The final word always goes to the poet. Poet is priest. That's why Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the famed San Francisco poet & publisher, should have a loftier rank than "former poet laureate." He's really the archbishop of letters in this part of the world. At 88, he's lost none of the fire, the sense of satire or the deep bewilderment over the human condition, and how America still heeds not the warnings of poets since Whitman. There's a bit of Whitman in Ferlinghetti. He once collected "leaves of grass" from Whitman's grave in New Jersey, and gently arranged thin in the front window at City Lights Books. Richard Brautigan, the tall, temperamental, and intemperate popular writer & poet shuffled by. Ferlinghetti said to him, "Look, Richard, leaves of grass from Whitman's grave." Brautigan squinted and scowled at the display, and muttered, "Good argument for cremation."
Ferlinghetti is far too optimistic to take any of that seriously.
Some of that optimism was not too evident at a rare reading that he gave at City Lights recently, a treat that I was not going to pass up. About 70 people crowded into the store -- some us got there two hours early to get a seat. The doors were locked, the store was closed. Gray, bearded and robust Ferlinghetti appeared at a small table, and began to read from his latest collection, Poetry As Insurgent Art.
"The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it." ..."Question everything and everyone, including Socrates, who questioned everything." ... "Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage."
His new book, a small volume, is a primer on how to make trouble and to resist by way of the manner of poetry. Poets are always supposed to be trouble makers, always taking the road not often taken. They often do not cooperate with the status quo. "Speak up. Act out. Silence is complicity," the poet urges.
Ferlinghetti not only decries the mad acts of the U.S. government, he's stunned by the obtuseness of the media.
"I saw two reviews of my book, one in a Boston newspaper," He explains. "Not once did anyone even mention the word "insurgent," let along investigate what I mean by it. It's amazing."
And depressing. The evening quickly deteriorated into an uninvited question & answer session. Is everything open for audience participation these days? Ferlinghetti looked alarmed. Many in this literate crowd did not know what "insurgency" is nor how it could possibly apply to poets.
Maybe Ferlinghetti is alarmed because his murals were taken down from the Bank of America recently because they depicted nudity and were considered indecent. What year is this again?
"I am still afraid that I might be -- what is that thing they do in meat factories? Rendered?"
This from the man who faced jail over publishing Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" fifty years ago. Yes, fifty years ago.
"I wrote and published a poem called "Tentative Description of a Dinner Given to Promote the Impeachment of President Eisenhower," Ferlinghetti recalled at the reading the other night. "That was considered insurgent then. My God, by today's standards, Eisenhower was a saint."
And San Francisco's archbishop of poetic insurgency would know.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. One of Bruce's proudest moments was to be invited by Ferlinghetti to read from that book at City Lights Books. Bruce's e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Casting Our Sourdough Upon the Waters, San Francisco Marina Times, December 2007
The headline of one of the papers read: "Death Toll for Birds is Rising." It had nothing to to with turkeys on Thanksgiving. It was about the oil spill in San Francisco Bay. In a city that's much more accustomed to a spill of oil and vinegar, it came as a shock. Further, the Coast Guard made a mess of a messy thing with its internal confusions. I do not blame the great, brave Coast Guardsmen & women. They must have been horrified. It's likely this was another morass caused by bureaucrats at Homeland Security, the cabinet-level department that oversees the Coast Guard. Homeland Security also runs FEMA. That should come as no shock. What's happened to New Orleans is a national shame. FEMA was already a dirty word around here since the 1989 earthquake.
Gee, if you can't trust the Coast Guard, who can we trust?
I'm still grateful for the Coast Guard, don't get me wrong. If you ever get fished out of the Bay, you'll know what I mean.
It's difficult to keep a cool demeanor these days. The madness of the world seems to have seeped into all corners. All the same, I feel very grateful for the small triumphs -- the exaltation garnered from simple things, the pleasure of living in the moment. Not to worry: I am in no danger of calling myself a motivational speaker -- the Learning Annex is not on the phone. As my birthday wound down last month, my brother Jack, who's about to be a famous movie scriptwriter, took me to Le Central for lunch. I did my best Wilkes Bashford impersonation. My friend John Gollin, the newly-named publisher of Northside & the Marina Times), took me out for a Thanksgiving dinner. I cannot remember when I went out to eat on a Thanksgiving.
Oh, just a moment.
There were three consecutive years when I accompanied Melvin Belli and his office clan, and media beasts on that storied trip on a chartered bus (with a fully-stocked bar) to Mel's hometown of Sonora in the Gold Country. As you know, Stu, he'd put up about 30 people in the hotel in Jamestown, Placer County, and take us all to dinner in "Jimtown" on the night before Thanksgiving, and then a big feast at the Columbia Inn, right there in the state park. In the afternoon, Belli's guests had to follow him as we traipsed through the old graveyard in Sonora to visit Mel's ancestors who rest under the contorted elms.
Mel Belli, that was a character. Blustery, belligerent, loquacious, insatiable. He was "the King of Torts." He helped many people who dared defy the big, bad guys -- the huge corporations, the robber barons, the rapacious government. At the same time, he could be remarkably cruel & crude to those who were close to him. He called his dogs -- a gaggle of jittery whippets that he took everywhere with him -- "my children" in front of his own children whom he often treated with casual contempt. Thanksgiving with Melvin Belli was an adventure, fraught with edginess, obsequiousness, and lots of alcohol. The wild consumption of hooch led to explosions of fury with shouting, swearing and he inevitable sulking at the dinner table. On one occasion, one of the whippets (it may have been his beloved Well Done Rump Roast III) escaped from the kitchen where the staff had been ordered to feed the dogs. The ever-trembling skinny mutt had soiled the carpet of the opulent dining room. This was too much for one gentleman, an older fellow, who was dining at a nearby table. He leapt to his feet, marched over the Belli, who was seated at the head of a long table, and excoriated the famous white-maned barrister in pinstripes as astonished patrons in the crowded dining room simply gaped.
"My wife and I come here for dinner just once a year -- on Thanksgiving," he bellowed at Belli. "It's an important tradition for us. Al we expect is to have a quiet, civilized dinner. But, no -- we have to endure a disgusting exhibition like this, a dog making a mess in front of us while we're eating ..."
All this time, Belli, is nodding, and continuing to eat, pouring another glass of cabernet, not even looking the man in the eye, but muttering all the while, "Yes, yes, I know, I know ..."
This made the man fume even more.
"I may not be a rich and famous lawyer like you," shouting now, "but we have the right to a little dignity!"
"And so you do, sir, so you do," the rich, famous lawyer declaimed, dismissing the man with a brush of his soft, white, fleshy hand.
The fractious canine, Well Done Rump Roast III, was swept up into the arms of Belli's terrified assistant, Lori, and spirited back to the kitchen. The once-indignant diner shuffled to his table, and slumped back into his chair, defeated. His weary wife gently patted his hand. The dinner resumed.
Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment editor for the SF Northside. With the coming New Year, he again promises that abundance will flourish for all of us. As the songwriter said, "We're Still Here." ... Bruce's mail is brucef@northsidesf.com ...
Gee, if you can't trust the Coast Guard, who can we trust?
I'm still grateful for the Coast Guard, don't get me wrong. If you ever get fished out of the Bay, you'll know what I mean.
It's difficult to keep a cool demeanor these days. The madness of the world seems to have seeped into all corners. All the same, I feel very grateful for the small triumphs -- the exaltation garnered from simple things, the pleasure of living in the moment. Not to worry: I am in no danger of calling myself a motivational speaker -- the Learning Annex is not on the phone. As my birthday wound down last month, my brother Jack, who's about to be a famous movie scriptwriter, took me to Le Central for lunch. I did my best Wilkes Bashford impersonation. My friend John Gollin, the newly-named publisher of Northside & the Marina Times), took me out for a Thanksgiving dinner. I cannot remember when I went out to eat on a Thanksgiving.
Oh, just a moment.
There were three consecutive years when I accompanied Melvin Belli and his office clan, and media beasts on that storied trip on a chartered bus (with a fully-stocked bar) to Mel's hometown of Sonora in the Gold Country. As you know, Stu, he'd put up about 30 people in the hotel in Jamestown, Placer County, and take us all to dinner in "Jimtown" on the night before Thanksgiving, and then a big feast at the Columbia Inn, right there in the state park. In the afternoon, Belli's guests had to follow him as we traipsed through the old graveyard in Sonora to visit Mel's ancestors who rest under the contorted elms.
Mel Belli, that was a character. Blustery, belligerent, loquacious, insatiable. He was "the King of Torts." He helped many people who dared defy the big, bad guys -- the huge corporations, the robber barons, the rapacious government. At the same time, he could be remarkably cruel & crude to those who were close to him. He called his dogs -- a gaggle of jittery whippets that he took everywhere with him -- "my children" in front of his own children whom he often treated with casual contempt. Thanksgiving with Melvin Belli was an adventure, fraught with edginess, obsequiousness, and lots of alcohol. The wild consumption of hooch led to explosions of fury with shouting, swearing and he inevitable sulking at the dinner table. On one occasion, one of the whippets (it may have been his beloved Well Done Rump Roast III) escaped from the kitchen where the staff had been ordered to feed the dogs. The ever-trembling skinny mutt had soiled the carpet of the opulent dining room. This was too much for one gentleman, an older fellow, who was dining at a nearby table. He leapt to his feet, marched over the Belli, who was seated at the head of a long table, and excoriated the famous white-maned barrister in pinstripes as astonished patrons in the crowded dining room simply gaped.
"My wife and I come here for dinner just once a year -- on Thanksgiving," he bellowed at Belli. "It's an important tradition for us. Al we expect is to have a quiet, civilized dinner. But, no -- we have to endure a disgusting exhibition like this, a dog making a mess in front of us while we're eating ..."
All this time, Belli, is nodding, and continuing to eat, pouring another glass of cabernet, not even looking the man in the eye, but muttering all the while, "Yes, yes, I know, I know ..."
This made the man fume even more.
"I may not be a rich and famous lawyer like you," shouting now, "but we have the right to a little dignity!"
"And so you do, sir, so you do," the rich, famous lawyer declaimed, dismissing the man with a brush of his soft, white, fleshy hand.
The fractious canine, Well Done Rump Roast III, was swept up into the arms of Belli's terrified assistant, Lori, and spirited back to the kitchen. The once-indignant diner shuffled to his table, and slumped back into his chair, defeated. His weary wife gently patted his hand. The dinner resumed.
Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment editor for the SF Northside. With the coming New Year, he again promises that abundance will flourish for all of us. As the songwriter said, "We're Still Here." ... Bruce's mail is brucef@northsidesf.com ...
Bellingham by the Bay, Northside, December 2007
Bellingham by the Bay
It's unclear when or even if Original Joe's, the jewel of San Francisco's Tenderloin, will open its doors again. "It's not so much the damage incurred by the fire," says OJ's owner, the inimitable Marie Duggan, "the water damage is unbelievable." ... Where will all those cops, lawyers, and prosecutors have lunch? ... Mayor Gavin declined a touch of the creature from a gregarious Aer Lingus exec at a City Hall reception last month. "I can't drink right now," the Mayor explained ruefully. He added, "God's delays are not God's denials." ... John Gollin was double-parked on Fillmore St. in Pacific Heights, and it took no time at all for a parking control officer to get a tag on his windshield. On discovery of this, John lost his temper. They had words. John launched into colorful invective at the ticket-writer. As she drove away, a wave of guilt washed over him. He decided to find the meter maid and apologize. He went around and around the streets for about a half-hour. He finally located her. He apologized profusely to her. Impressed, she offered to cancel the ticket. "No, no," John cried, "I deserve the ticket!" She disagreed, and insisted on tearing the ticket up. John would not relent. They had words. "I want to you to write the ticket," he demanded. But John lost the argument for a second time. He did not get his ticket. Merry Christmas to that parking control officer. Cheer up, John. ...
Hat Lady Ruth Dewson never minces words. She placed a sign in her Fillmore Street shop, "Obama, you're black enough for me!" ... Sasha Stolz is also caught up in the political season but confesses that "it's hard to tell the the difference between Dick Cheney & Lon Chaney." ... Someone's been tagging the sculpture on the sidewalk in front of the Campbell Gallery on Chestnut & Columbus. The owners are not amused by this. They hope the Village Idiot Savant goes elsewhere. ... Anne Lamott, who is always funny, appears at the Jewish Community Center, Dec. 11 at 8 p.m. ... Northside photographer Jane Richey was hired by the famed baritone, Thomas Hampson, to shoot pictures for his website & publicity package. Hampson was here to sing the lead in the S.F. Opera's brilliant production of Macbeth. "I love playing bad guys" Hampson explained. "The most unpleasant guy I've played is Don Giovanni. He is non-redeeming, he spits in God's face. But Macbeth is simply a failed human being. He's what we are all afraid of being -- never knowing right from wrong, living for ambition, materialism." I could not get Hampson to compare Macbeth to what's happening in politics today. "Isn't that the point of Art, to see what going on now? But I'm not going to say Laura Bush is like Lady Macbeth." As for art in San Francisco, Hampson wonders why there is not more of the avant-garde happening here. "It's a complicated city, it has contradictions. Perhaps we're not taking the kinds of risks that we should. But with Michael Tilson Thomas, San Francisco has a real treasure." ...
The closing of venerable Plush Room at the end of the year is making waves around the country. From Beverly Hills, Debby Boone e-mails "I loved that room and will be eternally grateful that I got a chance to make a little music in a place so rich with musical memories. I think my short run at San Francisco's Plush Room with three fabulous musicians paying tribute to Rosemary Clooney was the highlight of my musical career."
"I call them Dadaist accidents," says Sharon Anderson, "Last month I was reading a newspaper obit about Norman Mailer and looked up at the TV set where the Woody Allen's character in Sleeper was saying " ... and then Norman Mailer donated his ego to the Harvard School of Medicine." Mailer's ego was gigantic and so was his talent.
The other day I wandered through The Bargain Bank on Polk Street (it's Costco for the truly indigent). I came across some discounted bottles of Kirshwasser. You know, that clear, German cherry brandy. I could almost hear my father's voice: "It's just not Christmas without Kirschwasser." But I don't think he ever said it because I never heard of the stuff when I was a kid. Besides, he drank Anisette, not Kirschwasser. Anisette, not Absinthe. All the same, I hear that absurd refrain, "It just can't be Christmas without Kirschwasser." Maybe I can get Barnaby Conrad III, the Absinthe expert, to write a book about Kirschwasser. ...
The trees in Huntington Park will be illuminated this year on Dec. 3, at about 5 p.m. I imagine the mayor will be at the party, as will the angelic members of the San Francisco Girls' Chorus. ... Every year I look for that elusive couple who meet there secretly. They never notice me as they embrace near the fountain, that dear, ridiculous, rococo thing with the turtles and dolphins. In the frigid western breeze, you can hear the flag flapping atop the Mark Hopkins. I overhear her whisper hopefully, anxiously, to him, "This is going to be a wonderful Christmas this year, isn't it?" ... He murmurs to her with all the courage he can muster, holding her with all his might, "Yes, my darling, it will be the best." It's a good time to be in love. And so, all best to you. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of a book, Bellingham by the Bay. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
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It's unclear when or even if Original Joe's, the jewel of San Francisco's Tenderloin, will open its doors again. "It's not so much the damage incurred by the fire," says OJ's owner, the inimitable Marie Duggan, "the water damage is unbelievable." ... Where will all those cops, lawyers, and prosecutors have lunch? ... Mayor Gavin declined a touch of the creature from a gregarious Aer Lingus exec at a City Hall reception last month. "I can't drink right now," the Mayor explained ruefully. He added, "God's delays are not God's denials." ... John Gollin was double-parked on Fillmore St. in Pacific Heights, and it took no time at all for a parking control officer to get a tag on his windshield. On discovery of this, John lost his temper. They had words. John launched into colorful invective at the ticket-writer. As she drove away, a wave of guilt washed over him. He decided to find the meter maid and apologize. He went around and around the streets for about a half-hour. He finally located her. He apologized profusely to her. Impressed, she offered to cancel the ticket. "No, no," John cried, "I deserve the ticket!" She disagreed, and insisted on tearing the ticket up. John would not relent. They had words. "I want to you to write the ticket," he demanded. But John lost the argument for a second time. He did not get his ticket. Merry Christmas to that parking control officer. Cheer up, John. ...
Hat Lady Ruth Dewson never minces words. She placed a sign in her Fillmore Street shop, "Obama, you're black enough for me!" ... Sasha Stolz is also caught up in the political season but confesses that "it's hard to tell the the difference between Dick Cheney & Lon Chaney." ... Someone's been tagging the sculpture on the sidewalk in front of the Campbell Gallery on Chestnut & Columbus. The owners are not amused by this. They hope the Village Idiot Savant goes elsewhere. ... Anne Lamott, who is always funny, appears at the Jewish Community Center, Dec. 11 at 8 p.m. ... Northside photographer Jane Richey was hired by the famed baritone, Thomas Hampson, to shoot pictures for his website & publicity package. Hampson was here to sing the lead in the S.F. Opera's brilliant production of Macbeth. "I love playing bad guys" Hampson explained. "The most unpleasant guy I've played is Don Giovanni. He is non-redeeming, he spits in God's face. But Macbeth is simply a failed human being. He's what we are all afraid of being -- never knowing right from wrong, living for ambition, materialism." I could not get Hampson to compare Macbeth to what's happening in politics today. "Isn't that the point of Art, to see what going on now? But I'm not going to say Laura Bush is like Lady Macbeth." As for art in San Francisco, Hampson wonders why there is not more of the avant-garde happening here. "It's a complicated city, it has contradictions. Perhaps we're not taking the kinds of risks that we should. But with Michael Tilson Thomas, San Francisco has a real treasure." ...
The closing of venerable Plush Room at the end of the year is making waves around the country. From Beverly Hills, Debby Boone e-mails "I loved that room and will be eternally grateful that I got a chance to make a little music in a place so rich with musical memories. I think my short run at San Francisco's Plush Room with three fabulous musicians paying tribute to Rosemary Clooney was the highlight of my musical career."
"I call them Dadaist accidents," says Sharon Anderson, "Last month I was reading a newspaper obit about Norman Mailer and looked up at the TV set where the Woody Allen's character in Sleeper was saying " ... and then Norman Mailer donated his ego to the Harvard School of Medicine." Mailer's ego was gigantic and so was his talent.
The other day I wandered through The Bargain Bank on Polk Street (it's Costco for the truly indigent). I came across some discounted bottles of Kirshwasser. You know, that clear, German cherry brandy. I could almost hear my father's voice: "It's just not Christmas without Kirschwasser." But I don't think he ever said it because I never heard of the stuff when I was a kid. Besides, he drank Anisette, not Kirschwasser. Anisette, not Absinthe. All the same, I hear that absurd refrain, "It just can't be Christmas without Kirschwasser." Maybe I can get Barnaby Conrad III, the Absinthe expert, to write a book about Kirschwasser. ...
The trees in Huntington Park will be illuminated this year on Dec. 3, at about 5 p.m. I imagine the mayor will be at the party, as will the angelic members of the San Francisco Girls' Chorus. ... Every year I look for that elusive couple who meet there secretly. They never notice me as they embrace near the fountain, that dear, ridiculous, rococo thing with the turtles and dolphins. In the frigid western breeze, you can hear the flag flapping atop the Mark Hopkins. I overhear her whisper hopefully, anxiously, to him, "This is going to be a wonderful Christmas this year, isn't it?" ... He murmurs to her with all the courage he can muster, holding her with all his might, "Yes, my darling, it will be the best." It's a good time to be in love. And so, all best to you. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of a book, Bellingham by the Bay. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
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