Arts & Crafts Time

0

Feeling Crafty

By Gretchen Giles

I AM A BAD MOTHER. I’ll admit it. Not that the kids are starving or being beaten or forced to sleep outside in the rain or denied schooling or hugs or books or videos or tree forts or popsicles or garden plots. They have all of those things. To borrow from Judith Viorst, what makes me a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad mommy is crafts. You know, those happy moments that the magazines assert should be spent together as a family unknotting yarn, catching uncapped glue bottles as they edge off the table, and scrubbing ink off the walls. All the while trying to confine the glitter merely to the reaches of the entire spread-out protection of the Sunday paper, keep the egg dye from turning khaki with mixtures, and refereeing the inevitable brawl over the single red crayon left in the box.

Take this small test to determine if you are a similarly bad parent:a. Arts and crafts–a fine term for an artistic movement, resulting in some really terrific lamps.

or

b. Arts and crafts–a terrifying three-word term for 10 a.m. wine lust and tearfully constructed holiday presents.

AS AN EMPHATIC b, it seems only natural for me to seek help. After all, a craft impairment is a terrible thing to visit upon other generations. The madness must stop here, before my sons find themselves as grown men doing the rainy-day shout of “Dammit, if you’re not going to watch that TV, I’m going to turn it off!” at their own kids, rather than calmly setting out the playdough.

Once upon a time, before the dragons of Proposition 13 slayed the California school programs, the arts were emphasized in the classroom. And, as any modern parent who has ever considered buying an extra refrigerator simply for the additional gallery space knows, there are still plenty of art projects being done at school, at least elementary school.

Kindergarten is practically nothing but the glory of tempera paints and the fast whir of plastic-handled scissors slicing up the alphabet. That flood of creative fervor trickles upward to the sere flat plane of high school, where most kilns are cold and photography dark rooms have long been shuttered. If you want your budding Brancusi to have additional training but can’t do it yourself without feeling an irresistible irritable urge, what do you do?

On campus, many local schools offer after-hours enrichment programs partially funded by the PTA, featuring everything from leatherwork to computer classes for a nominal fee. Additionally, there are programs at the YMCAs, Boys and Girls Clubs, and various Community Centers, such as the one in Sonoma.

Petaluma boasts a new Children’s Art Center, co-founded by Laura Bussey and Kate Tatum, two mothers who found that demand for their artistic enrichment program at the local McNear Elementary School was so successful that they wanted to offer it to the whole community. “There aren’t a lot of choices, outside of athletics, for children,” says Bussey, on a short break from teaching art while her summer-session kids pound out a dance lesson behind her.

“If you have a kid who’s more cerebral than physical, what do you do?” she asks.

Her answer is the Children’s Art Center, where she and Tatum offer a full slate of performing and visual arts classes during after-school hours for children ages 2 to 14. Begun in the spring of ’95 with a small blessing from the city, the art center has grown quickly.

“People are definitely looking for this,” says Bussey. “They see much less art in public and private schools.”

In addition to maintaining the center, Bussey and Tatum are also glad to dispense advice, recently attending a Mother’s Club meeting to offer tips to new moms on how to survive the slings and arrows of outrageously messy art projects.

“Think of your level of tolerance and then provide that much,” says Bussey. “Papier-mâché may make too much of a mess for you, but we can all tolerate crayons.”

Linda Galletta, the director of the Sebastopol Center for the Arts, tolerates more than crayons. Her center offers everything from fabric art to a loosely structured open studio. Serving some 500 kids a year, the center offers sliding scale and scholarship options for lower-income families. “The arts center has always felt that art for children is very important,” she says. “It takes a lot of my time to develop the funding, but it’s something that we feel fills a need, and there is a demand, and our role is good.”

After listening politely to my moans about the craft infractions I have inflicted on my kids, Galletta says kindly, “We also offer a class for parents and teachers who want to do more with crafts.”

Perhaps there is hope, after all.

Children’s Art Center of Petaluma, 415 Western Ave. 762-5680. Sebastopol Center for the Arts, 6821 Laguna Park Way. 829-4797.

From the August 8-14, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

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

Stanley Mouse

0

Stormin’ Heaven

By Steve Bjerklie

THE MAN WHO helped create the most famous death icon in the world–the grinning skull and roses of the Grateful Dead–is talking about quite the opposite. “At one point there were hundreds all around me, shining and floating around,” says poster artist Stanley Mouse. “One would go by and I’d say, ‘Did you see her? Did you see the golden angel?'”

Three years ago the artist underwent a liver transplant. The angels began fluttering over his bed as he woke from surgery, and he hasn’t forgotten them. “Ah, Stanley,” says a friend in Mouse’s cluttered Sonoma studio, “you were having the good kind of hallucinations.” The gentle, soft-spoken Mouse concurs, “I feel completely great. This is just where I wanted to get to with drugs.”

Mouse, whose trimmed, mossy beard and scholar’s spectacles make him look a bit like a Bolshevik two or three decades after the Revolution–which is true, in a way–stares at an image of an angel even now. She’s an angel for Jacob to think twice about, occupying the center of the gorgeous poster Mouse has painted for his old friend Don Hyde. Below her is the advertisement for the benefit concert coming up on Aug. 11, at Hyde’s Raven Theater, a show to raise money to help pay legal costs generated by a flimflam LSD charge leveled against him. The benefit features Tom Waits, T-Bone Burnett, and Sam Phillips, among others.

“We’re using ‘Storming Heaven’ because the charges were dropped,” says Mouse, who seems genuinely amazed when it’s pointed out to him that this heavenly moniker is also the title of a book published a few years ago chronicling the rise and fall of, ahem, LSD. “Really? Well, wouldn’t you know.” A hint of a prankster’s grin lights his smile.

“The angel is a way of saying that this is a happy event.” A few minutes later, Mouse pulls out a print of the dark poster he drew for the first Hyde benefit, held last spring at the Paramount Theater in Oakland. On it, a woman lies encircled by a large snake. “Don was wrapped in coils back then,” Mouse smiles. The $100 ticket for Sunday’s benefit includes a print of the new poster.

With his longtime art partner Alton Kelley, and with fellow artists Wes Wilson, Victor Moscoso, Bonnie McLean, and the late Rick Griffin, Stanley Mouse ignited the poster renaissance in 1960s San Francisco, drawing brilliant, crazy art to promote rock-and-roll dance concerts.

The best pieces are insane group marriages of image, color, lettering, and whimsy. They still laugh out loud to the eye, reflecting the splendiferous exhibitionism of the hippie ballrooms. Originally tacked up on telephone poles and given away at the shows they advertised, these mint-condition first-edition posters now command hundreds of dollars from collectors.

Further, the original posters eventually led to commissions for album covers, and the Mouse/Kelly portfolio includes some of the most famous images in all of rock: the Grateful Dead’s “Workingman’s Dead” and “American Beauty” covers, and Journey’s “Infinity.”

Coming to the poster business indirectly, Mouse was by the early ’60s a hot-rod painting sensation, making his living painting cars and T-shirts at shows and fairs. Poking discreetly around, I find a nicely framed copy of Mouse and Kelley’s most enduring image, an Avalon poster from September 1966. The print is surprisingly small, 8 1/2 by 11. “That was the size of the original Avalon handbills,” he says. “I found the original image in the stacks of the San Francisco Public Library,” Created by 19th-century artist Edmund Sullivan as a woodcut to illustrate the 26th quatrain of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, this block print underscores the verse “The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.”

“I showed it to Kelley and said, ‘Here’s something that might work for the Grateful Dead.'”

It’s the skeleton and roses, of course. Thirty years after Mouse found it and made it the key element in the band’s powerful iconography, the shamelessly grinning skull wearing a crown of roses and admiring a pair of blooms still packs a punch. “You know, there are those who say that’s why the band lasted so long,” Mouse, the transplant survivor, says quietly. He pauses, but then comes another soft smile, a little wry, a little wistful. “Because of that image.”

Tom Waits and others appear Aug. 11 at 7 p.m. Raven Film Center, 415 Center St., Healdsburg. $100. Tickets at the Last Record Store, 525-1963 or 528-2350.

From the August 8-14, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

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

Sausages

0

Hot Links


DWIGHT CASWELL

Fat-free? Ha!: Frenchie White of Montibella Sausage cooks up a mess of tasty sausage.

Local chefs build a better banger

By Dwight Caswell

THE SETTING is a Farmlands Group wine and food tasting on the elegant grounds of Sonoma-Cutrer Winery. At the tables beneath large white umbrellas, with manicured croquet lawns in the background, wineries, restaurants, and other food purveyors serve Sonoma County’s famous cuisine. The grazing gourmands sip superlative chardonnays and sample organic breads, smoked scallop, eggplant pesto, sausage . . . Wait a minute: sausage? What is sausage doing here in the land of low fat and good health? Isn’t there some kind of county ordinance about that?

“It’s very low-fat sausage,” says Frenchie White, who is standing at the Montibella Sausage table. “See that?” He gestures at a modest amount of fat in his frying pan. “I’ve cooked 50 pounds of sausage today, and that’s all there is.”

Discreetly checking the package, I find the label bears him out. Montibella sausages rang from 7 to 15 percent fat. Not only that, they come in flavors like “Chicken with Potato and Sun-Dried Tomato,” “Lemon Chicken with Potato,” and “Spicy Pork with Potato.” And they’re good, very good.

The secret to the low fat content isn’t Olestra or some other chemical horror, but the humble potato. “I tried making sausage without the fat,” says Montibella owner Skip Lott, “but you could have pounded nails with the result.” The problem was that fat gives sausage its sinful texture and juiciness. Then Lott discovered the moisture-holding property of potatoes, and Montibella has done nothing but grow ever since.

The reason for that growth was not only Lott’s recipes, but his timing. “Designer sausage” has become a culinary trend, and over 100 kinds are now available in Sonoma County. Not all are as low-fat as Montibella’s, but they’re leaner than commercial sausages, which by law may be 50 percent fat (those breakfast links in the supermarket cooler are at least 35 per cent).

What designer sausages have in abundance, regardless of fat, is flavor and variety. Dream up a sausage flavor, and you can probably find it in Sonoma County. If not, you can find someone to make it for you.

Sausage makers have different philosophies about their craft. They all want to produce a product that is delicious and distinctive (usually without artificial additives), but there are three approaches to fat: (1) Substitute for fat; (2) use meat low in fat; or (3) the hell with fat.

Montibella represents the first approach, and there are several examples of the second. One of these is Martindale’s Quality Meats and Deli, where the first impression is an aroma delectable enough to tempt the most devout vegetarian. The cases are filled with meat of all kinds: aged beef and lamb, marinated sirloin, hickory-smoked ham. And row upon row of sausages, with those little butcher’s signs proclaiming, to list a few, “Smoked Chicken Broccoli with Cheese,” “Creole Style Smoked Chicken,” “Celtic Bangers,” and “Hawaiian Portuguese.”

That last one “is linguisa with roasted chilies,” says owner Ron Martindale, “only mine’s about 18 percent fat, half what it would be if you got it in Hawaii.” Most of Ron’s sausages are 10 to 15 percent fat, with the chicken sausages as low as 5 percent.

Ron and his crew make all his products in a spotless plant visible from the meat counter. Most of the recipes are Ron’s, and the flavors of even the spicy links (like “Meyguez,” an Algerian lamb sausage) are complex, not merely hot.

Ron keeps the fat low by personally selecting the finest meat available. “I won’t buy three fourths of the meat that’s out there. I’m looking for what was ‘choice’ 25 years ago.”

Making sausage, it turns out, is something like making bread. Bread is kneaded in order to break down the vegetable protein (gluten), and sausage meat must be “worked” while very cold to break down the animal protein (albumin). “If you do it right,” Ron says,” you don’t need a lot of fat or fillers. All you need is salt, seasoning, and a little water. If you don’t do it right, the texture is wrong. It falls apart when you cut it.”

Dave Ruedlinger of Food for Thought also disdains fat. “In the old days natural-food stores didn’t carry sausage, because they were made with meat byproducts and a ton of additives.”

But times have changed; no pork snouts or ears for Dave. “I use only pork sirloin, and for the chicken sausages we use only thigh meat, with no bone or skin.” Dave also uses Sonoma County products whenever possible, including Rocky the Range chicken and “Sonoma Lean” lamb. The result: 5-15 percent fat.

Another sausage maker who manufactures and retails in the same location is Oliver’s Market, where 10 varieties are made and sold, with Thai and the crowd-pleasing Chicken Apple Sausages topping the popularity list.

The “to hell with fat” approach is usually found among restaurants and caterers, where fat is less of a concern.

At Night Owl Catering, chef Barbara Hom began getting requests for sausage from her customers. Since she makes everything from scratch, she came up with her own recipes for “Moroccan Lamb” and “Thai Dungeness Crab” sausages (the latter is one third chicken and contains–the secret ingredient– peanut butter).

And at Healdsburg’s Mangia Bene Restaurant, chef Todd Muir makes delicious sausage from venison, and “spicy Italian sausage” with fennel and chilies. “Sausage isn’t supposed to be healthy,” says the outspoken chef. “I want a meaty, juicy sausage with good texture.”

Muir is not impressed with the proliferation of exotic flavors. “That’s California, always pushing the envelope,” he shrugs, “but do you like something because it’s different, or because it’s good?”

So-called designer sausages are available in such local markets as Petaluma Market, Fiesta Market, G&G, Montecito Market, Oliver’s Market, Sonoma Market, the three Food for Thought markets, Martindale’s Quality Meats and Deli, and Willowside Meats and Sausage Factory.

From the August 8-14, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

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

Textbook Case

0

By the Book

By Gretchen Giles

IT TAKES a whole village to raise a child. At least that’s what those of us with children in elementary or high school are being taught right now. Multiculturalism is in in a big way, from the cast of Sesame Street strategically strung out along racial-, gender-, and abilities-oriented guidelines to Coca-Cola ads that threaten to never show a white face, to textbooks that generally include the beliefs and achievements of indigenous peoples along with the triumphs of traditional European exploration.

For many parents, particularly the guilty white-liberal species among which I count myself as a member, this is a favorable trend.

Scientist Bill Bennetta agrees. He just wishes those texts that form the foundation of the teaching tools in middle school and high school classrooms told the truth.

“Most often, schoolbooks are distorted, twisted, and turned inside out not so much by commission as by omission,” says Bennetta, the president of the Textbook League, a non-profit watchdog group that publishes a bimonthly analytical newsletter reviewing new texts on history, science, human sexuality, geography, and social studies. “Because what these [publishers] really try to do is to expunge through a process of self-censorship anything that might offend anybody anywhere.

“The result is bland mush that has no meaning as science, as history, as geography, or as anything else because it has been trimmed and shorn, not only of reality,” he laughs while seated in his comfortable Petaluma kitchen, “but of the things that to any normal person represent some of the most important ideas that ever were.”

In Bennetta’s view, “This process has been, in the past couple of decades, very strongly slanted to favoring and catering to the Right,” he continues, citing Christian revisionism of texts, particularly those in Texas schools. “But now what we’re seeing is a completely analogous process that seeks to cater to the Left, and it is in the Left that we locate the multi-culti crazies.”

Like a Rush Limbaugh of the middle ground, Bennetta–a journalist with an advanced degree in chemical engineering and whose Ph.D. work in biology is just short of a thesis–is merely getting warmed up.

“Multi-culti is a racist movement,” he asserts. “If you look at it, again and again, for these people culture is a code word for race, and cultural is a code word for racial.”

That’s just how it is, he adds later. “I could give you one or two or three examples, but that wouldn’t make my case,” he explains. “I’m telling you that my inference is based on hundreds of examples.”

Bennetta’s examples include stock, thoughtless sentences found within many of the textbooks that line his home. These dispense such misinformation as that dosages of ginseng root are equivalent to a doctor’s checkup and assertions that Native American peoples invented irrigation, leaving a student to believe that they were the first and only ones to invent such a farming practice. There also are inaccurate comparisons of Hopi architectural practices with University of Iowa experiments in cooling systems, and questionable graphics that equate the spiritual sense indigenous Americans had of the earth with the scientific findings of core and mantle.

“There’s no reason why a biology book couldn’t have a chapter devoted to a history of different agricultural practices,” he reasons, “and show how many different peoples all over the world independently struck upon many similar, basic ideas, irrigation being one of them. That is exactly what is not done.

“To deliberately distort this stuff to glorify discredited ideas and people who simply were not able to cope with anything and were swamped when they did meet up with people who knew something about nature, this is a horror. It’s all being done to deny and suppress the fact–the grand, overarching fact–that a single intellectual tradition, invented only 500 years ago by a bunch of Europeans, revolutionized the world.”

Claiming that “the multi-culti types hate science” because it was invented by such dead white guys as Galileo and Kepler, Bennetta sees the multicultural movement in education as anti-intellectual and anti-scientific, one that rejects proven scientific tenets in favor of a jumble that includes Western empirical knowledge tossed freely with native mysticism.

“If we look it at in the realm of science,” he says, “what we find are repeated, consistent efforts in book after book to equate primitive superstitions with scientific findings, to suggest that weird, pre-scientific ideas about nature are equivalent to, or just as good as, scientific findings based on evidence and reason.

“If kids do not understand what science is, and the idea of learning about nature on the basis of evidence and reason,” Bennetta says emphatically, “apart from all of that other nonsense that from the beginning of time has held people in thrall–superstition, ignorance, and supernaturalism–then kids don’t have a chance.

“That’s what I’m so upset about.”

From the August 8-14, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

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

Virtual Vittles

0

Virtual Vittles


Janet Orsi

Eat your words: From alligator stew to zucchini boats, the Internet is an index to the kitchen.

Using the Web to find that perfect recipe

By David Templeton

THE PARTY INVITATION arrived unsurreptitiously in the morning mail, along with a stack of coupons and grocery ads and a promotional disc for yet another Internet software service. “Pirate’s Picnic,” the invite proclaimed. “Year of the Gator.” Cool. A piratical potluck, to be held on Angel’s Island. Guests requested to bring significantly themed edibles. The hosts would be cooking up a big batch of Alligator Jambalaya. Real alligator. Flown in from some weird meat supply service in Boston. “Them that dines will be the Lucky Ones,” it concluded.

I swiftly phoned in my R.S.V.P. and began to plan the menu. What could I bring to picnic that would blend thematically with Alligator Stew? A speedy flip through the pages of my vast cookbook library revealed nothing with the appropriate 18th-century theatricality.Suddenly I remembered that promotional computer disc. Didn’t the envelope scream the phrase “Online Recipes,” along with a list of other enticements? “Well, blow me down!” I said optimistically. “I’ll simply employ the greatest technological marvel of the 20th century, the Internet, to hunt me up and download me some palatable chow. It’ll be easy.”

But that was last week, and I was young and foolish then.

Online sites devoted to matters of food, it turns out, are far more abundant than I had expected. In fact, there is so much grub-related information available to those with the proper equipment, it rather spins the head.

There is a Virtual Kitchen, a Virtual Vineyard, and even a Virtual Lunch counter. Chat groups devoted to the authentic preparation of sushi are humming along with those offering tips for venders at Native American powwows, and hot-plate recipes for dormitory-bound college students. Slick interactive magazines devote themselves to California cuisine, ancient Egyptian cooking, freshwater trout, and you-name-it. You can order wine, order cookbooks, and order a pizza, then download the menu of a restaurant across the county or across the world. A random search is great entertainment, but searching for something specific can be daunting. If you have the time and the energy, however, there is little related to cooking and food that you won’t find. But be warned: There is plenty of junk food on the shelves of the virtual grocery store.

“Without putting the Internet down,” says Lawrence Sterling, of Iron Horse Ranch and Vineyard in Sebastopol, “two years ago you could go onto Yahoo and other browser services and put in the word ‘wine,’ and not that much would show up. Do it now and it goes on forever. And a lot of it makes you wonder if the people who put it there have a life.”

Two years ago, Iron Horse, with Sterling as enthusiastic cheerleader, joined forces with Peter Granhoff, the San Francisco webmaster behind the Virtual Vineyard , an online warehouse devoted to fine California wines. Net-surfing wine buyers can visit the Virtual Vineyard to ask about local wineries, find out which wine would taste best alongside a fillet of salmon, read reviews of wines from various wineries, and then hook up with specific wineries to get more information and even place orders.

Since it began selling wine over the Internet, Iron Horse has enjoyed a steady, if not spectacular, flurry of online business. “We’re quite content with it,” Sterling judiciously suggests. “It hasn’t replaced the neighborhood store. I don’t think it ever will. But we like it.”

Sterling’s sister, Joy, has also found the Web a useful place for members of the food industry. She contributes a monthly wine column to website. While the Virtual Vineyard is basically a store, the Kitchen is a full-fledged interactive magazine, offering a whole spate of informed columnists, along with beautiful graphics, recipe exchange forums, and a generous sprinkling of culinary humor.

In the Virtual Kitchen I discovered the “Dish Message Board.” Distracted by the message “Wanted: Easy Recipes for College,” I opened that link, where there were recipes for “Crockpot Meat Loaf,” “Easy Beefy-Roni,” and something called “Cheesy Chicken” that apparently involves Velveeta.

Fans of insects will be either delighted or appalled to learn of Iowa State University’s Tasty Insect Recipes page. How about some Bug Blox (Jell-O mixed with dry-roasted leafhoppers) or Rootworm Beetle Dip? Though I will always savor the thought of arriving at a party with a platter of Banana Worm Bread, I continued my search.

The surprises continued. I found a website full of Buddhist recipes; when I attempted to link on, I was repeatedly treated to a blank screen. Sensing a bit of Zen humor, I moved on to The Vegetarian, a magazine put online by the Vegetarian Society of the United Kingdom, featuring, among other things, Linda McCartney’s recipe for “Chili Non Carne” and John Cleese’s instructions for opening a box of corn flakes, with the odd final note: “Use Coca-Cola instead of milk. Add basil as required.”

Hours later, I discovered the Traditional Native American Recipe Page , with hundreds of entries describing everything from authentic posole and Indian Tacos to barbecued corn. Corn!

Detailed instructions on harvesting, husking, and barbecuing one to two truckloads of fresh corn, enough for a thousand hungry powwowians. I could cut the volume down to two dozen ears or so.

Finally, I’d hit pay dirt.

SURROUNDED BY the steamy aroma of simmering alligator flesh, I stood at the grill, turning my painstakingly prepared corn over the fire, the printed recipe folded in my back pocket. “Where’d you get the idea for this?’ someone asked. “I found it on the Internet,” I proudly confessed. “There’s a lot of interesting food info on the Web.”

“The Web, huh?” my friend smiled, sniffing at the roasting husks. “You should have called me and saved yourself the trouble. My grandmother’s been cooking corn like this for years.”

“That may be true,” I thought to myself, wondering why I didn’t just go to a bookstore instead of spending six hours in front of the computer. Then I thought of something that made me feel infinitely better. “Maybe so,” I replied, “but I bet your grandmother doesn’t know how to make Bug Blox!”

Ah, Brave New World that has such features in it!

From the August 1-7, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metro Publishing and Virtual Valley, Inc.

Real Astrology

0

Heaven on Earth

Hands out: A taxi full of eager hands (and their attached humans) are glad to help Rob Brezsny unload a bit of his cash on a busy street corner.

Photo by Janet Orsi


Astrologer Rob Brezsny follows the signs to beauty and truth

By Gretchen Giles

BEARING a straightened-out cardboard box inked with the legend “I love to help, I need to give, please take some money,” astrologer Rob Brezsny stands at a freeway off-ramp stoplight holding out a dull-green bouquet of small bills. Clutching this fistful of cash, he approaches an unrolled window and leans in. “Would you like some money?” he asks in a low, seductive voice. As the driver tentatively selects one of the bills, Brezsny presses, “Take some more.” The driver refuses. In the 20 minutes that it takes to give away this $36 windfall, most people will refuse. Many motorists in beater-cars with cracked windshields and failing brake lights decline even the first bill.

But a black Mercedes pulls sleekly to the stop and the power window glides down. A slim, tanned arm emerges from the air-conditioned gloom of the interior. A diamond flashes in the glare of the sun as the fingers snap, impatient for a share.

An accident jams the intersection. Maneuvering around this small mess, one driver returns for seconds. Slowing, he gestures to the children in the back seat. “Could you give some to the kids?”

A man with a red face jams on his brakes. “Are you fucking nuts?” he shouts with the engorged jugular of the apoplectic.

Rob Brezsny just laughs.

EARLIER that day, Brezsny is seated on the overstuffed couch of a Marin bookstore dedicated to the higher order of the New Age movement. Three large paper bags full of tricks are lined up in front of him so that they just touch the toes of his black canvas semi-tennies. The dark greeny leaves of a bunch of fresh beets protrude from the top of one bag. He didn’t just come from the farmers market up the street. He needs these for the interview.

Brezsny, who writes the sage, witty, and wackily spiritual Real Astrology column that graces the back of some 90 alternative newsweeklies throughout the nation, doesn’t ordinarily do interviews. He doesn’t like to buy into what he terms “the cult of personality” that such recorded moments lead to. As the lead singer and chief songwriter for the passionately alternative and now disbanded World Entertainment Wars, he has had enough tape recorders poked up near his mouth to know that he doesn’t like it.

But this he likes. Because today we’re not going to just sit around and probe his marriage, dental habits, or age. This is no high exercise in journalistic discipline on my part. We’re not going to probe them because Brezsny simply won’t answer. He allows that he was born under the sign of Cancer, and that, yes, he really is a trained astrologer who does each week’s charts. He further grudges a marriage, a daughter, and the fact that he is trying to break himself of the habit of staying up all night and sleeping all day.

However, he has agreed to meet only because this is no chew-the-fat: This is a Bless-In.

His wiry, greying hair pulled into a ponytail off his face with the type of thick rubber band usually used to secure the Sunday paper, Brezsny rummages around in one of his paper bags. At his suggestion, this Bless-In will sanctify a number of “profane sites” with a few personal objects, items that we have separately chosen as curative symbols.

One such site is an abandoned, fenced-off, cement lot once used by PG&E. He would also like to visit a Lexus dealership, placing some small shrine to defract the mojo of what he sees as being a monument to flat-out crass consumerism. And then, of course, there’s the reverse panhandling. “I would like to have the intention of not being arrested today,” he grins.

Finding what he is looking for, he pulls a sheet of paper from one bag, a disc cut from a slender tree trunk glued on it. “If this had been five years ago, this is the fetish object I would have left, here in the back room,” he says, gesturing to the shrine area of the bookstore.

“This was sent to me by a reader one time,” he explains, “and it just says, ‘This is an extremely sacred object. Treat it with the utmost respect, and then burn it.’ My readers send me so many different things that I think that they’d almost appreciate it if I passed certain things on.”

BREZSNY has an unusual relationship with his readers. Most writers send their work off into the great void, rarely meeting up with anyone who will admit to reading it. If one does encounter such a soul, the response is often said in an accusatory tone: “I’ve read you.” This is why some writers drink.

But Brezsny probably isn’t someone who tipples. He doesn’t have time. Encouraging a very vital interaction with his audience, he offers weekly homework assignments at the end of each column–a feature not run by all papers–exhorting readers to write to him with fantasies and outrages, to send him fake money and mantras, and to just generally engage in the kind of sophisticated spiritual tomfoolery that makes Real Astrology such a gas. He also maintains a 900 number offering his own performance-art readings of his columns, as well as updating his Real Astrology website. Eavesdropping, dreaming, and input from his readers all swell what he admits are the “12 love letters” written to the sun signs each week.

“Part of why I seem so prolific creatively,” he says of the weekly column that he has been writing for the past 18 years, “is that I don’t have to rely solely on my own powers. I am receptive to the world around me, and I don’t have to do it all by myself.”

Later on he explains, “There’s something about the unusual interaction that I have with my readership. There’s some magic in that I’m always writing to you. I’m always writing love letters or greetings or salutations to the people out there, and I get a lot of mail, and I get a lot of phone calls, and so I have a really palpable sense of who’s out there. It’s a really high-value relationship, and it really feels like intimacy.”

Lotus seater: Seated before a shrine to Kali in the back room of a New Age bookstore, Brezsny exemplifies the prankster/guru dichotomy of his personal ethic.

A combination of prankster and guru, Brezsny is almost at home among the well-preserved middle-aged seekers with plenty of free afternoon time who are drifting around us in the bookstore, turning over volumes on tantric sex. A few customers have flowers tucked behind one ear, and more than one has a cellular phone parasitically attached to the other ear. Bookstore staffers wear flowing Eastern blouses, strategically cut low to reveal the curve of a breast or the proud grey hair of a chest fluffed up around a large medallion necklace. Low whiny music soothes the soul, and there is enough patchouli in the air to give an asthmatic the wheezes.

Yet on another occasion, Brezsny will dress up in what he calls his “huckster shaman rock star” outfit and literally stand on his head in the back shrine room.

As most beauty and truth fans know, Rob Brezsny is more than willing to kick his own ass.

“I regard the New Age with the same attitude as I do astrology,” he says. “I have gotten a lot out of it, and I feel a need to debunk it, to call attention to its excesses and superficialities. At the same time, I’ve obviously been nurtured by a lot of what’s been called New Age. That’s my running joke with life, to treat everything as if it’s about 70 percent worthy of belief, and about 30 percent worthy of total skepticism, and to borrow from them all. There are no idols.

“I feel like I’m caught between the high-court fundamental scientists, who say that there are no such things except those that we can see and feel and measure, and the high-court fundamentalist mystics, who believe that any manifestations of channeling or symbiotics must be true.”

DURING a midwinter’s midnight radio broadcast on a public station, Brezsny was heard seriously discussing his contention that Radio Shack franchises across America should be turned into menstrual huts for both men and women. In fact, he asserted, he is very much involved with the Male Menstrual Movement. The female radio host treated him with grave, quiet-voiced respect. Nary missing a beat, with a trace of humor coloring his voice, Brezsny began to hawk the book upon which he is still at work, A Feminist Man’s Guide to Picking up Women.

“Recently I had the inspiration to call it a docu-fiction memoir,” he says slyly now, looking away from the wheel as we drive toward the PG&E site. “It’s definitely experimental, but it’s a form that I hope is very entertaining at the same time. Without commenting too much, it’s a novel. A docu-fiction memoir disguised as a novel with equal amounts of truth and half-truths mixed in. It is in part a story about my life as a musician and of my initiation at the hands of numerous women over a period of time, climaxing in the kidnapping of me by members of the Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail.”

And that is a real event?

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head vigorously. “That’s the modern name for a group that is actually an ancient mystery school that predates Sumer.

“I don’t want to sound too megalomaniac,” he continues modestly, “but I am one of the few so-called lesbian men that has been chosen to receive this initiation.”

And just what is a lesbian man?

“Well, many things,” he chuckles. “It means embodying feminism as a man without becoming a wimp. It means holding the masculine sacred, but in such a way that the feminine is glorified and enhanced. It means being a macho feminist. It means promoting the feminine archetype and the redemption of the feminine mysteries which have been so degraded, promoting and working on that with a masculine, aggressive style.”

Later, he expands. “It requires mastering a certain understanding of the spiritual value of menstrual periods. This is a very complex subject, and I can’t do it justice. But I will say that the male body does not enforce a time-out for our psychic and physical growth. The male body–and therefore the psyche–can go on endlessly without having to check back in to the inner source.

“I don’t want to glamorize the menstrual period for women,” he says, “but one of the values that it could possibly have–I don’t think that it necessarily does have–is if there were a cultural context for it that would require a retreat to a sanctuary and a return to a communion and a conversation with the subtle self. My theory is an idealistic one, but to the degree that we don’t allow the collapse and don’t allow the retreat, and welcome and encourage it, it turns into crankiness, it turns into bad moods, it turns into fucking up and being mean to people. If we acknowledge that we need to have this regular communion with our shadow, then our shadow is not going to rise up and demand to be paid attention to.”

Brezsny actually has his period as we speak, not that I can tell. “It’s not always on a 28-day cycle,” he says, “but for the last two days, I’ve definitely been on my period. My body’s been telling me to shut down and withdraw, and,” he says–alluding to our Bless-In–“I can’t always accommodate that.”

He stops the car. We get out in front of PG&E’s forlorn, weedy wrack of abandoned cement and poles, completely encircled with cyclone fencing. “This is the ugliest site in Marin that I know of,” he says appraisingly. “I’m sure there are others, but I go numb every time that I pass it. I’m alienated from the land that it’s on, and I want to heal my alienation to it. I want to overcome my tendency to numb out and fall asleep every time that I pass it. Because when you get into the habit of going numb and falling asleep, it tends to get easier to do that in other aspects of your life.”

From the trunk, he hauls out two of his paper bags. The third contains nothing but a pile of $1 and $5 bills for his handout scheme. Squatting in the wind before the locked gate, we begin placing the artifacts for the shrine: a gold paper doily and gold petit-four wrappers that we weight with “magic rocks,” the shiny quartz kind that line driveways.

What makes them magic?

“I say that they are,” he returns with a smile.

To these he adds the bag of beets, a box of red crayons, candy wax vampire teeth, a light-up red bubble candle from the Christmas when he was 3 years old, the green tops from the persimmons that grow at his home, some walnuts, pre-formed Christmas ribbons, and an unwrapped Mozart CD. We thread four pinwheels through the linkage. I lay some purgative herbs tied in a bunch with party ribbon, and homegrown nasturium seeds, as well as a short poem that I have composed and torn up, dotted with my favorite perfume. Taking up one of the magic rocks, Brezsny–who is a published poet–grabs a Magic Marker and writes “Bathe in persimmon light” on one side.

Sitting back on his heels, he looks in pleasure at what we’ve arranged. “My interest is as much personal as it is in transfer,” he says. “If I can charge up the energy of this place in some mysterious subtle way, that’s great. But I’m also healing my own ignorance and numbness about it, and that’s part of the excitement for me. There are many different kinds of healing. Healing is to help someone who is sick. Healing is to eliminate the mental and psychic blocks or traumas that wound someone psychically so that they can’t function. And also, healing is to bring beauty and truth to a person or to a site, and that’s one that I like to think that I specialize in.”

NOT SURPRISINGLY, we get lost trying to find the Lexus dealership. A chance turn finds us face to face with a notorious thrift store. Knocking over a box inside, Brezsny stoops to find that disgusting little His and Hers sex-panties sized to fit dolls have spilled out. We buy them. He also finds a lint remover made by the ousted workers of one of GM’s Flint, Mich., plants, immortalized in the documentary Roger & Me. “A Flint Lint Remover!,” he cries. We buy that. He gets a delicate fan for his daughter, a wedding registry dated for his birthday in 1921, and an old Marvel comic book. We then perform the aforementioned reverse panhandle and return to the couch of the New Age hucksterism emporium where we met.

“Astrology was right up there with rock and roll in being responsible for saving my life, because part of my soul had started to shrivel,” he says. “When I was in high school, it was the Dionysian spirit of rock and roll and the mythological language of astrology that really gave me something to hold on to. They were institutions, not just some product of my imagination, and that gave me the idea that there were other traditions in this world that could sustain and could nourish.”

We get up and approach the shrine room. A tiny pair of gold sandals sit reverently outside the door. Going in, we set the Flint Lint Remover, a gold party hat, the tree-trunk letter, and a small gold-backed doll’s mirror from the thrift store among the Shiva statues and stone Buddhas. They look perfectly in place.

As we return to our cars, my reporter’s instincts are dismayed. Where did he grow up, go to college, love, marry, learn to ride a bike? How the heck old is he?

I have spent the greater part of one entire afternoon with Rob Brezsny only to find that he likes to eat beets and that he drives an abhorrently filthy car. In a pathetic, joking attempt to cull any small scrap of personal information, I have already promised not to ask him what type of toothpaste he uses. I turn sadly away.

Brezsny stops by his open door. “Hey!” he calls.

I look up hopefully.

“Interplak!” he shouts.

Then he grins, gets in, and drives away.

From the August 1-7, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

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

EcoCorp Troubles

0

Sour Note

On the hot seat: J . B. Downing of EcoCorps fielded questions last week at a meeting in Occidental to clarify the motives and goals of the San Francisco­based environmental organization.

Photo by Michael Amsler


Discord grows at Ocean Song Farm and Wilderness Center as rumors rage about a Krishna connection.

By Greg Cahill and Sara Peyton

IT JUST DIDN’T feel right. From the start, Raoul Goff, his three brothers, and their colleagues–with their “BMWs, cell phones, and cartel ponytails,” as one local describes them–stood out starkly amid the slow pace and quaint Victorian storefronts along the quiet streets of Occidental, a small west county hamlet best known for its Italian restaurants and as a refuge for old-time hippies.

But it wasn’t just the newcomers’ stylish dress or their sometimes arrogant manner that seemed out of place to folks hanging out around the popular Union Hotel saloon. There also were persistent rumors that Goff, a 35-year-old Sonoma County native, and some of his cohorts–who last year bought into a non-profit public trust that includes a kids’ camp, ecology center, redwood groves, oak woodlands, and grassy ridgetops–are devotees of the Hare Krishna faith, a secretive sect with a checkered past.

Some grumbled that Ocean Song’s new partners had concealed that fact.

Yet, when Raoul Goff first rode into town last year as the head of EcoCorps, he was touted as a savior. His San Francisco­based environmental organization–which also has projects in Hawaii and India–paid $575,000 to buy half of the struggling Ocean Song Farm and Wilderness Center, tucked away in the rolling coastal hills along scenic Coleman Valley Road and regarded as the crown jewel of the county’s environmental scene.

Pieter Meyers, a generous west county environmentalist who already had donated $1 million worth of land and “forever wild” conservation easements, had been assured by EcoCorps that it would continue the mission of the renowned ecology center when he sold the property in July 1995 to raise cash.

Meyers, who donated the other half of the property to the Heirloom Land Trust, now says the deal has gone sour and he feels “duped” by EcoCorps.

Today, EcoCorps and the Heirloom Land Trust share in a co-tenancy agreement. Representatives from both organizations hold seats on the Heirloom Land Trust board of directors, which is chaired by Goff and controlled by EcoCorps. Sources say that plans were under way earlier this month to transfer title of the property exclusively to EcoCorps, which would have been able to pick up Ocean Song for half of market value, after Ocean Song was “pushed” by its the new partners to spend $100,000 in matching funds for improvements.

EcoCorps representatives deny any such plan existed, and several board members now say they will not support the move.

And then there are those unsettling Krishna rumors. In the sale agreement, EcoCorps promised to promote “a non-sectarian view of spirituality” and its relation to nature. But shortly before the deal was consummated, a Santa Rosa attorney working pro bono for Ocean Song discovered that one of Goff’s companies was printing Krishna-related books.

Ocean Song board members asked Goff about his Krishna connection. Goff denied having any link to the Hare Krishna church.

But Goff never mentioned later that an Internal Revenue Service tax exemption document filed by EcoCorps in October 1995 lists the organization as a church and an “outgrowth” of the worldwide Hare Krishna movement. It also notes that in 1980 Goff became head priest and temple leader at a Krishna center in the Bay Area.

More on that later.

For now, suffice to say that the state Attorney General’s Office is “looking into” the possibility that EcoCorps has breached the terms of the agreement. “We’ll certainly take a look at this from a charitable trust enforcement standpoint to see if there is a problem,” says Carol Kornblum, who heads up the attorney general’s non-profit corporation enforcement unit in San Francisco.

The fate of the Four Winds Ropes Course is left hanging.

A Somber Note

One year after local press reports touted EcoCorps as a white knight, the spectacular 340-acre Ocean Song Farm–the proposed centerpiece of a vast coastal network of publicly accessible hiking trails–is deep in debt and appears headed for imminent financial collapse. The staff, board of directors, and longtime community supporters are in turmoil as they ponder the future of the retreat.

Many now say EcoCorps has taken them for a ride.

“EcoCorps has played a major part in the financial collapse of this organization,” says David Berman, the environmental center’s education director, sounding a somber note. “If there is an intention on the agenda of EcoCorps to take over this project, I feel we will need community support and intervention to help us make it through . . . this difficult time.”

Part of the apprehension in the community is brought on by staff reports that Raoul Goff’s brother Jean Louis had bulldozed part of Ocean Song Farm’s lush landscape at midnight to make unauthorized road improvements and that Raoul Goff had told one top staffer that it was OK to exceed the county’s restrictions on the number of people allowed on the property because “no one’s going to know anyway.”

Goff was preparing to leave the country last week and declined to comment on this article.

The situation at Ocean Song–including the reports of changes being made without county permits in an unincorporated area where that is a extremely touchy subject–has galvanized neighbors and the surrounding community who for years have supported its unique ecology-centered programs, which now appear to be in jeopardy.

“This is one of the most beautiful areas in the county,” says Richard Charter, executive director at Sonoma Land Trust, which holds conservation easements on two-thirds of Ocean Song Farms. “It’s clustered with the county Open Space easements. It’s an incredible scenic corridor.”

It is Ocean Song’s trusted and long-standing ties to the area that makes Berman feel compelled to speak out now. “Over the past eight years, I have developed relationships with teachers, principals, parents, and children–all of whom look upon this place as a community resource,” he says. “The saddest part for me about all this is that the casualties are going to be the kids and their programs.

“This is not about badmouthing EcoCorps,” he adds. “It’s about preserving Ocean Song as a community resource.”

On July 18, the issue of EcoCorps’ role at Ocean Song–and the uncertain goals of its new co-owners–came to a head at an emotional meeting held at an octagon-shaped “temple” at Ocean Song Farm. It was attended by west county counterculture heavies Bill Wheeler, Sally Rasberry, and Delia Moon. A vast ocean view greeted about 50 Ocean Song staff members, EcoCorps representatives, neighbors, and others as they walked toward the single-story building, the pristine land stretching seemingly forever.

Everyone removed their shoes before entering. People sat on the floor in a circle, backs against the wall as they listened to Ron Karp, who until a month ago served as executive director at Ocean Song Farm, read aloud from the IRS document that also lists Stan Temple–an EcoCorps official and occasional visitor to Ocean Song–as being the organization’s “head priest.”

EcoCorps’ unblinking representative, J. B. Downing, a young, freckle-faced woman with wide eyes, white cotton T-shirt, and worn jeans, listened attentively. She then defied anyone present to find a link between EcoCorps, its publishing ventures, and the Krishna faith, even though she read a statement from Temple, admitting that the EcoCorps retreat in Hawaii is a church, but insisting it is a wholly separate entity from EcoCorps in San Francisco. To avoid further confusion, Downing noted that the EcoCorps board is changing the name of the Hawaiian church to Earth Aware.

Still, community support for Ocean Song has changed to concern as news of those alleged Krishna connections has filtered through town. “I am always ready to be a good neighbor. Hare Krishnas used to come up in the old days, as we call the ’60s, and dance and play music as we did our evening milking,” says Bill Wheeler, an Occidental painter and Coleman Valley Road neighbor. “But serious questions remain concerning the circumstances under which they bought into Ocean Song and the Heirloom Land Trust.”


JANET ORSI

The Krishna Connection

Although Goff has never been implicated or convicted of any crime related to Krishna activities, there are other groups that have run afoul of the law. And that’s what has some Occidental residents freaked out.

First, a little history. In the 1970s, the Hare Krishnas–with their shaven heads, saffron robes, and ecstatic chanting and dancing–became a familiar sight on street corners and at airport terminals. Adherents say they found in this strand of Hinduism a level of spiritual discipline sorely lacking in the Western religions. Detractors pegged it as a dangerous cult that brainwashed devotees.

At its peak, the movement–operated by the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON)–boasted 5,000 hardcore devotees living in 30 temples nationwide. But the 1977 death of A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the Indian guru who in 1966 brought the Krishna faith to New York, left a void in the organization. Coincidentally, Prabhupada had paid a visit to the Morningstar Ranch commune near Ocean Song that same year and recruited 10 devotees, some of whom are still among ISKCON’s top officials.

After his death, Prabhupada was replaced by a succession of gurus, each eventually forming his own charismatic splinter group.

By the 1980s, some renegade Krishnas had become involved in a string of murders, in stockpiling illegal weapons and cash, and in committing robberies and other crimes–the most glaring of which are chronicled in Monkey on a Stick: Murder, Madness, and the Hare Krishnas (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988), co-authored by John Hubner and Lindsey Gruson.

In the North Bay, sheriff’s deputies from Lake and Mendocino counties between 1980 and 1986 raided the 480-acre Mount Kailasa farm, a Krishna splinter group based outside of Hopland, recovering a cache of guns, stacks of human silhouette targets, stolen goods, and a briefcase full of disguises.

During that time–one of the most volatile periods of Hare Krishna history–the then-teenaged Goff studied about the religion with Hans “Hansadutta” Kary, one of the most controversial gurus in the Hare Krishna movement. Between 1978 and 1980, Kary held the highest spiritual authority within the ISKCON organization, but in 1986 he became embroiled in a $2 million lawsuit, with the Berkeley temple charging that he had tried “to seize control of the personal and real property assets of the Mount Kailasa Foundation to convert them to his own personal use.”

Kary, who now lives in northern Sonoma County, denied the charges. He was later excommunicated from the church.

He agrees that Goff is no longer affiliated with ISKCON, a contention supported by ISKCON officials in Los Angeles and splinter Krishna groups elsewhere. But sources say Goff continues to actively practice the Krishna faith, recently switching gurus and changing his spiritual name from Rahugana to Ram Dass.

Several former Krishna associates question Goff’s commitment to environmentalism. “A Krishna is a Krishna is a Krishna,” says one former religious associate, who has known Goff for years. “They could care less about the environment. All they care about is getting converts.”

On July 11, ISKCON–now numbering about 1,000 central devotees and another 50,000 occasional worshippers–marked its 30th anniversary with what church officials say is a new spirit of change. The movement now runs a variety of legitimate business interests, including a chain of vegetarian restaurants, an international relief program, and a publishing firm.

But suspicions about the activities of ISKCON splinter groups persist. In a recent New York Times article, Marcia R. Rudin of the International Cult Education program dismissed those changes as a public relations ploy. “They want to appear very mainstream,” she noted. “All the cults are very P.R.-minded.”

One of the most popular Krishna activities is real estate, says Kary, who last saw Goff in India in 1993. “They put up one front, doing business as a non-profit, which appears to be in line with what people are comfortable with. It often turns out that the Krishnas are basically misrepresenting themselves. In the early days, it was because the Krishnas were young. But that shouldn’t happen anymore–we’re all grown up now.”

Joe Kelly, a self-described ex-cult member who works in Pennsylvania with devotees interested in leaving the Hare Krishna church, says Krishna affiliates, especially the smaller groups, have looked to land acquisition as one quick way to gain wealth.

“There’s an idealistic primitive romantic notion that we all need to get back to nature,” he says.

While EcoCorps officials are publicly trying to distance themselves from the Krishna religion, including their own Hawaii-based church, its San Francisco­based office continues to promote Krishna concepts.

The EcoCorps office is located above a large lighting showroom in the heart of San Francisco’s trendy SOMA nightclub district. It is decorated with rattan furniture, Asian art, and potted palms. A table outside the office holds brochures for EcoCorps, Ocean Song Farms, and Manipur, which the literature describes as “a lost kingdom” in northeastern India. EcoCorps also sponsors a temple restoration project in Vrindaban–the spiritual center of the Krishna movement in India–and shares the spacious suite with Palace Press International, which prints Krishna books, and Mandala Media, which publishes a catalog of books devoted to “cultural preservation.”

When an Independent reporter calls EcoCorps’ office asking for literature linking environmentalism and spirituality–preferably something in league with the Krishnas–a receptionist gushes, “That’s absolutely what Mandala Media does!”

Indeed, it is. The colorful Mandala Media catalog includes a number of Krishna-related books, art prints, children’s coloring books, and calendars. Violet-baby deities, elephant gods, and Indian mystics abound, as do Hindu religious texts. The catalog even boasts that an “exciting new line of beautifully illustrated children’s books presents a charming and endearing narrative of the pastimes of Krishna”–a sort of pseudo-spiritual version of “My Little Pony.”

Then there are all those World Wide Web links. Type “EcoCorps” into the Netscape browser on the computer and you’ll be referred to the World Vaishnava Association membership list, which includes a host of Krishna-related ashrams and EcoCorps’ Hawaiian church. Or type in “Bhakti”–the keyword for Krishna–and you’ll get an invitation to visit the EcoCorps home page.

And then there’s that IRS document. It lists the names and backgrounds of top EcoCorps officials–including Goff, a former head of the San Francisco Krishna temple–and states that they have formed their independent organization “for the express purpose of offering the philosophical and practical knowledge of the 500-year-old Chaitanya Vaishnava religion (known in the West as Krishna Consciousness or “Hare Krishna”) to the general public. . . . The primary objectives of EcoCorps are (1) to teach all members of the public the importance of linking with God (Krishna) through service to Him, (2) to demonstrate practically how to engage in His service in the course of one’s everyday life, and (3) to provide an opportunity to so engage in God’s service.”

The Master Plan

Back at Ocean Song Farm, the brand-new executive director, Lynn Fitch, has placed a blanket over the architectural model of the property that shows some of EcoCorps’ lofty development plans. She came to Ocean Song last month from Alaska after working on a recycling program.

At her new job, she has walked into a financial and public relations disaster.

Fitch is responsible for implementing EcoCorps seemingly ambitious plans and is stunned by the community concern. “I’m shocked at the level of fear in Sonoma County,” Fitch says, commenting on the flap over Goff’s Krishna beliefs.

The proposed master plan, submitted to the county three months ago, includes a two-story dormitory, additional housing for staffers, and cabin facilities for 100 children and adults. Currently, no more than 100 people are allowed on-site at any given time, including staff.

The plan ruffled the feathers of west county Supervisor Ernie Carpenter, who met recently with representatives of Ocean Song to discuss the proposed changes. “We don’t want this to be Big Sur north,” he says. “The county Board of Supervisors legalized Ocean Song as a wilderness primitive retreat because of community support. From my point of view, we’ll get back to where we were [by downsizing the master plan] and it will be more primitive and suitable to children and day camping.”

County planners have asked Ocean Song to complete the work in three stages, first by bringing existing structures into compliance with county ordinances, then constructing new water and septic systems, and finally constructing new office, staff, and visitors’ buildings.

“Right now, Ocean Song is coming in with specific drawings, and that’s what we’re looking at to see if they are in substantial compliance to what was previously approved,” says county planner Kathi Jacobs. “The latest site plan is much larger than anyone had foreseen.”

EcoCorps reportedly has asked its architect to go back to the drawing board to rework the plans. But some Ocean Song staff members say EcoCorps is still pushing ahead to evict the company that runs a top-rated ropes course on the land (see sidebar), to eliminate the farm animals used to teach kids, and to end the youth nature programs–all to make way for a convention center. Already, sources say, EcoCorps has started excavating a lake without a county permit and has placed a large lawn, comprised of commercial sod, in the middle of Ocean Song’s prestigious two-acre organic garden–a move that could threaten the center’s organic gardening certification required by deed restrictions placed on the Heirloom Land Trust.

Fitch says that immediate plans call only for upgrading the property’s septic and water systems and improving the road that runs through the property.

Contrary to reports by Ocean Song staffers that EcoCorps plans to eliminate key programs, Fitch says, she wants to build on the existing environmental education programs. “My vision is to really help solidify the programs here so they become more interwoven,” she says, adding that she took her job because she was “intrigued” by EcoCorps’ concept of eco-tourism.

“The excitement for me is in the relationship that Ocean Song has with an international environmental group and what the future might hold for that,” she adds.

What does Pieter Meyers, who just wanted to find a buyer to carry out his environmental vision, think about all the brouhaha? “I am mad. The reason I am mad is this: We were misled. We said clearly that we didn’t want any religious affiliation,” says Meyers, 57, a graphic artist and land-use expert whose home sits on the over 350 acres adjacent to Ocean Song Farm. “The lesson in all of this is that you’ve got to do your homework. We could have set up a strong, iron-clad contract. Instead, EcoCorps overpowered us and the Heirloom Land Trust board. The board must share some responsibility in this. I mean, I like those people, but they did not do their job.

“They just weren’t savvy enough to catch this.”

Staff reporter Bruce Robinson contributed to this article.

From the July 25-31, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metro Publishing and Virtual Valley, Inc.

More EcoCorps

0

Fate of Four Winds Ropes Course up in the air

By Bruce Robinson

IF YOU KNOW where to look, you can spot the small wooden platforms high in the trees that cluster on the hillsides above the Big Barn at Ocean Song Farms and Wilderness Center, along with the harder-to-see cables that snake between the stately firs and gnarled oaks. These carefully installed bits of carpentry and hardware are the tools of the Four Winds Ropes Course, a for-profit outdoor “experiential training” company that has been operating on 10 acres of the Ocean Song property since 1992 and generating a steady stream of income for the financially strapped non-profit environmental center.

“We provided them with between $10,000 and $20,000 a year,” says John Springer, marketing director for Four Winds, “for which they had to do nothing. They provided the land.”

Although Four Winds holds a 10-year lease, the company’s future for the past year has been much like its clients: up in the air. In June of 1995, soon after the change in ownership at Ocean Song that made EcoCorps the dominant partner, the ropes course operators received a letter invoking the escape clause in the lease, and giving the required one-year notice that the Four Winds program would have to either be bought out or find a new home elsewhere.

The letter was a shock. After struggling to break even in its early years, the company had finally become profitable, establishing a national reputation with corporate clients while continuing to offer low-cost programs for hundreds of local school students every year. “Everything was going so well,” Springer says. “To get that letter was staggering.”

Subsequent developments are a little murky. In February of this year, the Heirloom Land Trust board voted to rescind the letter. EcoCorps also made an “insultingly low” offer to buy out the company at another point, sources say. Initial indications were that some retreat buildings were planned for the ropes course site, but that plan was later abandoned. Or perhaps it was never seriously intended.

“It became clear that no building was to be built, but it wasn’t clear why we were being asked to leave,” Springer says. “We said, ‘Put a building anywhere else. We’re meeting your charter here.’ “

Meanwhile, Four Winds’ repeated efforts to meet with the decision makers from EcoCorps have been ignored.

The year has passed and Four Winds continues to operate its ropes course–but warily. “It’s become apparent that their intention is to take over the ropes course,” Springer asserts. “They want to own and operate a ropes course there.”

With bookings stretching well into the months ahead, Four Winds is clinging to hope that it can still find a comfortable way to stay put. In the past week, Four Winds served the board of directors with formal acceptance of the retraction of the letter that first sought to cancel its lease, which should guarantee the ropes course a place at Ocean Song for at least another year.

At the same time, Four Winds is exploring options elsewhere just in case the other shoe might still drop.

From the July 25-31, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metro Publishing and Virtual Valley, Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Finding a Bond


Low-level espionage: Michelle Trachtenberg stars as Harriet, the girl who loves tomato sandwiches and peepholes.

Girls’ mag staffers detect soulmate in Harriet the Spy

By David Templeton

Writer David Templeton has taken nearly 100 authors, musicians, other skilled thinkers out to the movies. This time he discusses Harriet the Spy with seasoned New Moon magazine staffers Mavis Gruver and Molly McKinnon.

AFTER A FEW logistical hiccups have been overcome, our conference call apparatus is now in place. At the offices of New Moon–The Magazine for Girls and Their Dreams, in Duluth, Minn., are editorial board member Molly McKinnon (12 years old) and former board member, currently a New Moon intern, Mavis Gruver (15). In keeping with the groundbreaking magazine’s marvelous by-girls-for-girls format, with its message of practical, affirmative feminism, I have asked my daughters, Jenna (10) and Amber (9), to assist me.

Thus are we now huddled around the speaker phone, preparing to talk a little Harriet, as in Harriet the Spy–the movie.

Based on Louise Fitzhugh’s 1962 novel, Harriet is an immensely likable film, full of inspired kid-centric silliness and plenty of emotional edge. Starring Michelle Trachtenberg and Rosie O’Donnell (perhaps the ultimate role model for modern girls), this is the story of a kid who knows that she will be a writer, and who prepares herself by spying on friends and neighbors, recording her trenchant findings in her journal. Encouraged by Ole Golly, her nanny (O’Donnell), Harriet weathers such storms as her parents’ mystification at her “obsession with the notebook” and her friends’ unhappy discovery of her too-close-to-the-bone observations.

“I thought it was going to be lame,” Gruver remarks. “But I loved it! It kept itself close to the book.” Gruver, whose parents are Nancy Gruver and Joe Kelly, New Moon’s visionary publishers, is an avid reader with a solid track record as an editor, having honed her skills on the editorial board, made up of girls age 8 to 14. Now that she’s passed the magical 15-year mark, Gruver uses her experience to guide the younger staff members.

“I liked the movie, too,” McKinnon adds, her voice ringing with enthusiasm. “It’s a good girls’ movie. Harriet’s not just doing what everybody tells her to do. She makes up her own mind.”

“Ole Golly was great!” Gruver continues. “When she told Harriet, ‘You can do it yourself. You don’t have to depend on other people all the time,’ I thought that was good. Girls need to hear that, ’cause a lot of the time they’re told, ‘You can’t do that yourself. You need someone to help you.”

“‘Sit down, be quiet,'” McKinnon recites.

“Girls don’t need that. They need to be told that they can succeed on their own,” Gruver says.

“It’s kind of like that here at New Moon,” McKinnon suggests. “It’s great because all the adults are saying, “What do you want to do?’ instead of saying, ‘Here, do this.’ We make our own choices, and the adults support that.”

“It’s not grownups working for girls, or girls working for grownups,” Gruver adds. “It’s the grownups working with the girls.”

Amber jumps in to relate a conversation she had with two boys in her fencing class. They had just seen Harriet the Spy, in spite of its “girls’ movie” label. They loved it. “They can’t wait to see it again,” she adds.

“I would think boys would like it, if they gave it a try,” McKinnon affirms. “Harriet is not some prim little girl. She’s adventurous!”

“It’s not the kind of girls’ movie where boys would see it and go, ‘Eeeewww!'” Gruver says. “The hard thing is for boys to get to the point where they give what are called ‘girls’ movies’ a try. If they actually saw them, they’d like them, but they run away from anything with the word ‘girl’ in it, so they’re missing out.

“Most movies seem to be targeted at boys, anyway,” she adds. “And though boys would probably not go to a girl movie, girls would go to a boy movie because that’s pretty much all there is.”

So what attributes make for a good girl character?

“Girls who really stand up for themselves,” McKinnon explains. “Who do their own thing. When people tell them, ‘Be quiet. You have such a horrible temper,’ well, they may or may not be quiet, but even so . . . ” A knowing two-girl giggle rises up from the speaker, infecting my assistants on this end.

“Even so,” Gruver happily finishes the thought, “the girl still has her temper.”

From the July 25-31, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metro Publishing and Virtual Valley, Inc.

Wally Hedrick

0

Word Play

By Gretchen Giles

FLAPPING IN A GENTLE sea-forced wind behind the old creamery building in Bodega is one simple sign declaring the premises to be “Wally’s Fix-It Shop.” And while painter Wally Hedrick did spend a decade in the west Marin town of San Geronimo puttering over other people’s crummy toasters and Mixmasters-gone-wrong, this advertisement has also graced the entrance to gallery exhibition spaces, while some of his work continues to travel under the auspices of New York’s Whitney Museum.

Entitled “Beat Culture and the New America 1950-1965,” this overview of the California-based movement–due Oct. 5 at the M. H. de Young Museum in San Francisco–is not the only chance one has to see Hedrick’s witty catalog images, searing painterly objections to war, and paeans to sexuality.

Through Aug. 17, you can also catch a small slice of Hedrick’s long career, “Madonnas, Gods, and Goddesses,” at the King-Heller Gallery in sleepy ol’ Bodega.

Born in Pasadena some 67 years ago, Hedrick is as much a product of the Golden State as our ideas of the black-turtleneck-and-beret world of the beats are a product of him. Co-founder of the 6 Gallery that hosted poet Allen Ginsberg’s first public reading of “Howl,” Hedrick was married to abstract painter Jay De Feo–whose “Rose” painting was so imbued with acrylics that it weighed more than a ton, necessitating that an apartment wall be knocked out to move the piece when she and Hedrick changed homes–and was an unwilling conscript of the Korean War (legend has it that the army had to dispatch soldiers to literally hunt Hedrick down on enlistment day).

Returning from his tour, he enrolled at the California School of Fine Arts (now the Art Institute of San Francisco, where Hedrick also taught for 10 years), meeting such restless youth as Bruce Conner, George Herms, Wallace Berman, and Jess [Collins], who strove to create art in the cheap-wine/cool-jazz giddiness of postwar West coast culture.

Driven by the economics of poverty, Hedrick collected junk and refashioned it–now a familiar idea, but one that was then unusually juxtaposed against the mass-market tract-housing trends of the Eisenhower years–rendering such recycled beautites as a Christmas tree of castoffs. Participating in the dump-aesthetic that formed the nucleus of the California Funk movement, Hedrick became a skilled painter, using his canvases to parse out his puns and concepts.

“Everyone who’s going to paint has to go through all of those things so that they understand them,” he says. “I’ve painted abstractly, I’ve painted objectively, I’ve painted watercolors, and oils–that was to get skills, like practicising scales. But then I finally realized that the idea was more important than the other aspects, that I could get an idea and realize it.

“The execution used to be a great pleasure, but now it’s getting tedious,” he says, gesturing to the exacting, pointillistic style he uses to render the catalog-style blow-ups that he’s been creating the early 1970s.

“It’s not that it’s a drag to have to paint,” he asserts quickly, “but that’s moderated by stumbling on things that I can add to what I’m working to. Those little moments still happen. But the execution, especially because the way I’m working now is very slow and very precise.”

Why not hire an art student to apply the paint?

“I’ve tried that,” Hedrick chuckles. “I’m too dictatorial.”

Riffing off puns and word-fueled images, Hedrick has even gone so far as to evolve two alter egos, one female–Jenny Saypaugh (say it slow with a French accent)–and her male counterpart, Harry Fallick, whose name was borne by a real-life B-flick Hollywood producer. Saypaugh has entered and been accepted to all-female exhibitions, and her self-portrait occupies one full wall at the King-Heller.

“I just do what I do,” Hedrick shrugs, “and later it takes some auditor to see what’s there. I don’t consciously make female-oriented paintings, and I don’t set out to make political paintings–well, sometimes I do, and sometimes there are sexual connotations–but I didn’t paint it for that reason. The work flows out of that room,” he says, gesturing to his studio, “and later I guess it can be broken down.”

Hedrick has long been as attracted by the visual formation of words on a page or hand-lettered sign as by the meaning they convey. “I see the words as patterns,” he says. “The meaning is almost secondary to the formal aspects that have to do with the work.”

Informed by the Dadaistic philosophy that led French artist Marcel Duchamp to submit an unaltered “readymade” urinal wryly entitled “The Fountain” to a 1917 exhibit, Hedrick primarily uses images to transmit ideas.

“Nowadays, we call it conceptual thinking,” he says, sounding every inch the art professor he once was. “I try to combine that with what I call subjective reality, and that means making things real the way that I think that they are, even though it may not be visually accepted by you, in the sense that you have a preconceived idea of how things are. Well, so do I. So I try to limit myself to my own visual reality, and,” he laughs, “forget about trying to convince someone else.

“For me it’s important that the techniques that I have–and the longer you do it, the better you get–are used to approach how I visualize the idea, instead of how it looks. Sometimes it looks photographic, and if that’s important, well, I’ve got all kinds of techniques to do that.”

Speaking of the slice of work showcased in Bodega, he says. “I show. But there’s no great hurry. I mean, I’m not worried about making my place in the art world at 67. Either I have, or I’m not going to.

“The hell with it.”

“Madonnas, Gods, and Goddesses” runs through Aug. 17. King-Heller Gallery, Salmon Creek Road at Bodega Hwy., Bodega. Hours: Saturday-Sunday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. 876-3305.

From the July 25-31, 1996 issue of the Sonoma Independent

This page was designed and created by the Boulevards team.
© 1996 Metro Publishing and Virtual Valley, Inc.

Arts & Crafts Time

Feeling CraftyBy Gretchen GilesI AM A BAD MOTHER. I'll admit it. Not that the kids are starving or being beaten or forced to sleep outside in the rain or denied schooling or hugs or books or videos or tree forts or popsicles or garden plots. They have all of those things. To borrow from Judith Viorst, what makes me...

Stanley Mouse

Stormin' HeavenBy Steve BjerklieTHE MAN WHO helped create the most famous death icon in the world--the grinning skull and roses of the Grateful Dead--is talking about quite the opposite. "At one point there were hundreds all around me, shining and floating around," says poster artist Stanley Mouse. "One would go by and I'd say, 'Did you see her? Did...

Sausages

Hot LinksDWIGHT CASWELLFat-free? Ha!: Frenchie White of Montibella Sausage cooks up a mess of tasty sausage.Local chefs build a better banger By Dwight CaswellTHE SETTING is a Farmlands Group wine and food tasting on the elegant grounds of Sonoma-Cutrer Winery. At the tables beneath large white umbrellas, with manicured croquet lawns in the background, wineries, restaurants, and...

Textbook Case

By the BookBy Gretchen GilesIT TAKES a whole village to raise a child. At least that's what those of us with children in elementary or high school are being taught right now. Multiculturalism is in in a big way, from the cast of Sesame Street strategically strung out along racial-, gender-, and abilities-oriented guidelines to Coca-Cola ads that threaten...

Virtual Vittles

Virtual VittlesJanet OrsiEat your words: From alligator stew to zucchini boats, the Internet is an index to the kitchen.Using the Web to find that perfect recipe By David TempletonTHE PARTY INVITATION arrived unsurreptitiously in the morning mail, along with a stack of coupons and grocery ads and a promotional disc for yet another Internet software service. "Pirate's...

Real Astrology

Heaven on EarthHands out: A taxi full of eager hands (and their attached humans) are glad to help Rob Brezsny unload a bit of his cash on a busy street corner.Photo by Janet OrsiAstrologer Rob Brezsny follows the signs to beauty and truthBy Gretchen GilesBEARING a straightened-out cardboard box inked with the legend "I love to help, I...

EcoCorp Troubles

Sour Note On the hot seat: J . B. Downing of EcoCorps fielded questions last week at a meeting in Occidental to clarify the motives and goals of the San Francisco­based environmental organization.Photo by Michael AmslerDiscord grows at Ocean Song Farm and Wilderness Center as rumors rage about a Krishna connection.By Greg Cahill and Sara PeytonIT JUST DIDN'T...

More EcoCorps

Fate of Four Winds Ropes Course up in the airBy Bruce RobinsonIF YOU KNOW where to look, you can spot the small wooden platforms high in the trees that cluster on the hillsides above the Big Barn at Ocean Song Farms and Wilderness Center, along with the harder-to-see cables that snake between the stately firs and gnarled oaks. These...

Talking Pictures

Finding a BondLow-level espionage: Michelle Trachtenberg stars as Harriet, the girl who loves tomato sandwiches and peepholes.Girls' mag staffers detect soulmate in Harriet the SpyBy David TempletonWriter David Templeton has taken nearly 100 authors, musicians, other skilled thinkers out to the movies. This time he discusses Harriet the Spy with seasoned New Moon magazine staffers Mavis...

Wally Hedrick

Word PlayBy Gretchen GilesFLAPPING IN A GENTLE sea-forced wind behind the old creamery building in Bodega is one simple sign declaring the premises to be "Wally's Fix-It Shop." And while painter Wally Hedrick did spend a decade in the west Marin town of San Geronimo puttering over other people's crummy toasters and Mixmasters-gone-wrong, this advertisement has also graced the...
11,084FansLike
4,606FollowersFollow
6,928FollowersFollow