Jan. 1: Olives on Canvas in Sonoma

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Olive aficionados rejoice! The annual olive season is upon us, with a full month of events designed around the fawned-over fruit taking place throughout the Sonoma Valley. The festivities begin this week, when neighborhood art gallery Studio 35 unveils olive-inspired paintings in its ‘Olive Season Art Show.’ Local artists submitted work last month, and judges will grant a winner to be displayed prominently on all the posters and promotions. A celebratory opening reception reveals the winner and displays all the artistic entries on Friday, Jan. 1, at Studio 35, 35 Patten St., Sonoma. 6pm. 707.934.8145.

Jan. 6: Returning Talent in Mill Valley

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Longtime California singer and songwriter Lauren Murphy first gained admiration for her voice, lending it to popular Bay Area band Zero, alongside her late husband Judge Murphy. She and Judge would go on to form the popular Lansdale Station in 2005, though Judge’s death in 2013 changed her musical focus. Last year, she recorded her first solo album in a decade, a tribute to her late husband called El Dorado, and this year Murphy moved from the West Coast to the small artistic-minded community of Fairhope, Ala. Now Murphy is back in the North Bay with a full band and ready to kick out the jams on Wednesday, Jan. 6, at Sweetwater Music Hall, 19 Corte Madera Ave., Mill Valley. 8pm. $17–$20. 415.388.1100.

Sounds Good

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There were plenty of good albums in 2015, just not many that went to the next level, making this a bit of a down year for music. These albums, though, stood out for me.

1. Adele, ’25’ (XL) This follow-up may not quite equal Adele’s 2011 blockbuster, 21, but it comes very close. Especially impressive are several songs (“All I Ask,” “Million Years Ago” and “Love in the Dark”) that feature little more than Adele’s vocal and either piano or guitar, an arrangement that only works with songs as strong as these.

2. Courtney Barnett, ‘Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit’ (Mom + Pop Music) Barnett’s smart and funny lyrics highlight this full-length debut, but the music is just as good, whether it’s spiky and catchy or gentle with a little edge.

3. D’Angelo, ‘Black Messiah’ (RCA) Black Messiah may draw from familiar roots, such as ’60s and ’70s soul and funk, but D’Angelo’s sound is his own, with swirling, gauzy textures that draw the listener in and leave an intoxicating effect.

4. The Weeknd, ‘Beauty Behind the Madness’ (XO/Republic) Beauty Behind the Madness has much more to offer than its great single, “Can’t Feel My Face.” There are 13 more sharply crafted songs on this album that should make the Weeknd R&B’s next major star.

5. Jason Isbell, ‘Something More Than Free’ (Southeastern) With Something More Than Free, Isbell delivers another largely acoustic, lyrically incisive gem of an album.

6. Florence + the Machine, ‘How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful’ (Island) Florence Welch and company rock a bit more and sound a bit less opulent on their fine third album.

7. Best Coast, ‘California Nights’ (Harvest) The duo of Bethany Cosentino and Bobb Bruno get a bit edgier without losing the classic pop melodicism of their first two albums.

8. Chris Stapleton, ‘Traveller’ (Mercury Nashville) Stapleton wowed viewers in November when he paired with Justin Timberlake on the CMA Awards. Fans will find Stapleton’s rootsy debut album, Traveller, just as impressive.

9. The Arcs, ‘Yours, Dreamily’ (Nonesuch) Fronted by Dan Auerbach, the Arcs have similarities to his main band, the Black Keys. But nearly every song on Yours, Dreamily has a musical twist that makes the Arcs sound plenty original.

10. Ashley Monroe, ‘The Blade’ (Warner Bros. Nashville) Monroe continues to make her mark with this lyrically smart, hooky and musically diverse third album.

The Femme Awakens

If there’s anything we can learn from 2015 in film, it’s the lesson that complaining vociferously and ceaselessly is always a good policy.

A few years ago, during the height of the Frat Pack, there were so many males onscreen that you wondered if they’d passed some Elizabethan-style law against women actors. But maybe someone was listening to the despair of filmgoers, because look at the year we just had. Daisy Ridley’s Rey rejuvenates Star Wars: The Force Awakens, handsomely countering George Lucas’s tendency to turn the few women in his space operas into wax statues or, in one notorious case, cheesecake fit for a Hutt.

We had the true aim of Jennifer Lawrence’s Katniss Everdeen, underestimated one last time by the effete and the elite. Mad Max was upstaged by Charlize Theron’s Mad Maxine. (One of my regular correspondents suggests that Aunty Entity’s “Bust a Deal, Spin the Wheel” from Beyond Thunderdome ought to have come up with the dire fate, “Replaced by Girl.”) Here was Jessica Chastain as the master of the interplanetary Hermes in The Martian. There was 007’s companion Léa Seydoux giving Blofeld a well-deserved facial with high explosives.

In less bombastic films, the repeated depiction of the inner world of women defied the fact that female directors are still a small minority compared to men. The documentary Amy was a warning to bright talented girls who believe they should give their souls over to love, as much as it was a CSI examination of a fragile woman done to death. Compare Amy Winehouse’s troubles with the backbone of the lonely but brave Eilis, played by Saoirse Ronan—maybe the single most stirring performance of the year—in Brooklyn.

There was Shu Qi’s lovelorn killer in eighth century China in
The Assassin, and Elizabeth Banks’ charm-school-educated saleswoman who learns how to stand her ground against a master manipulator in Love & Mercy. And I hope Alicia Vikander’s tremendous acting in Ex Machina shook the obscene self-confidence of the engineers plotting the next step in artificial intelligence.

Showstoppers

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Theatrical undertakings are a little like cats and dogs. Some are just a whole lot easier to love than others.

Here are the shows I loved the most from the 87 I saw last year, my own personal top ten torn tickets of 2015.

1. The Convert (Marin Theater Company) Danai Gurira’s magnificently intimate epic about racial and spiritual clashes in colonial Africa exceeded expectations by balancing humane humor with scathing observations about the relationship between religion and power. Brilliantly directed by Jasson Minadakis, with a gorgeously crafted, heartbreaking performance by Katherine Renee Turner, the story of an African convert to Christianity—and how her faith dropped her into a battle between her culture and country—The Convert not only achieved Bay Area theater perfection, it transcended it.

2. Yesterday Again (6th Street Playhouse/Lucky Penny Productions) Few North Bay shows this year generated the buzz produced by Dezi Gallegos’ ambitious exploration of how our choices in the present set the course for what happens in the future. Directed with power and grace by Sheri Lee Miller (between rounds of chemo), the script might have been guilty of overreaching, but with stunning insights and a fully committed cast (including a career-best performance by Craig Miller), this shaggy-dog story was easily one of the most rewarding and unforgettable productions of the year.

3. The Amen Corner (Marin AlterTheatre) James Baldwin’s 1954 play about personal choices and social politics within a small storefront church in Harlem was staged by AlterTheatre in a cramped corner of a San Rafael fitness center—and it worked. Directed by Jeanette Harrison, with a riveting lead performance by Cathleen Riddley as the strong-willed Sister Margaret, whose congregation is plotting to oust her, The Amen Corner, with rousing gospel songs to underscore the drama, was—like a good sermon—deeply moving, beautifully told and not easy to shake off.

4. The Light in the Piazza (Spreckels Theatre Company) In stripping its orchestra down to a tight chamber ensemble, simultaneously recruiting stellar voices from beyond the recognizable North Bay usual suspects, director Gene Abravaya tackled a complex musical and carried it off with charm, simplicity and obvious love—and the feeling was infectious.

5. Clybourne Park (6th Street Playhouse) In Bruce Norris’ cheeky, dark-comedy spinoff of Lorraine Hansberry’s Raisin in the Sun, racial tensions in the ’50s contrast with similar struggles today. Under Carl Jordan’s sensitively probing direction, a strong cast delivered the goods, uncomfortably at times, but without losing touch with the script’s brutally funny, sharply satirical intensions.

6. Choir Boy (Marin Theatre Company) There was a lot of conversation when director Kent Gash’s visually stunning and emotionally devastating staging of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s Choir Boy opened at Marin Theatre Company. The main topics were the show’s male nudity and it’s drop-dead gorgeous a cappella gospel harmonies, but the real reason to see the play—the story of a young, black gay man struggling to be accepted at a prestigious African American boy’s school—was the script’s achingly honest heart.

7. Arcadia (Cinnabar Theater) Tom Stoppard’s time-bending drama about math, poetry, murder, love and one long-buried mystery, was staged by director Sheri Lee Miller as a kind of love letter to eccentricity and human desire to achieve something beautiful. In the process, that’s exactly what it achieved.

8. Assassins (Narrow Way Stage Company) Stephen Sondheim’s powerfully patriotic pastiche about history’s motley collection of true-life presidential assassins, all swapping stories and songs about their crimes, was richly staged by co-directors Trevor Hoffman and Skylar Evans as part of Sonoma Arts Live. Well cast, strongly performed and endlessly entertaining, this was one of the best musicals of the year.

9. The North Plan (Main Stage West) The thing about Jason Wells’ North Plan—set in a rural jail during a right-wing takeover of America—was that its anything-goes storytelling was as loopy as its characters, and just as entertaining. Directed by Rick Eldridge with an emphasis on rising menace and tension, it didn’t always work, but it packed a weird, wacky wallop, one gut-punch at a time.

10. Taming of the Shrew (Curtain Theater) Shakespeare’s famous battle of the sexes, staged outdoors by Marin’s Curtain Theatre, and directed by Carl Jordan, was adorably cheerful, colorful, strange and wonderful. Melissa Claire and Alan Coyne were so good as Kate and Petruchio, the play was a love letter to love, an examination of how complex, damaged people learn to tempt, tame and talk to each other. It was also laugh-out-loud hilarious.

Debriefer: December 30, 2015

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HISTORY REPEATS

News broke after Christmas that a Cleveland grand jury would not be bringing charges against police officers involved in the shooting of 12-year-old Tamir Rice earlier this year. In a year where news cycles were often dominated by police shootings—many taking on uncomfortable racial dimensions—the Rice event seemed to be the incident most similar to the October 2013 shooting in Roseland of 13-year-old Andy Lopez.

Both boys were shot and killed while carrying Airsoft pellet guns, and each episode raised alarms among police-reform advocates about the very few seconds that elapsed before officers arriving on the scene opened fire. The caught-on-tape Cleveland situation looked very, very bad at the outset, as the officers barely emerged from their cruiser before shooting Rice. And yet . . .

The aftermath of the Lopez tragedy brought intense focus on local police practices and demands for greater civilian oversight, but the Lopez case never even made it to a grand jury: Sonoma County District Attorney Jill Ravitch exonerated Sheriff’s Deputy Erick Gelhaus in 2014, and this year the Department of Justice declined to pursue federal civil rights charges against Gelhaus. A separate civil lawsuit is expected to go to trial in the San Francisco Federal District Court in April. Prediction: Alas, it doesn’t look good for the Lopez family.

FIGHT FOR $15

One of our favorite people is wage-agitator and all around good guy Marty Bennett, a passionate and persistent advocate for the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors to pony up a $15 an hour living wage for, among others, the thousands of in-home support service (IHSS) workers who provide critical care to the elderly and infirm. The supervisors passed an ordinance on Dec. 15 that raises the pay for all county employees to a minimum of $15 an hour beginning in July 2016, including employees in private sector companies that have contracts with the county.

There’s also a phase-in for nonprofit contract employees, who will hit the $15 mark in by 2017 (just in time for the rent to go up again). The IHSS workers were left out of the deal. Prediction: It’s never going to happen until the state pays for the bump from $11.65 to $15. Sorry, Marty.

DUMB POT BUSTS

Twenty fifteen was like any other year in the North Bay, with the predictable onslaught of grow-yard busts around harvest time that this year included a pretty over-the-top police raid on Oaky Joe Munson’s medical-cannabis site in Forestville that came complete with the military-surplus tank. The Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office has made no secret of the fact that it would bust pot grows as if California had never passed a medical cannabis bill in 1996—which is to say that it would rely on the federal prohibition to justify raids that are otherwise pretty unjustifiable.

Munson was growing cannabis for AIDS patients and other medical-marijuana patients, and he’s facing illegal-grow charges even as California passed a sweeping set of medical cannabis bills this year designed to corral a wildly disparate enforcement regime across the state. Prediction: President Obama will surprise everyone, yet again, with a late-game push to end the federal prohibition.

The Elementals

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The North Bay looks to the new year as 2015 departs like Godzilla.

That is, the promised Godzilla of El Niño, which has arrived with lashing rains and high winds and the potential to quench a drought that has hung since well before Bruce Jenner’s gender reassignment—one of the more notable California storylines of 2015, not to change the subject from the end of the world or anything.

The big local news stories in the North Bay took on an elemental bent in 2015: fire and water and lots of drought-parched earth. There were massive fires in Lake County that drifted down to Napa and did billions of dollars in damage, but not much in the way of fresh, drought-busting water to speak of until the El Niño dam burst late in the year.

Over the holiday week, any cursory review of the weather scene across the nation would have provided all the evidence one needs that freakish El Niño–inspired stuff is breaking out all over: 70 degrees on Christmas Day in New York City? That’s very unusual.

And it’s all because of the mighty Pacific Ocean, which may look the same as it always has from the shoreline, as one gazes at it in a poetic frame of mind. But the ocean has changed, is changing, will continue to change as average temperatures continue to climb and political leaders suggest you buy a Tesla.

Polar bears are floating around on ice cubes, very sad, but the local fallout wrought by drought and global warming and El Niño has hit home too.

Because of a persistent and huge blob of overly warm offshore waters, Californians couldn’t capture or eat the iconic and delicious Dungeness crabs this year because they might have died from domoic acid poisoning. Fishers can’t catch a salmon from creeks parched by the drought, even as Big Science pushes a genetically modified frankenfish alternative, while back in the ocean, starfish wasted away by the millions, and starving sea lion pups washed up all over the coast for lack of available food. And why is there a poisonous sea serpent in the sand that has never been seen in these parts before?

Welcome to the end times, a California of annual fires, El Niño floods, epic mudslides and chronic earthquakes ever on the horizon. The state is well-positioned for an exponential outburst of all of the above. Will someone please page Mike Davis already? Recent “king tides” washed up to ever higher points along the shoreline in Marin and Sonoma counties and provided a glimpse of what’s to come.

You don’t need to be a North Bay Nostradamus to appreciate the fragility and interconnectedness of the natural world, and how various weather-related phenomena are conspiring to wipe out the state of California, at least according to a worst-case map of scenarios that made the rounds in 2015.

The end is near! The sea is taking its vengeance! The signs are everywhere! Last week, a kayaker was sucked out of the upper reaches of Tomales Bay to a death on the ocean, a reminder of what a year it was on the bay, where dozens of people had to be rescued from certain rough-seas doom.

The end is near! The sky is bleeding chemtrails, they’re fluoridating the water and parents are whooping it up over anti-vaxxer propaganda. But even still, Sonoma and Marin counties kept on keeping on with their variously well-intentioned projects to deal with the global-warming conundrum, and possibly build a few units of affordable housing along the way.

Next-generation power is on the march, as Sonoma Clean Power celebrated its first year providing cleaner and locally produced energy to residents, and the counties are pleased to announce that the Sonoma-Marin Area Transit system might take some cars off of Highway 101 by next December, alleviating the crush of cars and perhaps helping the Bay Area avoid a fate similar to that of smog-choked China in the process.

There was some good news for those who would just as soon fire up some Mother Nature and forget the doomsday scenarios in a blizzard of Doritos and Netflix binges. The state got its medical-cannabis house in order with a set of laws signed by Gov. Brown, while Marin supervisors did their part and agreed to license four medical marijuana dispensaries in that county.

Cannabis liberation seems imminent, the boutique-craft, cannabis-cafe plans are getting rolled out, and now we await the well-funded pushback campaign from the fuddy-duddies as California moves toward an expected 2016 outright-legalization vote, if the world hasn’t ended by then.

Now let’s all go watch Guy Fieri eat something on TV.

Charmed

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‘Oh, you’re going to Valette!” lights up a party guest when I reveal the after-party plan. “We were there just last week,” exclaims another guest proudly.

It is clear that even half a year into opening, Valette is still very much the talk of the town. The restaurant is helping cement Healdsburg’s reputation as a food lover’s destination.

It’s understandable. Valette possesses all the qualities that make a diner’s heart melt. It’s a story of locality and family pride. Valette is owned by brothers Dustin Valette, head chef, and Aaron Garzini, who leads the front of the house.

The dark-toned dining room is dominated by an appealing (and huge) painting of a bull in a pasture and accented by modern lighting fixtures. The kitchen is open and affords an eye-catching view the charcuterie hanging in a glass-fronted refrigerator. The long, welcoming bar fits nicely within the aesthetic of Healdsburg’s fine-dining scene while bringing its own refined, if a little rustic, edge.

Valette’s service is informal and knowledgeable, especially if you get the cheery, slightly theatrical John, who makes you feel as if you’re a guest at your favorite uncle’s. It all goes toward making Valette a hit—but in the end, the food has to shine through.

Just like the bull painting, Valette’s menu lures you in with simplicity and familiar ingredients—and like the designer lamps, it surprises with imaginative flair.

My dinner starts on a classic note, a charcuterie and cheese sampling ($21), accompanied by warm rolls and butter. The beef torchon, the brazeola and Bohemian Creamery cheeses are all great, and the soft rolls, flavored with roasted garlic and fennel seed, are a delicious match.

Next comes the delicate ahi tataki ($15). Every self-respecting establishment, it seems, serves some version of seared tuna, but Valette’s stands out. Ridiculously fresh and seasoned with just a touch of lime, the ahi is perched on a mixture of cubed persimmon, tiny croutons, friseé and pomegranate seeds, with an artistic smudge of persimmon purée. Kitchens often treat these accompaniments as unimportant additions, but here the fresh, sweet and sour salad is a worthy partner to the tuna.

The entrées all sound fascinating, if a little busy. Combining many elements on a plate is a symptom of California restaurants, from San Francisco to Sonoma. Sometimes it works, and sometimes the idea overwhelms the flavor. Valette generally avoids the pitfalls.

The striped bass ($29), however, served over yellow lentil dal and dressed in a coconut emulsion, doesn’t add up. The bass is perfectly crisp and juicy, but the Indian elements in the dish took could be more bold and flavorful.

Taking a Mediterranean turn, the lamb bacon ($29) is exceptional. Served with cumin-flavored chickpea-flour fries, chickpea and olive relish and hummus, it’s a clever ode to the many faces of the humble legume. Bit the lamb is the star of the plate. It came in a charred hunk, a humble presentation that conceals its preparation. The lamb shoulder is thinly sliced, explains the waiter, rolled and smoked “just like bacon.” But it’s nothing like bacon; it’s better. Underneath the crispy outlines, the lamb retains its juicy texture and comes out tender and smoky, and the lemony relish lights up the rich, bacony flavor.

Charmed, we almost forget about the side dish, baby vegetable jardinière ($7). Again, technique and attention to detail shine through, in the form of four Brussels sprouts, lightly pickled and deep fried whole, accompanied by marinated and seared carrots, fennel and more chickpeas.

There’s almost no room for dessert, but the red wine-poached quince ($8) sounds light enough. Unfortunately, the tiny quince slices are hidden in a dense frangipane tart, putting the dessert on the heavier side of the list. The chai and bourbon ice cream beside it is fantastic, especially when the wine-flavored salt garnish makes it onto the spoon.

It’s small touches like this that make Valette a serious contender for Healdsburg’s best new restaurant. Valette manages to create something rare: memorable flavors and surprising moments. I expect customers will be coming back for exactly that long after the halo moves on to somewhere else.

Valette, 344 Center St., Healdsburg. 707.473.0946.

Not Ready

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When the question is asked near the beginning—”Is America ready for its first black president?”— it needs to be answered near the end. And as Barack Obama comes into the homestretch of his term in 2016 the answer, sadly, is no.

If nothing else, 2015 offered a rolling reminder of the first year of Barack Obama’s presidency with its numerous parallel events and template-setting episodes that have now come to a full head of hateful steam in the emergent American Serbia of the mind, if not deed. The embodiment is Donald Trump, presidential candidate, notorious birther, resident American fascist and bomb-thrower.

If hope and change were the Obama buzzwords in 2009, the lesson of 2015 is that a bunch of overstimulated, hopelessly right-wing pseudo statesmen haven’t changed, grown up, dropped the sub rosa race-bait narrative—even as Obama delivered on his fair share of what he promised way back when.

Don’t ask me why Obama’s race is still an issue; ask Lou Dobbs. The immigrant-bashing news anchor blabbed to the Fox masses about how Obama only became president because he played the “race card,” a curiously timed outburst given that Dobbs made it just two weeks ago.

One suspects the true motive for the race-card redux politics has to do with an inevitable pivot to the gender card embodied by Hillary Clinton. To beat Clinton, goes the takedown logic, you must first lynch Obama all over again.

Having failed its first black president, is America ready for its first woman president? Not if Trump has anything to do with it, as the GOP frontrunner’s sick and weird comments about Clinton’s bathroom break during a Democratic debate would indicate.

Trump’s obsession with genitals was one of the more telling developments as the year wound down and the GOP establishment continued to grapple with a Trump beast of its own unleashing. Trump’s fallback position when it comes to women is to be grossed out by simple bodily functions, and his emergence as a legitimate candidate for president in 2015, as party standard-bearer at 39 percent in the polls and rising, signals the arrival of an acceptably visceral politics of disgust, disgrace and demeaning language—with all the wink-nod whiffs of malice and conjecture about that Kenyan socialist dictator ever at the ready, because it’s all his fault.

The conflation of Islamophobia and Obamaphobia is the persistent backdrop that defines a reactionary and highly personalized politics around Obama, and that dynamic really took off this year in the aftermath of the Paris and San Bernardino terror attacks.

When Trump says that Hillary got “schlonged” by Obama as he did last week, he is invoking the racial slander of the Old South, in which accusations of black men raping white women were used to justify lynchings. Trump is not alone in vowing a phallocentric outburst of ISIS carpet-bombing to settle the score.

But why is that anything new?

The first year of Obama’s presidency was dominated by efforts to hold off the collapse of the American economy and undo the damage wrought by the smirking failure who previously occupied the White House. As he rolls into his last year as president, Obama appears to have largely succeeded on that front, but you’d never know it.

Then as now, Obama and his accomplishments are drowned out by the pugnacity, the sneers, the lies and the anger that regularly emits from so-called victims of Obama’s presidency and their enablers in the political-media establishment—blue-collar workers of the white persuasion left in a new-economy wilderness of shifting demographics. They are content to gloat about their anti-intellectualism as those voters continue to cling to the guns and religion that made them hate Obama in the first place.

The most recent outburst from the ramparts of dumbed-down America came in the form of a classroom lesson, a Virginia school and a teacher who had offered a lesson in calligraphy late in 2015 that utilized Arabic text. Parents were outraged, they were disgusted, and they were scared, and a compliant mainstream media gobbled up an all-too-familiar set piece that gives credence to the foolish vagaries of spittle politics.

In 2009, Obama thought it would be a good idea to tape a pep talk for kids headed back to school that September, and made available a speech for schools to show students if they chose to do so. Many did not, as fearful white parents freaked out at the idea and demanded that their children not be exposed to the half-white, non-legitimate menace. There’s a timeless quote from a Colorado parent that made the rounds back then that continues to resonate, six years later: “Thinking about my kids in school having to listen to that just really upsets me,” Shanneen Barron told CNN. “I’m an American. They are Americans, and I don’t feel that’s OK. I feel very scared to be in this country with our leadership right now.”

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That all sounds familiar, and the subtext was obvious: Maybe those people’s kids need to hear that garbage from Obama, but not mine. And when the feared socialist-indoctrination speech turned out to be some pretty wholesome stuff about staying in school and doing your homework, the fear-lovers and schlong-mongers of the right just blew it off and moved to the next available outrage—over whether the 2009 Fort Hood mass shooting was an act of terrorism and why didn’t Obama say as much, even though he did say as much.

This obsession over that word, and its deployment, was in full force late this year, which found some of the media at its absolute desperate worst following the San Bernardino shootings. The Los Angeles Times flagrantly champed at the “Is it terrorism?” bit for days as it reported on San Bernardino, until such time as it was able to offer fear-jacking teasers like this: “Follow the Times‘ latest coverage of the worst terrorist attack on American soil since Sept. 11, 2001.”

The implication was obvious, even if the fact patterns couldn’t have been more starkly different. In one attack, a coordinated group of fanatical Saudi Arabians hijacked four jet airplanes, killed 2,996 people and brought down some of the most iconic buildings in the world. In the other, 14 people were murdered at a holiday party. If that’s the worst terrorist attack on American soil since 9-11, then someone’s doing a pretty good job at limiting these sorts of things.

But no, the shrieking narrative that followed was that Obama has totally failed to keep Americans safe for the past seven years. And yet when last spotted on Twitter in 2013, Barron was selling Napa wines in her home state of Colorado and appeared to have survived Obama and his regime of terror.

Twenty fifteen was also the year that Black Lives Matter emerged as a much-needed movement against a segregationist criminal-justice system. It was no surprise that the reaction to BLM was furiously reactive.

The blacks are getting militant, Bill O’Reilly just wet his pants in fear, and don’t you know it but all lives matter. My favorite internet meme of 2015 addressed this idiocy by noting that just because you want to save the rainforest doesn’t mean to hell with all those other trees.

But the sort of over-Tweeted, table-turning, first-thought, worst-thought reactions that met the BLM movement served only to distract from the real menace: the mean-season undertone held Black Lives Matter as a bunch of thugs, possibly of the Muslim persuasion, who should shut up and get back to work at McDonald’s. Therefore, Obama was consorting with Muslim thugs and he hates cops. If you don’t want to get shot, comply.

That particular cake was also baked in 2009, during the infamous Henry Louis Gates arrest, and its aftermath. Gates, an esteemed and elderly Harvard professor, who happens to be black, was arrested on disorderly conduct charges after getting uppity with a white police officer who had detained him, or tried to, in Gates’ own home—the officer had followed up on a call that someone had broken into the house.

Obama tried to diffuse the situation and leverage the “teachable moment” by calling for a beer summit with the men at the White House, which sounded like a good idea. But everybody made fun of his meaningless good-will gesture, and six years later, the right still can’t get past the fact that Obama used the word “stupid” in connection with the officer’s actions—as it repeatedly offered apologia after apologia for cop-on-black crimes in 2015, while citing the Gates incident as all the evidence you need that Obama is no friend of the police.

A committee convened to study the Gates incident recommended that moving forward, police forces around the country should offer training to their officers in de-escalation techniques, when the officers are not at risk of injury. Six years later, a white police officer in South Carolina de-escalated a nonthreatening situation by shooting a fleeing black man in the back—and then casually planted evidence to cover up his crime. That was just one of numerous videotaped encounters between (mostly) white police and black citizens that characterized 2015 as the year of the damning video.

Those videos had the moral authority of authenticity, whereas another set of videos—those infamously altered Planned Parenthood sting videos that made headlines in 2015—also harked back to anti-choice rhetorical excesses from 2009.

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That year, physician George Tiller was executed by an anti-abortion extremist while attending church services.* Tiller was killed after having been ritualistically eviscerated by Bill O’Reilly, who effectively issued a media fatwa on him through over two-dozen TV segments devoted to “Tiller the Baby Killer.”

What did you expect, went the post-execution narrative, when this country has just elected a “hardcore abortionist president,” as one group put it. The reproductive-rights narrative got even more explicitly racist in later years as right-wingers warned “the community” that Obama was coming for their babies.

And here we are again. Robert Dear shot up a Planned Parenthood facility in Colorado in November after being driven nuts by, as he put it, all those “body parts” that anti-abortion extremists had toted out in their years-long quest to drive Planned Parenthood out of existence.

Around the same time Tiller was murdered in 2009, a nutty old anti-Semitic white supremacist attacked the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., in all likelihood because Obama had just visited Buchenwald, and this Jew-hating Holocaust denier couldn’t deal with it.

Fast-forward to 2015, and those people are now at the core of Trump’s support base, while the candidate himself has said or done exactly nothing to try and address the rampant anti-Semitism among his legions of Stormfront supporters.

Indeed, Trump instead played into cheap-Jew stereotypes when, during a December talk he gave to a Republican Jewish organization, he observed that “I’m a negotiator, like you folks.” That speech was widely panned for its barely concealed anti-Semitic chutzpah, but Trump quickly pivoted to a Yiddishism focused on Obama’s schlong, which didn’t so much address the issue of Jew-hating, but did highlight Trump’s obsessive need to be the biggest swinging dick in the room.

Which brings us to Sean Hannity, one of the more ferociously pathetic Obama-haters of the conservative entertainment establishment. Hannity was at the center of the first serious scandal of the Obama Administration, when he exposed, in May 2009, what has come to be known as the Great Dijon Mustard, Emasculate-Obama Scandal.

Hannity thought it was disgraceful that the president, who had just taken his first out-of-office lunch break at a popular Washington, D.C., burger joint, would dress his burger with an un-American, and definitely French, smear of mustard. The good Catholic commentator Laura Ingraham chimed in that it wasn’t manly to eschew ketchup—it was weak!

The segment was supposed to be kind of funny, and libtards who took offense were told to lighten up and get over their so-called political correctness. But it was a joke dressed in menace, and here we see a direct corollary in some of Trump’s outbursts, which his supporters would also like everyone to believe are just jokes.

Like that one joke Trump told a crowd recently, about how he “hates” some of the reporters covering him but doesn’t think they should be murdered—or maybe he does—but not really. The context was a sort-of endorsement from Vladimir Putin that Trump willfully misinterpreted as an outright endorsement. A reporter subsequently asked him if, like Putin, Trump supported the execution of journalists. Instead of just saying, “No, that’s ridiculous,” Trump had to go there, before a crowd of eager supplicants whose heads spun in unison as the crass candidate finger-pointed at the hated journalists at the back of a meeting hall. “Well, maybe. . .”

Threats delivered as jokes highlight a metastasized set of “politically correct” right-wing viewpoints, even as the candidate’s supporters think dick jokes and pee-pee humor are Trump’s way of addressing a PC left that has run rampant over their right to hate Obama, Mexicans, Muslims, reporters and Hillary Clinton’s vagina.

There’s an old joke about how “politically correct” is so overused that it doesn’t mean anything except “I don’t agree with you, so therefore you are PC”—but there is a baseline definition of the phenomenon where legitimate points of view are stifled through social shaming. A politically correct right-wing maintains to the bitter end that any attempt to talk about race, especially in relation to Obama, has to turn the tables back on the person doing the talking, because it’s probably a liberal.

So when Dylann Roof clutched a Confederate flag and then shot up a black church in Charleston in 2015, the right-wing political correctness police insisted that the only orthodox way to talk about Roof’s racist shooting spree was to note that if the low-information voters of this country didn’t elect Obama in the first place, none of this would have happened.

As 2015 came to a close, a whole new set of videos started to pop up that exemplified the politically correct culture of the right—Islamophobia by way of Obamaphobia being the core, driving principle. In December, a woman who works for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, took it upon herself to verbally harass and throw coffee at some Muslims praying in a Castro Valley park. The justification was Paris and San Bernardino, and the woman proved her politically correct right-wing bona fides when she screamed at the men, “You have nothing but hate!” She was subsequently charged with a hate crime. Whoops.

There was also a very hostile, and very politically correct right-wing man in Virginia who made the video-outrage circuit late in 2015, during a local planning commission meeting that took up the subject of a proposed new mosque in the area.

As an American Muslim and civil engineer described the project, all the Ugly American energy of the past six years was brought to bear by a bulky white dude—complete with the Trumpian finger-point at the hated Other. “This is evil. You are a terrorist. Everyone of you are terrorists, I don’t care what you say. Every Muslim is a terrorist. Shut your mouth. I don’t want to hear your mouth.”

Do we have the audacity to hope for a better 2016?

* Correction: an earlier version stated that Tiller was shot in his office. We regret the error.

The Riddler

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It doesn’t take much to start a sparkling wine project in California these days, thanks to Rack & Riddle, the custom crush outfit that moved from Hopland to Healdsburg in the past year. You can start with your own grapes or you can start with some base wine, but all you really need is a little extra dough to create those hallmark yeasty notes of vintage sparkling wine.

But how many Dom Pérignon wannabes, ace in the art of wine as they may be, shuffle up to the crushpad at Rack & Riddle with nothing but newbie questions?

“I would say that probably the majority of people who come to us are exactly like that,” says Penny Gadd-Coster, executive director of winemaking. Gadd-Coster, who’s been with the company since it was founded in 2007, says that most of their clients end up learning something in the process: “We work with them and teach them, so it’s more of a partnership, rather than just us making the wine.”

Starting out with seven employees, Rack & Riddle now employs 70 in its Healdsburg and Alexander Valley facilities. The majority of clients take their bubbly back to their own cellars. Two are sold at the winery: Rack & Riddle’s signature label and Breathless, a sparkling wine brand from Rack & Riddle co-founder Rebecca Faust and her sisters, Sharon Cohn and Cynthia Faust. The brand was inspired in honor of their late mother, and proceeds benefit a foundation dedicated to fighting alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency, a lung disease their mother suffered from, as well as a roster of charity and women’s organizations.

Look for a Breathless tasting room opening in 2016, which will be constructed from four shipping containers outfitted in an “industrial chic” style to match the brand’s 1920s aesthetic. As for a try-before-you-buy spot for Rack & Riddle’s own attractively labeled product (the die-cut holes in the label reference a traditional, wooden riddling rack), Gadd-Coster says, “We are hoping to tag along.”

Rack & Riddle Blanc de Blancs ($20) This wine suggests butter cookie and whipped egg white. Fuji apple and lemon flavors inform a lively, scouring finish.

Rack & Riddle Brut ($20) A hint of sourdough bread and a sweeter dosage. Fresh and Prosecco-like, with red fruits and apricot.

Rack & Riddle Blanc de Noirs ($22) Steely fruit, with quince and fruit cocktail peach.

Breathless Sonoma County Blanc de Noirs ($30) Reminds me of shortbread cookies with jam in the middle. Full palate, nice balance of acidity and dosage. This would be a solid, all-around likable choice as a toasting wine.

Rack & Riddle, 499 Moore Lane, Healdsburg. 707.433.8400.

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The Riddler

It doesn't take much to start a sparkling wine project in California these days, thanks to Rack & Riddle, the custom crush outfit that moved from Hopland to Healdsburg in the past year. You can start with your own grapes or you can start with some base wine, but all you really need is a little extra dough to...
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