It's a sad irony that David Halberstam, the journalist's journalist, should die suddenly as the hearings to determine what really happened in the friendly-fire death of Pat Tillman got underway in Washington. Halberstam, killed in a car crash last month in Menlo Park, was scrupulous in digging up what might have been hidden about the Viet Nam War and, more recently, Korea. Halberstam would have reveled in the Tillman story, and how Tillman's family fought the government and the military for the truth about Pat's death in Afghanistan. Halberstam loved cover-ups. He was so good at revealing them, and analyzing them. He even gave us the term that has now resurfaced, "the making of a quagmire." No wonder members of the Bush administration bristled at the use of the word, "quagmire." It was applied to Viet Nam as it is now does to Iraq: "a sticky trap from one can not easily free oneself." Our modern-day tar pits.
This is why Halberstam books, such as The Best and the Brightest and The Powers That Be were required reading not only for curious, suspicious citizens (and suspicious is how we should be) but for anyone who had any sort of aspiration to write or to report. Not surprising, he was with a journalism graduate student when the accident occurred. Halberstam's generosity to young people with his time, and with his advice, was legend.
Unlike many writers, he spoke as well as he wrote. His television appearances were riveting. His remarks were rich with insight , drawing on that vast storehouse of history in his mind. An ignorance of history is cause for all sorts of trouble, even quagmires.
He covered the Viet Nam War. Even then, some of his colleagues wondered about him, that he might be burning with a brighter flame, that he might even be reporting in order to bring about change, a role that might be assigned to an evangelist. In the late 1960s, he turned to writing books -- he wrote about 20. He challenged the almost-sacred legacy of President John Kennedy, and the road to the quagmire that he and his advisors paved. Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon continued to lead insane expedition to its messy, hideous conclusion.
“I became a historian because I went to cover a war and it didn’t work. So I busied myself finding out why it didn’t work.”
Halberstam's drive for learning, for analysis, and his fiery approach to his subjects dazzled me. How could a fellow write so clearly and passionately about the complexities of the Pentagon and the big media business, and be equally adroit about explaining the subtle vagaries of basketball and all other sorts of sports? When he died in that car crash on the Peninsula, he was on his way to interview football's legendary Y.A. Tittle for a book Halberstam was writing about that big game all those years ago -- the match between the N.Y. Giants & the Baltimore Colts for the NFL championship in 1958.
As in the days of Viet Nam, Halberstam evoked angry words from supporters of the war in Iraq. "The crueler the war gets, the crueler the attacks get on anybody who doesn't salute or play the game," he said. "And then one day, the people who are doing the attacking look around and they've used up their credibility." But he was also hard on the Democrats because they had not framed a tough-minded alternative to the actions in Iraq. He seemed to have a fairly optimistic point of view, believing that truth wins out in the end. It seems to me that the definition of success is to outlive your detractors. Halberstam called the current war in Iraq the “greatest foreign policy miscalculation of my lifetime." Considering how extensively he wrote about Viet Nam, that's a chilling thought.
But David Halberstam is gone. His new book, about the Korean War, comes out in the fall. I don't know how far he was on his new football book. His momentum was so forceful that at his death, his writing still raced ahead of him. His energy seemed boundless. His body of work was formidable. He never wasted time. He extolled the value of passion for a writer, and he lived it by example. My reaction to his death was, "A car accident? Here, on the Peninsula? How could we let such a thing happen? Halberstam's devotions to truth, to the language of history, to the importance of moral courage, are rare. Let's face it: most writers come and go. Halberstam's sudden departure is a real loss.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of a book, Bellingham by the Bay. He continues to natter on about an alleged second book which he's calling The Angina Dialogues. He's got a title so we guess that's a start.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Ten Years On, Herb Caen's Legacy Grows Hazy
These days I seldom hear the anguished cry of the old-time San Franciscans: "Where's Herb?" ... "What would Herb say? ... or "This would never happen if Herb were alive." More often I hear, amid this younger population, "Who's Herb Caen? when I happen to mention his name in mixed company. Then I explain, once again, that he was the daily columnist in The Chronicle who gave San Francisco its identity, its character, and had more influence than the mayor, the judges, the governor, and all of the California legislature combined.
Ten years after his death, Caen's name is dismissed by many with a glazed look or a shrug of the shoulders. The Chronicle didn’t even mention the occasion. Young people cannot imagine that one man who wrote for a newspaper could have such authority or such relevance. But he did.
To me, he was more than an icon. Herb Caen was my friend, a mentor who made me locally famous. For 17 years, I sent him jokes, and observations that he often printed -- and sometimes I even got credit. I was in a group of regular contributors during the later years that Herb called "Our Native Witz." They included Jerry Matters ... Matt Buka ... Edwin Heaven ... and, of course, the mysterious quipmeister, Strange de Jim
Herb's column ran for an unprecedented 59 years. There were a lot of native wits over the years. But Herb was the foundation, the ever-vigilant protector of the culture. He was Mister San Francisco, a fixed point in an ever-changing world. There's no one to take his place today, anymore than there will be another Irv Kupcinet in Chicago or a Jack Smith in Los Angeles. The daily newspaper is not the habit that it once was. Stu Smith recalls, "My father used to make us read Herb Caen at the breakfast table before we left for school. It was compulsory
It's a different world. What would we make of "Baghdad by the Bay" today, Herb's romantic term of endearment for The City? Herb himself was fond of noting that "War is the terrible geography lesson." He rolled with the changing times over the decades; he managed to remain relevant, though the three-dot column now seems a bit quaint. He loved puns, plays-on-words, and what he called "saloon humor." I first came to Herb's attention when I dropped him a note, indicating that "the great songwriters like Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Rodgers & Hart could never make it today because falling in love is more often described as exchanging bodily fluids. And 'fluids' is a tough rhyme
Herb liked my definition of a bad day: "When you come home from work, turn on the evening news, and see it being read by someone in an Army uniform
Years went by before Herb and I actually met, though I had made friends with his dedicated assistant, Carole Vernier. A few months before he died, he called me, and said, "Why don't you give me a walking tour of your Marina
"MY Marina?" I asked. "Since when did you deed it to me?"
I had a lot of fun introducing him to all the local merchants, and residents. Although he was already wracked with cancer, he maintained his relentless wit. I felt like George Fenneman trying to keep up with Groucho. Herb was eighty, desperately ill, but his energy did not wane, nor did his curiosity, nor his sense of mischief.
We dropped into Kimmel's stationery store on Chestnut Street. It hadn't changed much since the 1950s.
"Here, Herb," I said, "I'll buy you a roll of fax paper." He hadn't quite warmed up to e-mail.
"I don't use fax paper by the roll," said Herb. "Don Johnson gave me a fax machine that uses the flat kind."
(Always a namedropper. Herb once observed, "Gossip is the mother's milk of journalism.)
The proprietor of the shop was a demure woman who asked sweetly, "Oh, you need flat paper? Do you want a ream?"
"I don't know," Herb shot back, not missing a beat. "I hardly know you."
The lady looked a little confused but Herb and I were still laughing when we hit the sidewalk
Less than eight months later, I was at Herb Caen's memorial service at Grace Cathedral. A big bash followed at the Fairmont's Venetian Room, reopened for the occasion. Four kinds of vodka, Herb's "Vitamin V," was served in each corner of the room. Over at Moose's, Vernon Alley and his trio were playing their hearts out, a swinging version of The Days of Wine and Roses.
There was a candlelight march that evening, thousands carrying candles in Dixie Cups, sauntering silently down Herb Caen Way, formerly known as The Embarcadero. There were many young people in attendance. I saw one man drop out of the walk, sit on the curb, and weep.
"As a young boy, I learned from him how to conduct myself in places like the St. Francis, the Tonga Room, and the Mark," said John Harris, a native. "Herb Caen taught us to love our shining characters. He taught us that we, as San Franciscans, were a breed among ourselves."
That night, ten years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that the days of wine and roses may have finally laughed and run away.
Ten years after his death, Caen's name is dismissed by many with a glazed look or a shrug of the shoulders. The Chronicle didn’t even mention the occasion. Young people cannot imagine that one man who wrote for a newspaper could have such authority or such relevance. But he did.
To me, he was more than an icon. Herb Caen was my friend, a mentor who made me locally famous. For 17 years, I sent him jokes, and observations that he often printed -- and sometimes I even got credit. I was in a group of regular contributors during the later years that Herb called "Our Native Witz." They included Jerry Matters ... Matt Buka ... Edwin Heaven ... and, of course, the mysterious quipmeister, Strange de Jim
Herb's column ran for an unprecedented 59 years. There were a lot of native wits over the years. But Herb was the foundation, the ever-vigilant protector of the culture. He was Mister San Francisco, a fixed point in an ever-changing world. There's no one to take his place today, anymore than there will be another Irv Kupcinet in Chicago or a Jack Smith in Los Angeles. The daily newspaper is not the habit that it once was. Stu Smith recalls, "My father used to make us read Herb Caen at the breakfast table before we left for school. It was compulsory
It's a different world. What would we make of "Baghdad by the Bay" today, Herb's romantic term of endearment for The City? Herb himself was fond of noting that "War is the terrible geography lesson." He rolled with the changing times over the decades; he managed to remain relevant, though the three-dot column now seems a bit quaint. He loved puns, plays-on-words, and what he called "saloon humor." I first came to Herb's attention when I dropped him a note, indicating that "the great songwriters like Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Rodgers & Hart could never make it today because falling in love is more often described as exchanging bodily fluids. And 'fluids' is a tough rhyme
Herb liked my definition of a bad day: "When you come home from work, turn on the evening news, and see it being read by someone in an Army uniform
Years went by before Herb and I actually met, though I had made friends with his dedicated assistant, Carole Vernier. A few months before he died, he called me, and said, "Why don't you give me a walking tour of your Marina
"MY Marina?" I asked. "Since when did you deed it to me?"
I had a lot of fun introducing him to all the local merchants, and residents. Although he was already wracked with cancer, he maintained his relentless wit. I felt like George Fenneman trying to keep up with Groucho. Herb was eighty, desperately ill, but his energy did not wane, nor did his curiosity, nor his sense of mischief.
We dropped into Kimmel's stationery store on Chestnut Street. It hadn't changed much since the 1950s.
"Here, Herb," I said, "I'll buy you a roll of fax paper." He hadn't quite warmed up to e-mail.
"I don't use fax paper by the roll," said Herb. "Don Johnson gave me a fax machine that uses the flat kind."
(Always a namedropper. Herb once observed, "Gossip is the mother's milk of journalism.)
The proprietor of the shop was a demure woman who asked sweetly, "Oh, you need flat paper? Do you want a ream?"
"I don't know," Herb shot back, not missing a beat. "I hardly know you."
The lady looked a little confused but Herb and I were still laughing when we hit the sidewalk
Less than eight months later, I was at Herb Caen's memorial service at Grace Cathedral. A big bash followed at the Fairmont's Venetian Room, reopened for the occasion. Four kinds of vodka, Herb's "Vitamin V," was served in each corner of the room. Over at Moose's, Vernon Alley and his trio were playing their hearts out, a swinging version of The Days of Wine and Roses.
There was a candlelight march that evening, thousands carrying candles in Dixie Cups, sauntering silently down Herb Caen Way, formerly known as The Embarcadero. There were many young people in attendance. I saw one man drop out of the walk, sit on the curb, and weep.
"As a young boy, I learned from him how to conduct myself in places like the St. Francis, the Tonga Room, and the Mark," said John Harris, a native. "Herb Caen taught us to love our shining characters. He taught us that we, as San Franciscans, were a breed among ourselves."
That night, ten years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that the days of wine and roses may have finally laughed and run away.
The Sputnik Mystery: What Goes Around Sometimes Comes Around
Many know that Herb Caen coined the term "beatnik," cleverly combining the advent of The Beats in San Francisco, and Sputnik, the Russian satellite, the first manmade object that reached an orbit around the earth. Sputnik is 50 years old this year. Today, it's hard to imagine how terrified Americans were when the Russians beat us in the race to outer space. It was a red star in orbit, James Oberg said.
More frightening to the country back in October 1957: the silver orb the size of a beachball that was visible to worried Americans, emitted a radio signal, a beep, The Commies were lording over us, literally, mocking us like an orbiting Road Runner with its "Beep Beep." CIA cryptographers worked day and night to break the code that Sputnik might be sending. There was no code. The real fear was that the Rooskies could drop a nuclear bomb that might be attached to this thing. Mighty America appeared helpless. It's a testament to Herb Caen's moxie that he had the nerve to make a joke about this. He wasn't the only one who took Sputnik lightly.
Sherman Adams, chief of staff to President Eisenhower, smirked that the government wasn't interested in "an outer-space basketball game" with the Russians. Eisenhower was furious with Adams. We'd been humiliated in the eyes of the world, when we cared about that sort of thing. Americans were afraid, as they periodically are, said William Manchester, "that they had gone soft" and let the Russians best them.
Of course, this was the impetus for the space race, which eventually pushed the U.S. to get to the moon first. But what happened to Sputnik? We were told that it burned up re-entering the atmosphere in early 1958, right?
Perhaps not. The old adage that everything in the world sooner or later turns up in San Francisco is true. Jerry Cimino, over at the Beat Museum on Broadway, says it's possible
that not only did Sputnik or parts of Sputnik survive the re-entry, but that he knows somebody who actually has pieces of the satellite -- and -- this person might lend him said pieces to put on exhibit at the Beat Museum. They used to call these events "publicity stunts" -- but who knows?
Bob Morgan knows. Jerry calls him Sputnik Bob. He claims his grandfather collected pieces of the satellite that crashed in his backyard in Encino back in 1958. An L.A. radio station offered a $50,000 reward for Sputnik at the time, in the unlikely even that it should crash somewhere in the neighborhood. That's a real publicity stunt. Considering what 50-grand was worth 50 years ago, the station owners didn't think Sputnik had a snowball's chance in hell to make it. But Sputnik Bob says not only did his grandad recover Sputnik, he dutifully turned the pieces over to the Air Force and they -- get this -- later returned the pieces to him. Sputnik Bob also hopes to collect that 50-thousand bucks. And I am Marie of Romania. Naturally, Sputnik should be on loan to the Beat Museum, the ceremonial home of the Beatniks.
"The Beatniks have found Sputnik," says Jerry, just relishing the irony. He plans, along with partner John Cassady, son of the legendary Beat, Neal Cassady, to take Sputnik, which is reportedly a few ounces of melted plastic and metal, aboard the museum's Beatmobile for a tour of California schools.
The Beats did not appreciate the "beatnik" monicker. Allen Ginsberg said the term was a "foul word," a pernicious mass-media invention. To some, it linked the artists of the time to the Communists. Imagine that. Herb didn't mean any harm. He just knew a good line when he
invented it.
So, on this tenth anniversary of the death of Herb Caen, we ask, "What would Herb say?"
Probably something like, "Gawd, I love this town."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)