A Remembrance of Repasts Past

I took a walking tour of San Francisco the other day. Although I've lived here for more than three decades, I can still blend in easily as a tourist. Of course, having 40-thousand conventioneers from Oracle in town lent me an easier sense of anonymity. I still feel like a visitor most of the time. When I think about it, I'm just a guest on the planet anyway. On the bright side, guests usually get to eat well. As I wander, I consider all the great San Francisco restaurants that have come, and gone over the years. This is a remembrance of repasts past.

What happened to all of those sweet, little French bistros that permeated the Sunset, and Richmond Districts? La Maisonette, on 6th Avenue, I think, could not have had more than a ten tables. Like so many places, it was family-owned and operated. It was a charming place.
You'd quickly become friends of the family. There was Le Cyrano on Geary Blvd. ... La Boucane ... the Place Pigalle, near what is now the Marina Safeway. That's where they filmed a scene for "The Days of Wine and Roses."

San Francisco was the perfect location for such a wistful story about being wasted. There was a great French joint on Lombard & Fillmore that specialized in quenelles -- fish dumplings served with lobster (Americaine, which is not American at all) sauce, and fish velouté. The food in these places was incredibly rich, French classic cuisine. The days of wine and roses included butter sauces, glace de viande (reduced veal stock), foie gras, sweetbreads, steak pommes frite, Tripe a la mode de Caen, Beef Bourguignon, Vol au Vent (that was chicken and mushrooms in a puff pastry shell), Coq au Vin (that's chicken that was slightly drunker than I was), Blanquette de Veau, Canard a la Orange. And lots and lots of wine. This was all before the invasion of nouveau cuisine, and the zealous nutritionists who followed.

I recall those old times, as a non-drinking vegan today, and I want to burst into tears. Not out of remorse, but from longing for one little taste of Jacqueline's magnificent soufflés at her place on Grant Avenue. So, there. Let's face it: you can eat anything when you're twenty. Now I can put on weight from breathing.

I rarely talk about this but I was a chef at the Squire Room of the Fairmont Hotel in the 1970s. How did I get a gig like that without being an apprentice from the age of 12 in France? I was introduced to the head chef, Jean Barlerin, and he asked me how much I knew about cuisine. I told him I knew just about enough to read a menu. "For an American," Jean snorted, "you are very honest. Do you want to learn?"

He gave me a chance. I stayed at the Squire Room, dressed in a white cook's jacket, and toque blanche, for seven years. In those days, there were about nine restaurants in the Fairmont, if you can believe that.

There was the Squire, the Brasserie, the Tonga Room, Mason's, Canlis, the Crown Room, the New Orleans Room, and there was room service, and the banquets, too. But my favorite was the legendary Venetian Room, where I'd go upstairs, and sneak into the Venetian on Tuesday
afternoons to watch the musicians run through their sound-checks. The Mills Brothers were the best. There was never an act like them. Do you remember "Across the Alley from the Alamo"? Sure, you do.

One time, Harry Mills called out to me, "Does it sound all right, Bruce?" It sounded all right. Quite all right.

Later I cooked at the St. Tropez on Clement Street, and at a French Basque restaurant on Polk Street. Now don't get any ideas about me coming over to your place, and preparing a knockout meal for you. I don't recall anything about cooking. It was another life. Today I wouldn't know a stockpot from a Birkenstock.

I do miss those great Basque family-style restaurants that were all over North Beach: Elu's ... The Basque Hotel ... the Café des Alpes ... and my favorite, The Obrero Hotel on Stockton. The Goyenetche family used to offer a four-course meal with all the red table wine your could
drink -- for $3.25. When they raised the price to $3.50, there was a near riot. We'd eat at long tables, and shared our meals (one serving, at 6:30 p.m.) with the Basque men who lived in the hotel. They loved to drink, and they loved to sing. Eventually, I'd bring my guitar, then
have a few musicians in tow, shlepping a fiddle, an accordion, harmonicas, maracas, tambourines, Everyone would sing, stomp their feet, slam their palms on the tables in time to the tunes. I swear, the old building would actually shake.

I miss Vlasta's, the Czech restaurant on Lombard in the Marina. Vlasta Kucera made the most wonderful Moravian duck with red cabbage and dumplings. Vlasta's son, John, would command the little bar. He and I would habitually consume far too many shots of Slivovitz, that fiery
Yugoslav plum brandy. It tasted like kerosene but that never discouraged us from toasting one nebulous thing after another.

San Francisco has always been a great food town, going back to the Gold Rush days with the invention of the Hangtown Fry -- a scramble of eggs, oysters, and fried bacon -- and an array of concoctions, such as the Pisco Punch, the Black Russian, the White Russian, and the Green
Goddess. All nostalgia aside, it's still a great food town, and whatever is in vogue these days, we can be sure that the next meal will be all right. Quite all right.

Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

"Infamous" Is Another Film About Truman Capote; "Factotum" Is Another Barroom Saga from Charles Bukowski

At the press screening of Infamous, a letter from the film's director, Douglas McGrath (Nicholas Nickelby) was distributed. In it, he explains why he and Warner Bros. came out with another movie about how Truman Capote came to write In Cold Blood. It's one of those coincidences that give movie directors and producers nightmares. "Who knew that Dan Futterman (who wrote the screenplay for Capote) and I would be in the same predicament as those people who made the competing asteroid-hitting-the-earth movie?" wrote McGrath.

"Futterman had a Truman -- his pal Philip Seymour Hoffman -- and no money," McGrath explained. "And we had no Truman but we had the money." In a couple of years, both productions had what they needed. Toby Jones was cast as Truman Capote in Infamous. He's not a Philip Seymour Hoffman but who is? Infamous' release was delayed as Capote went to the Oscars. But both films are very different. Infamous is based on George Plimpton's book about Truman Capote. In this film, you'll find a different Capote than the one Hoffman portrayed. Jones’ Truman Capote looks older but acts less assured, less arrogant, and less cunning than Hoffman's Capote, who, frankly, wore me out. There are more high society characters to distract us in Infamous. A string of talented actors play the "Swans," Truman's well-heeled Park Avenue power gals. Plimpton recalled that Capote "called them his 'Swans' -- for their beauty, their elegance, their charm, and not unsurprisingly because they all seemed to be endowed with long necks." They also ended up being a bit unforgiving, particularly when Truman betrayed their confidences to him. But that's another story.

And at least one more movie. Sigourney Weaver is a convincing Babe Paley ... Juliet Stevenson as Diana Vreeland ... Hope Davis as Slim Keith ... Isabella Rossellini as Marella Agnelli. Peter Bogdanovich plays Bennett Cerf in a far too dour manner. But Sandra Bullock really shines as Harper Lee, Capote's emissary to the real world, and herself on the cusp of literary fame. She really nails the Alabama accent. Jeff Daniels is terrific as Alvin Dewey, the cop who is reluctant to talk to Capote, who most of Holcomb, Kansas, consider an extraterrestrial -- an outrageously swishy one at that. There is one very funny scene where Truman, out to do some food shopping so he and Harper can have a Christmas dinner by themselves in their hotel, stands dumfounded in the supermarket before a tower of Velveeta boxes. A woman comes by with her shopping cart, and a bewildered Truman says to her, "Do you think this is all the cheese they have?" She replies incredulously, "How much do you need?"

Daniel Craig gives a powerful performance as Perry Smith, one of the pair of the killers of the Clutter family in Kansas. His role supports the gay love angle between Truman and Smith. Craig reminds me of a young Richard Kiley. The movie, of course, turns out quite the same way as Capote did.The two killers hang, Capote finally completes his book, and he becomes the most famous writer in America -- and at what cost?

"Three men died on the gallows that night," observes Bullock's Harper Lee. "Sinatra said that Judy Garland died a little when she sang her songs. The same is true about the writer." But In Cold Blood is one long, sad song for everyone involved. It was fatal for Capote’s talent and his soul – what was left of it.

Infamous is very entertaining, not as ponderous as Capote, not so fixated on the megalomaniacal writer, and there are other people to consider as players in McGrath's treatment of the story behind In Cold Blood.

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It pleases me to say that there's another new movie out about an alcoholic writer, this one is the ramshackle poet of the swampy dive bar, Charles Bukowski. "We call bars like these, these Skid Row dumps, 'leper colonies,'" says John Harris, who has served drinks in the best places -- and other places, too. Bukowski would probably like that term, "leper colonies," because he has so much affection for the denizens within -- social lepers like himself. In Factotum, directed by Bent Hamer, Matt Dillon, as Henry Chinaski (Bukowski's alias), explains why it's important to be different than the ordinary person: If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods. And the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

There's some fighting in the movie. There's lots of poetry, too, in Dillon's irrepressible and often funny Chinaski. And drinking. The first scene shows Chinaski on the job, taking a chain saw to a huge block of ice. I can't imagine being required to do such a thing -- even without a hangover. I can imagine doing what happens next: he delivers a bag of ice to a bar, and stays to drink at the bar, only to be tracked down by the boss and fired. There's lots of drinking, of course. And there are women -- and women found Bukowski fascinating.

In turn, Bukowski's women mesmerize us in their degradation. And there's more drinking. And gambling. And drinking. Lili Taylor and Marisa Tomei give brave, gutsy, and very indelicate boozy performances. Factotum is funnier than its desperate predecessor, Barfly. Chinaski takes all of the ridiculous turns that his alcohol-drenched life provides with pretty much good humor while showing us how preposterous, and petty the world can be. He holds on to jobs here and there -- the surreal gig at the pickle factory was doomed at the outset -- until the hooch takes over and it all crashes. Dillon plays Chinaski with surprising dignity. The actor says he's been a Bukowski fan since he was in his 20s. Our hero bobs and weaves through an obstacle course of mediocre martinets in the low-rent marketplace of misery.

For all of the alcoholic foibles, his Chinaski is true to his code, and maintains a considerable diligence about his writing, no matter how things spin out of control. Bukowski did write 50 books. It's the one element in his life that keeps him, well, for want of a better word, sane.
The powerful songs on the Factotum soundtrack are written by Norwegian composer Kristin Asbjornsen with lyrics from Bukowski's poetry. Much of the material for the movie was provided by Bukowski's editor at Black Sparrow Press, John Martin, and Linda Lee Bukowski, the writer's widow. "Whatever money she makes from this movie and anything else," someone observed after the screening, "she certainly earned it."

Factotum is an engaging movie -- at times, very funny. Believe it or not, it's quite hopeful. Like a character in a novel by Knut Hamsun, one of Bukowski's literary heroes, the protagonist will not be defeated by a world that's eager to discard him. Even more astonishing, Chinaski will not be defeated by himself.

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I wish the characters -- there are really only two – in Conversations With Other Women would have had more to drink during the movie. They might have turned out to be nicer -- or at least more interesting. A beautiful British woman (Helena Bonham Carter) is a reluctant, painfully bored bridesmaid at a wedding in New York. By chance -- so we think at first – she meets a good-looking fellow. He's played by Aaron Eckhart. Not a chance meeting at all, we discover. If you can stick with the split-screen technique for the whole movie, you'll note that more and more is revealed about this affair that's about to happen. I guess the premise is that first love is a powerful thing but most of us let a sexual reunion remain a fantasy if we have married or attached ourselves to others after all these years. But maybe not.

The other premise is that people really don't change all that much, and all the dishonesty, deceptions, and selfishness stick with us. This is not hopeful. And it's not interesting. But I'm glad this morose, ungracious couple rediscovered each other. Who else would want them? But what about these “conversations with other women”? Oh, yes,. There were two – very brief, but quite significant, if you care to think a bit about them. They bear witness to how the world views this couple. They’re not fooling anyone – just fooling around. I caught a glimpse of an online review of this film that's posted outside the Lumiere Theatre. The tag line reads something like: "This is the perfect movie for those who have ever been in love, and are over thirty. In fact, see it twice."

I have an idea. If you saw it once, wait until you're sixty to see it again. But I sure hope you found something better to do by then. And if you are sixty, just raise a glass for Bukowski, and skip the whole damn thing.
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Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

Billy Philadelphia and Meg Mackay Are Right As Rain in Their Harold Arlen Show at San Francisco's New Conservatory Theatre

It sounds ridiculous at first but when Billy Philadelphia and his equally talented wife, Meg Mackay, explain to the audience at one of those cozy niches at the New Conservatory Theatre at 25 Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco that they thought of calling their tribute to composer to Harold Arlen "Harold Who?" it began to make sense. It made sense when they ran through a list of songs that Arlen wrote with about 30 collaborating lyricists and you think, "Oh, he wrote THAT? Is it humanly possible for one man to write all these great songs?"

Well, I don't know where the human departs from the divine in this case but Arlen did write over 400 songs -- more than any popular composer. All the same, he's not the household name that he ought to be. That's not the only disparate, paradoxical thing in Arlen's life.

How could a man who once concluded "So many sorrows, so little time," about his private life, also created songs like Get Happy? "Unlike Gershwin or Cole Porter," someone once observed, "you don’t say 'Oh, that's a Harold Arlen song.'" One reason for that is that Arlen tended to make the singers who sang his songs famous -- so famous that they owned them. That's why singers always clamored for a new Harold Arlen song. Can anyone but Lena Horne call Stormy Weather her own? Is anyone but Judy Garland associated with The Man That Got Away or Over the Rainbow, for that matter? Or Sinatra singing what he called "the greatest saloon song ever written" -- One For My Baby (And One More For the Road).

And furthermore, how could a Jewish kid from Buffalo, New York, named Chaim Arleck, know so much about the blues? I dunno. Ask Cab Calloway. After all, Arlen and Ted Koehler wrote Minnie the Moocher's Wedding Day for him.

I remember getting caught up in Arlen's work by hearing Rosemary Clooney's tribute album to him on the Concord Jazz label, recorded in S.F. about twenty years ago or so. Yeah, or so. Just this handful of songs might make you want to get up and go out and see Billy Philadelphia and Meg Mackay's terrific show, From Blues to Ballads: The Songs of Harold Arlen at the New Conservatory Theatre, now playing through September 17.

Billy and Meg are the perfect hosts in this intimate setting -- and they both provide the right amount of biographical sketches about the composer.

"The biggest challenge, of course, was selecting the songs from the vast repertory," Billy said after the show.

My favorites are the ballads -- the sadder, the better. And Arlen could write ballads. Perhaps it was the tragic quality to his life. His wife, Anya, once a Breck Girl, if you recall the shampoo ads, suffered from mental illness and Arlen was forced to have her institutionalized. He did not do this until Anya had become quite dangerous. Their Beverly Hills house burned to the ground suspiciously. She tried to poison him, and he still resisted her incarceration. Perhaps this is why he worked so hard -- he did try to stay away from her in later years, sneaking away to the golf course at 6:30 in the morning to meet his show biz pals. Including Groucho and Harpo Marx, George Burns, Ira Gershwin, and Danny Kaye.

“Music doesn't argue, discuss, or quarrel ” Arlen said. “It just breathes the air of freedom ”
Billy Philadelphia -- who just got a regular gig at Joe DiMaggio's Italian Chophouse in North Beach -- is a keyboard wizard and a good singer who understand what a song is all about. His Hoagy Carmichael show is evidence of his respect and instinct for a good song. Meg has gotten quite marvelous over the years. Arlen would have liked her, I think. When she takes a song, she owns it. Some of the highlights of the show include her rendition of Come Rain or Come Shine. Right As Rain and her feisty Legalize My Name. You can really hear Judy Garland in her version of The Man That Got Away. It's spooky.

Meg later confessed that she'd been virtually channeling Judy Garland. "When I was a little girl I wanted to be Judy Garland," confesses Meg. "There are times when I can't get her voice out of my head."

Then there's the famous A Sleepin' Bee (with lyrics by Truman Capote), which was written for a show called House of Flowers. John Lahr wrote in the The New Yorker, "The scores proved more memorable than the shows; in the case of House of Flowers which ran for only a hundred and thirty-seven performances, Alec Wilder wrote, the score “was simply too elegant, too subtle, too far beyond the deteriorating taste for an expense-account clientèle."

What an elegant team Philadelphia and McKay are. Their duets are delightful. Their taste in tunes impeccable. This is great stuff. By the time they close the show with Hit The Road To Dreamland, we are already thinking that they "could have done that song, they could have done this song" and so on. They know, they know. Just hit the road before the 17th and go see Billy Philadelphia and Meg McKay in From Ballads to Blues: The Songs of Harold Arlen at the New Conservatory Theatre, 25 Van Ness Avenue at Market Street, the box office number is (415) 861-8972 or check the website: www.nctcsf.org

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Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

The Mean Season

I was making my usual visit to San Francisco General Hospital this week when my friendly pharmacist gleefully rushed into the room, interrupting his student, who was about place leeches at strategic places on my person, to say, "Hey, Bellingham, I saw Bill Clinton really give them hell on Fox TV this weekend, and I thought about you! It was terrific!"

Maybe the doctor means I've been complaining too much about how the Democrats haven't been complaining enough about this disastrous, ill-conceived war in Iraq. Mort Sahl reminds me that Eugene McCarthy said, "When the Democrats put together a firing squad, they form a
circle." But I really think my doctor has been heartened by the episode with Clinton showing some bluster, some moxie, some righteous anger, some street fighting fervor, and giving Chris Wallace a good drubbing for his famous self-satisfied smirk. It seems to have cheered my doctor up. Believe me, when my doctor's in a good mood, I'm in a good mood. Only good comes of it.

The doctor may even recommend a splashy tirade and explosion of umbrage to me as a regimen of recovery. Yes, I'd like to start pushing my detractors around for a change. But it's not likely to happen. I'm not cut out for the sort of game that thrives during The Mean Season.

There's something to be said about that old adage, "Physician, heal thyself." And the right treatment can appear in the most unusual places. Fox News, for example, is traditionally not good for me. To tell you the truth, I just came away from the physician with a prescription for Wellbutrin, an anti-depressant. And you don't miss your stream of consciousness until your Wellbutrin gone dry (a lesser-known blues song). I also overheard a group of young ladies in
the waiting room having a chat about men: "I'm so over guys on anti-depressants who just can't get it up anymore."

Well it really comes down to that, doesn't it? Fox News could be bad for both your frame of mind, and your blood pressure. And, most importantly, your libido.

But then there's a formidable opponent such as Bill Clinton -- top student at School for Scoundrels -- who can take on the Fox News hooligans with alacrity. As for me, I've discovered that pouting in the worst aphrodisiac.

Physicians, I'm told, are still administered the Oath Of Hippocrates. That includes the best-known phrase, "First, do no harm." There is a similar expression about codes of conduct in journalism. It comes from H.L. Mencken. It demands that a reporter keep in mind that he or she must always, "Afflict the comfortable, and comfort the afflicted."

So what about politicians, as this mean season of politics, once again, descends over the uneasy landscape? I suggest a "First Do No Harm Party." This would be a collection of interested citizens, dedicated to change, as long as it doesn't cause anyone pain or injury. Perhaps it slogan should be, "Do as little as possible," as the line from "Chinatown" goes. There has been a Know-Nothing Party in American history, back in the 1850s. They said little, but did far too much -- and a lot of it was harmful. They were formed to subjugate Irish-Catholics, and assorted other immigrants. Not surprisingly, they were eventually absorbed in the Republican Party.

I'd offer myself up as a candidate for the First Do No Harm Party but I can assure, I would not take my place in government if elected, would never even set foot in the office of My Office. I've always admired the legislator who has a bad attendance record in Congress. Think of all that harm that's avoided on those days of absences. Maybe I'd just help out a little bit at the office of My Office when I take My Office; make decaf-coffee, answer the phone, loan money to needy
people, tell jokes, and try to persuade everyone they should work to find a way back to the happy track of wellness -- with or without Wellbutrin, the well-born Dr. Welby, and away from the terrors of politics during this very mean season.

Bruce Bellingham, is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is now featured for sale ay Naomi's Art Pottery shop, 1817 Polk Street, at Washington, 415-775-1207. This gives a lot of “bull in a china shop” new meaning.

Making the Right Change

San Francisco's Marina District is about to undergo another transformation. All those nail salons are being converted to nail-biting salons. It is a sign of these edgy times. But the apprehension might be lessened by the legion of available workers who are willing to chew on the nails of the privileged. The more comfortable citizenry may now have their lips free to complain about
who the enemies of our country really are.

It's not the Taliban anymore. It's the Dixie Chicks. And Marin's own Sean Penn. I'm sure they'll be distressed to know their security clearance is in jeopardy. No USO shows for them this time.

Come to think of it, the only good thing about the Viet Nam War was Joey Heatherton jiggling and giggling at Bob Hope's USO shows on TV. A Viet Nam vet said to me the other day, "It's always the poor who get the shaft in these wars. That'll never change." But who really wants
to hear from anyone who has actually been through a war? And, besides, we have no Joey Heatherton to console us today.

"Do you really think the members of the The Petroleum Club get together and discuss the liberation of the Iraqi people?" asks Rick Kerr. "I was just wondering." I don't know. I wouldn't know anyone in The Petroleum Club. Nor the Petroleum Jelly Club, I'm happy to say.

Let's be grateful for these little things. I am erring on the side of optimism. Just to be different. I don't believe we are so thirsty for oil, that we would sacrifice all these people for it. But Italy had better look out if we suddenly encounter a shortage of olive oil. The leader of North Korea is learly a very bad man. In the rapidly rising field of nasty despots. But he is also very lucky. The administration has yet to find anything profitable in kim chee. Of cabbages and kings.

If there was royalty in the Marina, it was Vic Ramus. He was the wiry and wise former owner of the Horseshoe Saloon on Chestnut. Vic was a Marine captain who fought at Iwo Jima -- in a war so long ago. But another war in another time, in another world. A good war, some say. The meaning, is, I guess, that it was a justified war where the issues were clear and the stakes were as high as the come -- survival. The clear and present danger that isn't so clear today. And the nobility of it all is hard to grasp as it's proffered on CNN between commercials.

Vic died Feb. 26 at the Veteran's Hospital in Palo Alto. He was 81. He was even fearless in his battle against cancer. "He wouldn't give up," said his wife, Loree. "I told him it was all right to just let go." That must have been difficult for such a tenacious man.

Tom Sinkovitz, a longtime pal and golf partner, remembers Vic in the Horseshoe: "If the bar was full of men, you could swear like a sailor if you wanted to. But if a lady walked through the door, you'd better mind your manners." A short man, Vic was notorious for leaping over the bar to vanquish any lout who was out of order.

Vic was all about order -- and all about honor.

I wonder what he'd have to say about this mess we are in today. He was a darling guy but tough as nails. There was wisdom in his sweet, sinewy spirit. By the time I knew him -- I lived upstairs from the saloon -- his command was the bar. His troops were the local denizens. Like all good bar habitues, I brought him my troubles. He gave me advice. And told me very funny stories.

"The tavern business is not about mixing drinks," he told Sinkovitz. "It's about making sure you know who is in the place, whose money is whose and who gets the right change." Think how wonderful it would be to have him running the government.

I hadn't realized how much I missed him. But it seems when someone with integrity and decency leaves us these days, the loss is conspicuous. It was a better neighborhood for Vic Ramus. It would be even better if he were still here to convince me that all this fighting might have a good ending.

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

When October Comes

These days I keep hearing about an "October Surprise." I don't think that's a special dessert addition to a Halloween Party, is it? No, its supposed to be political, and it's supposed to be bad.

I never liked surprises. They tend to be an insidious form of conspiracy that's pulled like wool over the wide-eyed, innocently oblivious folks like us who have trouble dealing with the tenuous
matters of everyday life. Gee, we'd be pretty easy to fool if we were really like that. Here's the news. We are.

"I never liked Mondays," observes my friend, Tayo. "It's not that Mondays mean that you have to go to work -- although for so many, it means just that. It also often means that's the day that you have selected to quit something." Quit smoking. Quit the hooch. Quit pouring Ouzo over your corn flakes, and quit dropping Nembutal into your blender drink. Or quit the husband. Or quit the mistress. Or quit yelling at the mistress, and quit yelling about the wife, and the dog,
and Katie Couric, and that damned "October Surprise," whatever it's supposed to be,

I can't say I quit the hooch because it was on a Monday. Actually, it was a Friday. But that thought isn't all that revolutionary or iconoclastic. Or brave. I simply did not know what day it was -- except that I knew that it was time to quit. No surprise for me. Actually, I was going to quit town so I wouldn't have to make a big deal about how I'm going to change my life -- but I had to stick around here so the medical experts could check up on me, and make sure I stayed quit for awhile. You see, quitting is one thing. Staying quit is another. They wanted me to be in top shape when the "October Surprise" comes. We'd better be ready for it, whatever it is.

Nixon used to mutter, "I've never been a quitter." He mumbled that just before he quit the Presidency. He was a duplicitous quitter -- not my favorite kind. I always been quitter, and I hope I stay that way. Particularly when things get real dicey. I'll be ready to ship out -- so I can lend a hand to the other quitters who got there ahead of me.

I used to love October. That's when I'd kick up piles of leaves, and catch the scent of the wood burning in the chimneys all along the wooded lane, the twilight splashed in October's rich, shameless colors. A naughty exuberance would come over me.

There are no real surprises this year. None that I can see. Just the laughter of kids who are bundled, who are safe, who are in love.

"When October Goes" is a Johnny Mercer lyric that Barry Manilow came across a few years ago, and set it to a tune. I wanted to include it here.

"And when October goes, the snows begins to fly above the smoky roofs/I watch the planes go by/The Children running home/Beneath a twilight sky?Oh for the fun of them/When I was one of them./And when October goes/The same old dream appears/And you are in my arms/To share the happy years./I turn my head away/To hide the helpless tears/Oh how I hate to see October go.I should be over it now I know/It doesn't matter much/How old I grow/I hate to see October go."

So I don't want to know about an "October Surprise" unless it means that it will bring a few of those we loved back here again so we can say we never quit them, never would -- whether October and its surprise comes or whether it goes.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is currently, and ostentatiously on sale at Naomi's shoppe for dinnerware, and domestic treasures. "Naomi is the second biggest pot dealer in San Francisco," says the ever-attentive Armistead Maupin. His store is located at 1817 Polk Street, S.F. (415) 775-1207.