The times keep on a'changin'. Or do they? If Rupert Murdoch succeeds in buying the Wall Street Journal, media insiders say that in no time, photos of young, lithe, topless gals of major brokerage houses, draped in pinstripe jackets, will appear daily on Page Three of the WSJ. These nude pictorials have worked so well over the years for the Fleet Street tabloids ... The cult movie cognescenti were among the nearly 100 fans who showed up at Amoeba on Haight Street on Bastille Day to meet the immortal Tura Satana, star of Russ Myer's classic Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill! She has fans of all ages," gushed Brent Jones, Amoeba's kiosk guy. "Even little girls were dressed up like Tura in that signature low-cut black cat suit." Ah, to be a parent today. Ms. Satana, now a lively 69 years old, signed copies of her new DVD, and later had a spot of lunch with a few other cinema luminaries -- John Waters ... Mink Stole ... and Siouxzan Perry. ...
She transcended cult status. Only in America could you have a Tammy Faye Bakker Messner, who died last month.
Five years ago, at one of Robert Pritikin's legendary Labor Day bashes, I sat with Tammy Faye on the sofa and chatted. She was bubbly, of course, and dressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck, Chanel black suspenders, and a gold Chanel belt. Too bad Tura Satana wasn't there. Tammy Faye was very sweet, very self-effacing and quite funny. With her silent husband, Roe Messner, by her side, she talked to everybody -- even Karla La Vey, of the Church of Satan, though I don't think Tammy Faye knew who she was. But she talked a lot about redemption. She told Larry King, the Mortician of the Culture, just days before she died: "After everyone had abandoned me & Jim when the scandal happened, I had absolutely nothing -- but it was the gays who came to my rescue and helped me so generously." In Pritikin's backyard she sang gospel numbers with the 40-voice Jubilee on Fire choir from San Jose. Pritikin, who also wrote a book titled Christ Was an Adman, handed out wristwatches as party favors. The face of Jesus was on the face of each watch. In honor of Tammy Faye, Christ was depicted with false eyelashes. As for the millions she and Jim Bakker squandered, it reminds me of the line from the film, Laura, when Clifton Webb, as the Broadway columnist Waldo Lydecker, smirks to Gene Tierney, "It may be lavish, but it's home." ...
Netta Fedor would know that movie. In fact, she knows them all. Netta is the wife of Michael Fedor, owner of It's A Grind coffeehouse on Polk & Washington. Netta saw over 325 movies last year. Not on DVD, not on cable, but at the movies. She's been a film fanatic since she was a kid. Oh, yes, she has a job, and an important one. She raises money for something called That Men May See Inc., which raises money for the ophthalmology department at UCSF. If Netta's eyes get tired from all the movie-watching, she knows whom to consult. ... Writer/broadcaster Diane de Castro is back from a couple of weeks at Oxford for a few fresher courses on art, history and literature, and reports that a new movie version of Brideshead Revisited was being shot on site.
When she wasn't shopping in all corners of San Francisco, Andrea Marcovicci, the Queen of Cabaret, was rewriting her boffo Rodgers & Hart show that played the Plush Room last month before she takes it to New York. Andrea has to shave a half-hour off the show's length. The performance lasts ninety minutes but it really seems much shorter. Pat Kelley, the doyenne of the Marina, agreed. La Kelley said the anecdotes & the stories about Lorenz Hart, the tragic "Poet of Broadway" -- all researched and written by Andrea -- sets it apart as a cabaret show, succinctly-paced. "Well, all the same, it will have to be an hour when I take it to New York," Andrea explained over lunch at the Balboa. "The Algonquin is very strict about these things. It's a dinner show, and the waiters need time to turn the tables over." Now we know who really runs the world. That reminds me of the faster-than-a-speeding bullet waiters during the halcyon days of the Fairmont's Venetian Room, the premier dinner house of S.F. But all nostalgia has been banned from this column.
The Fairmont Hotel is celebrating its centennial right now, and one of the goodies on hand is a Monoply board game with Fairmont properties instead of the traditional landmarks. "It took us forever to get permission from Parker Bros. to do this," said Michelle Heston, of the Fairmont's Sonoma Mission Inn. But the games cannot be sold. They're for promotional use only. So insists Parker Bros., which has a monopoly on Monopoly. ... If famed S.F. writer Barnaby Conrad III appears larger-than-life these days, that's because he's editor-at-large of Forbes Life magazine, the mag that's delivered to one million millionaires. His boss is his old friend, Christopher Buckley. ...
Sara Jobin is also a class act. She made headlines three years ago when she became the first woman to conduct the mainstage subscription series at the S.F Opera. She's just back from a conducting gig at Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts in Virginia. On Oct 24 she'll conduct a performance of the world premiere opera by Philip Glass, Appomattox, at the S.F. Opera. What does this young, talented woman do for fun? She sings with the Glide Memorial Choir on Sundays. "Glide is different," says Sara. "I'm accessing my brain from another direction. It's a positive charge for my spirit. We get 'it' at Glide, and we also get 'it' at the Opera." ... Douglass Fitch, formerly a preacher at Glide, is speaking at Grace Cathedral Aug. 5. Pastor Fitch has made some big changes in his life. He recently retired from Glide, and is now preaching at a much smaller church, Hamilton Methodist on Waller Street -- and Pastor Fitch just got married. "She's a beautiful and very kind woman named Angel," says Allyson Stinchfield, a singer at Glide. Yes, Angel. I cannot make this stuff up. ...
Earl Darny is making his dreams come true by finally opening his own bakery, Lotta's, at 1720 Polk Street, at Clay. Earl's a first-rate patissier. A graduate of the California Culinary Academy, Star's restaurant, and Bay Wolf, he's also been a Russian Hill resident for over twenty years. Why call it Lotta's? "It's my drag name," explains Earl. Of course. Wy didn't I think of that? It's also an homage to Lotta Crabtree, the famous San Francisco actress of the 19th century. "Miss Lotta, the San Francisco Favorite," was a protege of the great Lola Montez. Miss Lotta, no cream puff, also knew how to invest her money. When she died in 1924, her property in The City was valued at four-million dollars. ... I admire both Miss Lotta and Earl Darney for their practical sense. I'm afraid I don't have it. I was just invited to the Wisdom Festival Conference at Ft. Mason, Sept, 15 & 16. I expect the invitation to be rescinded as soon as they get wise to me. ...
Bruce Bellingham's book is called Bellingham by the Bay. He's concocting another memoir called The Angina Dialogues, which should be completed in a heartbeat. Tell Bellingham what he ought to know at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Thursday, July 26, 2007
How to Read an Obituary
I don't think I'm a jealous person, not in a professional sense, anyway. But ... when I saw this lead paragraph in an obituary in the U.K. Telegraph the other day, a newspaper which invariably produces the best obituary writing in the world, I got a pang of envy.
"Count Gottfried von Bismarck, who was found dead on Monday aged 44, was a louche German aristocrat with a multi-faceted history as a pleasure-seeking heroin addict, hell-raising alcoholic, flamboyant waster and a reckless and extravagant host of homosexual orgies."
Wow. That's a bloody masterpiece. It sounds like something I should have included on my Selective Service forms. The author was not credited. Too bad. I wanted to thank the writer. The prose includes one of my favorite words -- "louche." It's a French term -- of course -- that means tawdry, lurid and lascivious in a very languorous, hedonistic manner.
Wonderful.
How to Read an Obituary is sometimes an acquired skill. They're usually not as straightforward as this one about the Count von Bismarck, who clearly sank himself with a lot of effort. Sometimes obits are more subtle. For example, when you see the word, "gregarious," I have to tell you that it really means
"D-R-U-N-K." When one encounters the phrases, "life-of-the-party," or "man-about-town" -- you can bet it really means, "D-R-U-N-K." Anything French, of course, "raconteur," "boulevardier" -- invariably indicates "D-R-U-N-K." And, of course there's gregarious AND louche.
My interest in obits is not at all morbid. It's an art form. It's simply not for the faint-hearted.
"It's such a slow news day," a news anchor said many years ago when I was a writer at the radio station. "Maybe somebody famous will die, and Bellingham could write a two-and-a-half minute obit."
That made me very proud.
That reminds me. It was tough -- but I had to tell my friend, Jennifer, that Screaming Lord Sutch is still dead. Lord Sutch might have said, "You bloody twit, of course I'm still dead." What a shame Lord Sutch is dead. He would have been delighted by the controversial, though ill-fated cascade of same-sex marriages at San Francisco City Hall. He would revel in the apoplectic indignation from the right-wing. In his day it would have been required to be outrageously outraged -- to be dripping with mascara with River Styx lip gloss, and angry speeches in order to make one's love heard. But today, it's sweet bouquets, impartations of "all the luck in the world," and a teary Rosie O'Donnell.
For those of us who are old enough to remember, Lord Sutch was a British peer who picked some very unlordly cultural peers, such as Keith Moon, Brian Jones and the Bonzo Dog Band. Yes, all Brit rockers -- and crazy, even by 60's crazy standards, if "standard" is the right term. But this was before the punks who screamed and then drew blood --- real blood. ... Sutch died back in 1997. Surely he knew Gottried von Bismarck -- perhaps Gotfreidn was a protegé.
Lord Sutch fronted rock bands during the '60s Carnaby Street days in London. He maintained a political party called the Official Monster Raving Loony Party. One of Lord Sutch's innovative ideas was to breed fish in a lake filled with wine so they could be caught pre-pickled -- just like many of Lord Sutch's colleagues.
If there were such a body of water in Golden Gate Park, I would have auditioned for the lifeguard position.
Dashing about as a dedicated follower of outrageous fashion in furs, silks, velveteen -- and pounds of face powder --- the good Lord espoused a social tract that was distilled into "Vote for Insanity, You Know It Makes Sense." At times, it seems the fringe people are the only ones who seem rational.
It's tough to be a civilized madman in a world that is truly mad -- one that is devoid of humor, irony and compassion. I'm not sure if Sutch ever made it here to sometimes compassionate San Francisco, but I'm sure he not only would he have felt like home, he would have purchased one here. And opened this house up to every sweet-natured miscreant in all of North American and Alta California. A commune for the comatose -- and the compassionate. ....
Dislordly Lord Sutch dressed himself up in a fabulously splashy way ---perhaps like Wilkes Bashford -- Boy George .... or even Bob Pritikin -- or, going back a few years to the 19th century, Emperor Norton. Being on fire with flamboyance seems pretty harmless.
San Francisco has had a long list of lovable loonies like Emperor Norton, who traversed the streets in a grandly-appointed military uniform with two dogs, Bummer and Lazarus. You see, like Lord Sutch, the Emperor was a real character -- not just a crazy man, not a street person in the conventional sense, but a man filled with madness, a purposeful kind of insanity. The purpose, perhaps, was simply fun.
Even the former Prime Minister of England, Tony Blair, paid homage to the late Lord Sutch: "He made a unique contribution to British politics." That's one dry, condescending assessment typical of the sententious Tony Blair. The war in Iraq has also made a unique contribution to British politics. As did Gallipoli. The War Poets of World War I used to pose the question, "Who are the real dangerous people?"
Lord Sutch is gone now. I guess there was no one left to annoy anymore.
It seems to me the job today of attentive citizens is to continue to annoy, and to annoy with great flair and style. .
May the saints preserve the friendly, fringe folk. May they know what sustainable joy they leave us. The despair and the screaming is over for Lord Sutch. The task of remembering is now left to the not-so-exalted obit writer, who's doing the best a simple obit writer can.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which includes all kinds of stories about all kinds of dead people. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
"Count Gottfried von Bismarck, who was found dead on Monday aged 44, was a louche German aristocrat with a multi-faceted history as a pleasure-seeking heroin addict, hell-raising alcoholic, flamboyant waster and a reckless and extravagant host of homosexual orgies."
Wow. That's a bloody masterpiece. It sounds like something I should have included on my Selective Service forms. The author was not credited. Too bad. I wanted to thank the writer. The prose includes one of my favorite words -- "louche." It's a French term -- of course -- that means tawdry, lurid and lascivious in a very languorous, hedonistic manner.
Wonderful.
How to Read an Obituary is sometimes an acquired skill. They're usually not as straightforward as this one about the Count von Bismarck, who clearly sank himself with a lot of effort. Sometimes obits are more subtle. For example, when you see the word, "gregarious," I have to tell you that it really means
"D-R-U-N-K." When one encounters the phrases, "life-of-the-party," or "man-about-town" -- you can bet it really means, "D-R-U-N-K." Anything French, of course, "raconteur," "boulevardier" -- invariably indicates "D-R-U-N-K." And, of course there's gregarious AND louche.
My interest in obits is not at all morbid. It's an art form. It's simply not for the faint-hearted.
"It's such a slow news day," a news anchor said many years ago when I was a writer at the radio station. "Maybe somebody famous will die, and Bellingham could write a two-and-a-half minute obit."
That made me very proud.
That reminds me. It was tough -- but I had to tell my friend, Jennifer, that Screaming Lord Sutch is still dead. Lord Sutch might have said, "You bloody twit, of course I'm still dead." What a shame Lord Sutch is dead. He would have been delighted by the controversial, though ill-fated cascade of same-sex marriages at San Francisco City Hall. He would revel in the apoplectic indignation from the right-wing. In his day it would have been required to be outrageously outraged -- to be dripping with mascara with River Styx lip gloss, and angry speeches in order to make one's love heard. But today, it's sweet bouquets, impartations of "all the luck in the world," and a teary Rosie O'Donnell.
For those of us who are old enough to remember, Lord Sutch was a British peer who picked some very unlordly cultural peers, such as Keith Moon, Brian Jones and the Bonzo Dog Band. Yes, all Brit rockers -- and crazy, even by 60's crazy standards, if "standard" is the right term. But this was before the punks who screamed and then drew blood --- real blood. ... Sutch died back in 1997. Surely he knew Gottried von Bismarck -- perhaps Gotfreidn was a protegé.
Lord Sutch fronted rock bands during the '60s Carnaby Street days in London. He maintained a political party called the Official Monster Raving Loony Party. One of Lord Sutch's innovative ideas was to breed fish in a lake filled with wine so they could be caught pre-pickled -- just like many of Lord Sutch's colleagues.
If there were such a body of water in Golden Gate Park, I would have auditioned for the lifeguard position.
Dashing about as a dedicated follower of outrageous fashion in furs, silks, velveteen -- and pounds of face powder --- the good Lord espoused a social tract that was distilled into "Vote for Insanity, You Know It Makes Sense." At times, it seems the fringe people are the only ones who seem rational.
It's tough to be a civilized madman in a world that is truly mad -- one that is devoid of humor, irony and compassion. I'm not sure if Sutch ever made it here to sometimes compassionate San Francisco, but I'm sure he not only would he have felt like home, he would have purchased one here. And opened this house up to every sweet-natured miscreant in all of North American and Alta California. A commune for the comatose -- and the compassionate. ....
Dislordly Lord Sutch dressed himself up in a fabulously splashy way ---perhaps like Wilkes Bashford -- Boy George .... or even Bob Pritikin -- or, going back a few years to the 19th century, Emperor Norton. Being on fire with flamboyance seems pretty harmless.
San Francisco has had a long list of lovable loonies like Emperor Norton, who traversed the streets in a grandly-appointed military uniform with two dogs, Bummer and Lazarus. You see, like Lord Sutch, the Emperor was a real character -- not just a crazy man, not a street person in the conventional sense, but a man filled with madness, a purposeful kind of insanity. The purpose, perhaps, was simply fun.
Even the former Prime Minister of England, Tony Blair, paid homage to the late Lord Sutch: "He made a unique contribution to British politics." That's one dry, condescending assessment typical of the sententious Tony Blair. The war in Iraq has also made a unique contribution to British politics. As did Gallipoli. The War Poets of World War I used to pose the question, "Who are the real dangerous people?"
Lord Sutch is gone now. I guess there was no one left to annoy anymore.
It seems to me the job today of attentive citizens is to continue to annoy, and to annoy with great flair and style. .
May the saints preserve the friendly, fringe folk. May they know what sustainable joy they leave us. The despair and the screaming is over for Lord Sutch. The task of remembering is now left to the not-so-exalted obit writer, who's doing the best a simple obit writer can.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which includes all kinds of stories about all kinds of dead people. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
In San Francisco, It's All a Question of Character
In San Francisco, It's All a Question of Character
by Bruce Bellingham
There is a fine line between being a vagrant, and being what they used to call "a real character."
San Francisco is the place where the line has been historically blurred. It's one place where you can arrive with a fortune, and die in fairly short order with nothing to your name except your name -- and a name that drips with a spurious meaning, to boot.
Take the now-revered figure that was Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed potentate of Mexico, and all of North America. He donned a ludicrously ornate, threadbare military uniform, and strutted the streets of old San Francisco, invariably trailed by two stray, mongrel dogs named Bummer and Lazarus. Well, they weren't really stray. They went with Emperor Norton everywhere -- even to the theatre. The emperor was what we might call today homeless. He came to San Francisco a rich man but ended up broke. That's still easy to do. But he was colorful, and harmless, funny, and contributed to a nascent, ramshackle seaport that was bulging with people -- almost all men -- who were seeking gold.
He was also as mad as a March hare. He fit in just fine.
One advantage of writing about a character is the facts don't always have to be accurate. I mean, who's going to know? The most far-fetched exploit will be readily accepted. When Lazarus died, thousands of San Franciscans followed the body of the beast to the cemetery. But another version asserts that Lazarus, run over by a fire engine, was stuffed by a taxidermist.
Now, the difference between being a "character" and being what was once called a "bum" is the measure of your contribution to myth and lore. This requires a certain sense of humor, and a benign sort of presence. Being a curmudgeon was all right. That's part of the ragtag, hardscrabble pioneer image. You had to have a sense of humanity. And you had to have some schtick. Props, for example. Norton had his uniform, and his hounds. The columnist/author Warren Hinckle, truly a rare, contemporary character, has his eye patch and his ubiquitous basset hound. We have other characters. Lawrence Ferlinghetti is not only a character, he's a man of letters. Herb Gold, with whom Lawrence sometimes disagrees over the legacy of The Beats, is certainly a character. Now also in his 80s, Herb keeps up an important part of the tradition: he walks everywhere, and has traversed the great hills of San Francisco for decades. Neither writer shows any sign of slowing down. I am grateful for that. There's no question that Michael McCourt, of the famous Irish literary family, is a character. Michael pours drinks at the Washington Square Bar & Grill. He's one of the best storytellers on the planet, and has a heart as big as all Connemara. The Washington Square, dubbed "the Washbag" by Herb Caen, has always been a draw for S.F. characters. They include the great newspapermen Charles McCabe, Stan Delaplane, Harry Jupiter, Sandy Zane, Ron Fimrite, Carole Vernier, and Glenn Dorenbush, who was the best friend a newspaperman could ever have.
Every great city has its great characters, and perhaps proof that S.F. is no longer as great as it once was is found in its paucity of real characters these days.
I heard that Brendan O'Smarty -- remember him? -- got a TV gig down in Australia. Brendan was the dummy who was the partner of SFPD's Bob Geary, who would take the dummy to work with him in the patrol car. It's not hard to believe that Geary lost a battle to the IRS over whether expenses that the dummy incurred might be deductible. What is hard to believe is that the voters of S.F. narrowly approved a ballot measure that allowed Geary and Brendan to "work" together on the beat after the department said he couldn't. To this day, the SFPD does not want to talk about Brendan O'Smarty or Bob Geary since they retired.
How much embarrassment you can cause others with impunity is another quality of a real character.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is a memoir that includes many San Francisco characters. Bellingham's e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com
by Bruce Bellingham
There is a fine line between being a vagrant, and being what they used to call "a real character."
San Francisco is the place where the line has been historically blurred. It's one place where you can arrive with a fortune, and die in fairly short order with nothing to your name except your name -- and a name that drips with a spurious meaning, to boot.
Take the now-revered figure that was Emperor Norton, the self-proclaimed potentate of Mexico, and all of North America. He donned a ludicrously ornate, threadbare military uniform, and strutted the streets of old San Francisco, invariably trailed by two stray, mongrel dogs named Bummer and Lazarus. Well, they weren't really stray. They went with Emperor Norton everywhere -- even to the theatre. The emperor was what we might call today homeless. He came to San Francisco a rich man but ended up broke. That's still easy to do. But he was colorful, and harmless, funny, and contributed to a nascent, ramshackle seaport that was bulging with people -- almost all men -- who were seeking gold.
He was also as mad as a March hare. He fit in just fine.
One advantage of writing about a character is the facts don't always have to be accurate. I mean, who's going to know? The most far-fetched exploit will be readily accepted. When Lazarus died, thousands of San Franciscans followed the body of the beast to the cemetery. But another version asserts that Lazarus, run over by a fire engine, was stuffed by a taxidermist.
Now, the difference between being a "character" and being what was once called a "bum" is the measure of your contribution to myth and lore. This requires a certain sense of humor, and a benign sort of presence. Being a curmudgeon was all right. That's part of the ragtag, hardscrabble pioneer image. You had to have a sense of humanity. And you had to have some schtick. Props, for example. Norton had his uniform, and his hounds. The columnist/author Warren Hinckle, truly a rare, contemporary character, has his eye patch and his ubiquitous basset hound. We have other characters. Lawrence Ferlinghetti is not only a character, he's a man of letters. Herb Gold, with whom Lawrence sometimes disagrees over the legacy of The Beats, is certainly a character. Now also in his 80s, Herb keeps up an important part of the tradition: he walks everywhere, and has traversed the great hills of San Francisco for decades. Neither writer shows any sign of slowing down. I am grateful for that. There's no question that Michael McCourt, of the famous Irish literary family, is a character. Michael pours drinks at the Washington Square Bar & Grill. He's one of the best storytellers on the planet, and has a heart as big as all Connemara. The Washington Square, dubbed "the Washbag" by Herb Caen, has always been a draw for S.F. characters. They include the great newspapermen Charles McCabe, Stan Delaplane, Harry Jupiter, Sandy Zane, Ron Fimrite, Carole Vernier, and Glenn Dorenbush, who was the best friend a newspaperman could ever have.
Every great city has its great characters, and perhaps proof that S.F. is no longer as great as it once was is found in its paucity of real characters these days.
I heard that Brendan O'Smarty -- remember him? -- got a TV gig down in Australia. Brendan was the dummy who was the partner of SFPD's Bob Geary, who would take the dummy to work with him in the patrol car. It's not hard to believe that Geary lost a battle to the IRS over whether expenses that the dummy incurred might be deductible. What is hard to believe is that the voters of S.F. narrowly approved a ballot measure that allowed Geary and Brendan to "work" together on the beat after the department said he couldn't. To this day, the SFPD does not want to talk about Brendan O'Smarty or Bob Geary since they retired.
How much embarrassment you can cause others with impunity is another quality of a real character.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is a memoir that includes many San Francisco characters. Bellingham's e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Codes of Conduct, SF Marina Times, July 2007
I am sure that I was not the only person in San Francisco who snickered at Sup. Chris Daly's calling for a standard of behavior on the part of officials on the job at City Hall. This level of decorum that Daly refers to apparently applies to public officials who might chase women staffers around the desk after having a few snootfuls down at the local gin mill. Oddly, it doesn't seem to apply, though, to casting aspersions on the mayor while railing against Newsom in the Supervisor's Chambers -- namely accusing the mayor of using illegal drugs -- and offering no foundation to the charges. In any other world, a reckless charge like this would usually be called defamation or slander, which it is. That's a code of conduct that Daly has overlooked. This shows so much chutzpah, I had to take notice. There was a flurry of media activity immediately following the accusations against Newsom. TV reporters suddenly took notice that week of the mayor's news conference on controlling the City's litter problem. No one pretended that the excursion had more to do with trash than litter, that is, Daly's trashy allegations. The mayor responded curtly. He knows by now that certain things in the ethereal constellation of San Francisco politics are here and then quickly gone. This is where the borders of what's tangible are less defined than they are in other parts of the corporeal world, and for ordinary people as I.
But Daly will likely be hoisted by his own petard. This is the hazard when playing with explosives. The bang wasn’t loud enough. That's probably why he issued an edict of conduct, an amusing concept when the source is he.
A NBC News reporter. covering the story about how Mayor Newsom is banning plastic water bottles in City Departments, repeated an old axiom, that "San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality." But this journalist had no axiom to grind. Indeed, he implied that Newsom was actually responding to the very real, and clear, and present danger of tons of plastic ending up in landfills, and choking the oceans. NBC is saying that S.F. has a mayor who can respond to things that are occurring in the real world. This represents a code of conduct that means something.
Imagine that.
A lot of people who work at City Hall don't want to drink tap water, but the mayor seems to think that City Hall is the place where good examples of environmental responsibility have to be demonstrated. I'm sure staffers at City Hall might be more comfortable now with drinking wine and beer on the job -- wine and beer from recycled containers, of course. But wait -- that would be a violation of the newly recommended codes of conduct from Chris Daly, the arbiter of decorum. What's an administrator to do? In the old days, it was down to the Rathskeller or to Stars for a long, liquid lunch -- and subsequently, the wheels of government would turn with astounding efficiency. Ah, halcyon days.
A code of conduct.
If people were drunk on their City administrative jobs, would we notice any difference? No matter. Let's just be grateful that we have a nascent morality police force at City Hall. But rules, recriminations, and righteous indignation tend to appear when there's a paucity of talent, and a lot of noise. It's evidence of that occasional off-the-wall legislation that often goes through the Board of Supervisors like a bad cold. A cold of conduct. It causes a stuffy head, and an attack of self-importance. It's a good thing that all that reality is out there somewhere.
Sometimes I think that San Francisco deserves a whole lot better than this. Other times, I believe we get exactly what we deserve.
Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of the SF Northside & the Marina Times. He's the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and work is still underway on The Angina Dialogues, an excursion into the Heartland, both real & imagined. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
But Daly will likely be hoisted by his own petard. This is the hazard when playing with explosives. The bang wasn’t loud enough. That's probably why he issued an edict of conduct, an amusing concept when the source is he.
A NBC News reporter. covering the story about how Mayor Newsom is banning plastic water bottles in City Departments, repeated an old axiom, that "San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality." But this journalist had no axiom to grind. Indeed, he implied that Newsom was actually responding to the very real, and clear, and present danger of tons of plastic ending up in landfills, and choking the oceans. NBC is saying that S.F. has a mayor who can respond to things that are occurring in the real world. This represents a code of conduct that means something.
Imagine that.
A lot of people who work at City Hall don't want to drink tap water, but the mayor seems to think that City Hall is the place where good examples of environmental responsibility have to be demonstrated. I'm sure staffers at City Hall might be more comfortable now with drinking wine and beer on the job -- wine and beer from recycled containers, of course. But wait -- that would be a violation of the newly recommended codes of conduct from Chris Daly, the arbiter of decorum. What's an administrator to do? In the old days, it was down to the Rathskeller or to Stars for a long, liquid lunch -- and subsequently, the wheels of government would turn with astounding efficiency. Ah, halcyon days.
A code of conduct.
If people were drunk on their City administrative jobs, would we notice any difference? No matter. Let's just be grateful that we have a nascent morality police force at City Hall. But rules, recriminations, and righteous indignation tend to appear when there's a paucity of talent, and a lot of noise. It's evidence of that occasional off-the-wall legislation that often goes through the Board of Supervisors like a bad cold. A cold of conduct. It causes a stuffy head, and an attack of self-importance. It's a good thing that all that reality is out there somewhere.
Sometimes I think that San Francisco deserves a whole lot better than this. Other times, I believe we get exactly what we deserve.
Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of the SF Northside & the Marina Times. He's the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and work is still underway on The Angina Dialogues, an excursion into the Heartland, both real & imagined. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
Friday, July 13, 2007
Summertime and the Livin' Seemed Easy
"Love, Janis" Tugs at Joplin Fans' Hearts at San Francisco's Marines Memorial Theatre
by Bruce Bellingham
(originally published August, 2006 in San Francisco Northside)
You can't help but have affection for Janis Joplin by the end of the musical tribute to her life, "Love, Janis," at the Marines Memorial Theatre in downtown San Francisco, the city where her fame and notoriety were born 30 years ago.
She was only 27 when she died from a heroin overdose in 1970. Randal Myler's musical adaptation of Laura Joplin's book reminds how young and vulnerable Janis was, and Cathy Richardson's singing reminds us what a powerhouse the Joplin voice was. Because of the demands of the singing, Richardson alternates performances with Katrina Chester. Richardson, to my relief, held back from taking her voice to the edge of what a human voice could do. Janis Joplin pushed hers to beyond the limit, literally singing like there was no tomorrow. When Janis invited us to take another piece of her heart, you really believed she meant it.
Laura Joplin bases her story on Janis' letter to home after she had hitchhiked to California from her home in Port Arthur, Texas, with the inimitable Chet Helms, who, thankfully gets credit in the show -- and his photo is part of the backdrop. The art direction, by Norman Schwab, is terrific. The old art posters of the Avalon, the Fillmore, and the Family Dog, are projected beautifully. The hippie-era costumes, by Lorraine Venberg, are right on the money. We see Janis go quickly from T-shirts to boas. Yes, it all went too quickly. She only had a few years in the spotlight.
The sex and the drugs part of the story is toned down -- as only a sister might do. The material is rather tame. The letter-reading is shared by Richardson and Chester but mostly performed by Morgan Hallett, who, in a non-singing part, plays the more-innocent Janis, the one who breaks our hearts when her loneliness becomes palpable. She practically cries out for approval from her parents and hopes she hasn't really disappointed them this time with this crazy adventure to the Haight-Ashbury in far-off, far-out San Francisco.
The letters reveal a very bright Janis Joplin, one who thanks her father for all the books that he's passed along to her. Indeed, she surprises us when she reveals that she has named her new dog Thurber. She gets a laugh of recognition when Janis recommends The Hobbit for her sister, Laura, to read.
But the band (both Big Brother and the Holding Company and Janis' later ensembles, the Kozmic Blues Band and the Full-Tilt Boogie Band) with both Richardson and Chester is the big hit. Under the direction of Sam Andrew, who was a founding member of Big Brother, and with lead guitarist Joel Hoekstra in charge from the stage, the group sounds a whole lot better than the original players. All of the big hits are included, "Get It While You Can" ... "Me and Bobbie McGee" ..." Summertime" ... "Ball and Chain" ... and "Piece of My Heart."
I thought much of the script was flaccid and superficial but, after all, she was so young -- just a kid. Janis reluctantly tells her family about her posing for a photo, wearing nothing except for a string of pearls. That famous poster was nowhere to be seen on stage during "Love, Janis" but a glance at the photo, still widely sold, reveals a scared, already-scarred Janis, looking terribly vulnerable.
Bellingham by the Bay, SF Northside, July 2007
Nob Hill writer Dorothy Hearst (not related to the newspaper dynasty) just sealed an agreement with Simon & Schuster to publish Dorothy's first novel, "The Wolf Chronicles, Book I: Promise of the Wolves." Dorothy took the big plunge two years ago, to step away from her editing job at Jossey-Bass Publishers, and devote all of her time to writing. Her long-shot has paid off. Good on you, good neighbor Dorothy. ...
The popular John Barleycorn pub on Nob Hill continues to hang in and hang on -- but it still faces a September deadline for being closed permanently by the new owner of the building, Luisa Hanson. She is mum about her plans. Owner Larry Ayre and his crew will have a July 4 sidewalk barbeque in front of the tavern on Larkin at California. The supporters of Save the Barleycorn have collected over 3,000 signatures for their web site, savethebarleycorn.com. Every good sentiment is sweet music to their ears, particularly after this writer was on the premises when the Barleycorn's vintage jukebox had a seizure, then passed on it its reward. I still feel guilty about have a hand in its death. Gee, I was only playing "On the Wings of a Nightingale" by the Everly Bros. seventeen times in a row. Swan songs are in season. ... The wonderful Don Asher, late of Moose's, is now playing the piano on Sunday afternoons at the Big 4, giving the elegant place even more elegance. Nob Hill resident Diane Morrill is already charmed. "Don plays 'Smile for Me, My Diane' when I'm here."... "The Big 4 is the greatest saloon in San Francisco," David McCullough likes to say. ... Georgette Rodarakis of KTRB-860 AM, says this "newest" talk station is looking for local programs -- instead of that downlinked rubbish that plagues San Francisco airwaves all too often. ... One Internet station out of LA is making a splash with locals, Martini-in-the-Morning.com. It's a non-stop selection of the Great American Songbook. "Baby Boomers are tired of the same old Top 40 oldies," e-mails program director Brad Chambers. Brad takes requests, by the way. He plays lots of Cole Porter. That pleases S.F. keyboard wizard Barry Lloyd, who has finally put together his one-man Bobby Short tribute show. ...
The Ghost of the Holy Grail has been restless lately. Did you know there's a ghost that haunts the building, formerly the funky but venerable Maye's Oyster House at 1233 Polk Street? "I've seen her," reports Myles O'Reilly, the Holy Grail proprietor. "She's a young woman who dances around the dining room in a white diaphanous gown, then quickly vanishes." Myles says the story goes that she was the likely victim of a homicide in the cellar about fifty years ago. "She's been rather active lately," says Erlynn Smithers Hubbard, who manages the B&B over the restaurant. "Lately all sorts of crazy things have been happening -- windows mysteriously opening & closing, clock radios going off & on. It's a little unnerving." ... Barnaby Conrad III took in the ACT production of Moliere's "The Invisible Invalid" the other night, and was perversely amused by the notes on the life of the French playwright. "Moliere ended up marrying the 20-something daughter of his mistress," Barnaby notes. "It was rumored to be incest, as the mother was pregnant at the same time Moliere began his affiliation with her. Shades of Woody Allen and Soon-Yi." This my fascinate Barnaby because his latest novel in called "The Bachelor." ... Speaking of novels, Barnaby's brilliant Irish friend, Dave Monagan has a new book just out, "Journey Into the Heart," which is about pioneering surgeon and cardiologists. It's sort of a "The Right Stuff" for the world of cardio-exploration, with all the attendant zany characters. Fred Hill, the Bay Area's most famous literary agent, got Dave his book deal. ...
David Harris, the astute journalist, activist, and draft resister who went to federal prison for 20 months in the 60s, appeared at the Commonwealth Club last month with Joan Blades, the Berkeley-born founder of moveon.org. "I'm often introduced as 'a husband of Joan Baez', no matter how relevant it is," Harris told me. He and Baez were divorced in 1973. More relevant is Harris was married to the late New York Times reporter Lacey Fosburgh, who wrote "Closing Time: The True Story of the Goodbar Murder" and "Old Money." Lacey died of breast cancer in 1993. ... Harris, is the author of a new book, The Crisis" -- about the Iranian hostage episode in 1979, certainly walked the walk by going to prison, has not lost his fire, nor his defiance. "There's a liberal myth that reinstating the draft would end this war in Iraq. A draft would only give unlimited power to the people who are already drunk with power. I never thought I'd say I'd miss Richard Nixon, but I do." ... When I hear people condemn immigrants these days, I'm reminded how Irving Berlin, a Jew from Russia, wrote "God Bless America." ... "I don't know what to do with San Francisco these days," says longtime resident Cynthia Fine. "There's less charm, less civility, less soul." The only thing there's more of is "less." We all have days like that. ... Sandra Stolz found herself in the thick of the Gay Pride Parade and, in a shower of small packages. "It's personal lubricant," chuckled Sandra. My favorite kind, truly community standard. "I went to Pier 39 to hear the sea lions," Sandra added, "but they were curiously quiet on Gay Pride Weekend." You know the old saying -- do whatever you want as long as it isn't in front of the children or doesn't frightens the sea lions. ... Naomi Murdach says he's still down the by water, scanning the horizon: "I'm waiting for my ship to come in, but the dock is rotting." ...
It's hard to imagine that it's been two years since the death of the kind comrade Chet Helms. His brother, Johnny, reminded us of the occasion. There was a gathering at the Columbarium of June 25, the anniversary of Chet's passing, to recall his life. It seems a little indecent to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love without him. ... There are murmurs that the storied, unique Plush Room may be moved to another location by end of year. ... Meanwhile, can the Lorraine Hansberry Theater, which is located in the Sutter Street building that once housed the Hotel Sheehan, survive a takeover bid from the ubiquitous Academy of Art University? I have to confess: Google and the Academy of Art University seem to have divided the modern world between themselves. ... Lester Holt, the weekend anchor of the NBC Nightly News, started as a radio reporter at KCBS back in 1980. But Lester remembers his colleagues. NBC covered the non-feeding ordinance and the Parrots of Telegraph Hill as well as Mayor Newsom's ban on bottled water at City Hall. "Jeez," says Lester, "you can't even give the poor birds a bottle of Evian." ... Local canary Lua Hadar tells us that Madame Jo and Trio will appear at the Octavia Lounge, Aug. 9, part of the Jazz Without Borders series. Local-boy-turned-international star Shawn Ryan plays the Herbst Hall on Aug. 24. ... Ed Moose held his sixth annual gathering of the City's hotel doormen (no, I didn't see any women) at Moose's restaurant last month. After Willie Brown left, the doormen swapped stories. The Sir Francis Drake's Tom Sweeney encouraged tales of how brazen people have tried to steal their doorman hats. Tom's Beefeater chapeau costs $300. He has fetched the police after many a hat pirate. On one occasion it started a freeway chase across the Bay Bridge, with many cop cars in pursuit of the purloined lid. Don't mess with Tom. In every case, the coppers got the toppers. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and hopes to report the publication of his new book, "The Angina Dialogues" some day soon ... He's also a staff writer for the S.F. Northside and the Marina Times.
####
The popular John Barleycorn pub on Nob Hill continues to hang in and hang on -- but it still faces a September deadline for being closed permanently by the new owner of the building, Luisa Hanson. She is mum about her plans. Owner Larry Ayre and his crew will have a July 4 sidewalk barbeque in front of the tavern on Larkin at California. The supporters of Save the Barleycorn have collected over 3,000 signatures for their web site, savethebarleycorn.com. Every good sentiment is sweet music to their ears, particularly after this writer was on the premises when the Barleycorn's vintage jukebox had a seizure, then passed on it its reward. I still feel guilty about have a hand in its death. Gee, I was only playing "On the Wings of a Nightingale" by the Everly Bros. seventeen times in a row. Swan songs are in season. ... The wonderful Don Asher, late of Moose's, is now playing the piano on Sunday afternoons at the Big 4, giving the elegant place even more elegance. Nob Hill resident Diane Morrill is already charmed. "Don plays 'Smile for Me, My Diane' when I'm here."... "The Big 4 is the greatest saloon in San Francisco," David McCullough likes to say. ... Georgette Rodarakis of KTRB-860 AM, says this "newest" talk station is looking for local programs -- instead of that downlinked rubbish that plagues San Francisco airwaves all too often. ... One Internet station out of LA is making a splash with locals, Martini-in-the-Morning.com. It's a non-stop selection of the Great American Songbook. "Baby Boomers are tired of the same old Top 40 oldies," e-mails program director Brad Chambers. Brad takes requests, by the way. He plays lots of Cole Porter. That pleases S.F. keyboard wizard Barry Lloyd, who has finally put together his one-man Bobby Short tribute show. ...
The Ghost of the Holy Grail has been restless lately. Did you know there's a ghost that haunts the building, formerly the funky but venerable Maye's Oyster House at 1233 Polk Street? "I've seen her," reports Myles O'Reilly, the Holy Grail proprietor. "She's a young woman who dances around the dining room in a white diaphanous gown, then quickly vanishes." Myles says the story goes that she was the likely victim of a homicide in the cellar about fifty years ago. "She's been rather active lately," says Erlynn Smithers Hubbard, who manages the B&B over the restaurant. "Lately all sorts of crazy things have been happening -- windows mysteriously opening & closing, clock radios going off & on. It's a little unnerving." ... Barnaby Conrad III took in the ACT production of Moliere's "The Invisible Invalid" the other night, and was perversely amused by the notes on the life of the French playwright. "Moliere ended up marrying the 20-something daughter of his mistress," Barnaby notes. "It was rumored to be incest, as the mother was pregnant at the same time Moliere began his affiliation with her. Shades of Woody Allen and Soon-Yi." This my fascinate Barnaby because his latest novel in called "The Bachelor." ... Speaking of novels, Barnaby's brilliant Irish friend, Dave Monagan has a new book just out, "Journey Into the Heart," which is about pioneering surgeon and cardiologists. It's sort of a "The Right Stuff" for the world of cardio-exploration, with all the attendant zany characters. Fred Hill, the Bay Area's most famous literary agent, got Dave his book deal. ...
David Harris, the astute journalist, activist, and draft resister who went to federal prison for 20 months in the 60s, appeared at the Commonwealth Club last month with Joan Blades, the Berkeley-born founder of moveon.org. "I'm often introduced as 'a husband of Joan Baez', no matter how relevant it is," Harris told me. He and Baez were divorced in 1973. More relevant is Harris was married to the late New York Times reporter Lacey Fosburgh, who wrote "Closing Time: The True Story of the Goodbar Murder" and "Old Money." Lacey died of breast cancer in 1993. ... Harris, is the author of a new book, The Crisis" -- about the Iranian hostage episode in 1979, certainly walked the walk by going to prison, has not lost his fire, nor his defiance. "There's a liberal myth that reinstating the draft would end this war in Iraq. A draft would only give unlimited power to the people who are already drunk with power. I never thought I'd say I'd miss Richard Nixon, but I do." ... When I hear people condemn immigrants these days, I'm reminded how Irving Berlin, a Jew from Russia, wrote "God Bless America." ... "I don't know what to do with San Francisco these days," says longtime resident Cynthia Fine. "There's less charm, less civility, less soul." The only thing there's more of is "less." We all have days like that. ... Sandra Stolz found herself in the thick of the Gay Pride Parade and, in a shower of small packages. "It's personal lubricant," chuckled Sandra. My favorite kind, truly community standard. "I went to Pier 39 to hear the sea lions," Sandra added, "but they were curiously quiet on Gay Pride Weekend." You know the old saying -- do whatever you want as long as it isn't in front of the children or doesn't frightens the sea lions. ... Naomi Murdach says he's still down the by water, scanning the horizon: "I'm waiting for my ship to come in, but the dock is rotting." ...
It's hard to imagine that it's been two years since the death of the kind comrade Chet Helms. His brother, Johnny, reminded us of the occasion. There was a gathering at the Columbarium of June 25, the anniversary of Chet's passing, to recall his life. It seems a little indecent to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love without him. ... There are murmurs that the storied, unique Plush Room may be moved to another location by end of year. ... Meanwhile, can the Lorraine Hansberry Theater, which is located in the Sutter Street building that once housed the Hotel Sheehan, survive a takeover bid from the ubiquitous Academy of Art University? I have to confess: Google and the Academy of Art University seem to have divided the modern world between themselves. ... Lester Holt, the weekend anchor of the NBC Nightly News, started as a radio reporter at KCBS back in 1980. But Lester remembers his colleagues. NBC covered the non-feeding ordinance and the Parrots of Telegraph Hill as well as Mayor Newsom's ban on bottled water at City Hall. "Jeez," says Lester, "you can't even give the poor birds a bottle of Evian." ... Local canary Lua Hadar tells us that Madame Jo and Trio will appear at the Octavia Lounge, Aug. 9, part of the Jazz Without Borders series. Local-boy-turned-international star Shawn Ryan plays the Herbst Hall on Aug. 24. ... Ed Moose held his sixth annual gathering of the City's hotel doormen (no, I didn't see any women) at Moose's restaurant last month. After Willie Brown left, the doormen swapped stories. The Sir Francis Drake's Tom Sweeney encouraged tales of how brazen people have tried to steal their doorman hats. Tom's Beefeater chapeau costs $300. He has fetched the police after many a hat pirate. On one occasion it started a freeway chase across the Bay Bridge, with many cop cars in pursuit of the purloined lid. Don't mess with Tom. In every case, the coppers got the toppers. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and hopes to report the publication of his new book, "The Angina Dialogues" some day soon ... He's also a staff writer for the S.F. Northside and the Marina Times.
####
When Adolph Was Alive (SF Northside, March 2007)
Not all changes are good. That's what a friend of mine opined the other day. Some say Iraq under Saddam was a safer place. Just ask the Kurds. With criminal gangs running unrestrained in Moscow, some long for the old Soviet days, when the police were the criminals. Things are better now. Soviet citizens were once shot for no reason. With Putin in control, you can count on being shot for a reason. When Marshall Tito died, Yugoslovia erupted into war. In Italy, Mussolini kept the Mafia under control, until the Americans gave them all civil service jobs. When I was a kid, I actually heard a German fellow bellow, "This would not have happened when Adolph was alive!" It's amazing how sentimental people can be.
All of these changes on the world stage are beyond my ken. They didn't happen in my neighborhood. But this is happening in my neighborhood: The John Barleycorn pub on Larkin & California Streets is under threat of disappearing. That venerably sodden old home for troubadours and local pubsters is in danger of being displaced by the new property owner -- as is the adjacent Front Room Pizzeria, which has served Nob Hill for over 40 years. The plan? New condos, I suppose. I don't really know. But Supervisor Aaron Peskin has been brought in to mediate the beef. A petition to save the tavern is making its way up and down Polk Street. You'll know how this likely will turn out. Better find a new pub. A change is gonna come. Is the change gonna do us good, as Sheryl Crow surmises? Who knows?
I know that St. Patrick's Day will not quite be the same without the street party outside O'Reilly's Irish Pub & Restaurant at 622 Green Street. That's right. No party this year. Well, no authorized party. The captain at North Beach's Central Police Station has reportedly put the kabosh on the wassail this year, citing last year's complaints from residents about noise, and public drunkenness. Drunkenness on St. Pat's Day? Gambling in Casablanca? Owner Myles O'Reilly says the cancellation of the party jeopardizes his annual Oyster Festival, traditionally held later in Washington Square Park. He was counting on the money he could make on St. Pat's Day to support the whole shucking thing. Is the party over? Well, I don't think you can easily stop the revelers from crowding into O'Reilly's on March 17. San Francisco still takes its parties seriously. I don't think that has changed.
Even though I haven't had a drink in years, I'm still protective of old saloons, particularly saloons that provide live music, as John Barleycorn does. Or did, depending on the outcome of this dispute. Local folkies make Monday a regular music night there. I confess I played there with a group thirty years ago. They had a great jukebox -- until I broke it. But certainly not on purpose. I swear. The machine died while I played "Wings of a Nightingale" by the Everly Brothers 27 times in a row. The jukebox committed harikiri. It couldn't take it anymore.
I still make a note of which bars open at 6 a.m. (John Barleycorn does not. The pub likely got its name from an old English folk song, "John Barleycorn Must Die," or even from Jack London's autobiographical novel, John Barleycorn, about London's struggle with his alcoholism. It's scary.) Jack London might be interested to know that the number of bars that open at dawn has dwindled dramatically in recent years. This observation reveals a perverse form of nostalgia on my part. There's nothing romantic about an habitual drinker -- especially one with an opinion. Saloons are just the sort of places where people can argue about changes on the world stage. It's where you can slam your pint glass on the bar and exclaim, "This would not have happened in the days of Adolph!" and few would pay attention to you. Adolph who? Yes, a bar is a safety zone for idiocy or for eloquence -- a corner for the inconsequential jabberings of the inebriated. That will never change.
####
All of these changes on the world stage are beyond my ken. They didn't happen in my neighborhood. But this is happening in my neighborhood: The John Barleycorn pub on Larkin & California Streets is under threat of disappearing. That venerably sodden old home for troubadours and local pubsters is in danger of being displaced by the new property owner -- as is the adjacent Front Room Pizzeria, which has served Nob Hill for over 40 years. The plan? New condos, I suppose. I don't really know. But Supervisor Aaron Peskin has been brought in to mediate the beef. A petition to save the tavern is making its way up and down Polk Street. You'll know how this likely will turn out. Better find a new pub. A change is gonna come. Is the change gonna do us good, as Sheryl Crow surmises? Who knows?
I know that St. Patrick's Day will not quite be the same without the street party outside O'Reilly's Irish Pub & Restaurant at 622 Green Street. That's right. No party this year. Well, no authorized party. The captain at North Beach's Central Police Station has reportedly put the kabosh on the wassail this year, citing last year's complaints from residents about noise, and public drunkenness. Drunkenness on St. Pat's Day? Gambling in Casablanca? Owner Myles O'Reilly says the cancellation of the party jeopardizes his annual Oyster Festival, traditionally held later in Washington Square Park. He was counting on the money he could make on St. Pat's Day to support the whole shucking thing. Is the party over? Well, I don't think you can easily stop the revelers from crowding into O'Reilly's on March 17. San Francisco still takes its parties seriously. I don't think that has changed.
Even though I haven't had a drink in years, I'm still protective of old saloons, particularly saloons that provide live music, as John Barleycorn does. Or did, depending on the outcome of this dispute. Local folkies make Monday a regular music night there. I confess I played there with a group thirty years ago. They had a great jukebox -- until I broke it. But certainly not on purpose. I swear. The machine died while I played "Wings of a Nightingale" by the Everly Brothers 27 times in a row. The jukebox committed harikiri. It couldn't take it anymore.
I still make a note of which bars open at 6 a.m. (John Barleycorn does not. The pub likely got its name from an old English folk song, "John Barleycorn Must Die," or even from Jack London's autobiographical novel, John Barleycorn, about London's struggle with his alcoholism. It's scary.) Jack London might be interested to know that the number of bars that open at dawn has dwindled dramatically in recent years. This observation reveals a perverse form of nostalgia on my part. There's nothing romantic about an habitual drinker -- especially one with an opinion. Saloons are just the sort of places where people can argue about changes on the world stage. It's where you can slam your pint glass on the bar and exclaim, "This would not have happened in the days of Adolph!" and few would pay attention to you. Adolph who? Yes, a bar is a safety zone for idiocy or for eloquence -- a corner for the inconsequential jabberings of the inebriated. That will never change.
####
Letter from San Francisco, July 2007
Here I am, awash in Marina District meandering mujeres, with a purple post-Dada necktie swinging on my neck in the sunlight like an errant noose. Who do I think I'm kidding? The white non-fat froth left in the cover of my Starbucks cup suddenly reminds me of the original version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." You know, the one with Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter. You remember. When the eerie foam evaporated from the bodies hatched from seed pods, new but soulless alien replicas emerged to take the place of the original persons who were once family and friends.
Decades later, in 1978, they remade the picture and filmed much of it up the street in Pacific Heights. I used to see the star, Donald Sutherland, walking his wee bit of a doggie in the early morning mist of Alta Plaza Park. That image was alien enough. Here was a very tall man walking what looked like the world's smallest dog.
The oddities did not end there.
I surmise that many of these extra-terrestrially-bred copy cat creatures from the movie, the ones with the vacant look in the eyes and no signs of emotion, secretly settled into the neighborhood long after the cast and crew packed up and went home to Hollywood. The newcomers fit in well.
(C'mon, Bruce, they're not newcomers anymore. Who do you think you're kidding?)
"Invasion of the Body Snatchers" remains a powerful parable for this landscape that constantly, but sometimes furtively, shifts underneath our feet. The changes are imperceptible, then they hit us like a ton of bricks. Meanwhile our hungry ghosts are looking for Eggs Benedict at the Balboa Cafe.
What could be more terrifying than a story about your loved ones suddenly, without warning, turning into murderous strangers with no feelings whatsoever?
Wait a minute. I think they call that divorce.
BB
San Francisco
Decades later, in 1978, they remade the picture and filmed much of it up the street in Pacific Heights. I used to see the star, Donald Sutherland, walking his wee bit of a doggie in the early morning mist of Alta Plaza Park. That image was alien enough. Here was a very tall man walking what looked like the world's smallest dog.
The oddities did not end there.
I surmise that many of these extra-terrestrially-bred copy cat creatures from the movie, the ones with the vacant look in the eyes and no signs of emotion, secretly settled into the neighborhood long after the cast and crew packed up and went home to Hollywood. The newcomers fit in well.
(C'mon, Bruce, they're not newcomers anymore. Who do you think you're kidding?)
"Invasion of the Body Snatchers" remains a powerful parable for this landscape that constantly, but sometimes furtively, shifts underneath our feet. The changes are imperceptible, then they hit us like a ton of bricks. Meanwhile our hungry ghosts are looking for Eggs Benedict at the Balboa Cafe.
What could be more terrifying than a story about your loved ones suddenly, without warning, turning into murderous strangers with no feelings whatsoever?
Wait a minute. I think they call that divorce.
BB
San Francisco
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)