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 ...
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