X-CAPEES FROM THE GEN-X MOLD

Ever since the label ''Generation X'' was Super-Glued to the population

born between 1965 and 1975, twentysomethings have been trying feverishly to

lose it.

The tag Gen X has become cultural shorthand for a gallery of fringe

characters in their 20s who, either by choice or circumstance, float through

life on a cushy cloud of indifference, chugging high-octane lattes, jawing

with friends and justifying it all by how many body parts they can pierce.

Scruffy moochers. The blissfully unemployed. The pierced. The dyed. The

goateed. They're often beret-wearing punks slouched in cafes gripping a

tattered volume of Rimbaud in one hand, a clove cigarette in the other. Their

artistic icons are low-brow and high-concept: Kurt Cobain, Winona Ryder, Anne

Rice and David Lynch.

Or so the stereotype goes.

While some Xers (aka slackers) may be reconciled to an existence of

willful lethargy, others want to get on with their lives by actually getting

off their duffs and making an effort.

We talked to a sample of Sonoma County twentysomethings who are going

somewhere with their creative talents, far beyond the confines of mere idle

hobbyism.

If the world is a tough nut to crack, the arts and entertainment world is

even tougher. These people are doing just that -- and busting the shackles of

Generation X while they're at it.

Eric Cook

Eric Cook is big, boyish and bewildered.

''I am in a business that has 90 percent unemployment and I'm working,''

gasps Cook, with a smile that rivals Mary Tyler Moore's toothy supernova. ''I

never expected to be where I am right now.''

In the arena of Sonoma County theater, Cook, 27, has one of the best seats

in town -- on top of the heap. He is Main Street Theater's artistic director

and publicity man, and he bears much of the credit for making the 2-year-old

Sebastopol theater the most prosperous company around.

Enjoying hit show after hit show in its cozy 80-seat venue, Main Street is

expanding this fall with a new 150-seat theater in downtown Santa Rosa. It's a

proposition all but unthinkable in these chilly theater climes, and one so

audacious, it makes competitors shiver.

Cook, who ''barely made it out'' of Rancho Cotate High School, barreled

his way up the precarious theater ladder. After a typical flirtation with

drama in junior high (where, prophetically, he was head of the program's

publicity machine) and high school, Cook immediately sought semi-professional

roles at 18.

''I didn't want to go to college and theater was the only marketable skill

I had,'' says Cook in proper slacker parlance.

He was rejected for a production at Santa Rosa Junior College, but landed

a role at the now-defunct Marquee Theater in ''A Christmas Carol.'' Surviving

the welter of harsh acting conditions -- doing 56 performances in 34 days;

losing 15 pounds; getting paid peanuts -- Cook was smitten.

He acted in productions by Sonoma State University and joined Actors'

Theatre for three years and five shows. Between drama studies at North

Carolina School of the Arts, in the summers of '90-'92, Cook acted with the

esteemed Summer Repertory Theater. In 1992 he and actor Shad Willingham formed

The Illusion Theater Alliance.

The peripatetic actors soon joined forces with Jim de Priest and founded

Main Street Theater in Sebastopol in early 1993.

When not publicizing the theater, Cook teaches children's acting classes

and directs Main Street's Young Actors Conservatory.

He also acts in nearly all of the company's shows. From dippy Jack in

''The Importance of Being Earnest'' to a half-dozen roles in the riotous

''Mystery of Irma Vep,'' Cook has handily proved his comic mettle.

But acting doesn't pay the bills -- yet. Compensation for performing is

''almost nothing -we're talking gas fare,'' says Cook, who survives from his

teacher's paychecks.

Nevertheless, ''I'm in an excellent spot and I wouldn't trade it for

anything. I've always made work for myself through sheer force of will.''

What next? ''I don't see me running a theater forever. I do see myself as

ambitious, but I don't have time to think beyond right now. This is my future

for now.''

Bracket

It's an early weekday afternoon and Larry Tinny is drinking Coors and

burping.

Bwaaap ... bwoap .... eeeeeaaaach. It's music to his ears.

Alas, his guttural emissions, beautiful as they are, won't make it on the

record Larry and his band Bracket are cutting this day at Prairie Sun Studios

in Cotati. It's the young group's second album for booming alternative label

Caroline Records, former home of Smashing Pumpkins, Hole and Primus.

Bracket's first album, ''924 Forestville Street,'' has sold more than

10,000 copies since July; a recently released 7-inch single, ''Stinky

Fingers,'' sold 2,000 copies in a month.

Only last year, Bracket -- four shaggy twentysomethings who schooled

together in Forestville -was toiling in Sonoma County nightclubs, honing its

blistering, happy pop-punk sound, a style made phenomenally popular by Green

Day and the Offspring.

Soon, a San Francisco-based manager was landing the band coveted gigs in

the city, which led to a small bidding war between indie labels. Caroline won

and signed Bracket for four albums.

The band finished a national tour in November, a 35-show jaunt that took

Bracket to small- and mid-size clubs from Maine to Texas. Traveling and

sleeping in their '76 Dodge Tradesman for six weeks dimmed the stars in their

eyes.

''I don't know how glamorous sleeping behind the wheel of a van is,''

muses drummer Ray Castro. ''We haven't got to the glamorous stage yet.''

''Yeah,'' adds guitarist Tinny, ''we've only thrown two or three

television's out of hotel windows.'' Still, Bracket -- with singer-guitarist

Marty Gregori and bassist Zack Charlos -- is earning a measure of support from

punk fans around the globe, adoration that could translate into dollar signs.

Fan mail from France to Florida trickles in every week.

''In some towns there are actually crowds looking forward to seeing us,''

says Tinny. ''People ask for autographs and we feel real stupid.''

Besides riding on the commercial tsunami of pop-punk, Bracket has labored

hard to get where it's at. Last February, Castro outlined Bracket's strict

work ethic: ''Play shows, practice, play pool, write songs.'' ''That's still

all we do,'' says Castro. ''We've gotten a lot more focused.''

Between burps, Tinny offers a different impetus: ''We will do almost

anything to get out of a job.''

When not on the road or in the studio, however, the members of Bracket

hold menial day jobs. Without steady cashflow, despite Caroline's imprimatur,

the band lives ''the cheapest way we can,'' Castro says. ''They turned off our

phone, but we live well.''

The band's new yet-untitled album -- produced by Don Hemming, who's worked

with Red Kross, Screaming Trees and Teenage Fan Club -- will hit the racks in

April. Bracket will embark on a six-week European tour in March, and then

strike back out on American pavement supporting larger acts.

Bracket is doing what many garage bands only dream about -making a living

in music.

''Yeah, right now we're doing it,'' Tinny agrees. He cracks another beer.

Rob Cole

Rob Cole wanted to open a cafe that definitely was not ''one of those

military installations like Starbuck's, where you stand in a rigid line, get

your decaf and look good in case a photographer walks by.''

He had other designs. So he opened a cafe that's a ''personalized,

in-joke, psych-out trip with a 'Twin Peaks' bent.''

The result is Cafe This, a cavernous hipster's cathedral of kitsch, coffee

and Cocoa Puffs.

Plopped incongruously in Railroad Square, Cafe This -- twinkling with

Christmas lights, emblazoned with a coffee cup and cross-bones logo -- is

perhaps the most unwillingly hip cafe in the county. And it has become the

showcase for obscure underground bands that are otherwise claimed exclusively

by cutting-edge urban markets.

With an odd anti-entrepreneurial spirit and an astounding encyclopedic

knowledge of both the mainstream and underground music scenes, Cole, 26, has

done more for youth-gauged nightlife and the underground local music scene

than just about anyone.

After years dabbling in underground music -- either in constructive

self-communion or as a graveyard shift DJ at progressive radio station KRVE --

Cole found himself bemoaning the demise of KRVE, audacious clubs such as the

Studio Cafe, and cafe-cum-hangout Papa Ron's. He had plan.

''Am I going to replace KRVE or Papa Ron's?,'' he recalls thinking. ''I

thought the most important thing to do was to create an environment for people

to go to. A radio station is an invisible electronic field. Here you can eat,

hear good music, hang out.''

He quotes film hero David Lynch: ''Coffee shops are the ultimate places to

capture ideas.''

''And that,'' says Cole, ''is when I knew I was in good company.''

Beyond the billboard-sized photo of Salvador Dali and Jackie Gleason

shaking hands, the high-ceilinged haunt is a melange of trashy Gen X

pop-culture, '50s and industrial furniture and bizzare newspaper clippings.

The tall scarlet curtains and trippy Linoleum floor were inspired directly

from Lynch's cult TV show ''Twin Peaks.''

The cafe is open daily from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. for lunch, and 6 p.m. to 3

a.m. for just about anything else. An inspired menu offers everything from

Rice Krispies to Red Vines, nachos to daffy sandwiches on -- what else? --

Wonder Bread.

With help from partner Tim Hinely, Cole books and promotes bands under the

aegis Another Suburban Underground. On weekends, Cafe This becomes an

alcohol-free, all-ages club where avant garde, experimental and essentially

undefinable performers do their thing.

''For Santa Rosa it's completely experimental -- an urban setting in a

suburban area. You don't have to go to San Francisco. And that radicalizes the

experience and makes it a more memorable one.''

Cole launched Cafe This on April Fool's Day, 1993, with money from a trust

fund created by a settlement with PG&E. In 1975, at age 7, Cole suffered burns

over 72 percent of his body in a fire caused by a faulty gas oven.

The cafe is doing good business. ''I think with all of its

inconsistencies, it's doing really well. I know how people value consistency

in places. A guy told me, 'This place has gone farther in one year than most

places go in 20.' That's because we're constantly experimenting.''

Through trial and error, Cole is committed to carve a fresh niche in

suburbia's rancid vapidity.

''I don't care if nobody's heard of the bands I book before. I'm going to

play them. If nobody comes, well, fine. It's gotta start somewhere.''

Jennifer Jaffe

Sometime last year, world-famous choreographer-dancer Michael Smuin

approached Jennifer Jaffe.

''Why aren't you working?'' he asked incredulously. ''You gotta have a

job!''

She got a job. The one he promptly gave her.

That was the start of Jaffe's relationship with the new Michael Smuin

Ballet Company. Jaffe danced several pieces in Smuin's ''Dances With Songs,''

a modern ballet pastiche, which ran six sold-out weeks in San Francisco, a

week in Los Angeles and one sold-out week in New York. A huge color image of

Jaffe was published with a (mixed) review of the performance in the San

Francisco Examiner.

''She's very lucky,'' says Jaffe's ballet mentor Deborah Palesch of

Palesch Pacific Ballet in Rohnert Park. ''Smuin handpicked the people he

wanted. He could have worked with anyone in the country.''

While most successful ballet dancers put on their first dance slippers in

grade school or earlier, Jaffe, now 24, got started at the advanced age of

13.

''I started really late for a girl,'' says Jaffe. ''It's extremely rare

for someone to start at 13,'' says Palesch. ''She wasn't really that

enthusiastic. I really had my work cut out for me. But she was extremely

talented and she has this sensuous quality everybody wants.'' Says Jaffe, ''I

had to totally commit myself. For a while, I practiced till 11 every night of

the week. It was hard 'cos I started late. But I worked my butt off.''

Born in Berkeley, Jaffe attended Analy High in Sebastopol, where she grew

up.

''I wanted to act, sing and dance,'' recalls Jaffe. ''I did a local play

and then took dance lessons at Palesch Pacific.''

She immediately began performing with the company, doing more than a

hundred performances over eight years, including ''Don Quixote,'' ''Swan

Lake,'' ''The Nutcracker,'' and ''Giselle,'' in which, as the lead role, she

performed her first pas de deux with internationally famous dancer Antonio

Lopez.

With Palesch, Jaffe studied ballet in Russia and performed at the 1986

World's Fair in Vancouver. When not dancing professionally, she teaches for

the company and studies English at Santa Rosa Junior College.

Jaffe presently lives in Sacramento with her boyfriend, a fellow dancer,

and both are dancing with the Sacramento Ballet.

Smuin has enlisted Jaffe's dancing for a sequence in the film-inprogress

''A Walk in the Clouds,'' starring Keanu Reeves. And she will dance in another

sequence in the upcoming movie ''The Fantastiks.'' She will join Smuin again

for his next touring production.

Ultimately, Jaffe wants to live and dance in Europe, where she says the

arts are better funded and opportunities to dance abound.

Her future is promising, says Palesch. ''Jennifer is in a position where

she can choose it to be whatever she wants it to be.''\