to create an easily accessible Internet database on the use of particular pesticides on particular pieces of land, so you’d know exactly what is being applied in your neighborhood.

“Practical, viable alternatives to toxic pesticides do exist,” the report concludes. “For example, organic production is the fastest growing sector of U.S. agriculture. The organic food sector has grown 20 percent a year over the past seven years and now accounts for $3.5 billion in annual sales.

“Although we do not expect all of California agriculture to convert to organic production overnight, the success of organic producers demonstrates that it is possible to create a thriving agricultural economy without using toxic chemicals.”

Editor Greg Cahill contributed to this article.

From the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Bruce Cohn

0

Striking Oil


Michael Amsler

Hit man: Doobie Brothers’ manager Bruce Cohn has been takin’ it to the streets for 28 years.

Rock veteran, winemaker, olive oil purveyor–Bruce Cohn has it all

By Gretchen Giles

THE AFTERNOON is one of those tourist-swoon Indian summer ones made all the better by the fact that it’s a businesslike Tuesday in Glen Ellen, with almost no swooning tourists, save the two slightly tipsy couples in the B.R. Cohn winery’s tasting room.

Gold and platinum records honoring mega-sales for the rock band the Doobie Brothers add a decorative glint to the yellowy light that oozes through glass-fronted French doors into this room where I am stupidly standing, hoping that winery owner and Doobie Brothers’ manager Bruce Cohn himself will just, kind of, like, appear.

“Bruce is in his office,” directs the tasting-room attendant when I finally muster out a request as she bustles past me into an anteroom to procure more bottles.

Stepping out into the buttery heat of the day, I start tentatively up the hill toward a large white house. Hundred-year-old olive trees stand cool and tall, without regard to the asphalt drive that now paves its way around them. Farm and outbuildings are trim and cleanly painted, built low like the chicken and dairy barns they were intended to be when this 46-acre former Mexican land grant was first farmed.

Vines bursting with the hot fruit of Cohn’s acclaimed cabernet and chardonnay stocks weave down the hill to the left; terraced down the right are olive trees, and more pleasingly straight plaits of grapes.

Cohn decided against uprooting the olive trees when he bought the property in ’74 as a muffle against the noise of Hwy. 12 below. As the olive oil produced by this rare breed of French tree–known as picholine–grows in popularity, so does Cohn’s appreciation for their muffle and their muscle; estate-derived B.R. Cohn extra-virgin oil retails for $50 a bottle. And while the oil is certainly excellent, believe that this is a really nice bottle.

Cohn’s office is off to the side of the big house, his former home, now destined to be the winery’s new tasting room. He and his family moved recently to an adjacent property, establishing a more private residence and acquiring enough extra land to have a total of 100 planted acres of trees and vines. With his adulthood spent in the down-and-dirty of rock ‘n’ roll, and a Sonoma County childhood spent in the sometimes dirty work of agricultural production, Cohn perfectly fits the model of the gentleman farmer.

In a separate building behind the big house, Cohn’s staff is eating midday chocolate cake while he is ensconced in his private back office, overlooking the pool. The air conditioner blares, and his large desk has an organized scatter of wine bottles, paperwork, and three dirty-yellow rubber duckies. The walls are laden with the gold and platinum platters of success, and Cohn has lively brown eyes, a quick smile, and a deadly astute boss’ voice each time the phone interrupts the interview.

We are talking about his family–the other one–the Doobie Brothers, who, after 14 personnel changes and some 28 years as an outfit, are finally playing a gig at Cohn’s estate. Scheduled for Oct. 12 and co-billing musician Joe Walsh, this benefit concert for local children sold out in just three days.

Cohn met two of the original Doobies, Tom Johnston and Pat Simmons, while hanging around his brother’s San Francisco recording studio in 1969. Already a great favorite with the Hell’s Angels, the Doobies were looking to record a demo. They took to Cohn (“I owned a Harley,” he chuckles. “I was OK”) and he to them, recognizing their potential to be as big as Creedence Clearwater Revival, huge stars then poised on the brink of breaking up.

Cohn and his brother Marty recorded the demo for the Doobies and sent it to Warner Brothers. Warner sent a scout out to hear the San Jose­based band live. “But we didn’t know where to take him,” Cohn remembers, “because the Doobies were playing high school dances and pizza parlors and Hell’s Angels parties. And we didn’t want to take him to a Hell’s Angels party, so we took him to Ricardo’s Pizza Parlor,” Cohn laughs, “and there were, like, 20 people in the audience.”

Fortunately for fans of such ’70s rock hits as “Listen to the Music,” “China Grove,” “Black Water,” and countless others, the Warner’s rep was an oversized man with an appetite for pizza and country-influenced rock. He gave the thumbs-up, Warner organized a tour, Cohn quit his job as a television engineer and director at TV-20, and they set off on the road. He was 23.

“It was a disaster,” Cohn groans. “The whole tour. It was a total failure. We couldn’t sell any tickets. We went out with Tracy Nelson of Mother Earth and we called it the Mothers Brothers Tour, and, ah–it stiffed. The record stiffed–it sold about 10,000 copies–and there we were back in clubs and ducking beer kegs at Hell’s Angels parties again, taking guns and knives at the door and collecting two bucks.

“‘Oh, yeah,'” he smiles, lightly imitating a hippie voice, “we thought, ‘We’re going to get off of food stamps and brown rice,’ and it didn’t happen. But these guys were tenacious, and they wanted to stick it out, and record companies were different in those days; they would stick with an act and work it over two or three albums.”

The second album, Toulouse Street, was the one that worked the magic. Featuring Johnston’s original hits “Listen to the Music” and “Jesus Is Just Alright with Me,” the album sold 2.7 million copies and made the Doobie Brothers household and carload names as radio stations played–as they continue to play–those songs.

Eschewing the usual manager’s take in favor of receiving payments and royalties along with the group–“I’m a member of the band,” he says. “I just don’t play an instrument”–Cohn set about creating pension funds, retirement plans, tax-lessening fiscal policies, and other highly unusual artifacts, in the rock world, of financial longevity.

Among his projects, Cohn bought the Olive Hill ranch where we are seated, two strong wills, not eating chocolate cake. He did it for his sanity, to get back to his roots, having grown up on a dairy farm in Forestville. He sold his cabernet grapes to Ravenswood, Gundlach-Bundschu, Sebastiani, Kenwood, and other wineries, and he made friends with such winemakers as Charlie Wagner at Napa’s Caymus Winery, one of the premier vintners of cab.

In the late ’70s, Wagner–the man whom Cohn credits as being his oenological mentor–persuaded Cohn to try making some of his own wine, offering to tend it in his Napa vats. The problem was getting it there. “I was afraid to bring him the grapes because August [Sebastiani] would drive up and down the highways, and if he saw me taking grapes to Napa, he would cut me off,” chuckles Cohn. “So I brought them over at night.”

In six months’ time, Wagner invited Cohn over to taste the results. Cohn, more used to after-concert tequila, admits that he had little palate back then. But he tasted his own pinot and pronounced it good. “[Wagner] said, ‘That’s not good, that’s great!’,” remembers Cohn. “Then he poured the cab and asked me about that, and I said it was great, and he said, ‘That’s not great, that’s the best damn cab I’ve ever had from Sonoma. Put your name on that label.'”

What Cohn did was to put his Olive Hill designation on the wines bottled from his grapes by Ravenswood and other regular purchasers. A case of Olive Hill Gundlach-Bundschu cabernet traveled with President Reagan to China. When Cohn phoned the White House to inquire why that vintage was chosen, he was informed that, according to White House investigations, it was the best California cabernet available. It would not be understatement to say that Cohn was pleased.

During a lull in the Doobies’ career (there actually were no Doobies for seven years in the ’80s), Cohn had a hit managing the band Nightranger, and used the money to begin his own winery. With his olive oil gaining acclaim, he and Olive Hill oil partner Greg Reisinger are branching into the specialty market of dipping sauces for bread, aged vinegars, and other small complements to the good life of the stomach.

Music, wine, family, and fine foods: Which satisfies Cohn the most?

“There’s not one,” he answers. “It’s like, which kid do you love the most? Each business has its own personality, but they’re all a challenge. I’ve spent a lot of time in music–over half my life–and so a big part of me is still in that. I’ve spent a lot of my life as well in agriculture, so I feel a really strong kin to that. The food business is probably the most intriguing to me because it’s so new.”

From the Sept. 25-Oct. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Los Lobos

0

Wolf Tales


Robert Sebree

Not Just Another Band From East L.A: Los Lobos plays LBC on Oct. 4.

Los Lobos prowls for new ground

By Greg Cahill

WE HAVE A VERY LOW boredom threshold,” says Los Lobos tenor saxophonist and sometime producer Steve Berlin. “If something isn’t exciting to us, it’s dead beyond belief. We just stomp it out and go on to the next thing.”

The next thing for this acclaimed roots-rock band is as yet undetermined. It’s been 18 months since the release of their eclectic Colossal Head (Slash/Warner), and after 14 years the preeminent purveyors of blistering rock, R&B, sultry cumbias, and polka-beat norteños find themselves strangely without a record deal (the band is renegotiating its longtime Warner Records contract).

That leaves the long and winding road, which brings them Oct. 4 to the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts in Santa Rosa.

Yet that’s a bit unsettling for a prolific band that has to its credit more than a dozen albums, soundtracks (including the Top 10 1987 hit La Bamba, Desperado, and last year’s Feeling Minnesota), tributes, and children’s records. “It’s kind of weird right now because we’re in between album cycles,” concedes Berlin, during an early morning phone call from a San Jose hotel room. “This is a sort of middle ground, so we need to think of new ways to excite ourselves.”

No problem. In fall of 1993, guitarist and accordionist David Hidalgo and drummer Louis Perez–the primary songwriters and creative force behind the band–anxiously approached three top executives in a corporate office at their record label to play a tape of their experimental Latin Playboys project.

The execs stared solemnly at the walls as the room filled, first with the sound of a scratchy archival recording and then a dark stew of weird found sounds, assorted mechanical noises, and distorted echoes of global folk music. It was a far cry from the bright Latin pop that made Los Lobos a household name a decade ago with a cover of Richie Valens’ “La Bamba.”

“Nobody said anything until the third song,” recalls Hidalgo. “It was a tough sell, but they had no idea what we were going to do. I guess it was pretty far off from what they had envisioned.”

The Latin Playboys (Slash/Warner), which derived its name from an East L.A. bar, was hailed as a post-apocalyptic soundtrack for the global village. It was the follow-up to 1992’s brilliant Kiko, a fiercely eclectic album that stretched the boundaries of the roots-rock genre with exotic songs imbued with Afro-Cuban rhythms and magic realism. “Everything fell into place for that album,” Hidalgo muses. “It came together quickly, and it was kind of like we were just going along for the ride, too.”

The breadth of their work should come as no surprise, though few imagined the heights Los Lobos would climb. Most of the band members grew up in the gritty blue-collar barrio of East L.A. surrounded by a bustling potpourri of Mexican, Chicano, and working-class American cultures. Music always was a big part of that upbringing. There were romantic boleros, the buoyant mariachi flourishes, the grittier norteños, and the narrative corridos–all from Mexico. Those were complemented by the Latin rock of Valens, the Midnighters, and other East L.A. musicians, coupled with the blues, R&B, and jazz that filled the airwaves.

This group of boyhood chums formed a folk band and spent their garage days ricocheting between mainstream rock and Mexican border music. They cut their teeth on an endless string of backyard barbecues, raucous wedding parties, and late-night dances before hooking up with the L.A. rockabilly band The Blasters, where they met Steve Berlin. Success came quickly on the heels of the 1983 debut . . . And a Time to Dance, which garnered a Grammy Award for the folksong “Anselma.” Their 1984 breakthrough, How Will the Wolf Survive?, was a Tex-Mex tour de force that showed up on everyone’s Top 10 list. It earned them Band of the Year honors in Rolling Stone‘s 1984 critics’ poll, tying Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.

The band recorded on Paul Simon’s landmark 1985 Graceland album, soared to the top of the pop charts with its turbocharged version of “La Bamba,” and seesawed between several albums of acoustic folksongs and often blistering electric roots rock. But their creative peak was Kiko, which revolutionized roots rock in the same way the Beatles’ best work forever altered pop. Kiko–recorded without rehearsals to infuse spontaneity–is a multicultural Sgt. Pepper’s, a mesmerizing melting pot of innovative production, disparate musical influences, and dreamlike images that has elevated the rough-and-tumble barroom sound to high art.

“It’s just a sign of growth,” says Hidalgo, who downplays the notion that the album marked a creative leap. “Music is best when it has a charm, when it’s more childlike.

“When you capture first impressions, things just magically seem to appear.”

Still, Berlin is caught off guard when asked to describe that creative sojourn. “We’ve created a niche for ourselves that nobody else inhabits; I really don’t think anyone else can do what we do,” he says. “In terms of how the band has changed, it’s really hard to articulate from the inside. Because we do so little planning, we just let whatever happens happen. I mean, you look at a band like U2. It seems like they have a staff meeting every 20 minutes to determine what they’re going to do and how they’re going to dress. I’m not saying that in a pejorative way, but they obviously make profound statements about their image.

“By comparison, we never talk about it and just show up for the first day of recording to see what happens, relying on our instincts and our wisdom to get us through a record. It’s the same knuckleheads doing it, but we just keep refining what we do, not so much to get better as to get deeper.

“To us that’s the most exciting part, that we play something that really strikes a nerve in an interesting way.”

Los Lobos performs Saturday, Oct. 4, at 8 p.m. at the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. Tickets are $22.50. Call 546-3600.

From the Sept. 17-24, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dessert Chefs’ Cravings

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Taste Buds


Janet Orsi

Mouth Watering?: If it’s chocolate and you’re a dessert chef, wouldn’t you really prefer a nice salty or fatty treat?

Local dessert chefs get salty over sweets

By

Talking Pictures

0

Kickin’ Butt

By David Templeton

Writer David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time out, he goes out in search of a guest with whom to see the butt-kickin’ environmentalism movie Fire Down Below.

“You’ve reached the Press Office of the Environmental Protection Agency, Washington, D.C.,” explains the slightly garbled voice-mail recording I’ve just been connected to. “Please leave a short but detailed message explaining your request, and we’ll get back in contact with you as soon as possible.” Beep.

In my experience, “brief message,” is routinely a secret code meaning, “Speak fast because you’ll be disconnected in 20 seconds whether you’re finished or not.” What I have to say is not easily confined to such a limit.

“Hi, David Templeton, Talking Pictures,” I say in what I hope will be an understood verbal shorthand. “Fire Down Below. Steven Seagal movie. Pretty sure you’re aware of it in Washington. Seagal plays a self-described “butt-kickin’ EPA agent” who goes undercover as a church-sponsored carpenter to investigate the illegal dumping of toxic wastes in the Appalachian mountains. Kentucky. I’m looking for EPA agents who would identify themselves as belong to the butt-kickin’ variety–I assume someone in the agency would answer to that description–to see the movie in question and chat with me about the environmental and social issues that underlie the film’s…”

Beep.

I hang up, crossing my fingers that a butt-kickin’ agent of the government will be getting back to me soon. I lean back, and pick up a review of the film, in which the phrase “butt-kickin’ EPA agent” is followed by a parenthetical question mark–roughly the same reaction I’ve gotten with every contact attempt I’ve made so far. And if not that confused, question-mark response, then it’s been outright laughter. Laughter, apparently, at the very notion of a butt-kickin’ EPA agent. On the other hand, perhaps they’re only laughing that someone is trying to take a Steven Seagal movie seriously.

But why not? Its star might not be able to act, the plot is outrageously cartoonish, and the dialogue is some of the worst in recent display, but the film, allegedly, is based on fact. (?) The screenwriter, Jeb Stuart, spent his college summers rebuilding porches in Appalachia during a highly publicized EPA investigation of companies that paid impoverished farmers to allow toxic chemicals to be dumped on their land. Stuart attempted for years to work those experiences into a film and finally locked into the idea of a ferocious, martial arts-trained EPA enforcer doing battle with the poison-pushing bad guys.

“We do have enforcement officers,” affirms a certifiably feisty hazardous-materials specialist who prefers to remain anonymous, when I call the State Department of Health Services, an agency that works in concert with the EPA on occasion. “We have peace officers who wear sidearms, who do undercover work, who have to undergo rifle range training. But they are the nerdiest people. They’re nerdier than our engineers are. It’s weird. They do go in the field, but mainly, I think, they just try to get disgruntled employees to snitch on their bosses.”

Hmmmm. Well, might some of the “nerds” qualify as butt-kickin’ nerds?

“We had one fellow visiting our Sacramento office last week,” Anonymous replies. “I overheard him on the phone, yelling, ‘Are they dumping right now? I’ll be right there!’ Then he slammed down the phone and ran out of the office. Another guy is pretty much the typical cop type. To him, all the violators are either ‘scum bags’ or ‘Adam Henrys.'”

Adam Henrys (?)

“Assholes,” I am informed. “A.H.! Adam Henry.”

I see. Well, the surliness of the name-calling is certainly appealing, and I’m sure Steven Seagal might add a certain feral malevolence to the phone-slamming. Unfortunately, these guys don’t sound quite what I’m looking for.

The EPA still hasn’t returned my calls, and my subsequent attempts with various state branches of the organization have similarly failed to incite a response. I seem to be striking out here.

I e-mail Ross West, a science writer at the University of Oregon in Eugene who just happens to be a film reviewer as well. I’m crossing my fingers that, living in a certified hotspot of the war between the environment and industry, he knows of someone I can talk to.

“Don’t know any butt-kickin’ EPA agents,” West replies. “How about an enviro-activist or vigilante? Good luck.”

Enviro-activist? Well … what the hell. If the EPA can’t offer me a butt-kickin’ agent, I’ll call one of the world’s most prominent butt-kickin’ environmentalists.

“I don’t go to movies,” admits David Brower, past president of the Sierra Club, founder of Earth Island Institute, and central figure in John McPhee’s groundbreaking book Encounters with the Archdruid. “As for the EPA, I’ve only really talked to them twice, once in Washington and once here in California. Both times I suggested that–since they needed better quarters–they should just move into the Pentagon and let the armed forces find some other place to shack up.

“In the environmental movement, our job has been to sue the EPA to get them to do what they’re supposed to do. That was a few years back, though. They’re working pretty hard now. By and large, I’m very happy that we have an EPA.”

And how about the aforementioned tendency of people to scoff or laugh at the mention of an EPA agent who cites the Adam Henrys of the world, then kicks the crap out of them. On what does Brower base this trend?

“I don’t understand that, I really don’t.” he chuckles, then adds, “People usually laugh at the environmentalists.”

I’ve just about given up on talking to an actual representative of the EPA when the phone rings. David Schmidt, of the EPA’s San Francisco office, has decided to respond, mostly out of curiosity.

“I’m looking for butt-kickin’ EPA agents,” I wearily explain once more. “Someone like the guy in Fire Down Below. Know anyone like that?”

A long pause, followed by “Without having seen the film in question, it would be difficult to reply. However, it seems safe to say that the movie sounds … greatly unrealistic.” Another pause, then, “Wait a minute.” Schmidt returns 30 seconds later.

“Let me read you this,” he says, and proceeds to read an EPA press release from July. In the driest possible language, the report describes an investigation–which began with a routine fire department inspection–that resulted in the conviction of two warehouse operators who were found to be illegally storing toxic waste, along with three tons of explosives, a mountain of artillery shells, and over 100 rocket motors and warheads. It took three years to gain a conviction.

“That,” Schmidt concludes, “is the most sensational case I’ve ever come across in my years at the EPA.” Not exactly a butt-kickin’ scenario, though, is it? “Maybe not,” he replies, “but it’s about as exciting as it gets around here.”

Web exclusive to the Sept. 17-24, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spins

0

Star Time

The music of Kurt Weill revisited; T.S. Monk carries the family torch

By Greg Cahill

Various Artists
September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill
Sony Classical

IN 1985, producer Hal Willner–then the musical director of Saturday Night Live–launched the tribute album craze with Lost in the Stars (A&M), an obscure compilation that featured an all-star lineup of mostly rockers covering the works of Kurt Weill, the German-born composer of light operas and Broadway musicals.

A couple of years ago, Hallner declared that the whole trend had become so insipid he was sure he’d never produce another tribute compilation.

Well, then again. . . .

Willner has returned to the tried-and-true tribute formula he helped create, and, sure enough, the subject is the haunting work of Kurt Weill. Actually, this time out Willner’s compilation is a soundtrack to a new film on the composer by director Larry Weinstein, but with the likes of gothic rockers Nick Cave and PJ Harvey, respectively, crooning their ghostly way through “Mack the Knife” and “Ballad of the Soldier’s Wife,” who would know that this isn’t just a thinly veiled excuse to rework Lost in the Stars (covered here by Elvis Costello, by the way)?

Once again the idea of placing big-name pop stars among the murky street urchins, hustlers, and hookers who populate the smoky cabaret settings of Weill’s and collaborator Bertolt Brecht’s best songs sounds better on paper than in real life. That’s not to say that there aren’t some gems: the gospel-oriented Persuasions deliver the goods on “O Heavenly Salvation,” and opera diva Teresa Stratas–not exactly a household name in pop music circles–steals the show with an gut-wrenching rendition of “Youkali Tango.”

But you know that Lou Reed, who gives a very dark reading of the title track, could have stayed home and caught up on his beauty rest when the two scratchy archival recordings of Lotta Lenya–Weill’s wife and longtime stage star–sends you scrambling for more to that old Lotta Lenya Album (CBS) greatest-hits compilation.

Now that’s the music of Kurt Weill!

T.S. Monk
Monk on Monk
N2K

AS THE SON of jazz piano bebop legend Thelonious Sphere Monk, drummer, arranger, and bandleader T.S. Monk walks in a mighty long shadow. This dazzling new CD is a remarkably strong statement of purpose that finds the younger Monk paying homage to his father and standing tall.

The disc, executive produced by pop music heavyweight Phil Ramone, comprises swinging versions of nine of the elder Monk’s best-known compositions–“Little Rootie Tootie,” “Dear Ruby,” et al. It also features some of the hottest soloists on the jazz scene, including pianist Herbie Hancock, trumpeters Clark Terry and Roy Hargrove, saxophonists Wayne Shorter and Grover Washington Jr., vocalists Nnenna Freelon and Dianne Reeves, and bassists Ron Carter and Christian McBride. Impressive company. In arrangement after arrangement, Monk shows that he is up for the challenge.

Indeed, while Monk has been less than shy about blowing his own horn to the press as a world-class arranger–and he does show great promise–his real forte is bringing together these seasoned veterans and young lions and checking his ego long enough to allow the improvizational wizardry of his guests to come to the fore.

And the rewards are many, from the soaring scat singing of Freelon and Reeves on “Suddenly (in Walked Bud)” to the rousing interchanges between tenor saxophonist Jimmy Heath and trumpeter Arturo Sandoval on “Bright Mississippi.”

This is a real step forward for Monk, who started out playing the guitar and later learned drums after receiving a pair of sticks from Max Roach and full drum set from Art Blakey–quite an auspicious beginning. Monk started his career as an R&B-oriented recording artist. In 1992, he released his first straight jazz album as a leader, Take One (Blue Note), and followed up with 1993’s Changing of the Guard (Blue Note). He won considerable critical acclaim for 1995’s The Charm (Blue Note).

Monk on Monk raises the stakes and heightens the anticipation for the next move by an artist who is establishing himself as a real force in his own right.

From the Sept. 18-24, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Al Gore

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Talking Pictures

Kickin' ButtBy David TempletonWriter David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation. This time out, he goes out in search of a guest with whom to see the butt-kickin' environmentalism movie Fire Down Below."You've reached the Press Office of the Environmental Protection Agency, Washington, D.C.," explains the slightly garbled voice-mail...

Spins

Star TimeThe music of Kurt Weill revisited; T.S. Monk carries the family torchBy Greg CahillVarious ArtistsSeptember Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill Sony ClassicalIN 1985, producer Hal Willner--then the musical director of Saturday Night Live--launched the tribute album craze with Lost in the Stars (A&M), an obscure compilation that featured an all-star lineup of mostly rockers covering the...
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