The City of Yes, The City of No

I can remember when the favorite word in San Francisco seemed to be "yes." That is, the locals here were likely to respond with a "Sure, why not?" whenever a new idea might be suggested. We were a game town before the real games -- the ones with high stakes -- began. Real restate is the new mantra.

Truth is, most of us are barely hanging on by our manicured fingernails. I remember John Lennon, yes, that ancient troublemaker, described his first meeting with Yoko Ono in London in 1968. She had a show at a SoHo gallery. John sauntered in by himself one evening. One Ono piece required participation. John had to get on a step ladder and open a little door that was attached to the ceiling. When he revealed the message underneath, he saw the word "yes."
"That was exactly the right word," John later recalled. "If it were "No" or "Buzz Off" or "F--- You," I would've just walked out. But I stayed and fell in love."

I remember falling in love with San Francisco. And that was a long time ago, too. That's when "yes" seemed to be the order of the day. That's when we S.F. denizens -- and very happy to be so -- liked to try new things. Of course, I wasn't always aware of the risks involved. Just as
well.

"Hey, Bellingham," an old timer growled at me in Perry's. "You shoulda been here in the old days, in the 60s. The Pill had just been invented and the real bad diseases hadn't shown up yet."
I was hoping to keep this discourse a bit loftier. And free from the paralyzing influences of that common disease of advancing age: nostalgia.

There is an expression often used in Alcoholics Anonymous that was coined by Herbert Spencer, "Contempt prior to investigation," Spencer said it keeps a man "in everlasting ignorance." What I loved about San Francisco was the apparent acceptance of the opposite, if there's such
a thing. In others words, "Yes" was the response, before any investigation was considered at all. Yes, it was a joyful sort of recklessness.

But the City that Knew How is Now The City of No. It's a cautious, timid community, afraid to make a move, as is the behavior of any oppressed peoples. Creepy, self-serving interests have taken over -- whether they be born of the perverse notion of political correctness or
the venal obsession with what might affect property values. From Goethe to Ginsberg, boldness, with its "Power, Magic and Genius in it" was the order of the day. Casting our fate to the strong winds coming off the Pacific Ocean.

Worst of all, The City of San Francisco just isn't any fun anymore. Why not have a ski jump at the top of Fillmore Street? The only thing I'd say to the charmingly garrulous Johnny Moseley is that the ski jump should be permanent. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow all year 'round in Pacific Heights. With Muni fares going up again this month, it might be a cheaper alternative to taking the bus, a good way to get down to Cow Hollow from Pacific Heights -- very quickly. It's all going downhill anyway, folks. Have some fun. Save on gas. There's a war on, you know. Really, there is.

One young woman who had planned her wedding at the Flood Mansion thought the ski jump might mar the view for her guests. How's that? She could have combined the ceremony and the honeymoon at Aspen without even leaving Broadway. I fear she suffers from "contempt prior to
investigation." Besides, that would make for some really interesting wedding photos.

The Board of Supervisors said "no" to the permanent home porting of the battleship U.S.S. Iowa on the San Francisco waterfront. The consensus at City Hall is the old battle wagon is a symbol of war. How goofy is this? San Francisco was the center of naval operations for the Pacific
Theater in the Second World War. So the ship now goes to -- Stockton?

Twenty years ago, another set of supes made the same mistake with the U.S.S. Missouri. I took my late mother aboard when the Missouri stopped for a visit. We walked across the teak planks to the "Surrender Deck". This is where the "instruments of surrender," were signed by MacArthur and the Japanese, where World War II officially ended. If you don't get a lump in your throat while standing there, well, something's missing.

These ships are no longer symbols of war, they are reminders of our history. Recalling history probably does more to oppose war than any other sort of lesson. To preempt history with a mindless sense of political correctness is a pretty good way to guarantee "everlasting
ignorance." That's one of the few things that does last forever.

And now we are in another war, though you wouldn't know it by looking around. No one seems to be saving on gas -- which is what the war is all about. During World War II an expression appeared ion highways all over America, "Is This Trip Necessary?" an appeal to save fuel. Let's
bring those signs back.

I might support offering old battleships a home here -- it creates jobs and encourages tourism -- but I do not, like most San Franciscans, support this ill-conceived war. The U.S. claims it's fighting terrorism but has created a Woodstock for murderous fanatics.

I like the way Mayor Newsom lighted into PG&E the other day after that transformer explosion in the Financial District. I have a more personal complaint with the arrogant utility. I called PG&E the other day and asked if there could be a discount on the bill for people who are chronically ill.

The young-sounding fellow checked my statement and exclaimed, "But you don't seem to use much energy at all!"

"Well," I explained, "I try not to -- there is a war on, right?"

"Yeah," he sniffed, "but you use practically nothing! Whatta ya live in a cave or something?"

So much for PG&E's campaign to save on energy. We still are in the Enron era with the specter of everlasting ignorance. With the way things are going, caves might get pretty popular in that real estate guide.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." His energy use is mostly restricted to burning the candle at both ends. His e-mail is bellsf@mac.com

Mars Over Maui

I wrote this piece in August 2003. I can't get back to Hawaii right now, so I thought I'd revisit the Islands by sashaying through these recollections for a bit. The column appeared in the San Francisco Examiner.

MAUI, Hawaii, Aug. 25 -- The intense, flickering brilliance of Mars, the Red Planet, that careens so closely by the Earth this week makes Maui, the Hawaiian Island of Valleys, even more mystical than it usually is. "Maui is amazingly spiritual," says Rod McKuen, the poet/troubadour of the San Francisco '60s. Rod is here to perform in a musical called "Soulmates," written by the popular local composer and performer, Patricia Watson. I came to here to see the show, which
played this weekend at the Maui Arts & Cultural Center. ... "I went up the the mountains here for a few days to do a little writing on my book," Rod explains. "The words were just pouring out of me. There is something about this place that reaches directly to the soul." He reminds me of the Irish singer who would gather his poetic notions by walking barefoot on the ancient ground of the Old Sod. He'd feel the Muse come up through his toes. ...

It's clear to understand why Maui evokes transcendental dreams. With the magnificent clouds wrapped low around the mountains, the heavens seem to come down to visit the mortals. ... There are churches everywhere in Maui. This has everything to do with Hawaii's missionary
past. "I even saw a large group of Mennonites at McDonald's," McKuen, remarks, clearly amused. Ah, yes. So many Mennonites, so little time.

And time moves slowly on an island so far from any main land mass. History holds fast. "Maui has a whole lot of gods that were here long before the Christians," says 16 year old Lisa Garcia, born in Texas and raised on Maui. Lisa likes to talk about the sites where Island warriors battled and died. "All these places are sacred -- and they are haunted." Jasmine Lowcher, a striking, raven-haired 18-year-old actress who appeared in "Soulmates," also knows the ghosts of Maui. "I have heard the Night Marchers," she says, with a little pride. "Their footsteps thunder down the trail at certain nights. They are the warriors who were slaughtered in the battle in Iao (rhymes with "meow") Valley a long, long time ago." ... Black Beach is where a princess, who betrayed her king for the love of another warrior, was put to death for her faithlessness. "You can sometimes see her blood on the wall of the cave where she died," says Lisa. "We swim there to honor her." Even Maui has its own Tristan and Isolde legend. ...

Lisa and her mom, Mona Garcia, attended the performance of "Soulmates." They applauded its zeal for the Roman Catholic Church. Indeed, McKuen appeared on stage briefly, as a priest, "I'm not quite sure why I am playing a priest in Germany, of all places -- but I guess that's show
business." He sang one song, a "homily," Rod says. Yes, he wrote it last week in the mountains. It stopped the show. It's called "September Comes Around (All Too Soon)." It's an instant McKuen classic. The show is performed entirely in song -- with few spoken words -- in a bouncy pop style. Sort of "Godspell" meets "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg." Broadway star Mary Jo Catlett was a big hit. It was directed by David Galligan, known to S.F. audiences for his work on the Richmond Ermet AIDS Foundation benefit galas. "Soulmates" was a big event on Maui. McKuen chuckled about how his name appeared on the marquee on the highway above Steely Dan, who are appearing at the Maui Arts & Cultural Center on Oct. 10. ...

Rod McKuen's name will inextricably linked to San Francisco, though he's lived in Beverly Hills since 1969. "I saw Rod read his poems in Sausalito," says Kris Hinsvark, who stood at the stage door after "Soulmates," with her husband, Richard. "That was in 1965 and I still recall it well." Diane Kopperman traveled from Las Vegas to see Rod McKuen. She attends McKuen events all over the country. "I tell people I am a stalker," Diane deadpans. "Then they just get quiet." She
is part of the McKuen diaspora. His worldwide fans embrace a religious fervor of their own. ... Dave Donnelly, longtime columnist for the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, and frequent raconteur in S.F. saloons, winged in from Oahu for the show. ... Joseph W. Bean, who wrote for the long-disappeared S.F. Progress (precursor to the S.F. Independent), is now with the Maui Weekly: "I kept coming back to Maui. I finally decided it was cheaper to move over here." ...

Several people murmured to me, "You'll be back here, too." No one here seems to talk about where where you're going. They only ask when you are coming back. Maybe that's why "Aloha" means neither "Hello" nor "Goodbye." Coming back? To this beautifully dissolute island bordello
in the middle of the Pacific? I wonder. I was skeptical about Maui's magnetism. But, after a day or two, I feel a little sweet forgetfulness about the madding world seeping in slightly. That's easy to do while typing on a Mac in the Tradewinds Poolside Cafe at the Maui Coast Hotel, the languid music drifting over me in the perfumed breezy afternoon. "We'll be together again," the pedal steel guitar seductively promises, "here in this paradise." But I need a purpose, even in this paradise. So it's time to collect Rod McKuen and our young handler, the bright and capable Ben McMillan. We're off to Kahalui to look at ukes. ... And there are other pressing matters on this
breakneck itinerary. I have to squeeze in another marveling look at Mars and the constellations that hold court across the Maui sky. "Too many stars to squander," Rod gently warns in his new song, which was penned on spindrift pages in the still night on Maui soil. And then there is the topic of when I might be coming back -- back to Maui, that is. ... Aloha. ... Hello & Goodbye. ...