Aqua Hockey

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Deep Six


Janet Orsi

Getting Along Swimmingly: A member of the Santa Rosa Sharksunderwater hockey team moves in for a goal.

Aqua hockey is a watery workout for all ages

By Dylan Bennett

TWELVE FEET beneath the water’s surface, six members of the 10-man Santa RosaSharks team, blunt weapons in hand, swim in a hurried swirl of antagonism.With its flurry of fins and goggles, the seascape of scissoring legsresembles the obligatory underwater knife-fight scene in a James Bond movie.

Welcome to the bizarre world of underwater hockey, a sport so odd you’d thinkit’s a bad joke–until you try it.

Reality kicks in when you merely swim to the bottom of Santa Rosa’s Ridgewayswimming pool. The acute pressure on human eardrums at 12 feet is thefirst opponent, but you get used to it. The objective–to push a two-poundlead puck with a short wooden stick into a long, flat metal goal–requiresall of the physical strength and mental daring a beginner can muster. It’sdaunting but rewarding.

Indeed, underwater hockey is the best reason to swim to the bottom of deepwater since childhood mud fights in a murky country pond meant frequent crashdives for more ammunition.

Thankfully, adrenaline eases the pressure on your ears. For a few fleetingmoments during 90 minutes of aqua hockey, I sweep up the puck and kick downthe sideline without opposition. Where is everybody?, my oxygen-deficientbrain wonders. They must be getting air. I thrust for the goal. Visions ofbeginner’s luck splash across my face mask. Just six more feet. It won’t belong now. Down from the sky plunge the defenders. I pull a cheap move to theright. No such luck. I lose control of the puck and my lungs redline.

There’s nowhere to go but up.

“I like the rush I get at 12 feet,” says local enthusiast Brian Tucker, 28, aphysical education teacher who can scrimmage at the pool bottom for a fullminute or more before coming up for air. Tucker has traveled around thenation to play aqua hockey and even hosts a Web page devoted to this esotericsport.

Underwater hockey players spawn mostly from the local ocean free-divingscene, says Tucker, who is one of maybe 25 underwater hockey players inSonoma County, a group that also includes many competitive swimmers, divers,and water polo enthusiasts.

“Most do it to stay in shape,” says Cotati butcher Scott Becklund of thegrowing interest in underwater hockey. There are only a few hundredenthusiasts nationwide.

The Sharks–or Rasta Sharks, as they are sometimes known–are part of thePacific Coast Champions aqua-hockey league, which includes teams fromSeattle, Vancouver, Fresno, and San Francisco. The teams compete for a chanceto play in the annual nationals. The United States also fields a nationalteam in the world aqua-hockey championships.

Although the game calls for terrific stamina, skill, and guts–and visuallystimulating uniforms that include bathing caps, ear protectors, masks,snorkels, duck fins, gloves, and rough-hewn push sticks–underwater hockey’spopularity is limited by one main factor: until someone builds a glass-walledswimming pool, this will never be a spectator sport.

Too bad, too. Underwater hockey is remarkably inclusive of gender, age, andphysique. At a recent game, 68-year-old Charlie Anderson skillfully dueledhis own 15-year-old son at the goal under three meters of water. And a chunkyguy at least 50 pounds overweight lithely kicked for repeated breakawayscores. Women also play, and mixed teams are common.

While most of the local enthusiasts are men, women and co-ed teams alsocompete and the league sponsors summer children’s clinics.

Water is the great equalizer that counteracts weight and size in therighteous fight for control of the watery depths.

The Santa Rosa Sharks’ underwater hockey games are open to the public eachThursday at 8 p.m. at the Ridgeway Pool, Ridgeway High School, 325 RidgewayAve., Santa Rosa. For more information, call Brian Tucker at 585-8235.

From the January 16-22, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

Thispage was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

The Scoop

A Mouthful

By Bob Harris

THERE’S A PLACE called Boone County in the mountains of West Virginia, allMail Pouch signs and old coal mines. The people are as honest as they arehard-working, and they work too damn hard to be as poor as they are.

Boone County doesn’t get a lot of visitors from down the hill. The ones itdoes get are often federal law enforcement types, so it takes a while to earntheir trust. They also have to deal with being considered stupid just becauseof where they live. Most of the folks down in Buckleyville–the big city inthese parts–consider themselves superior, even though all most of them knowabout the mountains is what they’ve seen on Hee-Haw.

Strangely, there’s also something of a language barrier. Because of theirisolation, Boone County’s soft Southern accent is still decorated byShakespearean-sounding Elizabethan phrases outsiders have troublecomprehending.

The challenge is cool–it’s neat to be addressed as “thou” with a straightface, but when you realize they aren’t just playing around and (gadzooks!)they really do talk this way, the effect is more off-putting thanyou’d expect. Still, it’s no huge deal. The Boonies, as they laughingly callthemselves (even as others try to use the word as an insult) are as smart,funny, and kind as anyone.

Last year, I-62–the Sen. Robert Byrd Highway–was completed, and everythingchanged. Boone County is now off Exit 47, just up the hill from a Stuckey’sroadside restaurant. Roads lead to cars and buses. Recently, the mountainchildren began to attend Buckleyville’s posh new Rockefeller Elementary.

Problem: The kids from Boone were as curious and creative as any, but becauseof the language barrier, their English scores were terrible. This in turnaffected all their other course work.

One of the Buckleyville soccer moms spoke for many when she wrote a column inthe local paper stating that Boonie kids “just don’t want to learn,”preferring a “tortured, degenerate gutter offspring” of standard English. “Hopefully,” she added, “they’ll either have to learn right or go back wherethey came from.”

Note how the grammar nazi herself misuses adjectives, adverbs, andparticiples–all in one sentence. (OK, I also misuse, bend, and conflatewords all the time. But I do it because it’s fun.)

Was an entire community of American children really failing, just becausebeing born poor and in the wrong place makes you slow? Nope.

The simple problem was obviously the dialect: Buckleyville teachers justcouldn’t understand what Boone children said, and vice versa. Both sidestuned out. Nobody’s fault. Easy to fix.

Solution: Recognize the differences, train teachers to understand themountain dialect (“Boonic”) so they can better assist the transition tostandard English, and go from there. Anything wrong with that? Of course not.Except that Buckleyville and Boonic are fictional. Oakland and Ebonicsaren’t.

The difference is truly just skin deep.

At its heart, the Ebonics controversy has nothing to do with the best way toteach kids. The Linguistic Society of America, which would know, considersOakland’s plan “linguistically and pedagogically sound.”

The only real problem here is that most white people just plain don’t likethe sound of black English, and those with race or class prejudicesmindlessly assume that the speakers are lazy, stupid, or even speaking in acontrived anti-white code.

The poor phrasing of Oakland’s announcement is also partly to blame for allthe hoo-hah. Ebonics isn’t a separate language, and by no means is it”genetically based.” Turns out what the school board was trying to say isthat it’s a recognizable dialect with its own rules (true), primarily spokenby one ethnic group (also true).

But while it’s not exactly encouraging to watch language professionalsstruggling to find the right words, at least someone is trying to finda way to improve our urban schools that doesn’t involve surveillance camerasand cavity searches.

Come on, you really think folks out in WalMartPlatz know what poorcity kids need more than the teachers who are right there in the room withthem every single day? Unless my study and my books be false, theargument you held was wrong in you.

That’s not Ebonics–that’s Shakespeare. Henry VI, Part 1 (Act 2, Scene4).

The Scoop is archived on the web andis available spiffy RealAudio.

From the January 16-22, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

Thispage was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

Engelbert Humperdinck

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Release Him


King of Romance: Fans stay true to Engelbert Humperdinck.

Photo by David Mayenfisch



Crooner Engelbert Humperdinck
revamps his cool quotient

By Todd S.Inoue

ONE OF THE GRANDEST moments I’ve ever experienced at a concert was watchingTony Bennett upstage the Lemonheads’ Evan Dando at a Live 105 Green Christmasconcert two years ago. Bennett’s jaunty set of jazz standards, played withimpeccable class and showmanship, stirred the crowd of alterna-teens into afrenzy. The meek poster boy Dando followed Bennett with 10 minutes of moperock and disappeared quietly behind the curtain.

Serves the punk right. During these turbulent times of “anti-rock star”posturing, folks are returning to the past to bask in a more civilized erawhen being a celebrity was a blessing, not a curse. A desire for somethingmore real and gratifying, a lot of this is media-fueled, but if and when thenovelty wears off, we’re left with some great albums filled with music thatwe can give to our parents.

The recycling machine has revived the careers of Bennett, Harry Belafonte(courtesy of Beetlejuice), Mel Tormé (Mountain Dew), BarryWhite (Budweiser), and Tom Jones (Art of Noise, EMF). Now it’s EngelbertHumperdinck’s turn.

Good, moral-thinking people should not feel threatened by the warm vibrato orthe thin mustache he sometimes sports. As cheesy as it sounds, Humperdinck’sre-entry into the consciousness of America’s youth is wholesome compared tothe current crop corrupting our children like Urkel or the cast of MelrosePlace. At least with Humperdinck, the kids will get a lesson in romanceand performance, etiquette and fashion (imagine youths tossing out thoseridiculously baggy pants for wide-lapeled suits).

Humperdinck’s enduring image as an MOR crooner and underwear outfielder washelped along by manager Gordon Mills, who did similar work with Tom Jones.Under Mills’ guidance, the early Arnold Dorsey switched his name to that ofthe frequently misspelled, yet infinitely hard-to-forget composer ofHansel and Gretel.

With the name and baubles in place, Humperdinck quickly got the juicesflowing. His big hit in the ’60s, “Release Me (and Let Me Love Again),” wasfollowed by an unsteady string of Top 40 hits in the ’70s: “There Goes MyEverything,” “The Last Waltz,” “Am I That Easy to Forget?,” and thecoffee-and-cigarettes classic “After the Lovin’.” Not one to rest on laurels,he recorded albums in Spanish, German, and Italian and as recently as 1992cut an album of hits with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. With 64 gold and23 platinum albums on his walls, this “king of romance” reigns over thelargest fan club in the world, boasting some 8 million members. He must bedoing something right.

A fragrance, named after the hit single “Release Me,” did bang-up business onthe Home Shopping Channel. But before Humperdinck could be sentenced to astint on the Psychic Friends Network, he refinanced his net cool bycollaborating with the most respected pair of tastemakers since Siskel andEbert: Beavis and Butt-head. The single “Fly Lesbian Seagull” can be heardover the closing credits of the hit movie Beavis and Butt-head DoAmerica and next to the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the accompanyingsoundtrack.

The velvet-throated singer obsessed with style and panache is finally gettinghis turn in the cheese-colored glow of ’90s nostalgia. Like the cake left outin the rain in “MacArthur Park”–it took so long to bake it, but baby, he canreally cook.

Engelbert Humperdinck holds forth on Wednesday, Jan. 29, at 7:30 p.m., at theLuther Burbank Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. Tickets,$27.50­$39.50, are reserved. 546-3600.

From the January 16-22, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

Thispage was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

The Scoop

Pot Shots

By Bob Harris

LAST NOVEMBER, voters in California and Arizona approved the use of marijuana for medical reasons. Because it reduces intraocular pressure, marijuana wails on glaucoma, and since it creates major munchies (hmm, Clinton jogs every day and still never loses weight), it’s also useful in treating life-threatening anorexia, chemotherapy-induced nausea, and the wasting syndrome of many AIDS patients.

Last week, Attorney General Janet Reno–who permanently wears Mr. Yuk Face–flouted democracy, announcing that doctors who prescribe marijuana will still face federal prosecution. Even though truly dangerous crap like cocaine, morphine, and Percodan is perfectly legal to prescribe, Janet Reno says medical marijuana sends the wrong message about drugs.

Messages? Hello?!?! Joe Camel is the best known cartoon in America, and–watch carefully–a single pro football game on TV contains nearly 100 beer ads. You want to save kids from drugs? Publicly denounce Jesse Helms and Dick Gephardt as front men for Philip Morris and Anheuser Busch.

Janet Reno should grill noted stoners Bill Clinton, Newt Gingrich, Al Gore, and Rush Limbaugh before screwing with the 60 million other Americans who have tried pot–or the doctors who want to use it to save dying people. Banning medical marijuana doesn’t send a message to children; it just sends compassionate doctors to prison.

Can marijuana really be a medicine? Yup. It was first used as a pain reliever in China over 5,000 years ago, and herbalists in India have prescribed it for headaches, insomnia, and nausea for at least 3,000 years. Its use in Europe extends all the way back to Galen and the ancient Greeks. Between 1839 and 1940, cannabis was one of the most common pain relievers in America. Over 100 medical journal articles recommended cannabis for various conditions, and the drug was sold over-the-counter by Parke-Davis, Eli Lilly, and Squibb. Only laws subsequent to the Marijuana Tax Act of 1937, which had less to do with public health than with protecting the paper and synthetic textile markets from hemp production, curtailed marijuana’s legal medical use in the United States.

However, continuing clinical studies reported that marijuana can even be used as a powerful antidepressant, anticonvulsive, and antibiotic. Illicit medical use remained widespread.

Still, from 1976 to 1990, the U.S. government supplied over 160,000 marijuana cigarettes to about 50 glaucoma and cancer patients under the Compassionate Investigative New Drug Program. The results were encouraging, and in 1988, even the DEA’s own administrative law judge wrote that “marijuana, in its natural form, is one of the safest therapeutically active substances known.” So there you are. The program was killed because, to be blunt, George Bush is evil.

In marijuana’s place, the government approved Marinol–tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), marijuana’s go juice, in pure form–from which the drug industry (in which Bush was personally invested) can make a jillion dollars. Trouble is, Marinol is often useless: patients who need THC precisely to fight severe nausea tend to vomit the capsule.

Marinol also has scary physical and psychoactive side effects, and an overdose can kill. Window-box pot is cheap, euphoric, and impossible to overdose on.

So is medical marijuana just a Trojan horse to legalize pot for recreational use? No. It’s about saving lives.

Look, I smoked enough hemp in college to rig the U.S.S. Constitution, but I stopped 10 years ago. The cancer risk bugged me, I write better straight, and it’s nice to actually remember the lyrics to my favorite reggae songs. However, before my own father died of chemotherapy last year, my family watched him slowly wither as a result of severe nausea. If Dad had wanted to light a joint so he could ease his pain and swallow a solid meal, I would have gladly gotten him one. So would you.

That’s all this is about. How many cancer specialists consider marijuana a useful medicine? Forty-four percent of oncologists recently surveyed admitted to illegally recommending marijuana at least once. Your government considers these doctors criminals. I’m surprised Janet Reno hasn’t called out the BATF, sprayed flammable CS gas into Mt. Sinai, and incinerated the cancer ward–all in the name of saving the patients.

You can hear The Scoop in RealAudio or check out the columns in print.

From the January 9-15, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

No Probation

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Jailhouse Rock

By Bruce Robinson

WHAT WE FOCUS ON these days are sex and violence,” says Paul Aguilera. “That’s all we can do anymore.” The director of adult probation for Sonoma County, Aguilera has watched the caseloads of his officers swell dramatically in recent years, from about 30 cases per officer in 1981 to 180 or more today. “We even have some caseloads that border on 300.”

With such massive numbers of people to administer, the amount of personal supervision the probation officers are able to provide has inevitably declined. “The larger the caseload, the more violations you’re going to have” among those cases, Aguilera explains, even if many of them are minor or technical violations. “Every violation requires three reports, so you’re more office-bound than ever before.”

Meanwhile, the Sonoma County Probation Department’s budget, now about $18 million a year, has remained “pretty flat” in recent years, Aguilera says. In 1993, “we lost four and a half officers because of the tight budget, and no, we haven’t gotten them back.”

So the department has made choices–for instance, the officers no longer actively supervise felony DUI cases–and concentrated its efforts where the need is seen as greatest. “San Diego has 18,000 felons and actively supervises 3,000 of them,” giving full attention only to violent and sexual offenders, Aguilera says. “That appears to be the model that’s being taken on more and more all over the state.”

Contrary to what one might expect, the burgeoning workload shouldered by the Probation Department is not due to California’s “three strikes” law, at least not yet. “We’re still waiting for that fallout,” Chief Probation Officer Bob Gillen says. So far, “the impact has more to do with the increase in felonies that are being charged and processed by the courts, and the ultimate placing of those felons on probation.”

“There’s nobody here who disagrees with the concept of ‘three strikes’ for violent offenders,” Aguilera adds. In fact, he says, many take it a step further and support “one strike for sex crimes.”

But the pace is now being set by prosecutors, Gillen notes, as the law leaves little flexibility for other players in the judicial process. “The decision-making of the courts is limited, and that probably has more impact on what’s happening [to the Probation Department] than anything else,” he observes. “You just don’t have the discretion of the judge playing a role with these individuals. There is a sentencing that is set in law, and whether it fits or not, that’s what has to be followed.”

And the caseload in local courts has been growing rapidly, too. According to Greg Abel, executive officer for Sonoma County courts, “We had two years of 30 percent increases in felony filings” in 1994 and 1995. Even though the filings dropped off by 20 percent in 1996, that is still a net increase of 40 percent over three years.

At the same time, the persistent crowding in the Sonoma County jail has forced implementation of various forms of alternative sentencing, such as work release, home confinement, and electronic monitoring, all of which place additional demands on probation officers. “They’re getting squeezed pretty hard in a number of areas,” Abel says. “It sort of has an exponential impact on them.”

Further, Abel notes, the cases are more serious than ever before. “We had a huge increase in the number of assaults, both felony and misdemeanor. And we’ve had a lot of increase in the domestic violence filings.”

In response, the Probation Department has created “one of the first domestic violence units in the country,” Aguilera says. “We’re very committed to this area,” which he characterizes as “an overlooked part of crime.”

The new emphasis is well justified, he continues, because of the ripple effect domestic violence has throughout our society. “Kids in domestic violence households are 65 percent more likely to be abused, physically, sexually, or emotionally,” Aguilera elaborates. “When these children grow up in a house where violence is the norm, they take it not only into their next home, but into society. Because that’s the only thing they know that works.”

Established last February, the domestic violence unit was initially set up with 125 cases for each of the officers involved. Within six months, that number had grown to 175 cases each. “These officers ought to be working 40 cases, at best 60 or 75,” Aguilera sighs. The national standard, he adds, is 50. These officers not only monitor the defendants, “to make sure they are not being a danger to victims and provide a line of communication for them,” but also help set up protection plans for the victims and encourage the clients “to get into counseling, to become aware of the dynamics of domestic violence,” Aguilera says.

ANOTHER SOURCE of frustration is drug offenders. “Every dollar spent on drug treatment saves $7 in future costs,” Aguilera says, “yet we’re spending all this money building prisons” while cutting treatment programs.

He cites a study produced by the state that found that in 1991-92, California reaped $1.5 billion in savings from the $209 million spent on drug treatment efforts. “We’ve proven over and over again that way works,” Aguilera says. “The problem is that a lot of that stuff is political.”

And in the current political and economic climate, “treatment on demand just isn’t there,” he says. “A lot of our clients sit in jail 12 months or more waiting to get into a treatment program.”

Not only does that compound jail-crowding concerns, but the delay also tends to dilute the effectiveness of the programs, as someone who has already served a major part of his or her sentence incarcerated tends to be far less motivated to make a good-faith effort in a drug rehab program.

There are just 155 residential drug treatment “slots” available at any one time in Sonoma County, which are “pretty much full all the time,” confirms Geoff Wood of the county’s Alcohol, Drug, and Tobacco Services, while the programs get more than 300 referrals a year. “There are always more [referrals] than there are slots available,” he says.

Despite all these frustrations, Aguilera insists that morale in the department is holding strong. “You do what you can with the resources you have,” he shrugs. “We are critical in the lives of people. Every client we see off drugs, every person we teach to use non-violence, that’s a success.”

The probation officers even mounted their own toy drive again this Christmas, playing Santa to some 450 kids in their client families. “We don’t believe the child should go without because the parents are in trouble,” Aguilera smiles.

“We’re incurable do-gooders here.”

From the January 9-15, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

Sorbets

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Forest Flavors


help sustain the rain forest

By Bruce Robinson

A LOT OF ENTREPRENEURS relish a challenge, but businessman Doug Stewart takes them on by the scoopful. The founder and owner of Howler products, Stewart has developed a line of exotic sorbets flavored with rain forest fruits, an endeavor in which he is trying to educate the American palate, support native agricultural cooperatives in Brazil, create a model for “green trade” in Amazon rain forest products, and, oh yes–make enough of a profit to sustain all the other objectives.

All with fruits that are totally unknown to even the most adventuresome California palates. But the same flavors are hugely popular in their homeland, and Stewart remains confident that they can find a following here, too.

“When I was [in Brazil] for the first time, I had a roommate who had been raised in a forest family,” Stewart, a Sonoma native, recalls during a quiet moment at the Howler processing facility in San Francisco. “The first thing he did was take me to a fruit shop and show me all the 50 different fruits he was raised on.

“They have an incredible variety, but they don’t appeal to everyone.”

Stewart was in Brazil as a researcher, working with one of his Stanford professors to document the rapacious rate at which the rain forest was being destroyed. That work was ultimately published as a book, After the Trees: Living on the Transamazon Highway (University of Texas Press, 1994). But it also sowed the seeds for his move into eco-capitalism.

“My research was looking at how people were using the rain forest, and they were generally using it destructively. I was looking at what would be a more sustainable, ecological endeavor than cattle, and one way would be to maintain a forest and manage it for fruit production,” he says. “Don’t cut it down, just plant stuff under it.”

The leap from theory to practice was not a big one, as Stewart explains it, even if he did have to quit his job teaching history at a Palo Alto middle school and max out his credit cards to get the new enterprise started.

Rain forest fruit sorbet is “the most obvious thing in the world if you’ve been there,” he shrugs. “It’s not a novel idea. They sell ice cream like the dickens.” He reports that “scoop shops” offering a wild array of flavors are everywhere in Brazilian towns and cities, “sort of like 31 flavors, except it’s 78 flavors.”

So why not bring the same idea back home? “A lot of people had thought of that,” Stewart says, “but nobody ever did it.” He soon found out why. The key was “infrastructure: how to get the fruit here at a reasonable cost. If we have a niche, it’s that we know how to do that,” he says, citing his discovery of a cooperative farm outside of the Brazilian city of Belém that provides consistent, quality fruit products.

Then there is the question of creating a market for something that most people have never heard of, much less experienced. “It’s a large uphill battle,” Stewart concedes cheerfully. “We sell a lot more mango and passion fruit than we sell cajá or cupuaçu.”

In deciding which of the multitude of rain forest fruits to export, freeze, and market, Stewart used two basic selection criteria. “I picked the ones that I liked most, just for starters. Secondarily, I picked the ones that were the most popular in the Amazon.”

That led to an immediate setback, when his favorite fruit, the açai (which he likens to a cinnamon-cassis taste) was coldly rejected by Bay Area consumers. “I thought the market was ready for a wild, complex thing, and it wasn’t,” Stewart says resignedly. He is now working on a new blend, pairing the açai with raspberries.

He has also made an effort to identify the new fruit flavors in terms that consumers can more easily digest. The bright citrus Cajá is now presented as “Tropical Tangerine,” the vitamin C­rich Acerola is identified as “Caribbean Cherry,” and the piña colada­like taste of Cupuaçu is emphasized. Other Howler flavors currently in production include Passion Fruit, Guava-Berry, Primal Scream Coffee Bean, and Guanábana, which Stewart predicts “is about to bust into the mainstream over the next five years.” Leading the charge in that popularization is Jeanette Stewart of Sebastopol–Stewart’s mother, staunchest booster, and the spearhead of his marketing department.

Now produced at a recently acquired gelato plant in San Francisco, the Howler line (named for the small, fruit-eating monkeys that swing through the rain forest canopy) is impressively smooth and creamy, despite being both fat-free and 100 percent non-dairy. Pints are sold at independent food stores throughout Sonoma County and the Greater Bay Area, along with individually packaged Howler bars–a sorbet pop on a stick.

With their new facility came the ability to produce 1.5-gallon cartons for restaurant use, something that opened up another eager market. “Right now we’re selling more product in restaurants than we are in pints,” Stewart says, since word of mouth among chefs has spread quickly and positively.

Among the Sonoma County eateries offering Howler sorbets are Topolos’ Russian River Restaurant and the Willow Wood Market Cafe in the west county, Lo Spuntino, Piatta, and the Bear Flag Cafe (co-owned by Stewart’s brother, Peter) in Sonoma, and, curiously, Kaiser Hospital in Santa Rosa.

From the January 9-15, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

Wal-Mart Censorship

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Wal-Mart Blues


Banned in Rohnert Park: Is Marilyn Manson too nasty?

The nation’s biggest retailer is under fire, not for gun sales (sorry, Sheryl Crowe), but for censorship of rock and rap CDs.

By Hank Hoffman

SNOOP Doggy Dogg is being executed in the aisles of my local Wal-Mart store. A dozen or more display TVs in the aisle next to the compact discs department are tuned to MTV, airing the video for “Snoop’s Upside Ya Head,” a cut from the platinum-selling gangsta rapper’s hit Tha Doggfather album.

In the video version, a white actor playing the warden of the prison in which the controversial rap star is held addresses a press conference in the voice of a circus ringmaster. “Ladies and gentlemen! It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to the first execution of a gangsta rap singer, Snoop Doggy Dogg!” he exclaims with a flourish. “Our country and its people will be renewed by the elimination of this scourge to propriety, this menace to wholesome values.”

He pauses to wipe some unsightly dust off the electric chair. “So, without any further ado, let’s juice him!”

In Wal-Mart, consider him juiced.

I ask a clerk where I can find the Snoop Doggy Dogg disc. “Hmm, well, I don’t think we have it, but if we do, it would be here,” he says, thumbing through the “S” bin of pop CDs. Sure enough, we don’t dig out that Dogg. This isn’t really a surprise. Wal-Mart has a policy of not carrying any CDs that carry the notorious parental warning label.

Still, I ask the young clerk why they don’t have it. “It’s a family store,” he elaborates. “We don’t carry other things that might bother people, like Marilyn Manson or Korn either.”

These are hit records. Up the street at a chain record store, they are arrayed on the wall in the Billboard Hot 100 display. Does anybody at Wal-Mart–which has an outlet in Rohnert Park and another planned for Windsor–ever complain about their absence? “Some people do,” he shrugs. “But it’s Wal-Mart; it’s not a real record store.”

Perhaps not, but it is a real power in the retailing biz. In some areas of the country, Wal-Mart is the only place to buy CDs or tapes. While it is well known that Wal-Mart doesn’t carry labeled CDs, the New York Times recently detailed in a front-page story how the chain and other big retailers are having an insidious effect on music and movie production. Like cancerous cells, adulterated censored CDs are proliferating in Wal-Mart’s bins, in many cases without being identified as such.

In some cases, CDs are altered to bleep out “bad” words. For instance, the cover of a White Zombie disc, Supersexy Swingin’ Sounds, was cleaned up by airbrushing a bikini onto a nude model reclining in a hammock (even though no naughty bits were visible). A song on the back of Primitive Radio Gods’ Rocket CD is identified as “Motherfker” in the aforementioned record store, but as “Mother” at Wal-Mart.

The New York Times also identified creepier instances of corporate power being used to suppress ideas. Wal-Mart won’t carry Sheryl Crow’s new record because she chides the company for allegedly selling guns to children. The figures of Jesus and the Devil flanking John Mellencamp on the cover of his new record, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, are airbrushed out of the copies available at Wal-Mart. Mellancamp reportedly OK’d the change in the interest of record sales.

In a sanitized world, apparently, we can’t acknowledge moral conflict. Since then, Usenet newsgroups have been buzzing with calls to “Boycott Wal-Mart!” and dialogues over whether it’s really censorship if the pressure on the artists comes from private corporations rather than the government.

And record companies are running scared.

This makes Sen. Joseph Lieberman, D-Conn., very happy. For the past few years, Lieberman, along with virtuecrat and former federal drug czar Bill Bennett, C. Delores Tucker of the National Political Congress of Black Women, and ex-Sen. Sam Nunn, D-Ga., have been leading the charge against the entertainment industry. Lieberman and his cohorts have targeted violent video games and trash-talk TV and, accepting the baton from Tipper Gore (who’s been quiet on the issue since hubbie Al Gore became vice president and L.A. record execs eagerly opened their wallets to the Clinton presidential campaigns), have lambasted record companies for promoting products that feature violent and misogynistic lyrics, particularly in rap.

“Some of the rap music and other music is just the most violent, anti-woman, pro-drug stuff that I’ve ever heard. So three cheers for Wal-Mart,” says Lieberman. “There is freedom of speech in this country–we’ve always said that in our appeals to the record companies to try and clean up their act–and just as there’s free speech, in a free market Wal-Mart doesn’t have to carry anything it doesn’t want to carry, and of course that has an effect because they’re such a big retailer.”

But does Lieberman–who says he got involved with Wal-Mart in the campaign to get ratings on video games–find the Mellencamp or Crow cases worrisome? “I have felt that the record companies, the big businesses that produce music, have been so irresponsible that my first reaction to the Wal-Mart story was, ‘Thank God that these people are being responsible’ and, generally speaking, I think that’s true,” explains Lieberman, who says he was briefed about the article and was not familiar with those particular details.

“But you have presented me with some cases where, if I were Mr. or Mrs. Wal-Mart, I would have done it a little differently, sure, but this will all work itself out.” He allows that “in the best of all worlds” Wal-Mart would inform the customer that CDs have been altered.

“My guess is, knowing how fast information flies, this will make people who are buying records skeptical and they may ask questions at the counter or they may decide to shop elsewhere,” Lieberman says.

And anyway, he adds, the consumer market is so big in this country that anyone can get anything–by mail even, if Wal-Mart is the only retail game in town.


Wal-Mart Rebels: Is Korn not wholesome enough for local consumption?

SINCE the censorship story broke, Wal-Mart’s PR flacks have been in damage-control mode. Although the retailer’s bins bulge with bleeped “fucks” and sanitized airbrushed covers that would be the envy of any Stalinist, the company’s corporate face is frozen in an expression of wounded innocence. There are no boastful statements on how they’ve muscled sleazeball singers into washing out their mouths with electronic soap.

Instead, the huge Arkansas-based retail chain founded by patriarch Sam Walton presents itself as a warm and fuzzy family-friendly company that stands for “traditional values.”

But the corporation is a bare-knuckled, sharp-elbowed competitor with a reputation for going into a community, engaging in predatory pricing, and leaving local storefronts empty. Wal-Mart denies using its corporate power to create an alternate market of bowdlerized CDs. In the official pronouncement posted on its Web site, the company states that it “does not alter CDs, albums, or other music that is offered in our stores.” (It’s a disingenuous statement; no one has accused non-manufacturer Wal-Mart of altering the discs itself.) Nor does the company feel it has any obligation to identify such altered discs for its customers.

“We do not talk to artists, we do not go to the recording industry and say you have to do a, b, and c for us to sell your product,” says Betsy Reithemeyer, a spokesperson at Wal-Mart headquarters in Arkansas. “If a manufacturer wants to sell their product in Wal-Mart, they have to meet certain standards. If a manufacturer chooses to place a warning label on their merchandise, we have to look at that and consider it. If they want to put two CDs out on the street–one with one set of lyrics and one with another, that is certainly their choice.”

According to Reithemeyer, it is the distributors and record companies that have the responsibility to identify product as altered, not the retailer.

The consumers, it seems, have the choice to trust Wal-Mart’s judgment, not to use their own. Wal-Mart’s denials aside, it’s counterintuitive–as one individual who works with both producers and retailers on free speech issues told me–to imagine that manufacturers would change their product without impetus from the retailers. And Wal-Mart is the most outspoken. As the retailers act to advance a conservative cultural agenda and protect record consumers from their own tastes, the music industry is running for cover.

“The most telling thing in that New York Times article is the dog that didn’t bark. There’s not a single record executive quoted,” says rock critic Dave Marsh. “In the wake of the Tucker-Lieberman thing, that’s how cowed they are.”

Publisher of the politically oriented newsletter Rock and Rap Confidential, Marsh is a stalwart opponent of censorship. He rejects even the parental warning stickers, pointing out that they result in the blacklisting of the CDs that carry them. He believes retailers have a civic obligation to make available a wide range of material, even–perhaps, especially–material that makes people uncomfortable.

“The point of the First Amendment is not to protect things everyone agrees on. It’s to protect things people don’t agree on,” Marsh argues. “If they’re eliminating what is controversial, they’re not being good citizens.

“This is not about protecting people. Wal-Mart sells guns, they sell junk food–how many carcinogens do you think they sell at Wal-Mart?” asks Marsh. “It’s about forcing people to think like Christians from Arkansas.”

Imagine if, instead of banning obscenity-prone rappers, a major national retail chain announced it would no longer carry Christian pop music. Not because it doesn’t sell–it sells big–but because it doesn’t comport with the values the retailer likes to think it shares with its customers. And, imagine further, that the store had a demonstrable, if unstated, policy of accepting those same recordings if all references to Jesus or God were expurgated.

Christian conservatives would be up in arms at attempts to pressure their brethren and sistren into denying their faith.

I didn’t get very upset a decade or so ago when Tipper Gore and the Parents Music Resource Center were pushing for warning stickers on records. What’s so bad about letting the consumer know what’s on a disc?, I thought. And even now, as the father of an 8-year-old son, I find the ratings on videos helpful in deciding which are appropriate for him to watch. But it has turned out that so-called alarmists such as Dave Marsh and the late Frank Zappa–the avant rocker who led the charge in the 1980s against the PMRC–were right. The warning labels are used to compile blacklists. And the surrender on the warning labels has just led to further surrenders, which has led to censored compact discs in the bins of Wal-Mart.

They look the same but they aren’t the same–they’re different by a factor of fear.

Censorship is easily recognizable when it’s practiced by the government. But this is censorship, too: It’s the attempt to impose the conservative values of Wal-Mart and Joe Lieberman on the public by denying access to cultural products that differ from those values. It is argument by suppression, intimidation, and–in Wal-Mart’s case–stealth.

It isn’t just Snoop Doggy Dogg who is being executed in the aisles of Wal-Mart. It is also the idea of an open and lively culture, one in which values are debated rather than imposed by authoritarian fiat, a culture in which the mainstream still has access to the margins and vice versa. Wal-Mart has a right to act as a cultural censor.

It’s just wrong to do so.

From the January 9-15, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

T.J. Kirk

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Fusion Freaks


David Mayenfisch

It’s a Jazz Thang: T.J. Kirk’s soul-jazz tributes are funky fun.

T.J. Kirk quartet melds jazz,
soul, and rock into loopy fun

By Greg Cahill

THE PREMISE is deceptively simple. Toss funk-drenched dance grooves, hard-bop improvisations, and assorted experimentation into a musical Cuisinart to create a hip funk/jazz hybrid based on the prodigious influences of three musical giants.

But the Bay Area quartet T.J. Kirk–guitarists Charlie Hunter, John Schott, and Will Bernhard, plus drummer Scott Amendola–never banked on this side project leading to a major label deal, critical raves, and national tour dates that would divert them from their own ambitious solo projects.

First, let’s explain that unusual moniker. The “T” is a tribute to bebop legend Thelonious Monk; the “J” is a big soul shout for funkmeister James Brown; and the “Kirk” refers to theatrical reedman and postmodern jazz explorer Rhasaan Rolan Kirk, who used to play several wind instruments simultaneously. “The vibe is funky, outside, and harmonically rich,” Guitar Player opined about the band’s 1995 eponymous debut.

It’s really like putting your head into a blender–that’s how Schott describes the band’s oddball approach. “Actually, I stole that phrase from Ted Nugent,” he laughs, during a phone interview from his Berkeley home. “We wanted to take these three composers and have them bounce off of each other in a conversation,” he explains. “You know how people are always saying, ‘If you could have a dinner party and invite three people, who would you invite?’ Some people might say, Einstein, Socrates, and Aretha Franklin, or something.

“The idea here is a musical conversation between three great composers in which their compositions interpenetrate each other to create a dialogue.”

Typically, T.J. Kirk may lay down a James Brown groove and add a Monk song altered with Kirk’s eclectic signatures. For example, their “Meeting at Termini’s Brilliant Corner,” from their recent, second disc If Four Was One (Warner Bros.), blends Brown’s “I’ve Got a Bag of My Own,” “Brilliant Corner” by Monk, and “Termini’s Corner” by Kirk. “So by the end of the performance, you have all these elements swirling around,” Schott says, “and their individual identities as compositions are broken down into fragmented motifs with their sources almost obscured.”

ASK SCHOTT about the band’s decision to worship at the feet of this holy trinity and he waxes philosophical. For instance, here’s what he has to say about Soul Brother No. 1 James Brown: “To me, he’s yet one more incredible iconoclast musician along the lines of Charles Ives, Harry Parch, and Ornette Coleman.” American classical composer Charles Ives? King of early-20th-century polytonality? “Yeah, Brown really invented a unique musical language,” Schott observes. “He took elements of the vernacular that he found around–like the music of Hank Ballard and Jackie Wilson–and ultimately transformed that language into a very interesting and still quite misunderstood musical universe. I mean, both Brown and Ives used tonality in non-conventional ways that were almost a kind of quotation of tonality sometimes.

“I don’t want to get too technical, but if you listen to James Brown’s music, there are really interesting things going on under the surface that often aren’t fully appreciated.”

Appreciation also is coming slowly to the members of T.J. Kirk, though they’re well known in contemporary jazz circles. Hunter, a eight-string guitar player who used to perform with the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, fronts his own power jazz quartet. Bernhard can be heard with the Peter Apfelbaum Sextet and recently was declared “criminally ignored” by the Detroit Metro Times. Schott, a Seattle native, released the 1995 solo album Junk Genius on the New York­based Knitting Factory label and debuted his 40-minute cantata In These Great Times last fall at the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. And Amendola lays down the beat for Hunter’s own band and recently recorded The Oranj Symphonette Plays Mancini (Gramavision/Ryko) with the Philip Greenleif/Scott Amendola Duo.

Will fame and fortune ever find T.J. Kirk? Schott remains stoic. “I think the new album will catch on,” he says dryly, “though it may be 2013 before its contribution to Western musical culture is fully recognized.” Is that bad? “No, I know our time will come and we’ll eventually be seen as the latter-day Horaces that we are,” he says. Then he adds, with more than just a touch of irony: “I just hope that inflation hasn’t invalidated all previous contracts by then or that we’re not all being paid in forget-it-all tablets.”

T.J. Kirk performs Sunday, Jan. 19, at 8 p.m. the Mystic Theater and Saloon, 21 N. Petaluma Blvd., Petaluma. Tickets are $8. Call 765-6665.

From the January 9-15, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1997 Metrosa, Inc.

Theater ’96

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Closing Acts


Gemma La Mana

On Stage: Rebecca Dines and Joseph Lustig in ‘The Philadelphia Story.’

The year in theater sat well

By Gretchen Giles

WHILE THE THEATER season pays no attention to the swings of the solar and lunar calendars, beginning instead like an inverted almanac with those seasons that start with the harvest and end with the sowing, reviewers must doggedly define the year by the 3-6-5 that ends in December and begins the next day with a headachy jump to Jan. 1.

Thus, in addition to the fashioning of twiggy photo frames to shamefacedly give as gifts, reviewers must frown over a year’s worth of columns (surely one is a better writer than that!) and make some sense of the Year That Was.

In Sonoma County theater it was a remarkably good year, with several companies doing some exceptional work. As with all things, changes have been wrought over the year, most notably at Actors Theater, where artistic directors Eric Engdahl and Theresa Gianotti have left, citing the “amicable differences” phrase that means so little to so many.

AT had a tough year with plenty of misses and only one solid show, playwright Steven Dietz’s Lonely Planet, a serious comedy about the AIDS epidemic, superbly acted by Michael Fontaine and Dwayne Stincelli. Another small good thing was their Parallel Lives: The Kathy and Mo Show. Fresh, feminist, and funny, this overly indulgent piece was nonetheless innovative in direction and scope.

Actors J. Eric Cook–formerly of Sebastopol’s Main Street Theatre–and Argo Thompson are working with AT chair Tom Harris on the scheduling and vision for the new season, as well as adding their thoughts to the revamping of what’s left of the current roster. No news yet on what the inaugural show will bring.

Administrator Ross Hagee has announced his resignation at the Santa Rosa Players, effective as soon as he can be replaced. “I may be here until June,” he laughs. Hagee hopes to leave his office duties in mid-January, though he’ll still be seen pounding SRP’s boards. “This organization and I have very different goals,” he says tactfully. “But I still plan to be here as a director and an actor.” Hagee, who was recently seen in Sonoma County Repertory Theatre’s excellent production of A Sondheim Affair, will make good on that promise by directing January’s production of Dangerous Liaisons and performing in the subsequent mounting of Carnival.

The Players had their usual year: when they’re good they’re very, very good, and when they’re bad, well. . . . Of note was Hagee’s early-year direction of a joyous production of Pippin. This fall’s The Wizard of Oz was also a delight, and although this reviewer missed Brigadoon, the buzz is that–with its ambitious sets and live music–there was much to miss.

The Pacific Alliance Stage Company over at Spreckels had two outstanding shows, both featuring the remarkable actress Rebecca Dines. PASCO started the year with the absorbing dramedy Lake No Bottom, a wicked chuckle that places a writer on an isolated weekend with his toughest critic and the woman they both love. Sort of. Dines was next seen in a frothy Katherine Hepburn tribute in The Philadelphia Story, a sumptuous, big-stage setting of Philip Barry’s jocularly wise play. Dines, a working professional, is a sure indicator as to why PASCO shells out the small bucks for Equity actors.

Main Street Theatre and its companion stage, the Sonoma County Repertory Theatre, continue to mount the most reliably entertaining productions in the county. One of the thrilling moments of the year came on the stormy opening night of MST’s Blithe Spirit, a Noel Coward send-up of the afterlife, smartly directed by Jim dePriest. When shortly into the performance the power blew in Sebastopol, actress Priscilla Sanford–who was, after all, preparing onstage for a séance–missed nary a beat, calmly chatting into the dark while theater staff secured enough candles to light the action.

Sanford also shone in Playboy of the Western World, Main Street’s contribution to the Sebastopol Celtic Festival. Putting more sensuality into the phrase “shearing sheep” than a lonely shepherd on a solitary hill, Sanford and actor Jennifer King had a ball with this patricidal comedy about a foolish young man who becomes a town hero when he claims to have bashed his Da over the head.

Sonoma County Rep flared beautifully with Moss Hart’s affectionate send-up of the theatrical world, Light up the Sky, and ended the year with the joyous revue A Sondheim Affair. Though overly reverential of Stephen Sondheim’s genius (and this is a criticism?), Affair was so tightly rehearsed by creator and director Mary J. Gorak, was delivered with such passion by the cast, and featured costumes so beautifully wrought by Holly O’Hara, that it deserves special note.

Actor Guenevere Wolfe stole every stage she stepped on, featured in both Light up the Sky and Affair. Robin Downward earns a nod for his naive gaiety in Pippin and for the overall professionalism and beauty of his voice. And Jim Sampietro didn’t get proper notice from this paper for his performance in Affair, in which he sang the starkly beautiful ending tunes from Sweeney Todd.

Indeed, it was a fine year to sit in the dark.

From the Dec. 26, 1996 – Jan. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metrosa, Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Not Talkin’


the ones that got away

By David Templeton

For three years writer David Templeton has been taking famous people to interesting movies in an ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation–a strange, difficult-to-explain quest that occasionally results in misunderstanding and confusion, and often in cold, unflattering rejection.

The charter bus bumps and rattles its way down the Waldo Grade, progressing noisily toward the Golden Gate Bridge. The bus is crammed with geologists–all associates of my wife, Susan, herself a geologist–and we are on our way to her company’s annual Christmas party, to be held on a yacht out on the windy bay.

“You’re a writer, aren’t you?” asks one tuxedoed fellow, bouncing in his seat as we rumble onto the bridge. “You do that movie thing. I always wondered how you actually get all those people to go to the movies with you.”

It’s a question I am often asked. Having recorded nearly 100 post-film conversations with various authors, musicians, and the like, people often wonder how some busy celebrity was cajoled into spending an afternoon at the movies with a total stranger. My usual response to say that I get on my knees and beg.

Tonight, however, in the spirit of corporate civility–and the knowledge that we won’t reach the boat for another 15 minutes–I offer my new friend a significantly longer explanation.

“First, I call them up,” I explain. “I try to sound sane, and I talk as fast as I can before they hang up on me.” This, I must admit, is not far from the truth, though neither was the part about begging.

“Sometimes they’re kind of charmed at the very idea, and they say yes right away,” I go on. “But it usually takes more work than that.” I think of Ram Dass, the famous spiritual teacher and author of Be Here Now, who called me one afternoon after I’d placed the umpteenth message with his assistant.

“I guess I’ll have to do this just to get rid of you,” he said. I still like to think he meant that as a joke.

“1996,” I continue, “has been the Year of Larry King.” I describe how I called up the publicist for the world-renowned talk show host last February, inviting Mr. King to see the news drama Up Close and Personal. He agreed to participate, but asked to wait to see one of the big summer blockbusters, either Eraser or Independence Day.

“Summer came, I called, they said he’d be busy until the election was over–but to keep trying,” I laugh, as the bus comes to a stoplight. “The day after the election, I called back. They said he still wants to do it, maybe with a big Christmas movie, either Jingle All the Way or Space Jam.

Christmas has come and gone–and it looks like Larry King may end up on my Ones That Got Away list. For every famous personality that has deigned to meet me at a theater, there have been at least three that said no, or “Try again later,” or “I don’t go to movies!” That third one was Garrison Keillor of the Prairie Home Companion, whom I had invited to see Fargo. “He never goes to movies,” I was told. “They make him cranky.”

Folksinger Holly Near, though admitting to movie attendance, insists that she hates talking about them afterwards. “I don’t even like seeing movies with my friends,” she apologized sweetly. “Because they always want to talk about them.”

Some of the others that got away include writer Isabelle Allende, professional female Ru Paul, former Secretary of State George Shultz, folksinger Joan Baez, writers Anne Lamott and John Gray, and Bozo the Clown. (“I am a lawyer who represents Bozo,” said the message on my machine. “I am calling to say that Bozo did not understand your request. Therefore he feels he must decline.”)

Of all the ones that got away, however, a special place is held for the psychologist/writer Gerald Jampolsky, author of the best-selling spiritual guidebook, Love Is Letting Go of Fear. After receiving a message from me inviting him to see Fearless, he called right back.

“I prayed about you,” he told me. “I told the Holy Spirit that you wanted me to go and sit in judgment of a film. I do not feel peaceful when I judge things. So the Holy Spirit told me to stay away from you.” A rejection like that is one not easily forgotten.

“Well,” offers the man in the tuxedo kindly, as the bus arrives at the pier. “Don’t give up on Larry King.”

Two days later a voice on my machine intones, “I’m calling for Larry King. He’s decided that he’d like to see either Jerry Maguire or the new Woody Allen movie. And he’d like to do it soon.”

Well, hallelujah!

He must be trying to get rid of me.

From the Dec. 26, 1996 – Jan. 1, 1997 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metrosa, Inc.

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