Two Senator McCarthys and an Age of Anxiety

Lately I've been getting the feeling that I'm being lulled into a sense of insecurity. It's the worst form of apathy: indifference in the face of danger. I miss those terror alerts we used to hear so much about. Level Orange and all that. Four years or so after 9/11, food service of sorts, has returned to the airlines. Now, you can take certain sharp objects onboard. I don't know what's more dangerous, the sharp objects or the airline food. Air marshals are now a regular feature on all all flights. I don't mind that, of course, but do they always have to take up the window seats? The authorities apparently think that a nail file or a knitting needle isn't such a formidable weapon against gun-toting, sharpshooting federal agents. That's reasonable. But have you ever seen an air marshal actually eat the airline food? Not likely. I hope the terrorists don't start noticing things like that. The government seems to think it's greatest weapon is to confuse the enemy. It's certainly working -- on the rest of us.

There are so many things to worry about these days, this "Age of Anxiety," as Haynes Johnson, the Pulitzer Prize winner, calls his new book, it almost numbs the mind. But the most mind-numbing thing of all is the lack of leadership. This is all painfully recalled with the death last month of Senator Eugene McCarthy at the age of 89. McCarthy -- for those who don't recall -- was one of the first to oppose the Viet Nam War, another war justified by "faulty intelligence." McCarthy was different. He brought poetry into the polemics of politics. A man of many dimensions, McCarthy had guts -- he went up against the leader of his own party, the bellicose Democratic president, Lyndon Johnson. And McCarthy had wit and a facile command of the English language, which was one of the first casualties of the George W. Bush presidency. The other day, Bush denounced the critics of his war in Iraq, calling them "pestimists" -- which is funnier than he had intended. McCarthy described himself as "mired in complexity." That's one quagmire the incumbent needn't worry about. And McCarthy, the former high school teacher, the poet who once considered the Roman Catholic priesthood, was horrified by the religious doctrines that have become part of presidential politics.

"I've grown a little disturbed," he said portentously in 1968, "that almost everything the Church tried to give up at the Vatican Council has been picked up by the Defense Department - the idea of grace in office, a little hint of infallibility, a kind of revival of the ideas of heresy and of holy wars, the Inquisition, a kind of index on publications."

McCarthy managed to capture the imagination of young people. Some of my high school friends actually joined the "Clean for Gene" movement, eschewing the use of narcotics, psychedelics and booze to enhance the image of the so-called hippie peaceniks who opposed the Viet Nam War.
These were sober, abstemious dissenters. I was not part of that group. I wasn't committed politically. And I was a reluctant joiner of anything. I liked the idea of McCarthy being a poet, but his writing was a little staid for me. I liked the Beats and the Surrealists. I would likely support "Goyim for Ginsberg." Or "Rabble for Rabelais." Or "Whacked on Kerouac." But McCarthy's qualities of courage and calm deportment in a time of chaos were impressive and attractive.

For a politician, he seemed pretty authentic. He was of the very few who denounced the vicious Red Scary attacks by Sen. Joe McCarthy in the 1950s. Even Eisenhower, the hero of the invasion of Normandy, would not stand up to Joe McCarthy. "As a young reporter," Haynes Johnson said at The Commonwealth Club," I thought Ike was a boob. He looks terrific to me now." Eisenhower despised Joe McCarthy. But when Ike's brother, Milton urged to take Joe McCarthy on, Ike declined, saying, "I won't get down in the gutter with him." Johnson says if Eisenhower made a speech to the country like Edward R, Murrow did (depicted in the George Clooney movie, "Good Night & Good Luck"), Ike could have ended Joe McCarthy then and here. But he didn't.

Johnson says the McCarthy Era never really ended. It's alive and well. "Kerry did not fight back when his record in Viet Nam was attacked, did not fight back when the press demonized him." He let Karl Rove, the new Joe McCarthy, defeat him.

Johnson says as long as there is no one with the courage to stand up and denounce abuses of power, a news media to hold leaders accountable, the Joe McCarthys will prevail. People who don't agree with the deamgogues are still being called traitors. As for Iraq, Haynes Johnson says, "I had a feeling that at the beginning of this war, it would be calamatous for this nation. We're not more secure -- we're less secure."

If there is anyone with the courage to speak out, it's Congressman Jack Murtha, a war hero that no one wants to impugn. Except for an empty-headed freshman congresswoman from Ohio, literally wrapped up in a flag on the floor of Congress.

But what we really need today is a touch of the poet.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He's still awaiting the day a political figure might re-emerge for whom it would be worth staying clean and sober. Bellingham's e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com.

The Christmas Curmudgeon

"Let's make this one program on which nobody sings 'Silent Night," the great curmudgeon, eorge S. Kaufman, sniffed on his radio show on a Christmas Eve back in the 1940s. For that intemperate remark, he was fired. Pulled off the air. His night became more silent than he had bargained for. You see, one could not denigrate the notion of Christmas -- not on Christmas Eve. No siree. For one thing, it was bad for business. Sponsors don't like satirists. They make people think. It's too distracting. That time should be devoted to the mindless frenzy to buy so we can be happy for the moment.

I suspect another sentiment that was muttered in the oak-paneled offices at the vast radio network: "Who does that Jew think he is, making fun of Christmas?" I have no doubt that was an issue at the time - as it is an issue today. Kaufman's ennui-drenched comment was beautiful for its brazen, uncooperative, ill-timed panache. And suicidal. He probably didn't really want to denounce Christmas. He was denouncing the creepiness that had already been attached to it. It howled in the hallways of department stores, in the unavoidable advertisements, in the hawkish commercial hysteria. The hopes and fears through all the years had been marked down to $49.95.

Kaufman, of course, was gleefully playing Scrooge. And George S, Kaufman, who co-wrote a few Marx Brothers movies (and "You Can't Take It With You" and "The Man Who Came To Dinner" and "Dinner at Eight")-and that makes him the provider of more laughs than just about anyone on the planet-was, indeed, one the first Christmas Curmudgeons. For this alone, he has earned my respect.

The Christmas Curmudgeon is not a cynic. On the contrary. Because it is the holiday season, I will treat myself to yet another Oscar Wilde quote: "The definition of a cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."

The Christmas Curmudgeon is cranky because he sees the potential for beauty tossed into the garbage with the discarded wrapping paper and the unwanted boxes. Boxes that are too often used by people to sleep in. The Christmas Curmudgeon has a tough time enjoying himself because he sees others suffering. He still has enough humanity left in him to be outraged. He prefers the quiet forms of charity -- the sort that go on without announcement and without media coverage. He still has traces of love under his crusty exterior. It causes irritation when it rubs up against the world, creating a rash. It's only exacerbated all the more by the stifling heat of cocktail parties.

Don't get him wrong. The Christmas Curmudgeon loves to laugh. But the chuckle is often accompanied by the shaking of the head. His humor is often taken as sardonic. But you might notice the victims of his piercing satire are the self-important, the pompous and the narcissistic. Hence, he has plenty of targets. The Christmas Curmudgeon loves to listen. He eavesdrops with the best of intentions and a secretly hopeful heart. He wanders through the park in the San Francisco darkness. As the California Street cable car rattles by, a couple, clinging to each other in the chill, stands before the Huntington Park fountain -- the one with the rococo turtles and the loco dolphins -- and gaze at the flag flapping atop the Mark Hopkins. Above the hotel, the half-moon shows itself through the clouds, hovering in the black sky. Our observer overhears her whisper to him tentatively, "This is going to be a wonderful year Christmas this year, isn't it?" The man leans toward her, clutches her a little harder, and murmurs, "The best."

The Christmas Curmudgeon smiles to himself and moves along.

Any curmudgeon worth his salt also has plenty of detractors. He may or may not have a religious conviction. But he always has a spiritual side. He privately believes in humanity and, above all, he has a belief in redemption. All good stories are about how someone gets himself or herself into trouble and then figures out a way to find a redemptive solution. Or, at least, make the effort.

The Christmas Curmudgeon is not bitter. He is simply disappointed. The theme to his life is innocence and how to protect it as long as possible. "It is the World with a capital "W," my friend, Father William Myers, is fond of saying. In this World, innocence is mislaid. But it is in this world we make our struggle.

The Christmas Curmudgeon has not yet given up. You can feel his pulse in his ironic phrases, his condemning speech, and in his private tenderness to others. He deplores the vulgar and longs for the authentic. Colleen Williams says the term "authentic" has become dangerously outmoded these days. Yet Our Yearning Yuletide Yob believes that real love will likely save him from mediocrity and the attendant terror it brings. He will keep on with the keep on, whether exalting love comes for him or whether is passes him by. If he lunges at windmills or at Christmas trees, he still remains in the fray.

Or if he goes on the radio to tell a national audience, "Let's make this one program on which nobody sings 'Silent Night,'" we'll know that the Christmas Curmudgeon is still alive and on the air. God bless him -- oh, and Tiny Tim, too. I've been meaning to send them both a card.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He refuses to reveal the identity of The Christmas Curmudgeon and will stubbornly maintain that position even if Bellingham is sentenced to a whole week of holiday parties that drip with relentless cheer. His e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com

60's Icon Donovan Dazzles with His Metaphysical Music

A great cheer rose from the sold-out house at San Francisco's Palace of Fine Arts on Nov. 23 when Donovan, the Scottish-born troubadour who was once called "the British Bob Dylan," started to play Buffy Saint-Marie's anti-war tune, "The Universal Soldier." Donovan plaintively explained, "It's an old song but it looks like we're still in the same story." For a moment, the protest movement that raged against the Viet Nam War seemed to have been awakened from its deep sleep.

San Francisco is the first city on Donovan's national tour that marks the 40th anniversary since the release of his song, "The Hurdy Gurdy Man." Yes, that right, forty years. Donovan, backed by a crackerjack San Francisco band and three string players, performed for about two hours with one 20-minute intermission. He did the big hits, "Sunshine Superman," "Wear Your Love Like Heaven," "Colours," "First There Is A Mountain," "Atlantis," Epistle To Dippy," and the song that made him a folk singing star when he was 18, "Catch the Wind." He also played lesser-known but skillfully-delivered numbers, such as, "World, Slow Down," "The Divine Daze of Deathless Delight," and "Cosmic Wheels." Donovan introduced a new song, "Local Boy Does Good," dedicated to the late Brian Jones, the self-destructive but brilliant little boy lost of The Rolling Stones, who died in a swimming pool accident in 1969. "He was a rebel romantic," Donovan sang. "With a death-wish dream." Donovan is clearly delighted to be strutting his songs before an audience, striking the pose of a larkish thespian on a West End stage-almost a bit over the top-a blend of Baba Ram Dass and a breathy, nasal James Mason with an exaggerated Scottish brogue.

By the end of the show, a dozen or so people in the audience had to get up and dance and the sixties were alive again. Donovan closed with one of the coolest, paranoiac rock anthems of all time, "Season of The Witch," and led a spirited sing-along with the infectiously frivolous
"Mellow Yellow." Myles O'Reilly, the owner of O'Reilly's Irish Pub & Restaurant in North
Beach and The Holy Grail in Polk Gulch, provided an off-beat introduction that included bringing a stack of 45 rpm records from his formative years in Ireland onto the stage and reading the titles aloud to the crowd, which showed its bemused approval.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." His e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com

Help Me, Dr. Phil: I'm No Longer Fond of Frisco

Once again I returned from a trip to New York, dripping with that familiar malaise, that is, the muttering and the grousing: "I love New York. What am I doing in San Francisco? New York is alive. New Yorkers are friendly. San Franciscans are snooty and vapid. What happened to my
adopted hometown by the Bay? Where did the soul of San Francisco go? Do I really belong here?"

I am determined, though, not to go through this mind-gnawing, purposeless self-torture again. I am learning how to seek help when I'm drowning in a roiling sea of self-pity. This time, I'm going to confront my growing feelings of dissatisfaction with San Francisco. I'm going to take action.
So, I have decided to take my troubles to the great American arbiter of psychic distress, Dr. Phil.

By the way, "Dr. Phil" is locally broadcast on KRON Channel 4 twice a day, at 3 p.m. and 8 p.m. I only mention this because I have an intense need to be loved by Channel 4. Even if I don't break through the seemingly impenetrable guest barrier to Dr. Phil, I can imagine pretty much how it would go if I appeared on his show. Something like this:

Dr. Phil: "Today we have a man who -- believe it or not -- no longer loves that beautiful City by the Bay, San Francisco. He feels lost and he's at loose ends. Maybe he's a little ungrateful and has no idea how lucky he is. His name is Bruce. I thought you might like to see what a
truly clueless person looks like."

Bruce: "Thanks, Dr. Phil. A pleasure to be here. After all, this is L.A. and I'm away from San Francisco and that's all right with me.

Dr. Phil: "What is with you? Are you suffering from beauty fatigue or
something? You have all that pretty landscape and water around you up
there, and all those great restaurants. What's up with that?"

Bruce: "Well, Dr. Phil, maybe there's more to life than pretty
landscapes, cable cars, and great restaurants. Is it so awful to ask for more?

Dr. Phil: "More? Like what? You sound like a man who's tired of being married to his wife? Even tired of his life. Maybe that's the deal."

Bruce: "Let's face it. It's not the same city since Herb Caen died and Ambrose Bierce disappeared somewhere in Mexico."

Dr. Phil: "I hate to tell you this, Bruce, but we all lose friends. That's life."

Bruce: "After 35 years, maybe I am tired of my wife, if you can call The City my wife. Frankly, living in San Francisco is like being stuck in a bad marriage without the sex. She's indifferent, disloyal and she's gotten pretty damned expensive. And I detest the 1-California bus."

Dr. Phil: "You're quick to blame everything on your wife here. When we come back, we'll ask Bruce the inevitable question, 'Can This Marriage Be Saved?' We'll be right back." During the commercial break I began to think how my brief trips to New York really constitute a Big Apple honeymoon that I may have every year or so. No wonder people get married and divorced so much. They want to recapture the mood of the honeymoon. Like a junkie constantly seeks to
recapture his first high. He never does. You have to get clean or die. If I really come clean, I must say that I haven't really been seeking out the things that San Francisco has to offer. New York is so electrifying, everything snaps and crackles and beckons to me. After years of commitment, it takes a little, no, a lot, of work to keep the spark alive. It all comes from keeping a sense of curiosity.

Last month, I saw some wonderful things here in San Francisco. David Amram's 75th birthday party at the Purple Onion, for example. "Evening's like this can only happen in New York or San Francisco," the irrepressible composer observed. Backed by Omar Clay on drums and Michael Zisman on bass, Amram dashed breathlessly from the piano to tearing off jazz riffs on his French horn to the penny whistle -- no, two penny whistles at the same time -- to the shehnai, an Indian oboe, to the Persian Boumbek, a goblet-shaped drum. All the while, Amram told
zany stories about his best friend, Jack Kerouac and how Amram wrote scores for Arthur Miller, and "Splendor In the Grass" and "The Manchurian Candidate." Dennis Banks and Floyd Red Crow Westerman sang Native-American songs and read from Kerouac's legendary "On The Road."

The four-hour show was a trip down the road of history but had no trace of that treacly trap known as nostalgia. At the end of the night, I loved San Francisco again. Now, let's get back to "Dr. Phil." Dr. Phil: "We're talking to Bruce, who says his love affair with San Francisco is long over and he'd like to find a more exciting place to live. Bruce, have you ever heard of the adage that wherever you go, you take yourself with you?"

Bruce: "Yes, I think that's the difference between baggage and luggage."

Dr. Phil: "Sure, you're glib but perhaps you're hiding behind your wit
a bit. How about this one? 'The fault lies not in the stars but within
ourselves.'"

Bruce: "Say, that's quite good. But, Dr. Phil, I have to tell you, I've changed my mind. You see, Suzanne Ramsey -- that's Kitten on the Keys -- recently put on a wonderful burlesque show at the Balboa Theater, a movie house that still plays real movies; a group of high school students put on a George S. Kaufman play for A.C.T. at the Zeum; Myles O'Reilly opened The Holy Grail, a dinner house that might help Polk Gulch become a civilized neighborhood again. That's a big risk but Myles is willing to take it. If he's betting on San Francisco, then why can't I?"

Dr. Phil: "Gee, Bruce, you're throwing my show off track. I'm the one who's supposed to lead the guest on to good mental health. You're not supposed to cure yourself, dammit. You're not even giving me a chance to introduce the outside counselors. They came all this way to help.
Maybe there's a free 28-day program in it for you."

Bruce: "Gee, I'm sorry, Dr. Phil. Maybe the counselors can help the people who run Muni. I'm not being ungrateful. You are absolutely right. The fault lies in myself. There's a wonderful world inside San Francisco. I just haven't been working hard enough to discover it lately. Because, after 35 years, San Francisco has become too much like me and I have become too much like her. Jaded and aloof. It's not all my fault, though, Dr. Phil. It wasn't my idea to make San Francisco a crass, predatory real estate market, a Disneyland for millionaires that's choked with automobiles. I still walk and live without a car. Let's bring back the fleet of ferries. Perhaps now it's time to start all over again. Maybe this small town should be smaller. And Lawrence
Ferlinghetti is right. Coit Tower should be made to lean a little, like Pisa. I'll try to bend a bit, too."

Dr. Phil: "Well, that's our show for today. Tomorrow we hope to introduce you to someone with real problems. At least I hope so."

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Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He says he's working out his bi-coastal schizophrenia by pitching a job as a flight attendant on JetBlue. His e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com