The newspaper, the Scotsman, ran a piece the other day about how the officials in Edinburgh are hoping that Robert Burns, the Scottish national poet who died in 1796, might be able to get the beleaguered region out of the economic troubles that are plaguing that country, and every other country, too.
You see, Jan. 25 is the 250th anniversary of Burns' birth. There's always a party for Bobbie Burns, but perhaps the authorities are counting on the wish that this one -- a really big one -- might bring the tourists into the Highlands, and lure some cash into the country. There's an irony to this. Burns left his family, and a brood of illegitimate children destitute when he died. Now that I think about it, Thomas Jefferson died broke, too, and he left a legacy of kids without his name, and without a penny. There were no big speaking fees in those days, I guess. Both Burns and Jefferson loved their respective countries. They were both farmers, they were statesmen, and they both glorified the written word in the most glorious ways. They loved music, too. And they sure loved women. Both Burns and Jefferson would be pleased to provide relief to this economic crisis -- even if they've been dead for all this time.
Oddly, Thomas Jefferson observed, "The system of banking [is] a blot left in all our Constitutions, which, if not covered, will end in their destruction. I sincerely believe that banking institutions are more dangerous than standing armies; and that the principle of spending money to be paid by posterity ... is but swindling futurity on a large scale."
When I see the scandalously reprehensible behavior of the California legislators who will not bring a budget to the table as California sinks into the morass, I'm also reminded of Burns. He despised prevarication, and dumb vanity. (The words of Will Rogers come to mind, too: "If stupidity got us into this mess, then why can't it get us out?") Burns' last days were miserable, he spent them working as a tax collector, "an exciseman." He hated it. He hated the fact that he could not support a wife and five children on this sad salary. There was no bailout package for him. He was only 37 when he died. "A Man's a Man for a' that, for a' that an a' that." And that was that.
By the way, if you ever get a chance to attend a Burns Night supper (Jan. 25), you might want to give it a go. The centerpiece of the party is the haggis, the humblest of meat dishes, elevated to immortality by Burns' great poetic homage, To A Haggis. You remember it: "Fair fa' your, honest, sonsie face/Great chieftain o' the puddin-race."
Burns had a genius for lifting the prosaic to epic stature. By describing an ordinary mouse, "Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie," he managed to frame a metaphor for human frailty: "The best laid schemes of mice and men/Gang aft-agley."
Burns' works included Auld Lang Syne, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose, and hundreds of other songs and poems. They haven't been out of print since 1786, translated into 50 languages. That's a record that even Danielle Steel would envy. Don't be afraid of the haggis, even after I describe it. It's actually a sheep's stomach filled with oatmeal, some spicy sausage and ground sheep organs. Look on the bright side: oat bran still gets a lot of good press these days. Good for the heart, you know. Many cultures have produced their own form of haggis. The ancient Greeks had theirs -- it's even mentioned in The Clouds of Aristophanes. But it's the oatmeal, you see, that gives the Scottish haggis its distinctive flavor.
But more distinctive and certainly more encouraging is the tradition that haggis must be served with a glass of good Scotch whisky -- or maybe two -- to the accompaniment of a bag piper. Or a piper in the bag.
Burns gives the Scots a source of pride, and that has taken a big hit lately amid all of the apprehension and the humiliations that surround a busted economy. The best laid schemes of mice and men have not only gone awry -- they're all over the place right now. So let's have a party. I hear the people in Iceland are also pretty depressed. They can provide the ice, so let's be sure to invite them, too.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the SF Northside. He can often be seen meandering around the Marina. Yes, it's true he is a Meanderthal. You may even catch him haggling over haggis in the meat section at the Marina Super. Drop Bellingham a line at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Friday, December 19, 2008
Is It Time For Breakfast Again?
When I think about how frequently the rent seems to be due these days, I begin to consider how -- in my advancing age -- time seems to be speeding up. When the late, wonderful Kitty Carlisle Hart played the late, great Plush Room a couple of years ago, she told the audience how, at her age (she was 95), she was bewildered by the apparent increased pace of life. "My mother used to say it, too," Ms. Carlisle intoned. "It's going too fast. When you get to be a certain age, it seems like it's breakfast time every ten minutes."
That could be the natural tension of time -- the tractor beam of advancing age. Or it could have something to with the imminent arrival of the Mayan Cosmogenesis of 2012.
Pat Kelley, the doyenne of the Marina District, and the face of the Balboa Cafe, was telling me the other day that the fellows who work in her kitchen -- many from Mexico & Central America -- are obsessed with this Mayan Calendar phenomenon. It doesn't really portend the end of the world -- but rather the end of a major cycle of human experience. Time, as the Mayan Calendar tells it, will end. A cycle will end, and a new life, a cosmogenesis, will begin.
That makes me unsettled in any case. A new life? It's bad enough that I have to get a converter box next month so I can see television.
Sharon Anderson, the arts writer, tells me a little about this end-of-time business from time to time. She's an avid aficianda of the Maya.
"We'll be tapping into the telepathic threshold," explains Sharon. "We will no longer have to measure time in a linear fashion." I guess that will be all right -- but how will that affect overtime? What am I worried about? Freelancers don't get overtime. Sharon thinks it will be a good thing to discard the Gregorian calendar. That's the one we use here in the Western World, the calendar that comes with photos of puppy dogs & Hannah Montana with each month of the year.
"I hope we'll be rid of Pope Gregory VIII's nutty idea for how to measure time," says Sharon.
I'll see you at Vespers, young lady.
One feature of this hallmark of history, that's scheduled to take place on Dec. 21, 2012, is the inexorable acceleration of world events.
I'll be darned if that doesn't seem to be the case. I swear it all seems to be moving faster right now.
Budget surpluses became catastrophic deficits in short order. I also suspect that the Country Music Awards are rolling around far too soon in a nefarious, conspiratorial way. Global warming was supposed to become critical in 20 or 30 or maybe 100 years. Now, it's looming over us. How did that happen? I thought we'd have more time. Bernie Madoff thought the same thing. The icebergs are melting at a precipitous rate, the food sources are vanishing in the Arctic. The polar bears are about to show up on Polk Street & forage their way through the garbage cans outside the better restaurants. The bears are bummed. They're confused, they're bi-polar bears now. The beasts might be happy to learn that the drinking water supply around here is reportedly inundated with anti-depressants. Now, there's a thought.
I think it might be a good idea to toss out the calendar & try to give ourselves more time. More time for everything. Remember when the office workers would toss out their old calendars from the high-rises in the Financial District on New Year's Eve? They don't do that anymore, do they? I guess no one has the time to pick up all that paper.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. He may be reached at bruce@northsidesf.com
That could be the natural tension of time -- the tractor beam of advancing age. Or it could have something to with the imminent arrival of the Mayan Cosmogenesis of 2012.
Pat Kelley, the doyenne of the Marina District, and the face of the Balboa Cafe, was telling me the other day that the fellows who work in her kitchen -- many from Mexico & Central America -- are obsessed with this Mayan Calendar phenomenon. It doesn't really portend the end of the world -- but rather the end of a major cycle of human experience. Time, as the Mayan Calendar tells it, will end. A cycle will end, and a new life, a cosmogenesis, will begin.
That makes me unsettled in any case. A new life? It's bad enough that I have to get a converter box next month so I can see television.
Sharon Anderson, the arts writer, tells me a little about this end-of-time business from time to time. She's an avid aficianda of the Maya.
"We'll be tapping into the telepathic threshold," explains Sharon. "We will no longer have to measure time in a linear fashion." I guess that will be all right -- but how will that affect overtime? What am I worried about? Freelancers don't get overtime. Sharon thinks it will be a good thing to discard the Gregorian calendar. That's the one we use here in the Western World, the calendar that comes with photos of puppy dogs & Hannah Montana with each month of the year.
"I hope we'll be rid of Pope Gregory VIII's nutty idea for how to measure time," says Sharon.
I'll see you at Vespers, young lady.
One feature of this hallmark of history, that's scheduled to take place on Dec. 21, 2012, is the inexorable acceleration of world events.
I'll be darned if that doesn't seem to be the case. I swear it all seems to be moving faster right now.
Budget surpluses became catastrophic deficits in short order. I also suspect that the Country Music Awards are rolling around far too soon in a nefarious, conspiratorial way. Global warming was supposed to become critical in 20 or 30 or maybe 100 years. Now, it's looming over us. How did that happen? I thought we'd have more time. Bernie Madoff thought the same thing. The icebergs are melting at a precipitous rate, the food sources are vanishing in the Arctic. The polar bears are about to show up on Polk Street & forage their way through the garbage cans outside the better restaurants. The bears are bummed. They're confused, they're bi-polar bears now. The beasts might be happy to learn that the drinking water supply around here is reportedly inundated with anti-depressants. Now, there's a thought.
I think it might be a good idea to toss out the calendar & try to give ourselves more time. More time for everything. Remember when the office workers would toss out their old calendars from the high-rises in the Financial District on New Year's Eve? They don't do that anymore, do they? I guess no one has the time to pick up all that paper.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. He may be reached at bruce@northsidesf.com
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Bellingham by the Bay - San Francisco, January 2009
Even the most jaded of North Beach denizens had to agree that it seemed to be a first for the neighborhood: a casket was carried from a hearse into O'Reilly's Irish Pub on Green Street, the last leg of life's journey for Bob Foley. It was a true Irish wake, something out of James Joyce. Bob was a chap with many hats, many friends, He was a retired officer with the SFPD, a merchant seaman, a vet of Desert Storm. Bob was only 58.
"His ashes are inside," whispered Myles O'Reilly, who arranged the event following Bob's service at Sts. Peter & Paul. "I'm really saving the coffin for myself."
How Irish is that?
No more Irish than the turnout for the farewell last month for Tony Guilfoyle at St. Agnes Church in the Haight. Tony was Kimberly's dad & Gavin Newsom's former father-in-law. Tony hailed from County Clare, Ireland, where the River Shannon spills into the Atlantic. The bagpiper played Danny Boy. The U.S. Army color guard crisply folded the flags, and ceremoniously placed them in the hands of Kimberly & her brother, Anthony. The popularity & the respect that Tony garnered was reflected in the faces of the several hundred people who turned out to mourn this lovely man.
"The Chronicle was correct when it said that Tony was a legend," eulogized John Shanley. "Then again, even a broken clock is right twice a day." That's all right. Tony never had to fish for compliments. Also speaking wittily and elegantly: retired deputy SFPD chief Diarmuid Philpott & Mel Murphy, of the Building Inspection Commission. Among those in the church were Mayor Newsom, Hilary Newsom Callan & her husband, Geoff, Congresswoman Jackie Speier, Supervisors Michela Alioto-Pier, Bevan Dufty, and Sean Elsbernd. Clint & Janet Reilly were there, as was nearly everyone in S.F. who played with Tony in real estate & in politics. Kimberly's closing remembrances about her dad would clutch your heart. There was a Irish wake, too, after the service, at Matrix/Fillmore, which was closed for the event. It included a concentration of the City's machers. Pat Kelley, the face of the PlumpJack empire, was sweet & subdued. Bill Fazio murmured in the dark about how he needed a new pair of eyeglasses.
"I thought I was buying Jim Brosnahan & his lady a drink the other night at La Jardiniere," Bill allowed. "Jim's over six feet tall. The fellow comes over & thanks me. He's about 5-foot-3. That's not Brosnahan. Then I get the check for $59. For two drinks! I wonder what they were drinking. No matter. I still have to get new eyeglasses."
Fazio still has his sights on becoming the next District Attorney, hoping that Gavin might appoint him when Kamala Harris moves on to her next gig. I hope Gavin does just that. ...
Martha Smilgis, the dear friend of the late P.J. Corkery, the famed three-dotter Examiner columnist, calls to say that a memorial service for P.J. will be held at the Delancey Street restaurant on the Embarcadero on Jan. 14, from 6 - 8 p.m. All are welcome. P.J. died from cancer in Sept. Willie Brown is slated to talk at the service -- and you know that will be entertaining. Corkery & Mayor Brown collaborated on Willie's bio, Basic Brown. Perhaps I'll say a few words, too. When I worked with P.J., he'd occasionally express his admiration for the Irish satirist Flann O'Brien: "I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression." That certainly amused Mr. Corkery. He was anything but vacant. He was preoccupied at all times with expressing the flow of life in S.F. His death certainly leaves a great vacancy. ...
Frederica von Stade, the famed mezzo-soprano & Bay Area treasure, was chatting me up the other day, kindly taking a bit of time out from rehearsals for her new opera Three Decembers, composed by her friend, Jake Heggie. "Jake has a great talent, has a great heart," gushes Flicka, as she's known to her friends & fans. "He also chooses the texts of great American poets -- such as Raymond Carver & Vachel Lindsay." Flicka's a great American, too. She fights relentlessly for music in the public schools, acknowledging that today's dismal economy makes it all look bleak: "If we could only put money into schools, we wouldn't have to put so much into prisons." Flicka's getting ready for her farewell tour in 2010. I don't want to think about that. The notion leaves me vacant & preoccupied. ... The nice people at the S.F Opera threw a party last month for the incoming music director, Nicola Luisotti, who was introduced to a handful of media folks, artistes, & various members of the consul corps. Luisotti navigated the Opera's orchestra masterfully through last year's La Boheme. Outgoing music boss Donald Runnicles praised the dashing, young conductor from Viareggio, Italy. Runnicles presses on to his next gig in Europe. S.F. Opera's general director David Gockley popped into the party briefly before racing off to a fundraiser. Let's face it: these are scary times for everybody & the Opera has one helluva house nut to cover. More diverting: Dame Edna, dressed in civvies in the person of her doppelganger, Barry Humphries, chatted up Maestro Luisotti amicably. "I don't think Nicola has any idea who Dame Edna or Barry Humphries is," whispered Jon Finck, the Opera's marketing master. "I think I'll just stay out of it." No worries, as they say in Dame Edna's native Australia. All seemed to be well & harmonious. ... Baby's in Black & White: Jim Marshall, the rock star photog (yes, he took that famous cross-star shot of the Beatles at Candlestick Park in 1966, their last public appearance) reports that he has two new books of pics coming out this year. ... Sascha Stolz, always perambulating, notes that Andy's Chinese Restaurant on Polk & Union still provides a menu that reads "2401 Pork Street ." Truer than you know. ... Big doings at The Family Club on Jan. 24. A “Burns’ Night” supper in honor of Robert Burns, the Scottish national poet, who might have been 250 years old on Jan. 25 if he hadn’t quaffed so much Scotch for a that an’ a’ that. … Amid the Iraq & ruin of the country, the media remained obsessed with the shoe-hurling episode in Baghdad. "If I see that damned clip one more time on the television," observed Charlie Mandel, "I'll start throwing my shoes, too." Leah Garchik confessed to me, "I think I'd throw my boots at Bush." Not the good ones, Leah. I was hoping for something more from the oh-so-clever, not-so-incumbent Commander-in-Chief about the shoe-flinger. Perhaps something like: "I looked the man in the eye, and got a sense of his sole." Hey, whatta ya want? It's only January. Don't blame me. Look on the bright side. Bush is out of office. Let's face it, that's got to be a good start. ...
Bruce Bellingham is a restless cat. He likes to wander around San Francisco. They don't allow him to drive, so let's be grateful for that. He galavants, as his mother used to say. He meanders. He's a Meanderthal. That's right. See him doddering & shuffling up & down Nob Hill & around the northern environs of The City. If he moves too quickly -- and that's not likely -- catch him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
"His ashes are inside," whispered Myles O'Reilly, who arranged the event following Bob's service at Sts. Peter & Paul. "I'm really saving the coffin for myself."
How Irish is that?
No more Irish than the turnout for the farewell last month for Tony Guilfoyle at St. Agnes Church in the Haight. Tony was Kimberly's dad & Gavin Newsom's former father-in-law. Tony hailed from County Clare, Ireland, where the River Shannon spills into the Atlantic. The bagpiper played Danny Boy. The U.S. Army color guard crisply folded the flags, and ceremoniously placed them in the hands of Kimberly & her brother, Anthony. The popularity & the respect that Tony garnered was reflected in the faces of the several hundred people who turned out to mourn this lovely man.
"The Chronicle was correct when it said that Tony was a legend," eulogized John Shanley. "Then again, even a broken clock is right twice a day." That's all right. Tony never had to fish for compliments. Also speaking wittily and elegantly: retired deputy SFPD chief Diarmuid Philpott & Mel Murphy, of the Building Inspection Commission. Among those in the church were Mayor Newsom, Hilary Newsom Callan & her husband, Geoff, Congresswoman Jackie Speier, Supervisors Michela Alioto-Pier, Bevan Dufty, and Sean Elsbernd. Clint & Janet Reilly were there, as was nearly everyone in S.F. who played with Tony in real estate & in politics. Kimberly's closing remembrances about her dad would clutch your heart. There was a Irish wake, too, after the service, at Matrix/Fillmore, which was closed for the event. It included a concentration of the City's machers. Pat Kelley, the face of the PlumpJack empire, was sweet & subdued. Bill Fazio murmured in the dark about how he needed a new pair of eyeglasses.
"I thought I was buying Jim Brosnahan & his lady a drink the other night at La Jardiniere," Bill allowed. "Jim's over six feet tall. The fellow comes over & thanks me. He's about 5-foot-3. That's not Brosnahan. Then I get the check for $59. For two drinks! I wonder what they were drinking. No matter. I still have to get new eyeglasses."
Fazio still has his sights on becoming the next District Attorney, hoping that Gavin might appoint him when Kamala Harris moves on to her next gig. I hope Gavin does just that. ...
Martha Smilgis, the dear friend of the late P.J. Corkery, the famed three-dotter Examiner columnist, calls to say that a memorial service for P.J. will be held at the Delancey Street restaurant on the Embarcadero on Jan. 14, from 6 - 8 p.m. All are welcome. P.J. died from cancer in Sept. Willie Brown is slated to talk at the service -- and you know that will be entertaining. Corkery & Mayor Brown collaborated on Willie's bio, Basic Brown. Perhaps I'll say a few words, too. When I worked with P.J., he'd occasionally express his admiration for the Irish satirist Flann O'Brien: "I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression." That certainly amused Mr. Corkery. He was anything but vacant. He was preoccupied at all times with expressing the flow of life in S.F. His death certainly leaves a great vacancy. ...
Frederica von Stade, the famed mezzo-soprano & Bay Area treasure, was chatting me up the other day, kindly taking a bit of time out from rehearsals for her new opera Three Decembers, composed by her friend, Jake Heggie. "Jake has a great talent, has a great heart," gushes Flicka, as she's known to her friends & fans. "He also chooses the texts of great American poets -- such as Raymond Carver & Vachel Lindsay." Flicka's a great American, too. She fights relentlessly for music in the public schools, acknowledging that today's dismal economy makes it all look bleak: "If we could only put money into schools, we wouldn't have to put so much into prisons." Flicka's getting ready for her farewell tour in 2010. I don't want to think about that. The notion leaves me vacant & preoccupied. ... The nice people at the S.F Opera threw a party last month for the incoming music director, Nicola Luisotti, who was introduced to a handful of media folks, artistes, & various members of the consul corps. Luisotti navigated the Opera's orchestra masterfully through last year's La Boheme. Outgoing music boss Donald Runnicles praised the dashing, young conductor from Viareggio, Italy. Runnicles presses on to his next gig in Europe. S.F. Opera's general director David Gockley popped into the party briefly before racing off to a fundraiser. Let's face it: these are scary times for everybody & the Opera has one helluva house nut to cover. More diverting: Dame Edna, dressed in civvies in the person of her doppelganger, Barry Humphries, chatted up Maestro Luisotti amicably. "I don't think Nicola has any idea who Dame Edna or Barry Humphries is," whispered Jon Finck, the Opera's marketing master. "I think I'll just stay out of it." No worries, as they say in Dame Edna's native Australia. All seemed to be well & harmonious. ... Baby's in Black & White: Jim Marshall, the rock star photog (yes, he took that famous cross-star shot of the Beatles at Candlestick Park in 1966, their last public appearance) reports that he has two new books of pics coming out this year. ... Sascha Stolz, always perambulating, notes that Andy's Chinese Restaurant on Polk & Union still provides a menu that reads "2401 Pork Street ." Truer than you know. ... Big doings at The Family Club on Jan. 24. A “Burns’ Night” supper in honor of Robert Burns, the Scottish national poet, who might have been 250 years old on Jan. 25 if he hadn’t quaffed so much Scotch for a that an’ a’ that. … Amid the Iraq & ruin of the country, the media remained obsessed with the shoe-hurling episode in Baghdad. "If I see that damned clip one more time on the television," observed Charlie Mandel, "I'll start throwing my shoes, too." Leah Garchik confessed to me, "I think I'd throw my boots at Bush." Not the good ones, Leah. I was hoping for something more from the oh-so-clever, not-so-incumbent Commander-in-Chief about the shoe-flinger. Perhaps something like: "I looked the man in the eye, and got a sense of his sole." Hey, whatta ya want? It's only January. Don't blame me. Look on the bright side. Bush is out of office. Let's face it, that's got to be a good start. ...
Bruce Bellingham is a restless cat. He likes to wander around San Francisco. They don't allow him to drive, so let's be grateful for that. He galavants, as his mother used to say. He meanders. He's a Meanderthal. That's right. See him doddering & shuffling up & down Nob Hill & around the northern environs of The City. If he moves too quickly -- and that's not likely -- catch him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Bellingham by the Bay - San Francisco, December 2008
District Attorney Kamala Harris is not long for the world of San Francisco. She's already filed papers to run for Attorney General, and it's no secret she may be tapped to be part of President Obama's Justice Dept. in Washington. Former prosecutor Bill Fazio, who opposed Harris in a bitter race for D.A. in 2003, wasted no time in expressing an interest in getting Mayor Gavin Newsom to appoint him D.A. when Kamala leaves the post. "I'd like to help the mayor," says Fazio. "He could use some serious professional help in the area of law enforcement." As a prosecutor, Fazio garnered a good reputation for putting killers behind bars. ...
Travus T. Hipp was an insurgent voice on the old KSAN free-form radio station in the early 1970s. Recently Travus has had a bad time in Nevada City where he spent 12 nights sleeping on a concrete jail cell floor after being busted for growing medical marijuana for his various ailments, including diabetes and gastro-intestinal trouble. "It's the fifth time they raided me," Travus said on the phone. "The Lyon County (Nevada) Drug Squad has charged me with a series of felonies for growing medical marijuana. It's an insane scene, but the laws just don't conform up here." It seems there's a Detective Sherlock (his real name) who has it in for Travus. He needs help for his legal defense fund. Donations can be sent to Cabale News, P.O. Box 31, Silver City, NV., 89428. ...
The economy is bad. How bad is it? Ask Jay Leno. "It's SO bad that the women in Hollywood? The breasts are real and the jewelry is fake." ... "I write the jokes around here," Maurice Kanbar is fond of saying. He also mixes the drinks. Maurice was in Perry's the other day, showing off his new vodka, Blue Angel (he invented Skyy Vodka, and sold it a few years back to Campari International). He was shaking his Blue Angel with Blue Curaçao. Surely a cure for the blues. Vodka always does well in bad times. By the way, Katya Smirnoff-Skyy is starring in A Red Christmas at The New Conservatory Theatre Centre, 25 Van Ness, Dec. 10-20. ... Blue is the right color for John Sebastian, who played with David Grisman to a sell-out crowd in Kanbar Hall at the Jewish Community Center last month. The lads were on a 12-city tour. "It's so great to be here, and out of the red states," Sebastian sighed. ...
The election is over -- well, almost -- but you may have heard the Prop 8 battle is not. Rod McKuen wants it known that he's mad as hell. Much of his anger is directed at the Salt Lake City-based Mormon Church for its support of the measure. "I plan to organize a boycott of Utah and Utah-related businesses," Rod e-mails. "Marriott, JetBlue, Albertsons, Ralphs & Dell Computers to name just some. I have more than a few friends in L.A. who might help me boycott the Sundance Film Festival. It's a start. ... Preachers preached from the pulpit about how to vote. They can't have it both ways. Tax exemptions should be revoked for those churches that participated. I know I'll get plenty of hate mail, but what are they going to do to me -- kill my career? At 75, I don't think so." ... I'm amazed that churches apparently spent as much as $20-million to pass Prop 8 while food banks have nothing to offer hungry people during the holidays but empty shelves. Something's gone wrong here. ...
John's Grill on Ellis Street, famous for being the site where Dashiell Hammett would dash off pages of The Maltese Falcon between highballs, celebrated its 100th anniversary last month by giving away martinis to the huddled masses yearning to drink free. ... Enrico's had its 50th birthday on Nov. 28 with the inimitable Mal Sharpe keeping the crowd entertained as he always does. ... I was moved by NBC anchorman Lester Holt's unusual homage to his mother on Election Night as he described her tears of joy on hearing of Obama's victory. (I was working at KCBS when Lester was hired as a 19-year old reporter. Even then, he was a solid pro.) He quoted his mom as saying she never thought she'd live to see a black man in the White House. Even the stoic Mr. Holt got choked up. Who wouldn’t? It was quite a night. ...
Norm Howard, who was for decades the morning voice on KQED-FM, observes, "Recent unfortunate financial events, of which you may have heard, have reduced me from a wealthy retiree to an elderly shut-in." His fans may be heartened to know that Norm hasn't been changed a bit by retirement, his ennui is intact. ... Norm Goldblatt, the most erudite of comics, also feels the pinch: "PG&E's getting stingy. My neighbor turned on his 2-thousand-watt Christmas lights and my electric menorah dimmed. Have my people not suffered enough?"
And I'll leave it at that. ...
Bruce Bellingham often wanders around town looking for items for this column. You could say he meanders. You could say he's a Meanderthal. You could e-mail him with an item and keep the lad off the streets for everyone's peace of mind. Bellingham's e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Travus T. Hipp was an insurgent voice on the old KSAN free-form radio station in the early 1970s. Recently Travus has had a bad time in Nevada City where he spent 12 nights sleeping on a concrete jail cell floor after being busted for growing medical marijuana for his various ailments, including diabetes and gastro-intestinal trouble. "It's the fifth time they raided me," Travus said on the phone. "The Lyon County (Nevada) Drug Squad has charged me with a series of felonies for growing medical marijuana. It's an insane scene, but the laws just don't conform up here." It seems there's a Detective Sherlock (his real name) who has it in for Travus. He needs help for his legal defense fund. Donations can be sent to Cabale News, P.O. Box 31, Silver City, NV., 89428. ...
The economy is bad. How bad is it? Ask Jay Leno. "It's SO bad that the women in Hollywood? The breasts are real and the jewelry is fake." ... "I write the jokes around here," Maurice Kanbar is fond of saying. He also mixes the drinks. Maurice was in Perry's the other day, showing off his new vodka, Blue Angel (he invented Skyy Vodka, and sold it a few years back to Campari International). He was shaking his Blue Angel with Blue Curaçao. Surely a cure for the blues. Vodka always does well in bad times. By the way, Katya Smirnoff-Skyy is starring in A Red Christmas at The New Conservatory Theatre Centre, 25 Van Ness, Dec. 10-20. ... Blue is the right color for John Sebastian, who played with David Grisman to a sell-out crowd in Kanbar Hall at the Jewish Community Center last month. The lads were on a 12-city tour. "It's so great to be here, and out of the red states," Sebastian sighed. ...
The election is over -- well, almost -- but you may have heard the Prop 8 battle is not. Rod McKuen wants it known that he's mad as hell. Much of his anger is directed at the Salt Lake City-based Mormon Church for its support of the measure. "I plan to organize a boycott of Utah and Utah-related businesses," Rod e-mails. "Marriott, JetBlue, Albertsons, Ralphs & Dell Computers to name just some. I have more than a few friends in L.A. who might help me boycott the Sundance Film Festival. It's a start. ... Preachers preached from the pulpit about how to vote. They can't have it both ways. Tax exemptions should be revoked for those churches that participated. I know I'll get plenty of hate mail, but what are they going to do to me -- kill my career? At 75, I don't think so." ... I'm amazed that churches apparently spent as much as $20-million to pass Prop 8 while food banks have nothing to offer hungry people during the holidays but empty shelves. Something's gone wrong here. ...
John's Grill on Ellis Street, famous for being the site where Dashiell Hammett would dash off pages of The Maltese Falcon between highballs, celebrated its 100th anniversary last month by giving away martinis to the huddled masses yearning to drink free. ... Enrico's had its 50th birthday on Nov. 28 with the inimitable Mal Sharpe keeping the crowd entertained as he always does. ... I was moved by NBC anchorman Lester Holt's unusual homage to his mother on Election Night as he described her tears of joy on hearing of Obama's victory. (I was working at KCBS when Lester was hired as a 19-year old reporter. Even then, he was a solid pro.) He quoted his mom as saying she never thought she'd live to see a black man in the White House. Even the stoic Mr. Holt got choked up. Who wouldn’t? It was quite a night. ...
Norm Howard, who was for decades the morning voice on KQED-FM, observes, "Recent unfortunate financial events, of which you may have heard, have reduced me from a wealthy retiree to an elderly shut-in." His fans may be heartened to know that Norm hasn't been changed a bit by retirement, his ennui is intact. ... Norm Goldblatt, the most erudite of comics, also feels the pinch: "PG&E's getting stingy. My neighbor turned on his 2-thousand-watt Christmas lights and my electric menorah dimmed. Have my people not suffered enough?"
And I'll leave it at that. ...
Bruce Bellingham often wanders around town looking for items for this column. You could say he meanders. You could say he's a Meanderthal. You could e-mail him with an item and keep the lad off the streets for everyone's peace of mind. Bellingham's e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
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Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Adios, George Bush, And 2008, Too
This year isn't really coming to an end. It's more like a crash-landing. On New Year's Day, we'll get out of bed, count the survivors, and press on bravely.
I don't suppose it's a time for looking back. But I cannot resist. We have entered the airspace of Obama, and have broken away from the tractor beam of Bush. Before we hang a shining star upon the highest bough, allow me to recall some of the great moments of the Bush years.
Merry Christmas to New Orleans, to the victims of Katrina. I hope they all got voodoo dolls this year for protection. It's a wonderful city, and deserved better protection than it got. I'm sure a vague memory lingers of "You're Doin' A Heck of a Job, Brownie!" That was a reference to Bush's political pal, Michael Brown, whom Bush appointed head of FEMA. You can't slight Georgie for not putting his friends before the national interest or of competency. That's called loyalty. To something, certainly not the oath of office. I'm also thinking of loyal friends, such as, Harriet Miers ... Alberto Gonzales ... the pharmaceutical industry ... that brilliant strategist Rumsfeld, and Dick Cheney, King of the Wild Frontier. Mission Accomplished.
They all give the term fiasco new meaning.
The Northside's Sharon Anderson ran into Gore Vidal in Los Angeles one day not long ago and asked him, "Do you think Karl Rove will ever get what's coming to him?"
Vidal simply smiled, and intoned, "Oh, I think he and the rest of them will simply end up in the dustbin of history."
That's right. Tossed out, along with yesterday's Freedom Fries.
Ah, but I don't want to devote this space to lolling about in bitterness over the past, though that's a particular pleasure of mine. It's a time to look forward. We finally have a new president after an excruciating eight years. Obama appears to be as brilliant as Bush was blundering and belligerent. Obama seems to inspire, not isolate. He's the one who doesn't seem bitter at all. On the contrary, he's making the effort to be conciliatory to people who treated him viciously. The election could have turned out differently. That's too murky too contemplate.
So let's have ourselves a merry little Christmas, and celebrate other assorted holidays of our choice in our respective, downsized sort of way. Surely there's still plenty of space in our hearts for hope. Still there's that strange drive in some of us who've been badly battered this year to brush the dust from the dustbin off, and start all over again.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times. He pretends he's The Christmas Curmudgeon but we suspect that he really does like the holidays. He's been observed year after year at the lighting ceremony at Huntington Park, looking misty-eyed when the S.F. Girls Chorus sings its carols. Be sure to ridicule this lapse into sentimentality by writing to him at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
I don't suppose it's a time for looking back. But I cannot resist. We have entered the airspace of Obama, and have broken away from the tractor beam of Bush. Before we hang a shining star upon the highest bough, allow me to recall some of the great moments of the Bush years.
Merry Christmas to New Orleans, to the victims of Katrina. I hope they all got voodoo dolls this year for protection. It's a wonderful city, and deserved better protection than it got. I'm sure a vague memory lingers of "You're Doin' A Heck of a Job, Brownie!" That was a reference to Bush's political pal, Michael Brown, whom Bush appointed head of FEMA. You can't slight Georgie for not putting his friends before the national interest or of competency. That's called loyalty. To something, certainly not the oath of office. I'm also thinking of loyal friends, such as, Harriet Miers ... Alberto Gonzales ... the pharmaceutical industry ... that brilliant strategist Rumsfeld, and Dick Cheney, King of the Wild Frontier. Mission Accomplished.
They all give the term fiasco new meaning.
The Northside's Sharon Anderson ran into Gore Vidal in Los Angeles one day not long ago and asked him, "Do you think Karl Rove will ever get what's coming to him?"
Vidal simply smiled, and intoned, "Oh, I think he and the rest of them will simply end up in the dustbin of history."
That's right. Tossed out, along with yesterday's Freedom Fries.
Ah, but I don't want to devote this space to lolling about in bitterness over the past, though that's a particular pleasure of mine. It's a time to look forward. We finally have a new president after an excruciating eight years. Obama appears to be as brilliant as Bush was blundering and belligerent. Obama seems to inspire, not isolate. He's the one who doesn't seem bitter at all. On the contrary, he's making the effort to be conciliatory to people who treated him viciously. The election could have turned out differently. That's too murky too contemplate.
So let's have ourselves a merry little Christmas, and celebrate other assorted holidays of our choice in our respective, downsized sort of way. Surely there's still plenty of space in our hearts for hope. Still there's that strange drive in some of us who've been badly battered this year to brush the dust from the dustbin off, and start all over again.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times. He pretends he's The Christmas Curmudgeon but we suspect that he really does like the holidays. He's been observed year after year at the lighting ceremony at Huntington Park, looking misty-eyed when the S.F. Girls Chorus sings its carols. Be sure to ridicule this lapse into sentimentality by writing to him at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
The Year When Everything Changed
I used to refer to 1968 as the Year When Everything Changed. Then 2008 came along.
I imagine that in eras hence, historians will compare the years in terms of marking major upheavals in American history.
Forty years ago, the country was torn apart over the Viet Nam War, and the struggle over civil rights. The year brought the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr., then Bobby Kennedy; the riots in Americans cities; the amazing psycho-drama madness of the Chicago Democratic National Convention that was played out on television. That 1968 event was so spooky that the Silent Majority voted the refurbished demagogue Nixon into office. His minions would rise another day to assist George W. Bush down the Rose Garden path of our destruction.
Of course I am biased on this point -- as I am biased on at least another. The popular music of the 60s was far more interesting than it is now. For those of us who were teenagers at the time, the music gave some us a way to participate, if we didn't feel like breaking windows or occupying a dean's office or getting our heads broken by a cop's baton. We'd smoke the obligatory marijuana, plug in our guitars, and get gigs for our band. I loved what was called "protest music." There was much more music and movies than politics in my young life. As I recall, no one was ever quiet. Maybe just an occasional, tender "Om," as prescribed by Allen Ginsberg. The gentle folkies had become rockers long before 1968. The volume and the violence had been turned up. Just for having a rock n' roll band, and singing "protest songs," I was hanged in effigy from my high school flag pole by members of the football team. Kid you not. This was over the Viet Nam War. It's quite an honor, I suppose, in retrospect. I can say that because I escaped with my life. There were protests everywhere -- and they had become brutal. In Paris, it was called "Days of Rage." In Czechoslovakia, it was "Prague Spring." In the U.S. there was rage over the war, racial inequality, police brutality, the conditions in Appalachia. But, believe me, no one was outraged about the condition of the stock market.
That was before America had absorbed its obsession with money.
This year, this country is at war on two fronts, we have some serious enemies to deal with, a new, young American leader has emerged, and the economy is collapsing. One thing is clear: nothing will be the same after 2008 either.
It's Another Year That Everything Changed.
To paraphrase Gavin Newsom, these changes will come "whether we like it or not!"
I often wondered what it was like for my parents to endure the really hard times -- the Great Depression, the Second World War, what it was like to ride the whirlwind. Their hard times certainly made my good times possible. I've had plenty of good times, many of us have enjoyed remarkably good times in these United States.
And even if the good times are over for a while, we can always figure out how to make some good times possible for the next group of kids who are coming along.
They'll have their own years that change everything, I hope, whether they like it or not. There will be plenty of things to not like. My advice to these young persons? If you don't want to make love, make noise.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist fo the SF Northside, and author of Bellingham by the Bay. Talk to him sometime at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
I imagine that in eras hence, historians will compare the years in terms of marking major upheavals in American history.
Forty years ago, the country was torn apart over the Viet Nam War, and the struggle over civil rights. The year brought the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr., then Bobby Kennedy; the riots in Americans cities; the amazing psycho-drama madness of the Chicago Democratic National Convention that was played out on television. That 1968 event was so spooky that the Silent Majority voted the refurbished demagogue Nixon into office. His minions would rise another day to assist George W. Bush down the Rose Garden path of our destruction.
Of course I am biased on this point -- as I am biased on at least another. The popular music of the 60s was far more interesting than it is now. For those of us who were teenagers at the time, the music gave some us a way to participate, if we didn't feel like breaking windows or occupying a dean's office or getting our heads broken by a cop's baton. We'd smoke the obligatory marijuana, plug in our guitars, and get gigs for our band. I loved what was called "protest music." There was much more music and movies than politics in my young life. As I recall, no one was ever quiet. Maybe just an occasional, tender "Om," as prescribed by Allen Ginsberg. The gentle folkies had become rockers long before 1968. The volume and the violence had been turned up. Just for having a rock n' roll band, and singing "protest songs," I was hanged in effigy from my high school flag pole by members of the football team. Kid you not. This was over the Viet Nam War. It's quite an honor, I suppose, in retrospect. I can say that because I escaped with my life. There were protests everywhere -- and they had become brutal. In Paris, it was called "Days of Rage." In Czechoslovakia, it was "Prague Spring." In the U.S. there was rage over the war, racial inequality, police brutality, the conditions in Appalachia. But, believe me, no one was outraged about the condition of the stock market.
That was before America had absorbed its obsession with money.
This year, this country is at war on two fronts, we have some serious enemies to deal with, a new, young American leader has emerged, and the economy is collapsing. One thing is clear: nothing will be the same after 2008 either.
It's Another Year That Everything Changed.
To paraphrase Gavin Newsom, these changes will come "whether we like it or not!"
I often wondered what it was like for my parents to endure the really hard times -- the Great Depression, the Second World War, what it was like to ride the whirlwind. Their hard times certainly made my good times possible. I've had plenty of good times, many of us have enjoyed remarkably good times in these United States.
And even if the good times are over for a while, we can always figure out how to make some good times possible for the next group of kids who are coming along.
They'll have their own years that change everything, I hope, whether they like it or not. There will be plenty of things to not like. My advice to these young persons? If you don't want to make love, make noise.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist fo the SF Northside, and author of Bellingham by the Bay. Talk to him sometime at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
If You're Looking for Bad News, You Will Not Find It Here
It is tempting for a newspaper writer to get in on the gloom and doom syndicate. There is no shortage of horror stories these days. There is no shortage of opinions about this crisis or that crisis. In that great movie, Network, Howard Beale (played by Peter Finch) the run-amuck TV anchor (and this was decades before Fox News) declaims, "Maybe I want to to be an angry prophet denouncing the hypocrisy of our time."
That's tempting, too. Maybe I want to be an angry prophet denouncing the hypocrisy of our time, as Paddy Chayevsky suggested.
Ah, but there's a hazard. It's difficult to denounce any hypocrisy without being hypocritical. So, I'll leave that to others. For now.
I hasten to add this is not a serious piece of writing. Nothing ponderous. Nothing pedantic. No punditry. So don't be scared. Don't race away. Stick around. Trust me. Honest. Can you lend me 39-billion dollars until payday? I'd like to say that I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take this anymore. Right. Sure. Take what? C'mon, the truth is that I'll have to take it -- whatever it is. I'll likely take it until the end of my days.
There are strange things that happen if you reside on this planet long enough until the end of your days. One part of getting older is observing that things often repeat themselves. Old jokes certainly come back. Here's one from the Great Depression. The rabblerouser is on a street corner soapbox, barking at the crowd: "Come the revolution, you'll be eating peaches and cream!" he shouts.
"But I don't like peaches and cream," a timid voice chirps up.
Fumes the firebrand: "You'll eat peaches and cream whether you like it or not!"
More personally, this memory came to me, thanks to John McCain and Sarah Palin, trying to sell their preposterous "maverick" schtick during the election season.
They reminded me of a TV show that I loved when I was a kid. It was called Maverick. I remember the great character actor, John Dehner, repeating the running gag: "If you can't trust your banker, who can you trust?"
Gee, that's got a contemporary -- and contemptible -- ring to it. Mavericks one and all.
Wait a moment. From me, I promise, no preaching, no polemics, no poking about things in which I have no business prodding about. Yes, I improperly ended a phrase with a preposition. That's about as a far as I go to provoke civil disobedience. For that, I deserve a pox on both my houses. Then again, my houses were repossessed. That reminds me that John McCain had some trouble with his campaign song. The Foo Fighters reclaimed "My Hero." I think he should have used that old tune, "You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To." If he could only recall which home that was.
It's safe to say that this election season was a bad American dream, a protracted piece of perfidy. I'm thankful that it's over in time for Thanksgiving. I've never heard so many Americans say that they're moving to Canada as a result of the presidential election, whatever the outcome would be. Do you think Canada has enough room? For all the people who moved to Canada, come back soon. Everything's going to be all right. Besides, we're going to need your help when we start picking on some truly unfortunate people.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the SF Northside. Unlike Ringo Starr, he likes mail. Mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
That's tempting, too. Maybe I want to be an angry prophet denouncing the hypocrisy of our time, as Paddy Chayevsky suggested.
Ah, but there's a hazard. It's difficult to denounce any hypocrisy without being hypocritical. So, I'll leave that to others. For now.
I hasten to add this is not a serious piece of writing. Nothing ponderous. Nothing pedantic. No punditry. So don't be scared. Don't race away. Stick around. Trust me. Honest. Can you lend me 39-billion dollars until payday? I'd like to say that I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take this anymore. Right. Sure. Take what? C'mon, the truth is that I'll have to take it -- whatever it is. I'll likely take it until the end of my days.
There are strange things that happen if you reside on this planet long enough until the end of your days. One part of getting older is observing that things often repeat themselves. Old jokes certainly come back. Here's one from the Great Depression. The rabblerouser is on a street corner soapbox, barking at the crowd: "Come the revolution, you'll be eating peaches and cream!" he shouts.
"But I don't like peaches and cream," a timid voice chirps up.
Fumes the firebrand: "You'll eat peaches and cream whether you like it or not!"
More personally, this memory came to me, thanks to John McCain and Sarah Palin, trying to sell their preposterous "maverick" schtick during the election season.
They reminded me of a TV show that I loved when I was a kid. It was called Maverick. I remember the great character actor, John Dehner, repeating the running gag: "If you can't trust your banker, who can you trust?"
Gee, that's got a contemporary -- and contemptible -- ring to it. Mavericks one and all.
Wait a moment. From me, I promise, no preaching, no polemics, no poking about things in which I have no business prodding about. Yes, I improperly ended a phrase with a preposition. That's about as a far as I go to provoke civil disobedience. For that, I deserve a pox on both my houses. Then again, my houses were repossessed. That reminds me that John McCain had some trouble with his campaign song. The Foo Fighters reclaimed "My Hero." I think he should have used that old tune, "You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To." If he could only recall which home that was.
It's safe to say that this election season was a bad American dream, a protracted piece of perfidy. I'm thankful that it's over in time for Thanksgiving. I've never heard so many Americans say that they're moving to Canada as a result of the presidential election, whatever the outcome would be. Do you think Canada has enough room? For all the people who moved to Canada, come back soon. Everything's going to be all right. Besides, we're going to need your help when we start picking on some truly unfortunate people.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the SF Northside. Unlike Ringo Starr, he likes mail. Mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Bellingham by the Bay, November 2008
Much of the talk around Nob Hill revolves around the reported sale of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The staffers are nervous – as most staffers everywhere are these days – and the inevitable word “layoffs” has been whispered in the neighborhood. … The Octavia Lounge, one of the few venues for live cabaret, is now closed, and undergoing a remodeling by the new owners. This has caused the cancellation of Open Call, a show-in-progress produced by Lua Hadar and Linda Kosut. They’re looking for a new venue. “The owners of the Octavia Lounge, Larry Metzger and Patrick O’Connor, are still part owners of the club,” reports Lua. “I hear they might bring in a DJ but are considering keeping live music as part of the programming.” …
Stu Smith was a regular patron of Delessio’s Market across the street from the Octavia Lounge, at Valencia & Market, until he saw the sign in the window last month announcing a 50 per cent price hike on their prepared foods. Stu started an angry e-mail campaign in protest. … Dorothy Hearst was amused to hear that Ringo Starr will toss out all fan mail that he gets from now on. “I’ll take some of Ringo’s for him,” the quick-witted Dorothy declaims. “Getting fan mail can be a little terrifying,” says Rita Moreno, who lives in the East Bay. “It’s unnerving when people send it to my house, and I have no idea how they find my exact address.” You might recall that scene from the 1964 Beatles film A Hard Day’s Night, a Ringo-coined phrase where Ringo got the lion’s share of the Beatles’ fan mail. I guess it never stopped. …
Speaking of movies, a very cool event this month at the Jewish Community Center, an evening of San Francisco Film Noir with Eddie Muller, the local Czar of Noir and Miguel Pendas, creative director of the SF Film Festival, Nov. 11 at 7 p.m. A talk about movies that were shot here in town and clips from The Maltese Falcon ... Dark Passage ... Lady from Shanghai ... Born to Kill ... and others. At 5 bucks a pop, it's a steal. Good murkiness for tough times. ...
The call him “The Boss of the Sauce.” That’s Joseph Manzare. Right. Not Joe the Plumber but Joe the Winner, who took top prize last year. On Sunday, Nov. 2, 12 noon – 5 pm, chefs will face each other in the “Boss of the Sauce” competition. The battle for the best-made-tomato-based sauce will take place in the Church Hall (lower level) at Sts. Peter & Paul Church, 666 Filbert Street on Washington Square. Last year’s winner Joseph Manzare will be on hand to compete again. Manzare has opened Joey & Eddie’s in North Beach on Washington Square in the space that was formerly Moose’s. Sunday’s event benefits FIERI, a non-profit devoted to promoting Italian culture. Admission is $20.00 per person. Tickets Available at the door and online at http://www.bossofthesauce.org/sanfrancisco … I was always amused by the church's address, you know, 666, and all that ...
Lorna K. is back singing at the Hotel Rex on Sutter & Mason on Nov. 21 from 6:15 to 8:15. She was there on Halloween and cast a good hex on all at the Rex. … The estimable San Francisco Academy Orchestra performs at Calvary Presbyterian Church, Fillmore & Jackson, at 6:15 p.m. on Nov. 9. … Kathy Garver – she played Cissy on the Family Affair TV show all those years ago – and Barry Barsamian have begun a new weekly cable show called “Backstage! With Barry & Kathy” on ComCast Channel 29 on Mondays at 5:30 p.m. …
Comedian Renee Taylor -- yes "The Nanny's mother" -- was all set to come to S.F. for a fundraiser (just like a politician except she doesn't take the money when she leaves). She had to beg off. Renee and her husband, Joe Bologna, are in the middle of selling their house that they had for 40 years in Beverly Hills. It's listed at $5 million but there's not much of a house left. It's been "gutted to the studs." That's a real fixer-upper. Renee always has a good story. The Home & Garden cable network wants her to do a reality show about selling the house. She's considering it but Joe refuses to cooperate. "Joe thinks no amount of money is worth the humiliation," says Renee. "I'm willing to make a fool out of myself for free." ... Renee also is kicking around an idea for a show called "An Evening without Joe Bologna." Maybe Joe could call in. She remains the eternal optimist. "We're still looking for a place to live, but I consider it an adventure. It will have a happy ending, one way or another." ...
I wonder if the election will have a happy ending. Not bloody likely. But always looking on the bright side is Mary Goodnature -- yes, that's her name -- who's running for supervisor in the 11th district (that's the Outer Mission). Her rules for campaigning: "There will be no arguing or protesting, yelling or banner waving," Mary reassures. "Just flowers, food and fun." ... Has anyone asked Sarah Palin about the situation in Freedonia? Forgive me but there's not much time to make fun of her. I hope. The joke could be on me. One way or the other we won't be rid of her, I fear. She'll be hosting Romper Room in no time. Poor kids. ... Mr. Blackwell died last month at the age of 86. His passing reminded me of another great fashion critic, the late Count Marco of the SF Chronicle. Marco kvetched to me while he was in the hospital for the last time: "Mr. Blackwell stole my idea for the Ten Worst-Dressed Women. He knew about the worst-dressed women. He dressed them." Those fellows knew how to carry a cudgel to the very end. ... Mr. Blackwell had the same partner for 60 years. How dare anyone not call that a marriage? ...
There must be a good reason that I’ve been watching the Marx Brothers’ classic Duck Soup over and over again lately:
Rufus T. Firefly: [to Trentino] Now, how about lending this country twenty million dollars, you old skinflint?
Ambassador Trentino: Twenty million dollars is a lot of money. I'd have to take that up with my Minister of Finance.
Rufus T. Firefly: Well, in the meantime, could you let me have twelve dollars until payday?
Ambassador Trentino: Twelve dollars?
Rufus T. Firefly: Don't be scared, you'll get it back. I'll give you my personal note for ninety days. If it isn't paid by then, you can ... keep the note. …
Rod McKuen has mulled this over: “Can you imagine what a personal note for $12.00 signed by Rufus T. Firefly would go for at Sotheby's or even eBay these days?”
The Marx Brothers and Rod McKuen always get the last word. And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the Marina Times. We do not recommend that anyone accept a personal note of any kind from him.
###
Stu Smith was a regular patron of Delessio’s Market across the street from the Octavia Lounge, at Valencia & Market, until he saw the sign in the window last month announcing a 50 per cent price hike on their prepared foods. Stu started an angry e-mail campaign in protest. … Dorothy Hearst was amused to hear that Ringo Starr will toss out all fan mail that he gets from now on. “I’ll take some of Ringo’s for him,” the quick-witted Dorothy declaims. “Getting fan mail can be a little terrifying,” says Rita Moreno, who lives in the East Bay. “It’s unnerving when people send it to my house, and I have no idea how they find my exact address.” You might recall that scene from the 1964 Beatles film A Hard Day’s Night, a Ringo-coined phrase where Ringo got the lion’s share of the Beatles’ fan mail. I guess it never stopped. …
Speaking of movies, a very cool event this month at the Jewish Community Center, an evening of San Francisco Film Noir with Eddie Muller, the local Czar of Noir and Miguel Pendas, creative director of the SF Film Festival, Nov. 11 at 7 p.m. A talk about movies that were shot here in town and clips from The Maltese Falcon ... Dark Passage ... Lady from Shanghai ... Born to Kill ... and others. At 5 bucks a pop, it's a steal. Good murkiness for tough times. ...
The call him “The Boss of the Sauce.” That’s Joseph Manzare. Right. Not Joe the Plumber but Joe the Winner, who took top prize last year. On Sunday, Nov. 2, 12 noon – 5 pm, chefs will face each other in the “Boss of the Sauce” competition. The battle for the best-made-tomato-based sauce will take place in the Church Hall (lower level) at Sts. Peter & Paul Church, 666 Filbert Street on Washington Square. Last year’s winner Joseph Manzare will be on hand to compete again. Manzare has opened Joey & Eddie’s in North Beach on Washington Square in the space that was formerly Moose’s. Sunday’s event benefits FIERI, a non-profit devoted to promoting Italian culture. Admission is $20.00 per person. Tickets Available at the door and online at http://www.bossofthesauce.org/sanfrancisco … I was always amused by the church's address, you know, 666, and all that ...
Lorna K. is back singing at the Hotel Rex on Sutter & Mason on Nov. 21 from 6:15 to 8:15. She was there on Halloween and cast a good hex on all at the Rex. … The estimable San Francisco Academy Orchestra performs at Calvary Presbyterian Church, Fillmore & Jackson, at 6:15 p.m. on Nov. 9. … Kathy Garver – she played Cissy on the Family Affair TV show all those years ago – and Barry Barsamian have begun a new weekly cable show called “Backstage! With Barry & Kathy” on ComCast Channel 29 on Mondays at 5:30 p.m. …
Comedian Renee Taylor -- yes "The Nanny's mother" -- was all set to come to S.F. for a fundraiser (just like a politician except she doesn't take the money when she leaves). She had to beg off. Renee and her husband, Joe Bologna, are in the middle of selling their house that they had for 40 years in Beverly Hills. It's listed at $5 million but there's not much of a house left. It's been "gutted to the studs." That's a real fixer-upper. Renee always has a good story. The Home & Garden cable network wants her to do a reality show about selling the house. She's considering it but Joe refuses to cooperate. "Joe thinks no amount of money is worth the humiliation," says Renee. "I'm willing to make a fool out of myself for free." ... Renee also is kicking around an idea for a show called "An Evening without Joe Bologna." Maybe Joe could call in. She remains the eternal optimist. "We're still looking for a place to live, but I consider it an adventure. It will have a happy ending, one way or another." ...
I wonder if the election will have a happy ending. Not bloody likely. But always looking on the bright side is Mary Goodnature -- yes, that's her name -- who's running for supervisor in the 11th district (that's the Outer Mission). Her rules for campaigning: "There will be no arguing or protesting, yelling or banner waving," Mary reassures. "Just flowers, food and fun." ... Has anyone asked Sarah Palin about the situation in Freedonia? Forgive me but there's not much time to make fun of her. I hope. The joke could be on me. One way or the other we won't be rid of her, I fear. She'll be hosting Romper Room in no time. Poor kids. ... Mr. Blackwell died last month at the age of 86. His passing reminded me of another great fashion critic, the late Count Marco of the SF Chronicle. Marco kvetched to me while he was in the hospital for the last time: "Mr. Blackwell stole my idea for the Ten Worst-Dressed Women. He knew about the worst-dressed women. He dressed them." Those fellows knew how to carry a cudgel to the very end. ... Mr. Blackwell had the same partner for 60 years. How dare anyone not call that a marriage? ...
There must be a good reason that I’ve been watching the Marx Brothers’ classic Duck Soup over and over again lately:
Rufus T. Firefly: [to Trentino] Now, how about lending this country twenty million dollars, you old skinflint?
Ambassador Trentino: Twenty million dollars is a lot of money. I'd have to take that up with my Minister of Finance.
Rufus T. Firefly: Well, in the meantime, could you let me have twelve dollars until payday?
Ambassador Trentino: Twelve dollars?
Rufus T. Firefly: Don't be scared, you'll get it back. I'll give you my personal note for ninety days. If it isn't paid by then, you can ... keep the note. …
Rod McKuen has mulled this over: “Can you imagine what a personal note for $12.00 signed by Rufus T. Firefly would go for at Sotheby's or even eBay these days?”
The Marx Brothers and Rod McKuen always get the last word. And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the Marina Times. We do not recommend that anyone accept a personal note of any kind from him.
###
Thursday, October 02, 2008
The Idiocy Over Sarah Palin
"It made my ovaries hurt," said Sharon Anderson.
That was her assessment of the much-anticipated debate between Gov. Sarah Palin and Sen. Joe. Biden.
"If she's elected, I will pray for the health of John McCain every day."
For my part, as a man, I am all for Sarah Palin finding her way to the White House -- as long as she's part of the tour of visitors, and there in no way in an official capacity. Here it it is, Thursday night, an hour or or two following the much-anticipated debate with Sen. Joe Biden and I'm still a bit stunned. Did I hear and see the same event as the "mainstream media" witnessed? That was one of Gov. Palin's gleeful digs she got in as art of her script. Palin thanked the moderator for the chance to talk to the American people, “without filter of mainstream media, telling the people what they just heard.“ The mainstream media -- and that included the savvy Mark Shields and David Brooks on PBS -- told us what we just heard. They quickly praised her colloquialisms, and just about everything else about her. I'm surprised they didn't produce a corsage for her prom dress.
I thought of Ed Asner on "The Mary Tyler Moore Shore" as the curmudgeonly news director Lou Grant: "I hate cute."
I gotta tell ya.
The words "folksy" and "colloquial" sputtered out of the mouths of the usually judicious commentators. They rolled over for Palin like schoolboys. I couldn't believe it. The English language took a helluva beating Thursday night at the hands of Palin. Never mind that she perpetuates the term "NOOK-yoo-ler." She could be in charge of them.
By the way, who are the "Talibani"?
Amid her "Palin stands tall" crap in the NY Post, there were few to question what her messages are all about. How about this one? "We're not killing civilians, we're killing terrorists, and we're spreading democracy."
It was all a matter of how Gov. Palin would perform under scrutiny after her debacle with Katie Couric and getting a drubbing from TV satirists. You'd think that in the middle of this crisis that people would take this encounter a little more seriously than "Dancing with the Stars" but apparently not. Biden got little respect in the post-debate reviews. I thought he came off as sincere. But he was widely characterized as an elitist, out of touch. His self-restraint was admirable as Palin jumped from one topic to another, ignoring the questions, loooking for a window where she could emulate Ronald Reagan. She finally got that inevitable line in: "There you go again."
Are they really going to let her get away with something that cheap? I guess so.
Apparently many Americans admire this slap-down style but it makes little sense. Gwen Ifill deserves praise for her good questions, and keeping her poise. Earlier in the day, Ifill was ambushed by the right-wing "mainstream" Drudge Report by repeating a false report from the NY Post about Ifill not disclosing her book-in-progress about Barack Obama to the producers of the debate. They knew about it months ago. Ah, but that's show business. I had no idea that Americans hated smart people so much.
I thought Palin's performance was so ridiculous, so low-brow, so sloppy, so embarrassing, I figured the GOP operatives were discussing how to drop her from the ticket after the first ten minutes.
Boy, was I wrong.
I am sorry about that.
I am sorry for the country, too. I wanted to call 911. Sarah Palin is a clear and present danger. But I am the one who is out of touch -- but that's of small importance. I am sorry for all the smart women in the country, such as Sharon Anderson. I gotta tell ya. Even my ovaries hurt.
#####
That was her assessment of the much-anticipated debate between Gov. Sarah Palin and Sen. Joe. Biden.
"If she's elected, I will pray for the health of John McCain every day."
For my part, as a man, I am all for Sarah Palin finding her way to the White House -- as long as she's part of the tour of visitors, and there in no way in an official capacity. Here it it is, Thursday night, an hour or or two following the much-anticipated debate with Sen. Joe Biden and I'm still a bit stunned. Did I hear and see the same event as the "mainstream media" witnessed? That was one of Gov. Palin's gleeful digs she got in as art of her script. Palin thanked the moderator for the chance to talk to the American people, “without filter of mainstream media, telling the people what they just heard.“ The mainstream media -- and that included the savvy Mark Shields and David Brooks on PBS -- told us what we just heard. They quickly praised her colloquialisms, and just about everything else about her. I'm surprised they didn't produce a corsage for her prom dress.
I thought of Ed Asner on "The Mary Tyler Moore Shore" as the curmudgeonly news director Lou Grant: "I hate cute."
I gotta tell ya.
The words "folksy" and "colloquial" sputtered out of the mouths of the usually judicious commentators. They rolled over for Palin like schoolboys. I couldn't believe it. The English language took a helluva beating Thursday night at the hands of Palin. Never mind that she perpetuates the term "NOOK-yoo-ler." She could be in charge of them.
By the way, who are the "Talibani"?
Amid her "Palin stands tall" crap in the NY Post, there were few to question what her messages are all about. How about this one? "We're not killing civilians, we're killing terrorists, and we're spreading democracy."
It was all a matter of how Gov. Palin would perform under scrutiny after her debacle with Katie Couric and getting a drubbing from TV satirists. You'd think that in the middle of this crisis that people would take this encounter a little more seriously than "Dancing with the Stars" but apparently not. Biden got little respect in the post-debate reviews. I thought he came off as sincere. But he was widely characterized as an elitist, out of touch. His self-restraint was admirable as Palin jumped from one topic to another, ignoring the questions, loooking for a window where she could emulate Ronald Reagan. She finally got that inevitable line in: "There you go again."
Are they really going to let her get away with something that cheap? I guess so.
Apparently many Americans admire this slap-down style but it makes little sense. Gwen Ifill deserves praise for her good questions, and keeping her poise. Earlier in the day, Ifill was ambushed by the right-wing "mainstream" Drudge Report by repeating a false report from the NY Post about Ifill not disclosing her book-in-progress about Barack Obama to the producers of the debate. They knew about it months ago. Ah, but that's show business. I had no idea that Americans hated smart people so much.
I thought Palin's performance was so ridiculous, so low-brow, so sloppy, so embarrassing, I figured the GOP operatives were discussing how to drop her from the ticket after the first ten minutes.
Boy, was I wrong.
I am sorry about that.
I am sorry for the country, too. I wanted to call 911. Sarah Palin is a clear and present danger. But I am the one who is out of touch -- but that's of small importance. I am sorry for all the smart women in the country, such as Sharon Anderson. I gotta tell ya. Even my ovaries hurt.
#####
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Bellingham by the Bay -- October 2008
John Waters might best be known for helping Patty Hearst make the transition from the Symbionese Liberation Army to the Screen Actors Guild. You can just picture the so-called Prince of Perversity gushing to Patty, "You're going out there a terrorist, and coming back a star!" So he put her in a few of his movies. John's coming to town this month with a live show, John Waters Gets Filthy, at the Castro Theatre, Mon. Oct. 6. at 7:30 p.m. ... It was back in 1972 when a chap gave me two tickets to see Cleo Laine sing at the Masonic Auditorium. I pretended I knew who she was. Of course, I never forgot her. I saw her again, last month, at The Rrazz Room at the Hotel Nikko with her wonderful husband, John Dankworth, still grand and great after all these years. They turned the room into a chapel for the music of Ellington & Basie. ...
It was a quiet transition but The Bargain Bank on Polk Street is no longer The Bargain Bank. No, it was not absorbed by a larger financial institution. It used to be an emporium for cheap household goods. The name is now Spencer & Daniels -- a little more style, I guess. ... McTeague's has finally opened on Polk & Pine. The saloon is an homage to the Frank Norris character who was at the center of the Erich von Stroheim silent film, Greed, which was actually filmed on Polk Street in 1924. There's a film for our time, if there ever was one. ... There was quite a party at the Clift to mark the 75th anniversary of the Redwood Room. Mayor Newsom appeared with his tall, charming bride, Jennifer, and she practically stole the show. Absinthe was served so a few of us were willing to sell our furniture and move to Paris by the end of the evening --- but I often feel that way. ... By the way, the new popularity of absinthe has rekindled new interest in Barnaby Conrad III's wonderful 1997 book, Absinthe, all about "The Green Fairy,” which is what they called the murky concoction in absinthe-drinking circles. ...
How are the locals faring in these ghastly times? They're hanging in and hanging on. The market has been falling flat but Earl Darny's cakes continue to rise at his Lotta's Bakery on Polk Street. "The price of eggs and sugar keeps going up but people are friendly and my customers are loyal, Earl reports cheerily. ... People from all over the world are still lining up for the seafood at Swan Oyster Depot, a landmark on Polk & California. This is where you can meet visitors from Norway to Novato. Speaking of Novato, co-owner Steve Sancimino reports that his local paper, The Advance, has closed after 40 years of serving the good people of Novato. ... Do you get the feeling that we're advancing to the rear? ...
The Black Horse London Pub on Union & Van Ness had got to be one of the smallest saloons in San Francisco with the smallest TV for the smallest footballl games. But their spirits loom large. The pub’s Scott Lieberman’s got the right idea: “No cell phones here. We want people to face each other and talk. Yes, talk. Just like they used to do in pubs in the old days.” … Barman Richard Kuttner may keep the football games on the TVs at Kimo's, but Richard's not really a jock: "I can tell you what a fullback is," he deadpans. "That's two half-backs." … I’ll be taking the back door. No problem. …
Bruce Bellingham is a desperate man. He always needs something, like reassurance, redemption, guidance … and yes, items for this column. Help him out, please, at bruce@northsidesf.com
It was a quiet transition but The Bargain Bank on Polk Street is no longer The Bargain Bank. No, it was not absorbed by a larger financial institution. It used to be an emporium for cheap household goods. The name is now Spencer & Daniels -- a little more style, I guess. ... McTeague's has finally opened on Polk & Pine. The saloon is an homage to the Frank Norris character who was at the center of the Erich von Stroheim silent film, Greed, which was actually filmed on Polk Street in 1924. There's a film for our time, if there ever was one. ... There was quite a party at the Clift to mark the 75th anniversary of the Redwood Room. Mayor Newsom appeared with his tall, charming bride, Jennifer, and she practically stole the show. Absinthe was served so a few of us were willing to sell our furniture and move to Paris by the end of the evening --- but I often feel that way. ... By the way, the new popularity of absinthe has rekindled new interest in Barnaby Conrad III's wonderful 1997 book, Absinthe, all about "The Green Fairy,” which is what they called the murky concoction in absinthe-drinking circles. ...
How are the locals faring in these ghastly times? They're hanging in and hanging on. The market has been falling flat but Earl Darny's cakes continue to rise at his Lotta's Bakery on Polk Street. "The price of eggs and sugar keeps going up but people are friendly and my customers are loyal, Earl reports cheerily. ... People from all over the world are still lining up for the seafood at Swan Oyster Depot, a landmark on Polk & California. This is where you can meet visitors from Norway to Novato. Speaking of Novato, co-owner Steve Sancimino reports that his local paper, The Advance, has closed after 40 years of serving the good people of Novato. ... Do you get the feeling that we're advancing to the rear? ...
The Black Horse London Pub on Union & Van Ness had got to be one of the smallest saloons in San Francisco with the smallest TV for the smallest footballl games. But their spirits loom large. The pub’s Scott Lieberman’s got the right idea: “No cell phones here. We want people to face each other and talk. Yes, talk. Just like they used to do in pubs in the old days.” … Barman Richard Kuttner may keep the football games on the TVs at Kimo's, but Richard's not really a jock: "I can tell you what a fullback is," he deadpans. "That's two half-backs." … I’ll be taking the back door. No problem. …
Bruce Bellingham is a desperate man. He always needs something, like reassurance, redemption, guidance … and yes, items for this column. Help him out, please, at bruce@northsidesf.com
I Can Seee Russia From My House --- October 2008
I can't really see Russia from my house. But Gov. Sarah Palin can. I used to be able to see Wachovia from my house. I don't know what happened. On a clear day, you could see Washington Mutual. As for Freedonia, well, don't get me started. That might get Sarah Palin started. After all, she's a foreign policy maven. And I am Marie of Romania.
Gov. Palin has erased the amorphous line between satire and mock earnestness. Don't get me wrong. She's not a lightweight. She's scary. She's the generalissima of the New Bull Moose Party. Just ask any hungry wolf running in terror from a helicopter full of sharpshooters. Sarah has offered $150 for the forepaw of a wolf. This is part of a plan to reduce the population of wolves that threaten Alaskan livestock. It reminds me of Oscar Wilde's description of fox hunting: "The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible."
If the American electorate finds Ms. Palin "cute" or "adorable," that's fine. If they want to elect a goofy version of Annie Oakley for vice-present, that's swell. I confess that's unfair to Ms. Oakley, a woman I admire.
Time is running out to excoriate George Bush, man who has been a perfect president --- perfectly awful. I do believe he has done nothing, that is nothing, right.
He didn't even revive the idea of Gerald Ford to distribute "WIN" buttons, in order to fix the economy. Remember those? They stood for "Whip Inflation Now." But inflation doesn't seem to be our problem right now. It's a recession bordering on depression. Why doesn't he distribute Ronald Reagan Memorial Deregulation Begging Cups and put them in all the banks that are still in business? The begging cups could also be used to literally bail out the water in the boats that will be employed the next time the levees in New Orleans fail.
It's ironic that Paul Newman, a decent man who raised $200 million to help others, died on the weekend that marked a great American banking crisis that was fomented by crooks.
Sen. McCain asserts that Gov. Palin's geographical "closeness" to Russia gives her gravitas in the foreign policy arena. I don't suppose that's another failed joke of his. Two years ago, I wrote in this paper that John McCain was the most dangerous man in the country. Now, he's two years older, and only more dangerous. Sarah Palin, who's not so innocuous, may or may not see Russia from her house -- but Vladimir Putin, perhaps the most dangerous man in the world, is certainly watching us from somewhere, and it's all very chilling. I trust all is well in Freedonia.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the S.F. Northside. His first book is called Bellingham by the Bay. Most of us think it's time for another book -- as long as it's funny.
#####
Gov. Palin has erased the amorphous line between satire and mock earnestness. Don't get me wrong. She's not a lightweight. She's scary. She's the generalissima of the New Bull Moose Party. Just ask any hungry wolf running in terror from a helicopter full of sharpshooters. Sarah has offered $150 for the forepaw of a wolf. This is part of a plan to reduce the population of wolves that threaten Alaskan livestock. It reminds me of Oscar Wilde's description of fox hunting: "The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible."
If the American electorate finds Ms. Palin "cute" or "adorable," that's fine. If they want to elect a goofy version of Annie Oakley for vice-present, that's swell. I confess that's unfair to Ms. Oakley, a woman I admire.
Time is running out to excoriate George Bush, man who has been a perfect president --- perfectly awful. I do believe he has done nothing, that is nothing, right.
He didn't even revive the idea of Gerald Ford to distribute "WIN" buttons, in order to fix the economy. Remember those? They stood for "Whip Inflation Now." But inflation doesn't seem to be our problem right now. It's a recession bordering on depression. Why doesn't he distribute Ronald Reagan Memorial Deregulation Begging Cups and put them in all the banks that are still in business? The begging cups could also be used to literally bail out the water in the boats that will be employed the next time the levees in New Orleans fail.
It's ironic that Paul Newman, a decent man who raised $200 million to help others, died on the weekend that marked a great American banking crisis that was fomented by crooks.
Sen. McCain asserts that Gov. Palin's geographical "closeness" to Russia gives her gravitas in the foreign policy arena. I don't suppose that's another failed joke of his. Two years ago, I wrote in this paper that John McCain was the most dangerous man in the country. Now, he's two years older, and only more dangerous. Sarah Palin, who's not so innocuous, may or may not see Russia from her house -- but Vladimir Putin, perhaps the most dangerous man in the world, is certainly watching us from somewhere, and it's all very chilling. I trust all is well in Freedonia.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the S.F. Northside. His first book is called Bellingham by the Bay. Most of us think it's time for another book -- as long as it's funny.
#####
Why We Hate the Phone Company -- September 2008
In the 1967 movie, The President's Analyst, James Coburn, who plays the psychiatrist, exclaims, "I don't understand it. All of my patients hate the phone company. Did you know that even the stock holders of the phone company hate the phone company?"
I could say that I also hate the phone company, but if I did, I'd have to take that up with my therapist.
The vast majority of people in the world seem to have to have someone or something to hate. It's a relentless cycle. Years ago, I heard a story about a woman who hoarded Roosevelt Dimes in her closet because she hated FDR so much. When I was a kid, every American hated the Russians. They say that anger is born of fear. It was right and righteous to hate the Russians. Then The Wall came down. This passionate contempt shifted to other targets. But I don't think it really ever danced away from a dislike of the phone company. Yet things have changed. Now there are many phone companies. They still make some people feel powerless and victimized without recourse. This is what deregulation has done for us: created a wide distribution of frustration.
In San Francisco it is fashionable to hate PG & E. And why not? It can shut us down at any time. It's a huge, mysterious monolith. If the Board of Supervisors succeed in taking over PG & E, then we can direct our opprobrium at the supes, though I imagine they've garnered some already. No wonder Aaron Peskin is leaving office. Do you think he wants to go around town and read the meters?
There are many things we love to hate.
There's no shortage of material because everything awful that might have gone away inevitably comes back: tuberculosis ... yellow ribbons tied around the old oak tree ... Donnie and Marie ... the Cold War.
Yes, the Russians are villains again. But I don't think that lets AT&T off the hook. There's room to hate everybody in a free society.
The venerable AP reporter Helen Thomas, who has covered nine US. presidents as a member of the White House press corps, says, "All presidents hate us."
I hate to tell you this, Helen. The White House doesn't hate the press. They simply dislike you. You're the one who asks the tough, salient questions. The only time I saw President Bush lose his temper on TV was when Helen Thomas was badgering him about the invasion of Iraq. Good on you, Helen, for doing your job.
Whatever happened to the Summer of Love? Was there really a Summer of Love? I recall that about that time, some ambitious persons blew up the Bank of America branch in the Haight. Terrorists with flowers in their hair. That was a harbinger of the hatred that was to come in the late 60s and into the 70s. All this time, there were efforts by the counterculture to undermine the detested phone company. If you punched a few numbers out of the phone bill, one might disrupt their system. You can see how the phone company was brought to its knees.
I'd continue this treatise but I have to make a phone call. Then I have to send this essay to the editors by way of e-mail, if AT&T kindly lets me continue to use the Internet.
For all of the trouble in the world, isn't it great to know that we always have someone to blame?
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the Marina Times, and the author of a book called Bellingham by the Bay. He has yet to finish his second book, The Angina Dialogues, but he's been impeded by outside forces. Its their fault, not his.
####
I could say that I also hate the phone company, but if I did, I'd have to take that up with my therapist.
The vast majority of people in the world seem to have to have someone or something to hate. It's a relentless cycle. Years ago, I heard a story about a woman who hoarded Roosevelt Dimes in her closet because she hated FDR so much. When I was a kid, every American hated the Russians. They say that anger is born of fear. It was right and righteous to hate the Russians. Then The Wall came down. This passionate contempt shifted to other targets. But I don't think it really ever danced away from a dislike of the phone company. Yet things have changed. Now there are many phone companies. They still make some people feel powerless and victimized without recourse. This is what deregulation has done for us: created a wide distribution of frustration.
In San Francisco it is fashionable to hate PG & E. And why not? It can shut us down at any time. It's a huge, mysterious monolith. If the Board of Supervisors succeed in taking over PG & E, then we can direct our opprobrium at the supes, though I imagine they've garnered some already. No wonder Aaron Peskin is leaving office. Do you think he wants to go around town and read the meters?
There are many things we love to hate.
There's no shortage of material because everything awful that might have gone away inevitably comes back: tuberculosis ... yellow ribbons tied around the old oak tree ... Donnie and Marie ... the Cold War.
Yes, the Russians are villains again. But I don't think that lets AT&T off the hook. There's room to hate everybody in a free society.
The venerable AP reporter Helen Thomas, who has covered nine US. presidents as a member of the White House press corps, says, "All presidents hate us."
I hate to tell you this, Helen. The White House doesn't hate the press. They simply dislike you. You're the one who asks the tough, salient questions. The only time I saw President Bush lose his temper on TV was when Helen Thomas was badgering him about the invasion of Iraq. Good on you, Helen, for doing your job.
Whatever happened to the Summer of Love? Was there really a Summer of Love? I recall that about that time, some ambitious persons blew up the Bank of America branch in the Haight. Terrorists with flowers in their hair. That was a harbinger of the hatred that was to come in the late 60s and into the 70s. All this time, there were efforts by the counterculture to undermine the detested phone company. If you punched a few numbers out of the phone bill, one might disrupt their system. You can see how the phone company was brought to its knees.
I'd continue this treatise but I have to make a phone call. Then I have to send this essay to the editors by way of e-mail, if AT&T kindly lets me continue to use the Internet.
For all of the trouble in the world, isn't it great to know that we always have someone to blame?
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the Marina Times, and the author of a book called Bellingham by the Bay. He has yet to finish his second book, The Angina Dialogues, but he's been impeded by outside forces. Its their fault, not his.
####
Take the Dog ... September 2008
The recent fires burning around the state remind me of Bob Haulman and the days when I was young desk editor at KCBS Radio. Bob was the weatherman for the station. I assumed he lived an idyllic life. He had a ranch in the Sierra Foothills with real horses, and a beautiful young wife.
Better than that, he had a broadcast line into his house. I talked to him on the phone from the newsroom a thousand times. He decided that it was time I get out of San Francisco for a couple of days, and go visit him.
"Take the dog" he suggested. That meant getting on the Greyhound Bus.
So I took his advice. I took the bus to downtown Sacramento, then onto Auburn.
When I was a kid in New Jersey, Sacramento meant tomato juice.
That weekend Mr. Haulman and I and drank a lot of tomato juice, adulterated with imprudent measures of vodka.
His charming wife, Judy, raised horses, and that was clearly her passion. She introduced me to her favorite horse. I cautiously climbed over the fence into the corral. The beast immediately trotted right up to me and stuck his nostrils into mine. The low Sierra morning was very chilly. I still see that steam churning out of the horse's nose right now.
Judy said to me, "I've never not seen him do that before. He usually doesn't like strangers."
I wasn't so brave. I was frozen with fear. That's why I didn't jump out of the way.
Isn't it interesting how people think we're brave because we don't jump out of the way? There's something about the language of fear. The animals sense it, I fear.
As I mentioned, the recent fires around the state, particularly near Yosemite, remind me of Bob. Yosemite is not so far from Auburn where Bob was a volunteer fireman. He was a local hero.
Bob and I were were down at the Auburn American Legion Hall at 11 o'clock on a Saturday night, "Little Reno Night." I think the Nevada state-line is something like twenty miles away. "Little Reno Night" seemed harmless. Gambling in those days was not legal in California. The cash on the tables was Monopoly money. No one could take it too seriously, not with play money. Everybody was drinking up a storm. That's always serious business.
Bob suddenly shouted at me from across the room. I could not hear him over the din. He raced over and punched me on my my right shoulder: "We gotta go, Bellingham." He'd gotten a page from the fire dispatcher. Bob dragged me out the bar. Oddly, I still had my wits about me -- I wasn't quite sure about him -- but his exuberance was infections, in a perilous, reckless way. He got behind the wheel (we'd taken a fire truck to the Legion Hall), and we were off for an adventure. When we arrived, it was a terrible scene. Three teenage bodies thrown from a car crash on the bridge over the American River -- the result of drag racing on a Saturday night when the kids in the country are bored senseless.
The next day, which was a couple of hours later, he was dragging me up a mountain toward a brushfire where he made me carry a hose. A large man, he huffed and puffed, but never slowed down. We were being sauteed by the sun, hot enough for Icarus. I marveled and worried at the thought that he did this sort of thing all the time.
No, Bob never slowed down until a heart attack stopped him a few years later. Bob was a Jersey-born cowpoke who had a love for rodeos and chaparral and fire trucks. He was like a kid all of his life. He died way too young, never content to chase fire engines like most of the rest of us. He had to be at the wheel, dressed up as a fireman, and racing toward the smoke.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the San Francisco Northside, and the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He says the most notable heat wave to hit San Francisco was when the City burned to the ground in 1906.
####
Better than that, he had a broadcast line into his house. I talked to him on the phone from the newsroom a thousand times. He decided that it was time I get out of San Francisco for a couple of days, and go visit him.
"Take the dog" he suggested. That meant getting on the Greyhound Bus.
So I took his advice. I took the bus to downtown Sacramento, then onto Auburn.
When I was a kid in New Jersey, Sacramento meant tomato juice.
That weekend Mr. Haulman and I and drank a lot of tomato juice, adulterated with imprudent measures of vodka.
His charming wife, Judy, raised horses, and that was clearly her passion. She introduced me to her favorite horse. I cautiously climbed over the fence into the corral. The beast immediately trotted right up to me and stuck his nostrils into mine. The low Sierra morning was very chilly. I still see that steam churning out of the horse's nose right now.
Judy said to me, "I've never not seen him do that before. He usually doesn't like strangers."
I wasn't so brave. I was frozen with fear. That's why I didn't jump out of the way.
Isn't it interesting how people think we're brave because we don't jump out of the way? There's something about the language of fear. The animals sense it, I fear.
As I mentioned, the recent fires around the state, particularly near Yosemite, remind me of Bob. Yosemite is not so far from Auburn where Bob was a volunteer fireman. He was a local hero.
Bob and I were were down at the Auburn American Legion Hall at 11 o'clock on a Saturday night, "Little Reno Night." I think the Nevada state-line is something like twenty miles away. "Little Reno Night" seemed harmless. Gambling in those days was not legal in California. The cash on the tables was Monopoly money. No one could take it too seriously, not with play money. Everybody was drinking up a storm. That's always serious business.
Bob suddenly shouted at me from across the room. I could not hear him over the din. He raced over and punched me on my my right shoulder: "We gotta go, Bellingham." He'd gotten a page from the fire dispatcher. Bob dragged me out the bar. Oddly, I still had my wits about me -- I wasn't quite sure about him -- but his exuberance was infections, in a perilous, reckless way. He got behind the wheel (we'd taken a fire truck to the Legion Hall), and we were off for an adventure. When we arrived, it was a terrible scene. Three teenage bodies thrown from a car crash on the bridge over the American River -- the result of drag racing on a Saturday night when the kids in the country are bored senseless.
The next day, which was a couple of hours later, he was dragging me up a mountain toward a brushfire where he made me carry a hose. A large man, he huffed and puffed, but never slowed down. We were being sauteed by the sun, hot enough for Icarus. I marveled and worried at the thought that he did this sort of thing all the time.
No, Bob never slowed down until a heart attack stopped him a few years later. Bob was a Jersey-born cowpoke who had a love for rodeos and chaparral and fire trucks. He was like a kid all of his life. He died way too young, never content to chase fire engines like most of the rest of us. He had to be at the wheel, dressed up as a fireman, and racing toward the smoke.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist for the San Francisco Northside, and the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He says the most notable heat wave to hit San Francisco was when the City burned to the ground in 1906.
####
The Death of Columnist P.J. Corkery
I had a sense that both P.J. Corkery and I would ruefully smile when we saw the term “beloved” in the headline of P.J’s obituary in the San Francisco Examiner.
I worked with P.J. for a few years on his column. I was his legman, as they used to say in Herb Caen’s era (that’s someone who runs around and collects the scoops) -- and P.J. loved Caen era-errata -- I was Corkery’s fact-checker, I was his editor, I was an idea-guy, an occasional composer of the prose. If there was anytime left over – and that was rare – we were friendly. Those times were punctuated by his explosive temper – a drive for perfection on his part. Here’s an example: I’ll never mix up the use “to don” or “to doff.” That’s what you do with your hat. I had my head doffed onto a platter the next morning.
Ah, yes, as for beloved, there’s a point to this. I had written a little item about a longtime bookstore in Bernal Heights that had closed after many years. The e-mails, the phone calls all evoked the word “beloved.” I fell for it. I’d never been there. So I wrote “beloved.”
The next day, in the newspaper, it was printed, of course, as a “beloved” bookstore. Apparently, much of the neighborhood had agreed that it was not a “beloved” bookstore.
“By the way,” Corkery snarled at me. “There’s one of those elegiac gatherings at Moose’s today, Bellingham. Go cover it. Don’t bring me anything mawkish.”
“How do you feel about beloved?” I smirked.
He chuckled.
Down deep, Corkery was really nostalgic—romantic, even. But not sentimental. So he thought. His loved literature, particularly Irish lit, like Yeats, Donleavy. The collection of Flann O’Brien that he gave me I still treasure. I think back on those chats with great pleasure. It would amuse both Corkery and me how he’d surreptitiously attempt to slide a little obscure Irishisms into the daily copy. It may have worked on occasion in Dublin or Boston or New York -- but not necessarily San Francisco. There was a mischief about him. He loved the notion that he was a Harvard man who went to work for the National Inquirer all those years ago. Now, students throng to get those jobs.
Paul Jerome Corkery was not a heart easily opened, though, he was insatiably curious about visiting other’s inner chambers. That’s not to say he wasn’t disarmingly charming and stunningly generous.
He was only 61 when he died of cancer at Stanford Hospital on Sept. 20. I never knew he was that ill, though we’d gone our separate ways in recent times. When we worked together, I knew he had diabetes. He never wanted to discuss it. P.J. said one Thanksgiving a few years ago that he had to go up to St. Francis Hospital to “get a little thing done” or something like that. I popped into see him. I noticed they’d cut off his leg at the knee. He never mentioned it. “Would you like your morphine drip now?” the nurse cheerfully asked no one in particular, as she wheeled a large bag of something on a tripod.
“I’ll go first,” I said exuberantly, yet pale as a sheet.
“Let Bruce go first,” beamed P.J. He seemed to take this torment in stride, and not with a little amusement. That was extraordinary.
He left the Examiner, then I wrote over there for a year or so, then P.J. left a legacy of lore and legerdemain with former Mayor Willie Brown in a book called “Basic Brown.” They hit it off, well, famously.
P.J.’s knowledge of San Francisco was amazing --- though he did not live here for as many years as you’d think. Perhaps he was a cosmic intelligence officer assigned to San Francisco from the beyond. Sometimes, in his office at the Examiner on Market & 6th or at his fave South Beach cafe, he’d quiz me on the names on the bars in the now long-vanished International Settlement before the Open City closed, and before your mother was born. I suspect Corkery channeled characters like Big Alma Spreckels and Jack London --- covered the waterfront even before there even was a Barbary Coast. Maybe San Francisco has the capacity to turn some unrepentant, curmudgeonly creatures into ethereal voices that rasp in the early morning fog: “Get the hell out of my way, make some room for the truly beloved!”
Now, there’s a thought.
Bruce Bellingham learned a lot of newspapering from P.J. Corkery and for this, he is very grateful. Write to Bruce at bruce@northsidesf.com
I worked with P.J. for a few years on his column. I was his legman, as they used to say in Herb Caen’s era (that’s someone who runs around and collects the scoops) -- and P.J. loved Caen era-errata -- I was Corkery’s fact-checker, I was his editor, I was an idea-guy, an occasional composer of the prose. If there was anytime left over – and that was rare – we were friendly. Those times were punctuated by his explosive temper – a drive for perfection on his part. Here’s an example: I’ll never mix up the use “to don” or “to doff.” That’s what you do with your hat. I had my head doffed onto a platter the next morning.
Ah, yes, as for beloved, there’s a point to this. I had written a little item about a longtime bookstore in Bernal Heights that had closed after many years. The e-mails, the phone calls all evoked the word “beloved.” I fell for it. I’d never been there. So I wrote “beloved.”
The next day, in the newspaper, it was printed, of course, as a “beloved” bookstore. Apparently, much of the neighborhood had agreed that it was not a “beloved” bookstore.
“By the way,” Corkery snarled at me. “There’s one of those elegiac gatherings at Moose’s today, Bellingham. Go cover it. Don’t bring me anything mawkish.”
“How do you feel about beloved?” I smirked.
He chuckled.
Down deep, Corkery was really nostalgic—romantic, even. But not sentimental. So he thought. His loved literature, particularly Irish lit, like Yeats, Donleavy. The collection of Flann O’Brien that he gave me I still treasure. I think back on those chats with great pleasure. It would amuse both Corkery and me how he’d surreptitiously attempt to slide a little obscure Irishisms into the daily copy. It may have worked on occasion in Dublin or Boston or New York -- but not necessarily San Francisco. There was a mischief about him. He loved the notion that he was a Harvard man who went to work for the National Inquirer all those years ago. Now, students throng to get those jobs.
Paul Jerome Corkery was not a heart easily opened, though, he was insatiably curious about visiting other’s inner chambers. That’s not to say he wasn’t disarmingly charming and stunningly generous.
He was only 61 when he died of cancer at Stanford Hospital on Sept. 20. I never knew he was that ill, though we’d gone our separate ways in recent times. When we worked together, I knew he had diabetes. He never wanted to discuss it. P.J. said one Thanksgiving a few years ago that he had to go up to St. Francis Hospital to “get a little thing done” or something like that. I popped into see him. I noticed they’d cut off his leg at the knee. He never mentioned it. “Would you like your morphine drip now?” the nurse cheerfully asked no one in particular, as she wheeled a large bag of something on a tripod.
“I’ll go first,” I said exuberantly, yet pale as a sheet.
“Let Bruce go first,” beamed P.J. He seemed to take this torment in stride, and not with a little amusement. That was extraordinary.
He left the Examiner, then I wrote over there for a year or so, then P.J. left a legacy of lore and legerdemain with former Mayor Willie Brown in a book called “Basic Brown.” They hit it off, well, famously.
P.J.’s knowledge of San Francisco was amazing --- though he did not live here for as many years as you’d think. Perhaps he was a cosmic intelligence officer assigned to San Francisco from the beyond. Sometimes, in his office at the Examiner on Market & 6th or at his fave South Beach cafe, he’d quiz me on the names on the bars in the now long-vanished International Settlement before the Open City closed, and before your mother was born. I suspect Corkery channeled characters like Big Alma Spreckels and Jack London --- covered the waterfront even before there even was a Barbary Coast. Maybe San Francisco has the capacity to turn some unrepentant, curmudgeonly creatures into ethereal voices that rasp in the early morning fog: “Get the hell out of my way, make some room for the truly beloved!”
Now, there’s a thought.
Bruce Bellingham learned a lot of newspapering from P.J. Corkery and for this, he is very grateful. Write to Bruce at bruce@northsidesf.com
Saturday, August 30, 2008
A Not-So-Final-Word About Neil Innes, August, 2008
Neil Innes is the brilliant talent behind the great ’60s surrealist vaudeville act, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, the songs for Monty Python, and The Rutles. There’s a new documentary film about Innes, The Seventh Python. The Bonzos are on a 40th reunion tour that sadly does not include the elegant wildman, Vivian Stanshall, who died in 1995. His good friend was The Who’s Keith Moon, and you know that can’t be good for your health. “If I had all the money I spent on drink,” Viv observed, “then I’d spend it on drink.”
Neil Innes talks to my friend, Sharon Anderson, who writes for this paper. Sharon is also a very talented painter. She’s one of the few artists I know who actually sells her work.
Neil once recalled a time in 1966 when the Bonzos were recording their album, Gorilla, at Abbey Road Studios.
“We learned the Beatles were in the next studio, making Revolver,” Neil told Sharon. “And here we were, playing old ragtime numbers whose copyrights had expired because that saved us money.”
The moral of the story is no matter how good you think you are, there’s always going to be someone next door recording Revolver.
That notion can keep us humble – or it can render us demoralized.
Sharon says no matter how well she paints, Ed Ruscha is in the next studio painting gas stations on canvas. All we can do is to keep lumbering on, one foot in front of the other. Innes kept going and has now seen the enormous success, including his tunes in the Broadway smash hit, Spamalot.
He was zany enough to tempt fate with his first big song with the Bonzos: “I’m the Urban Spaceman.” He called up Paul McCartney and asked him to produce it. Paul said sure. Neil called Liberty Records and told them that McCartney would produce the single. The execs were ecstatic. Then Neil thought, as only an artist would think, “Why should I use McCartney’s name?” So he called McCartney back and said that his real name would not be used. The producer credit would go to “Apollo C. Vermouth.” McCartney chuckled and agreed. Liberty sputtered and choked at the news, but the song became a hit anyway.
Most of us would not have taken that risk. Neil had to go his own way, even when he was a kid.
Someone might be recording Revolver next door but we have to plunge ahead the best we can with all the foolish moxie we can muster. If we don’t, what’s to become of us?
As Vivian Stanshall said, “If you are normal, I intend to be a freak for the rest of my life.”
Bruce Bellingham writes pieces for the Marina Times and Northside San Francisco. He saw the original Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band perform live in 1968. Nothing was the same for Bruce or for anyone else after that.
Bellingham by the Bay, August 2008
Bellingham by the Bay, August 2008
by Bruce Bellingham
When I heard that San Francisco artist Bruce Conner died the other day, I was reminded of my childhood in New Jersey. I saw a film documentary back then. I have no idea how old I was. The film was about underground filmmakers, and was broadcast on a New York TV station. This is what struck me: On a panel where Bruce Conner had to field questions from a hostile press about the meaning of his movie work, he responded, “Now, I am going to play the harmonica.”
And he did – until the members of the press drifted away.
He shrugged it all off. I knew then that I wanted to be some sort of artist – I already had made 8-mm films – and I knew then that it was right to proceed with a passel of harmonicas (we called them “harps” in those days) at all times.
Bruce Conner was 74 when he died. He was the sort of artist who could make things ordinary not look so ordinary. All good artists have a sense of humor. For example, Bruce had a skillful tendency to report his obituary on several occasions over the years – and get people to believe it.
That’s only more evidence of a true artist: to manipulate what an obit is all about. Obits are extraordinary pieces of literary limestone, cut from quarries that no one will visit for real.
Now I’m going to play the harmonica. …
You might think this spooky. The mostly Latino kitchen staff at the Balboa Cafe is preoccupied with the end of the world – no, not the end of the shift. It’s seems that the notion of the Mayan Calendar that dictates worldwide calamity in the year 2012 has taken hold of the lads in Cow Hollow. I was told from one of them that a super-sized tsunami will engulf all of California and Nevada. One thing for sure: this will be very bad for people who market 2013 calendars. Apocalypse Pretty Soon.…
Speaking of Francis Ford Coppola, he’s down Argentina way making a new film. His good friend, North Beach poet Tony Dingman was at LaRocca’s Corner reminiscing a bit about the movies he’s worked on with Francis, particularly the 1992 production of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, where Gary Oldman was a nonstop, intemperate funnyman on the set. Let’s not forget Tom Waits’s off-the-wall portrayal of the demented, spider-gobbling Renfield. …
Photographer Dominique Tarlé was the guest of honor at a reception at the Clift Hotel last month to preview his show of Rolling Stones pics from 1971 when the band was in the south of France and recording Exile on Main Street. The show is running at the S.F. Art Exchange on Geary Street through Aug. 30. In attendance was Jake Weber, who stars in NBC’s Medium with former San Francisco resident Patricia Arquette. Jake, a very amiable fellow, was there because he appears in several of the Stones photos from 37 years ago. One poignant shot is of a woebegone 7-year-old Jake with Mick Jagger, separated by four guitars. I mentioned to Jake how lost he looked in the picture, and he explained that it was about the time his mother had committed suicide. Famed rock photog Michael Cooper, who shot the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band, made some of the images. Cooper died of a heroin overdose in 1973. There’s a lot of wreckage left over from that exiled world. Meanwhile, the Brit tabs are reporting that Stones’ guitarist Ronnie Wood, 61, has left his wife of 23 years to traipse off to Ireland with an 18-year-old Russian cocktail waitress. Keith and Mick have reportedly implored Ronnie to come to his senses. Imagine that. A Rolling Stones intervention. Now I’m going to play the harmonica. …
Local solo guitarist-singer Brian Keeney has been wowing them at Tiernan’s Pub in Fisherman’s Wharf on Wednesday and Friday nights. Liam Tiernan, who owns the place along with wife Susan, takes the stage occasionally, too. But they’re both rather busy getting the Washington Square Bar & Grill reopened by September. … Local literary legend Herb Gold had a reading from his new book, Still Alive: A Temporary Condition, on July 17 at City Lights, demonstrating that the unstoppable Mr. Gold is more than alive. … Firefighters managed to save Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s cabin at Big Sur, as they also bravely preserved the Henry Miller Library there. That’s not the sort of book burning that Miller would have anticipated. …
The Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the Marina is looking forward to its 75th anniversary next year, and saloonkeeper Stefan Wever notes that it’s been 17 years since he bought the place from the late, storied Vic Ramos, a real tough, lovely Marina character. Vic was a gent, as is Stefan, who occasionally lets me play the harmonica in the pub. …
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times, and the author of Bellingham by the Bay. Tell Bruce what he needs to know at bruce@northsidesf.com
by Bruce Bellingham
When I heard that San Francisco artist Bruce Conner died the other day, I was reminded of my childhood in New Jersey. I saw a film documentary back then. I have no idea how old I was. The film was about underground filmmakers, and was broadcast on a New York TV station. This is what struck me: On a panel where Bruce Conner had to field questions from a hostile press about the meaning of his movie work, he responded, “Now, I am going to play the harmonica.”
And he did – until the members of the press drifted away.
He shrugged it all off. I knew then that I wanted to be some sort of artist – I already had made 8-mm films – and I knew then that it was right to proceed with a passel of harmonicas (we called them “harps” in those days) at all times.
Bruce Conner was 74 when he died. He was the sort of artist who could make things ordinary not look so ordinary. All good artists have a sense of humor. For example, Bruce had a skillful tendency to report his obituary on several occasions over the years – and get people to believe it.
That’s only more evidence of a true artist: to manipulate what an obit is all about. Obits are extraordinary pieces of literary limestone, cut from quarries that no one will visit for real.
Now I’m going to play the harmonica. …
You might think this spooky. The mostly Latino kitchen staff at the Balboa Cafe is preoccupied with the end of the world – no, not the end of the shift. It’s seems that the notion of the Mayan Calendar that dictates worldwide calamity in the year 2012 has taken hold of the lads in Cow Hollow. I was told from one of them that a super-sized tsunami will engulf all of California and Nevada. One thing for sure: this will be very bad for people who market 2013 calendars. Apocalypse Pretty Soon.…
Speaking of Francis Ford Coppola, he’s down Argentina way making a new film. His good friend, North Beach poet Tony Dingman was at LaRocca’s Corner reminiscing a bit about the movies he’s worked on with Francis, particularly the 1992 production of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, where Gary Oldman was a nonstop, intemperate funnyman on the set. Let’s not forget Tom Waits’s off-the-wall portrayal of the demented, spider-gobbling Renfield. …
Photographer Dominique Tarlé was the guest of honor at a reception at the Clift Hotel last month to preview his show of Rolling Stones pics from 1971 when the band was in the south of France and recording Exile on Main Street. The show is running at the S.F. Art Exchange on Geary Street through Aug. 30. In attendance was Jake Weber, who stars in NBC’s Medium with former San Francisco resident Patricia Arquette. Jake, a very amiable fellow, was there because he appears in several of the Stones photos from 37 years ago. One poignant shot is of a woebegone 7-year-old Jake with Mick Jagger, separated by four guitars. I mentioned to Jake how lost he looked in the picture, and he explained that it was about the time his mother had committed suicide. Famed rock photog Michael Cooper, who shot the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band, made some of the images. Cooper died of a heroin overdose in 1973. There’s a lot of wreckage left over from that exiled world. Meanwhile, the Brit tabs are reporting that Stones’ guitarist Ronnie Wood, 61, has left his wife of 23 years to traipse off to Ireland with an 18-year-old Russian cocktail waitress. Keith and Mick have reportedly implored Ronnie to come to his senses. Imagine that. A Rolling Stones intervention. Now I’m going to play the harmonica. …
Local solo guitarist-singer Brian Keeney has been wowing them at Tiernan’s Pub in Fisherman’s Wharf on Wednesday and Friday nights. Liam Tiernan, who owns the place along with wife Susan, takes the stage occasionally, too. But they’re both rather busy getting the Washington Square Bar & Grill reopened by September. … Local literary legend Herb Gold had a reading from his new book, Still Alive: A Temporary Condition, on July 17 at City Lights, demonstrating that the unstoppable Mr. Gold is more than alive. … Firefighters managed to save Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s cabin at Big Sur, as they also bravely preserved the Henry Miller Library there. That’s not the sort of book burning that Miller would have anticipated. …
The Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the Marina is looking forward to its 75th anniversary next year, and saloonkeeper Stefan Wever notes that it’s been 17 years since he bought the place from the late, storied Vic Ramos, a real tough, lovely Marina character. Vic was a gent, as is Stefan, who occasionally lets me play the harmonica in the pub. …
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times, and the author of Bellingham by the Bay. Tell Bruce what he needs to know at bruce@northsidesf.com
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Bellingham by the Bay, Spetember 2008
from the SF Northside
Jazz at Peal's in North Beach appears to be closed for good. Singer Kim Nalley, who owned the club with her husband, Steve Sheraton, before they were embroiled in a divorce, was hoping she could carry on alone. It was not to be. San Francisco now loses another great jazz night club -- for now. ... One closes, one opens. The inexhaustible Lou Gillespie (she's the former owner of Lou's Pier 47) has a new place at the site of the former La Felce in North Beach, across the street from Washington Square, on Stockton at Union. It's called Lou's at the Square. It's a full restaurant, featuring tapas and live rhythm and blues. She's very proud of an ancient upright piano on the premises. It once resided in a San Francisco brothel. The familiar, friendly face of Danny Leone can be found behind Lou's bar. ...
A lot of people expressed surprise to learn that Julia Child was a spy for the U.S. during World War II but it was already widely-known that she worked for the OSS in Paris during the war. That's where she met her husband, Paul. And that's where she learned French cuisine. Julia loved San Francisco. One of her favorite restaurants was Tu-Lan, the Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall on 6th at Market. Only Julia Child could discover a gem on Skid Row. Espionage and bravery side, she was always a heroine simply for saving America from meat and potatoes. ... The venerable Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel, a symbol of old San Francisco, is celebrating its 75th anniversary. ... It was a jarring sight: a large sting ray mysteriously appearing on the sidewalk at Market & 4th during a busy afternoon. No word on how it got there. Was it a sting ray or a manta ray? Or Man Ray. Yes, the surrealists would have appreciated this bizarre scene, cops hovering over a sea creature on the concrete. ...
San Francisco has avoided the cascade of foreclosures that we're seeing in surrounding counties. Housing prices here have plunged by 29 per cent, and that keeps the real estate biz buzzing. "We've never been busier," says Maya Brouwer, office manager of Hill & Co. on Union St. "Most of us were hoping for a day off this summer, but not a chance." ... The Jewish Community Center is growing so fast that staffers are opening an annex, and a new restaurant on the second floor. The site on the corner of Calf. & Masonic that once housed a restaurant, will soon become a Pilates studio. Is that named for Pontius Pilates? Come inside and wash your hands of the whole thing. ... Kimberly Guilfoyle Newsom Villency has become many things to many people since she moved to New York. Kimberly's a mother, a Fox broadcaster, the host of "Animal Witness" on the Animal Planet network, and a frequent patron at various film festivals. One society blog describes her as "a well-heeled cinephile." Some heels, too. ... Cosmo Sostenuto says he's disappointed that Winona Ryder's wedding has been called off: "I was all set to shoplift a gift at Saks for the happy couple." ...
Phil Ryan, the famed attorney, read from his new novel, All Sins Remembered, at Book Passage at the Ferry Building last month. It's an exciting story that revolves around the murder of an S.F. socialite (Phil's dad was a court reporter). The book includes all sorts of bits of local history, such as, the 1906 quake, the beginnings of the Bank of America, the early days of the S.F. Opera. This is the first novel in a trilogy. Phil's next book is called Bella Cora, and we all remember who she was, right? Right! She was a notorious madam from the Barbary Cast days. Cora kept a bagnio on what is now Waverly Place in Chinatown. ... Tom Orr's show, I Feel A Thong Coming On," at the New Conservatory Theatre, got lots of laughs and plenty of kudos. Orr's talent was not lost on cabaret star Andrea Marcovicci who called Orr " a scene-stealing whore." Some might be insulted by Orr used the line is all of his press releases. Andrea was sheepish about it: "I just blurted it out in the dressing room, I meant no harm." No harm done. ...
Lucy Lawless aka Xena: Warrior Princess, will sing at the Herbst Theatre on Sept. 27. It's a benefit for the Richmond Ermet AIDS Foundation. She's performed in S.F. for the cause before, and stole the star-studded show. Yes, she's a scene-stealer. She's hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Though Lucy's late in coming to a music career, she's made up for lost time. ... Juanita Arsten, longtime Marina resident -- and I mean a long time -- turned 102 last month. That almost certainly makes her the oldest person in the neighborhood, but you wouldn't know it by her sharp mind and quick wit. ... "Where's three-dot yellow journalism when we truly need it?" asks Niel Mortensen. Don' t look at me, Niel."Thank God we were never forced to read Herb Caen online. Online is where you stand when you're in New York." Yes, purists still traverse the streets of San Francisco, heaven help them. ...
"Every man needs a woman to badger him into doing the right thing," observes Norm Goldblatt. "Never take her for granted. Keep the communications line open. We're communicating so much better now that we BOTH have e-mail." And we'll leave it at that.
Bruce Bellingham is an author and a columnist for the Marina Times. "Tell me what I should know," he says with great apprehension. His e-mail is bruce@nprthsidesf.com
####
Jazz at Peal's in North Beach appears to be closed for good. Singer Kim Nalley, who owned the club with her husband, Steve Sheraton, before they were embroiled in a divorce, was hoping she could carry on alone. It was not to be. San Francisco now loses another great jazz night club -- for now. ... One closes, one opens. The inexhaustible Lou Gillespie (she's the former owner of Lou's Pier 47) has a new place at the site of the former La Felce in North Beach, across the street from Washington Square, on Stockton at Union. It's called Lou's at the Square. It's a full restaurant, featuring tapas and live rhythm and blues. She's very proud of an ancient upright piano on the premises. It once resided in a San Francisco brothel. The familiar, friendly face of Danny Leone can be found behind Lou's bar. ...
A lot of people expressed surprise to learn that Julia Child was a spy for the U.S. during World War II but it was already widely-known that she worked for the OSS in Paris during the war. That's where she met her husband, Paul. And that's where she learned French cuisine. Julia loved San Francisco. One of her favorite restaurants was Tu-Lan, the Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall on 6th at Market. Only Julia Child could discover a gem on Skid Row. Espionage and bravery side, she was always a heroine simply for saving America from meat and potatoes. ... The venerable Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel, a symbol of old San Francisco, is celebrating its 75th anniversary. ... It was a jarring sight: a large sting ray mysteriously appearing on the sidewalk at Market & 4th during a busy afternoon. No word on how it got there. Was it a sting ray or a manta ray? Or Man Ray. Yes, the surrealists would have appreciated this bizarre scene, cops hovering over a sea creature on the concrete. ...
San Francisco has avoided the cascade of foreclosures that we're seeing in surrounding counties. Housing prices here have plunged by 29 per cent, and that keeps the real estate biz buzzing. "We've never been busier," says Maya Brouwer, office manager of Hill & Co. on Union St. "Most of us were hoping for a day off this summer, but not a chance." ... The Jewish Community Center is growing so fast that staffers are opening an annex, and a new restaurant on the second floor. The site on the corner of Calf. & Masonic that once housed a restaurant, will soon become a Pilates studio. Is that named for Pontius Pilates? Come inside and wash your hands of the whole thing. ... Kimberly Guilfoyle Newsom Villency has become many things to many people since she moved to New York. Kimberly's a mother, a Fox broadcaster, the host of "Animal Witness" on the Animal Planet network, and a frequent patron at various film festivals. One society blog describes her as "a well-heeled cinephile." Some heels, too. ... Cosmo Sostenuto says he's disappointed that Winona Ryder's wedding has been called off: "I was all set to shoplift a gift at Saks for the happy couple." ...
Phil Ryan, the famed attorney, read from his new novel, All Sins Remembered, at Book Passage at the Ferry Building last month. It's an exciting story that revolves around the murder of an S.F. socialite (Phil's dad was a court reporter). The book includes all sorts of bits of local history, such as, the 1906 quake, the beginnings of the Bank of America, the early days of the S.F. Opera. This is the first novel in a trilogy. Phil's next book is called Bella Cora, and we all remember who she was, right? Right! She was a notorious madam from the Barbary Cast days. Cora kept a bagnio on what is now Waverly Place in Chinatown. ... Tom Orr's show, I Feel A Thong Coming On," at the New Conservatory Theatre, got lots of laughs and plenty of kudos. Orr's talent was not lost on cabaret star Andrea Marcovicci who called Orr " a scene-stealing whore." Some might be insulted by Orr used the line is all of his press releases. Andrea was sheepish about it: "I just blurted it out in the dressing room, I meant no harm." No harm done. ...
Lucy Lawless aka Xena: Warrior Princess, will sing at the Herbst Theatre on Sept. 27. It's a benefit for the Richmond Ermet AIDS Foundation. She's performed in S.F. for the cause before, and stole the star-studded show. Yes, she's a scene-stealer. She's hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Though Lucy's late in coming to a music career, she's made up for lost time. ... Juanita Arsten, longtime Marina resident -- and I mean a long time -- turned 102 last month. That almost certainly makes her the oldest person in the neighborhood, but you wouldn't know it by her sharp mind and quick wit. ... "Where's three-dot yellow journalism when we truly need it?" asks Niel Mortensen. Don' t look at me, Niel."Thank God we were never forced to read Herb Caen online. Online is where you stand when you're in New York." Yes, purists still traverse the streets of San Francisco, heaven help them. ...
"Every man needs a woman to badger him into doing the right thing," observes Norm Goldblatt. "Never take her for granted. Keep the communications line open. We're communicating so much better now that we BOTH have e-mail." And we'll leave it at that.
Bruce Bellingham is an author and a columnist for the Marina Times. "Tell me what I should know," he says with great apprehension. His e-mail is bruce@nprthsidesf.com
####
The Loony Legacy of Neil Innes and the Gonzo Bonzo Dog Band
The Final Word, SF Northside, August 2008
Neil Innes in the brilliant talent behind the great 60s surrealist vaudeville act, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band … the songs for Monty Python and The Rutles. There’s a new documentary film about Innes, The Seventh Python. The Bonzos are on a 40th reunion tour that sadly does not include the elegant wildman, Vivian Stanshall, who died in 1995. His good friend was the Who’s Keith Moon, and you know that can’t be good for your health. “If I had all the money I spent on drink,” Viv observed, “then I’d spend it on drink.”
Neil Innes talks to my friend, Sharon Anderson, who writes for this paper. Sharon is also a very talented painter. She’s one of the few artists I know who actually sells her work.
Neil once recalled a time in 1966 when the Bonzos were recording their album, Gorilla, at Abbey Road Studios.
“We learned the Beatles were in the next studio, making Revolver,” Neil told Sharon. “And here we were, playing old ragtime numbers whose copyrights had expired because that saved us money.”
The moral of the story is no matter how good you think you are, there’s always going to be someone next door recording Revolver.
That notion can keep us humble – or it can render us demoralized.
Sharon says no matter how well she paints, Ed Ruscha is in the next studio painting gas stations on canvas. All we can do is to keep lumbering on, one foot in front of the other. Innes kept going and has now seen the enormous success, including his tunes in the Broadway smash hit, Spamalot.
He was zany enough to tempt fate with his first big song with the Bonzos: I’m the Urban Spaceman. He called up Paul McCartney and asked him to produce it. Paul said sure. Neil called United Artists and told them that McCartney would produce the single. The execs were ecstatic. Then Neil thought, as only an artist would think, “Why should I use McCartney’s name?” So he called McCartney back and said that his real name would not used. The producer credit would go to “Apollo C. Vermouth.” McCartney chuckled and agreed. United Artists sputtered and choked at the news but the song became a hit anyway.
Most of us would not have taken that risk. Neil had to go his own way, even when he was a kid.
Someone might be recording Revolver next door but we have to plunge ahead the best we can with all the foolish moxie we can muster. If we don’t, what’s to become of us?
As Vivian Stanshall said, “If you are normal, I intend to be a freak for the rest of my life.”
Bruce Bellingham writes pieces for the Marina Times and the Northside. He saw the original Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band perform live in 1968. Nothing was the same for Bruce or for anyone else after that.
######
Neil Innes in the brilliant talent behind the great 60s surrealist vaudeville act, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band … the songs for Monty Python and The Rutles. There’s a new documentary film about Innes, The Seventh Python. The Bonzos are on a 40th reunion tour that sadly does not include the elegant wildman, Vivian Stanshall, who died in 1995. His good friend was the Who’s Keith Moon, and you know that can’t be good for your health. “If I had all the money I spent on drink,” Viv observed, “then I’d spend it on drink.”
Neil Innes talks to my friend, Sharon Anderson, who writes for this paper. Sharon is also a very talented painter. She’s one of the few artists I know who actually sells her work.
Neil once recalled a time in 1966 when the Bonzos were recording their album, Gorilla, at Abbey Road Studios.
“We learned the Beatles were in the next studio, making Revolver,” Neil told Sharon. “And here we were, playing old ragtime numbers whose copyrights had expired because that saved us money.”
The moral of the story is no matter how good you think you are, there’s always going to be someone next door recording Revolver.
That notion can keep us humble – or it can render us demoralized.
Sharon says no matter how well she paints, Ed Ruscha is in the next studio painting gas stations on canvas. All we can do is to keep lumbering on, one foot in front of the other. Innes kept going and has now seen the enormous success, including his tunes in the Broadway smash hit, Spamalot.
He was zany enough to tempt fate with his first big song with the Bonzos: I’m the Urban Spaceman. He called up Paul McCartney and asked him to produce it. Paul said sure. Neil called United Artists and told them that McCartney would produce the single. The execs were ecstatic. Then Neil thought, as only an artist would think, “Why should I use McCartney’s name?” So he called McCartney back and said that his real name would not used. The producer credit would go to “Apollo C. Vermouth.” McCartney chuckled and agreed. United Artists sputtered and choked at the news but the song became a hit anyway.
Most of us would not have taken that risk. Neil had to go his own way, even when he was a kid.
Someone might be recording Revolver next door but we have to plunge ahead the best we can with all the foolish moxie we can muster. If we don’t, what’s to become of us?
As Vivian Stanshall said, “If you are normal, I intend to be a freak for the rest of my life.”
Bruce Bellingham writes pieces for the Marina Times and the Northside. He saw the original Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band perform live in 1968. Nothing was the same for Bruce or for anyone else after that.
######
The Final Word ... July 2008
from the S.F. Northside ... northsidesf.com
Here it is July already, and my chances of making some big money by the end of the year are growing slimmer with each passing day.
I'm not the only one in trouble, of course. Who would have imagined that the bank would foreclose on Ed McMahon's house? Aside from being Johnny Carson's sidekick for all those years, he was the face on TV of the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes, personally ringing peoples' doorbells and turning them into instant millionaires. Ed was the personification of good fortune, high hopes, the yearning for a life without money troubles. Now Ed's story is like millions of other stories in the cold light of day and destitution: a house depreciating by the minute, behind on the mortgage, a few divorces, health problems, unemployment. If Ed McMahon can fall trough the cracks, what does that say about the country as a whole? As a whole, it's in a hole.
But I'm not about to give up hope.
I was inspired by a recent incident in Florida where a couple of teenagers thought it would be fun to through a drink into the face of a young lady working at the window of a drive-thru fast food franchise. The is apparently a game called "Fire In the Hole." The kids throw a drink back at the hapless employee, videotape the malicious act and them uplink it on YouTube. The young victim did some pretty good police work. She tracked the perps by their faces on YouTube to their MySpace accounts, "made friends" with them and then got ahold of one of the parents, and spilling the beans. The police got into it. The teens were charged with assault. It's an old crime with a modern twist, using the trappings, if you will, of the watershed implements of our time, YouTube and MySpace.
The judge caught on. He sentenced the kids to 100 hours of community service. In addition, he ordered them to record and uplink an obsequious apology on YouTube. It made national news. This puts the stocks and pillory to shame.
It also gives me an idea for a get-rich-quick scheme in an era of get-poor-much-too-fast schemes. Of course, you don't need a scheme to go broke anymore. All you've got to do is stand still and breathe. You'll be out of money in a matter of minutes.
My idea? Greeting cards. Apologies-in-advance greeting cards. For example: "I am sorry for what I will likely do to you one day. It's not that I dislike you, I'm simply clumsy and I'm bound to hurt your feelings. Forgive me." Or perhaps: "You are the best thing that ever happened to me but since you let me use your credit card, I'm a changed person. Sorry about that." The categories are numerous. There could be apologies in advance for cheating, lying, plagiarism, indecent exposure, embezzlement, blasphemy, necrophilia, even secretly pouring Ouzo over your cornflakes in the morning. Perhaps there might be apologies in order for agreeing with the lunatic who'd like to keep our troops in Iraq for the next 100 years. There might even be apologies in advance for trying to nick my idea for greeting cards for apologies-in-advance -- but forget it. I already got a copyright.
I have no doubt this will be a sure-fire hit. I might even make enough dough to help Ed McMahon out.
When George Bush allegedly went to Europe last month, do you know what he was really doing? That's right. He was signing piles and piles of the new apology cards.
He has a whole lot of rueful writing to do before his term is up next January.
####
Here it is July already, and my chances of making some big money by the end of the year are growing slimmer with each passing day.
I'm not the only one in trouble, of course. Who would have imagined that the bank would foreclose on Ed McMahon's house? Aside from being Johnny Carson's sidekick for all those years, he was the face on TV of the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes, personally ringing peoples' doorbells and turning them into instant millionaires. Ed was the personification of good fortune, high hopes, the yearning for a life without money troubles. Now Ed's story is like millions of other stories in the cold light of day and destitution: a house depreciating by the minute, behind on the mortgage, a few divorces, health problems, unemployment. If Ed McMahon can fall trough the cracks, what does that say about the country as a whole? As a whole, it's in a hole.
But I'm not about to give up hope.
I was inspired by a recent incident in Florida where a couple of teenagers thought it would be fun to through a drink into the face of a young lady working at the window of a drive-thru fast food franchise. The is apparently a game called "Fire In the Hole." The kids throw a drink back at the hapless employee, videotape the malicious act and them uplink it on YouTube. The young victim did some pretty good police work. She tracked the perps by their faces on YouTube to their MySpace accounts, "made friends" with them and then got ahold of one of the parents, and spilling the beans. The police got into it. The teens were charged with assault. It's an old crime with a modern twist, using the trappings, if you will, of the watershed implements of our time, YouTube and MySpace.
The judge caught on. He sentenced the kids to 100 hours of community service. In addition, he ordered them to record and uplink an obsequious apology on YouTube. It made national news. This puts the stocks and pillory to shame.
It also gives me an idea for a get-rich-quick scheme in an era of get-poor-much-too-fast schemes. Of course, you don't need a scheme to go broke anymore. All you've got to do is stand still and breathe. You'll be out of money in a matter of minutes.
My idea? Greeting cards. Apologies-in-advance greeting cards. For example: "I am sorry for what I will likely do to you one day. It's not that I dislike you, I'm simply clumsy and I'm bound to hurt your feelings. Forgive me." Or perhaps: "You are the best thing that ever happened to me but since you let me use your credit card, I'm a changed person. Sorry about that." The categories are numerous. There could be apologies in advance for cheating, lying, plagiarism, indecent exposure, embezzlement, blasphemy, necrophilia, even secretly pouring Ouzo over your cornflakes in the morning. Perhaps there might be apologies in order for agreeing with the lunatic who'd like to keep our troops in Iraq for the next 100 years. There might even be apologies in advance for trying to nick my idea for greeting cards for apologies-in-advance -- but forget it. I already got a copyright.
I have no doubt this will be a sure-fire hit. I might even make enough dough to help Ed McMahon out.
When George Bush allegedly went to Europe last month, do you know what he was really doing? That's right. He was signing piles and piles of the new apology cards.
He has a whole lot of rueful writing to do before his term is up next January.
####
Tim Russert in the Marina ... July 2008
SF Marina Times
One early Sunday evening, many years ago, I dropped into the now-vanished Triangle Lounge on Fillmore and Moulton Alley for a quick beer and a visit with the barman, Marty Lindstrom.
We chatted for a few minutes – just the two of us in the bar – when Tim Russert appeared at the front door, and greeted Marty with, “How ya doin’, buddy?”
Russert noticed me standing there, and said, “And here’s the next Herb Caen.”
After I recovered from my astonishment, I asked, “Why on earth would you say that?”
Russert replied, “My mother-in-law lives up in Cow Hollow and she sends me your column every month from the Marina Times.”
It has been said that Tim Russert was known for observing just about everything. It’s apparently true.
It has also been noted that Russert was loyal to all of his friends. He and Marty were pals when they were at Notre Dame.
“I went to Mass and then I thought I’d come over here for a beer with Marty.” Russert had just done his Meet the Press program from the road.
“I’m glad you dropped in, Tim,” I said garrulously. “I’ve been waiting for someone with whom I could I make up Lawrence Spivak jokes.”
Russert chuckled.
Years later, at Christmastime, I encountered Russert having dinner at Capp’s Corner in North Beach. True to form, he remembered me and took the trouble to introduce me to his talented wife, the author and Vanity Fair correspondent, Maureen Orth, and his son, Luke, who just graduated from Boston College.
I was raised on Meet the Press, and the longtime moderator, the assiduous, bespecled (sp?) Spivak, was a major presence in my young life.
Now, it was 1991, and Russert had taken over the program.
“You know, Mr Spivak was so kind to me, and gave me all sorts of advice and encouragement,” Russert recalled.
That sounds like the sort of mentoring for which Russert was famous.
Permit me a digression here about the history of Meet the Press, the longest-running television program in history. It started as a radio show on Mutual in 1945. It was called The American Mercury, after the magazine founded by H.L. Mencken and later owned by Lawrence Spivak. The show was created, and first hosted by a woman, Martha Rountree. That’s a rarity. It moved to NBC TV with a new name, Meet the Press. Ned Brooks was the moderator before Spivak moved from panelist to host.
Tim’s mention of Mass was not lost on me. He was a fiercely devoted Roman Catholic, and he endured (or enjoyed) a Jesuit education that was guided mostly by nuns. Nuns often get a bad rap but Russert always gave them credit for his discipline as a journalist and an insatiable curiosity about things.
He maintained the highest credentials in the most important things: a loving husband, a good dad, a world-class journalist, a fine fellow, a loyal friend.
Someone once asked Harry Reasoner if he envied anybody. Reasoner, the hard-drinking curmudgeonly journo like the William Holden and Pete Finch characters in the movie, Network, said, “I wish I could be the flat-stomached chap who can climb mountains and things like that.”
I envy the qualities that Tim Russert had, just a few of those tendencies, such as reliability and a diligence about doing homework.
He could also get people excited about his passion, politics (and sports). The cynics, the Nixonians, the right-wingers would have us give up on politics in disgust, and leave the villains at the controls – which is exactly what has happened in recent years. But Russert cheered us on when the game was going badly. He was thrilled by the upcoming election and how Obama is reigniting interest in the American political system. It’s heartbreaking to think how Russert will not be here to see how this contest turns out. This is like losing the coach in the fourth quarter of the game.
Above all, Tim Russert had a generosity of spirit. His optimism, his enthusiasm, his acuity of mind touched countless people. Someone told me last month that the mood in Washington following Russert’s death was as if a popular head of state had died – if there are any popular heads of states these days.
His friend, Mike Barnicle observed sadly, “Tim Russert was a prosecutor for the public good.”
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist and the Arts & Entertainment Editor for the SF Northside.
One early Sunday evening, many years ago, I dropped into the now-vanished Triangle Lounge on Fillmore and Moulton Alley for a quick beer and a visit with the barman, Marty Lindstrom.
We chatted for a few minutes – just the two of us in the bar – when Tim Russert appeared at the front door, and greeted Marty with, “How ya doin’, buddy?”
Russert noticed me standing there, and said, “And here’s the next Herb Caen.”
After I recovered from my astonishment, I asked, “Why on earth would you say that?”
Russert replied, “My mother-in-law lives up in Cow Hollow and she sends me your column every month from the Marina Times.”
It has been said that Tim Russert was known for observing just about everything. It’s apparently true.
It has also been noted that Russert was loyal to all of his friends. He and Marty were pals when they were at Notre Dame.
“I went to Mass and then I thought I’d come over here for a beer with Marty.” Russert had just done his Meet the Press program from the road.
“I’m glad you dropped in, Tim,” I said garrulously. “I’ve been waiting for someone with whom I could I make up Lawrence Spivak jokes.”
Russert chuckled.
Years later, at Christmastime, I encountered Russert having dinner at Capp’s Corner in North Beach. True to form, he remembered me and took the trouble to introduce me to his talented wife, the author and Vanity Fair correspondent, Maureen Orth, and his son, Luke, who just graduated from Boston College.
I was raised on Meet the Press, and the longtime moderator, the assiduous, bespecled (sp?) Spivak, was a major presence in my young life.
Now, it was 1991, and Russert had taken over the program.
“You know, Mr Spivak was so kind to me, and gave me all sorts of advice and encouragement,” Russert recalled.
That sounds like the sort of mentoring for which Russert was famous.
Permit me a digression here about the history of Meet the Press, the longest-running television program in history. It started as a radio show on Mutual in 1945. It was called The American Mercury, after the magazine founded by H.L. Mencken and later owned by Lawrence Spivak. The show was created, and first hosted by a woman, Martha Rountree. That’s a rarity. It moved to NBC TV with a new name, Meet the Press. Ned Brooks was the moderator before Spivak moved from panelist to host.
Tim’s mention of Mass was not lost on me. He was a fiercely devoted Roman Catholic, and he endured (or enjoyed) a Jesuit education that was guided mostly by nuns. Nuns often get a bad rap but Russert always gave them credit for his discipline as a journalist and an insatiable curiosity about things.
He maintained the highest credentials in the most important things: a loving husband, a good dad, a world-class journalist, a fine fellow, a loyal friend.
Someone once asked Harry Reasoner if he envied anybody. Reasoner, the hard-drinking curmudgeonly journo like the William Holden and Pete Finch characters in the movie, Network, said, “I wish I could be the flat-stomached chap who can climb mountains and things like that.”
I envy the qualities that Tim Russert had, just a few of those tendencies, such as reliability and a diligence about doing homework.
He could also get people excited about his passion, politics (and sports). The cynics, the Nixonians, the right-wingers would have us give up on politics in disgust, and leave the villains at the controls – which is exactly what has happened in recent years. But Russert cheered us on when the game was going badly. He was thrilled by the upcoming election and how Obama is reigniting interest in the American political system. It’s heartbreaking to think how Russert will not be here to see how this contest turns out. This is like losing the coach in the fourth quarter of the game.
Above all, Tim Russert had a generosity of spirit. His optimism, his enthusiasm, his acuity of mind touched countless people. Someone told me last month that the mood in Washington following Russert’s death was as if a popular head of state had died – if there are any popular heads of states these days.
His friend, Mike Barnicle observed sadly, “Tim Russert was a prosecutor for the public good.”
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist and the Arts & Entertainment Editor for the SF Northside.
Bellingham by the Bay, July 2008
from the SF Northside ... northsidesf.com
Tim Russert was one of the few good guys in the reporting business. I ran into him in a Marina District saloon in San Francisco years ago -- when he'd just taken over Meet the Press. That must have been 1991. Aside from the bartender, Marty Lindstrom, a pal of Tim from Notre Dame, I was the only one in the pub, the now-vanished Triangle Lounge. Russert walked in, looked at me, and said, "Say, it's the next Herb Caen."
I was gobsmacked.
"Why do you say that?" I asked incredulously.
"My mother-in-law lives in this neighborhood, in Cow Hollow” explained Russert. She sends me your column from the Marina Times."
Imagine that.
I told him I was grateful he was there because I'd been waiting in the bar for someone with whom I could make Lawrence Spivak jokes. Russert guffawed. Spivak, the first host of Meet the Press, was apparently generous with his encouragement to Tim when he took over as host of the venerable NBC Sunday morning show.
It's true that Tim Russert was also generous and encouraging to so many in so many ways. …
Word comes that Gretchen Belli, the former daughter-in-law of the late Melvin Belli, the King of Torts, and ex-wife of Caesar Belli, who still practices law in S.F., died in Palm Springs on April 7 of cancer. She was only 54 years old. Gretchen was a fiery red-haired Mississippi belle with southern charm who could mix a wicked stinger and sting you wickedly if so inclined. Gretchen was a bundle of energy, holding positions with the Joffrey Ballet, the S.F. Opera Guild, the American Trial Lawyers Association, and the City’s Film Commission. She was a consultant to the intriguingly murky movie Zodiac. Gretchen got into some legal hassle with the Kern County city of Taft. I hear that at the time of her death she was working on a deal with an Indian casino near Barstow. Resourceful she was. I like to remember the three Thanksgivings I spent with her and her family during those famous trips to Mel’s hometown of Sonora in the Gold Country. Gretchen had the spirit and determination of a 49er, tough, tenacious, always in pursuit of some sort of elusive treasure. …
Sex and the City: Gary Meyer, the owner of the great repertory house, the Balboa Theatre, had an inspired idea last month. Before the screening of the instantly-iconic Sex and the City, he brought the lovely chanteuse Sony Holland on stage to sing a few songs first. She can kick it. And, yes, she had great shoes … As thousands of people pour into San Francisco from all over the country to take advantage of the same-sex marriage phenomenon, Mayor Gavin Newsom slips out of state to marry his charming galfriend Jennifer Siebel at her family’s ranch in the Bitteroot River Valley of Montana, July 26. … The organizers of Perry Mann’s Exotic Erotic Ball & Expo say they will move out of the Cow Palace after seven years and have the party on Treasure Island in October. Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch was part of the 1939 World’s Fair on T.I. and that seems to be some sort of precedent, stripped of pretense, I’m sure. …
The Caffeinated Cabaret is the latest thing to hit Polk Street. It’s at It’s A Grind coffeehouse, 1800 Polk @ Washington. On the first & third Tuesdays of the month, the magician Ash K. the Pretty Good will host an array of singers, jugglers, comics, necromancers, newspaperpeople, strippers, hustlers, roadies, shock jocks, forgotten rockers, fashionistas, mendicants, low-level gangsters, ragtag street urchins, residents of fixed incomes, residents who need fixes, merchant marines, undercover cops, sidewalk poets proffering verses, disaffected office workers, smarmy socialites, secretive Rosicrucians, taciturn Russians, hunchbacks, bohunks and hod carriers. Yeah, I’m just having my fun. Ash K. says performers simply have to be “charming, amusing and compelling.” There are auditions. Send your name, phone number and link to your website (your site, MySpace, YouTube) so the judges can assess your schtick. Send to: iagsfyahoo.com …
Down Memory Lane, if we remember: Boy George and His Band at the Grand Ballroom at The Regency Center, Van Ness & Sutter, July 19, 9 p.m. $45. … Get this: The Jefferson Starship & The Zombies!, at the same venue, July 20 at 7 p.m. $39. … I was thrilled to see the Delta Wires perform at the North Beach Fair. That takes me back a few decades. Cathy Richardson, who plays Janis Joplin in the hit show Love, Janis, belted out some splendid tunes. Of course there was the inimitable Lavy Smith and the Red-Hot Skillet Lickers – and they tore it up. …
The Mid-Polk Merchants Association is doing its level best to keep the neighborhood tidy, even ambitiously & relentlessly removing graffiti. Sascha Stolz is one of the locals who is tending a little garden at the foot of a sycamore on Hyde near Calif., an area which is often cluttered with rubbish. We must cultivate our own garden. …
Speaking of cultivated, artist Sharon Anderson was meandering through The Bargain Bank on Polk and came across some cheap vodka called Absolut Squalor. So she claims. Ever notice that squalor is always “absolute” and poverty is invariably “abject”? As if squalor and poverty aren’t bad enough all by themselves, without the adjectives. Most of us can’t even afford the adjectives anymore. … I see bank robberies in the Bay Area are up nearly 60 per cent. How else can you pay for the gas for the getaway car? That reminds me of the time when convicted bank robber Patty Hearst was in federal prison & kept getting applications from credit card companies in the mail. She was good for it. Say what you will about Patty, she has an amusing moxie and can sure stick to her guns.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times & is the author of a book, Bellingham by the Bay, which is now available for early shoplifting for Christmas.
####
Tim Russert was one of the few good guys in the reporting business. I ran into him in a Marina District saloon in San Francisco years ago -- when he'd just taken over Meet the Press. That must have been 1991. Aside from the bartender, Marty Lindstrom, a pal of Tim from Notre Dame, I was the only one in the pub, the now-vanished Triangle Lounge. Russert walked in, looked at me, and said, "Say, it's the next Herb Caen."
I was gobsmacked.
"Why do you say that?" I asked incredulously.
"My mother-in-law lives in this neighborhood, in Cow Hollow” explained Russert. She sends me your column from the Marina Times."
Imagine that.
I told him I was grateful he was there because I'd been waiting in the bar for someone with whom I could make Lawrence Spivak jokes. Russert guffawed. Spivak, the first host of Meet the Press, was apparently generous with his encouragement to Tim when he took over as host of the venerable NBC Sunday morning show.
It's true that Tim Russert was also generous and encouraging to so many in so many ways. …
Word comes that Gretchen Belli, the former daughter-in-law of the late Melvin Belli, the King of Torts, and ex-wife of Caesar Belli, who still practices law in S.F., died in Palm Springs on April 7 of cancer. She was only 54 years old. Gretchen was a fiery red-haired Mississippi belle with southern charm who could mix a wicked stinger and sting you wickedly if so inclined. Gretchen was a bundle of energy, holding positions with the Joffrey Ballet, the S.F. Opera Guild, the American Trial Lawyers Association, and the City’s Film Commission. She was a consultant to the intriguingly murky movie Zodiac. Gretchen got into some legal hassle with the Kern County city of Taft. I hear that at the time of her death she was working on a deal with an Indian casino near Barstow. Resourceful she was. I like to remember the three Thanksgivings I spent with her and her family during those famous trips to Mel’s hometown of Sonora in the Gold Country. Gretchen had the spirit and determination of a 49er, tough, tenacious, always in pursuit of some sort of elusive treasure. …
Sex and the City: Gary Meyer, the owner of the great repertory house, the Balboa Theatre, had an inspired idea last month. Before the screening of the instantly-iconic Sex and the City, he brought the lovely chanteuse Sony Holland on stage to sing a few songs first. She can kick it. And, yes, she had great shoes … As thousands of people pour into San Francisco from all over the country to take advantage of the same-sex marriage phenomenon, Mayor Gavin Newsom slips out of state to marry his charming galfriend Jennifer Siebel at her family’s ranch in the Bitteroot River Valley of Montana, July 26. … The organizers of Perry Mann’s Exotic Erotic Ball & Expo say they will move out of the Cow Palace after seven years and have the party on Treasure Island in October. Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch was part of the 1939 World’s Fair on T.I. and that seems to be some sort of precedent, stripped of pretense, I’m sure. …
The Caffeinated Cabaret is the latest thing to hit Polk Street. It’s at It’s A Grind coffeehouse, 1800 Polk @ Washington. On the first & third Tuesdays of the month, the magician Ash K. the Pretty Good will host an array of singers, jugglers, comics, necromancers, newspaperpeople, strippers, hustlers, roadies, shock jocks, forgotten rockers, fashionistas, mendicants, low-level gangsters, ragtag street urchins, residents of fixed incomes, residents who need fixes, merchant marines, undercover cops, sidewalk poets proffering verses, disaffected office workers, smarmy socialites, secretive Rosicrucians, taciturn Russians, hunchbacks, bohunks and hod carriers. Yeah, I’m just having my fun. Ash K. says performers simply have to be “charming, amusing and compelling.” There are auditions. Send your name, phone number and link to your website (your site, MySpace, YouTube) so the judges can assess your schtick. Send to: iagsfyahoo.com …
Down Memory Lane, if we remember: Boy George and His Band at the Grand Ballroom at The Regency Center, Van Ness & Sutter, July 19, 9 p.m. $45. … Get this: The Jefferson Starship & The Zombies!, at the same venue, July 20 at 7 p.m. $39. … I was thrilled to see the Delta Wires perform at the North Beach Fair. That takes me back a few decades. Cathy Richardson, who plays Janis Joplin in the hit show Love, Janis, belted out some splendid tunes. Of course there was the inimitable Lavy Smith and the Red-Hot Skillet Lickers – and they tore it up. …
The Mid-Polk Merchants Association is doing its level best to keep the neighborhood tidy, even ambitiously & relentlessly removing graffiti. Sascha Stolz is one of the locals who is tending a little garden at the foot of a sycamore on Hyde near Calif., an area which is often cluttered with rubbish. We must cultivate our own garden. …
Speaking of cultivated, artist Sharon Anderson was meandering through The Bargain Bank on Polk and came across some cheap vodka called Absolut Squalor. So she claims. Ever notice that squalor is always “absolute” and poverty is invariably “abject”? As if squalor and poverty aren’t bad enough all by themselves, without the adjectives. Most of us can’t even afford the adjectives anymore. … I see bank robberies in the Bay Area are up nearly 60 per cent. How else can you pay for the gas for the getaway car? That reminds me of the time when convicted bank robber Patty Hearst was in federal prison & kept getting applications from credit card companies in the mail. She was good for it. Say what you will about Patty, she has an amusing moxie and can sure stick to her guns.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times & is the author of a book, Bellingham by the Bay, which is now available for early shoplifting for Christmas.
####
I'm Trying to Get Off Futility Drugs ... June 2008
from the S.F. Marina Times
I've written that if you stick around long enough, you'll disappoint everybody. Perhaps I was kidding, perhaps I still believe it. When I saw the news coverage of Senator Ted Kennedy in the days following the disclosure of his illness, a brain tumor that the media insist is fatal and has a hopeless chance of recovery, I began to think that if you stick around long enough, perhaps one will also accrue a remarkable measure of respect.
Ted Kennedy was suddenly deified. It was startling to see the old cats of the United States Senate on C-SPAN actually weeping on the air. They usually make us cry.
It was also touching. There was almost unanimous praise from bipartisan quarters for Kennedy. And why not? The stories began to emerge that Kennedy has done a lot of good things during his 46 years in the Senate. (Where did those 46 years go?) Gavin Newsom says Kennedy has helped San Francisco directly on many occasions, specifically by directing money to social programs here.
Ted Kennedy did not have to stay in public service after Chappaquidick, one of the most famous spots in American history. After he let a girl drown in a car and then walked home all those years ago seemed to have ended the era of the Kennedys.
But it didn't. The myth of Camelot had already been abrogated by the assassination of Ted's two older brothers. But Ted went back to politics, sometimes described as public service. The rest continued to be history, though Ted's history turned out, I'm sure, a disappointment to him. He wanted to be president anyway.
It was not to be.
Ted continued to work what used to be described as the most respected body of government in the world. He used the juice of the Kennedy name to be truly effective. That name of the Kennedys still resonates to people my age. It represented hope when I was kid. If Jack was dead, we thought, then Bobby will get the country jump-started in another direction, specifically to end the Viet Nam War.
It was not to be.
Teddy may have been a disappointment, but he did not stay at home all the time with a constant supply of Scotch. After all these years, this good Catholic boy has done penance in ways, ways that many of us had never really heard about. He's helped poor people, single moms, children, unions, minorities, and people who deserve help from the government. He reminds us that the government is supposed to work for us.
If you are going to pick on a 76-year-old man who is sick, as some right-wing radio creatures have, then you're a damned fool. After Herb Caen announced he has cancer 12 years ago, a TV reporter put a microphone in front of my face and asked me what I thought about Caen's "certain death because he had inoperable cancer."
"Inoperable does not mean hopeless," I said in my deepest and most unqualified conviction.
I'm still trying to stay off the drugs that induce futility. If there was a time to be hopeful, maybe this is it. Ted Kennedy's illness reminds some of us of the days when his brothers inspired hope in lots of hearts. Perhaps it's time that we send a little bit of hope back to him. Even if you think he was a disappointment, I'm sure it would not cost us a thing to forgive.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the SF Northside. He may or not be a disappointment on occasion, but he still seems to pester us with his commentary anyway.
####
I've written that if you stick around long enough, you'll disappoint everybody. Perhaps I was kidding, perhaps I still believe it. When I saw the news coverage of Senator Ted Kennedy in the days following the disclosure of his illness, a brain tumor that the media insist is fatal and has a hopeless chance of recovery, I began to think that if you stick around long enough, perhaps one will also accrue a remarkable measure of respect.
Ted Kennedy was suddenly deified. It was startling to see the old cats of the United States Senate on C-SPAN actually weeping on the air. They usually make us cry.
It was also touching. There was almost unanimous praise from bipartisan quarters for Kennedy. And why not? The stories began to emerge that Kennedy has done a lot of good things during his 46 years in the Senate. (Where did those 46 years go?) Gavin Newsom says Kennedy has helped San Francisco directly on many occasions, specifically by directing money to social programs here.
Ted Kennedy did not have to stay in public service after Chappaquidick, one of the most famous spots in American history. After he let a girl drown in a car and then walked home all those years ago seemed to have ended the era of the Kennedys.
But it didn't. The myth of Camelot had already been abrogated by the assassination of Ted's two older brothers. But Ted went back to politics, sometimes described as public service. The rest continued to be history, though Ted's history turned out, I'm sure, a disappointment to him. He wanted to be president anyway.
It was not to be.
Ted continued to work what used to be described as the most respected body of government in the world. He used the juice of the Kennedy name to be truly effective. That name of the Kennedys still resonates to people my age. It represented hope when I was kid. If Jack was dead, we thought, then Bobby will get the country jump-started in another direction, specifically to end the Viet Nam War.
It was not to be.
Teddy may have been a disappointment, but he did not stay at home all the time with a constant supply of Scotch. After all these years, this good Catholic boy has done penance in ways, ways that many of us had never really heard about. He's helped poor people, single moms, children, unions, minorities, and people who deserve help from the government. He reminds us that the government is supposed to work for us.
If you are going to pick on a 76-year-old man who is sick, as some right-wing radio creatures have, then you're a damned fool. After Herb Caen announced he has cancer 12 years ago, a TV reporter put a microphone in front of my face and asked me what I thought about Caen's "certain death because he had inoperable cancer."
"Inoperable does not mean hopeless," I said in my deepest and most unqualified conviction.
I'm still trying to stay off the drugs that induce futility. If there was a time to be hopeful, maybe this is it. Ted Kennedy's illness reminds some of us of the days when his brothers inspired hope in lots of hearts. Perhaps it's time that we send a little bit of hope back to him. Even if you think he was a disappointment, I'm sure it would not cost us a thing to forgive.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the SF Northside. He may or not be a disappointment on occasion, but he still seems to pester us with his commentary anyway.
####
Bellingham by the Bay, June 2008
from the San Francisco Northside
Bellingham by the Bay, SF Northside, June 2008
The State Supreme Court's decision to reinstate same-sex marriages seems to have riveted more people who are out-of-state than here in San Francisco. So, what else is new? Of all that things that might concern us, I don't see gay marriage being a problem. Gavin Newsom was prescient when he recommended the legislation four years ago. I don't think being a bigot, such as the famous segregationists like Jesse Helms, pays off in the long run. They have to apologize eventually. Besides, if S.F. is irritating everyone else, we're doing the right thing. Mark Leno was at City Hall that day four years ago, and was one of the many local officials who were performing these notorious same-sex marriage ceremonies. "Hey, Bruce," Leno said to me with a smile, "why don't you do a few of these ceremonies, too? I'll let you." I declined. I just don't perform well under pressure, I guess. But it was nice to be around some happy people for a change. ...
The irrepressible author Herb Gold was in The Crepe House on Polk Street the other day, and reports that he was off late last month to speak in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. He wanted to invite me along but it seems he didn't need anyone to hold his jacket for him. Herb's an expert on Haiti, and has written a few books and New York Times pieces about the place. "It's gotten a little dangerous lately," Herb concedes with his understated wit. Herb Gold's new book, Still Alive, comes out in July, and he's being honored at a dinner in New York, sponsored by his publisher. "I suppose you heard that Oakley Hall died in May," Herb said. "All of my old friends are disappearing, so I'd better keep an eye on you, Bruce." ...
Chasing our tales: Former Nob Hill resident Dorothy Hearst's first novel is about to be published. It's called Promise of the Wolves. She just loves those wild beasts. Speaking of wildlife, Dorothy has moved to Berkeley, where it's likely that you'll find an apartment that accepts pets. ... More literary news: Dame Edna Everage returns to S.F. for a run at the Post Street Theatre from Nov. 20 to Jan. 4. La Dame is still outrageous, and promises "a spookily intimate show." She's also announces that "Amy Tan wants to write a book about me, and Armistead Maupin is weaving me into a new Tale of the City." ...
A few people got together at Garry Graham's night club in Fairfax, the 19 Broadway, to remember Chuck Day, who was a regular customer and a regular fellow with not-such-a-regular talent as a guitar player. Chuck would occasionally play his Fender Stratocaster in the club's bar. In the 60's, he was a first-rate session player in L.A. and had a long romance with Mama Cass Elliot. Chuck was a burly, bearded chap & a really sweet man. ... One of the best & sweetest S.F. chantootsies is long, tall & lithe Lorna K., who just landed a regular gig at the Hotel Rex on Sutter at Mason. Lorna sings there on June 6 & June 27. ... Tim Hockenberry has become a regular at the Rrazz Room in the Hotel Nikko. ...
Jazz singer Kim Nalley was having her nails done & all that girl stuff on Nob Hill the other day. She's happy to say that she'll continue to run her club, Jazz at Pearls, for as long as she can. Kim had announced the club's closing, then had a change of heart. "The only problem is that I have to get the musicians who thought I was closing booked all over again," she confesses. "Oy." ... Maurice Kanbar, the peripatetic philanthropist of Pacific Heights, was hanging out at the Cannes Film Festival again this year (he's gone to Cannes every year since 1968). Then Maurice pressed on to Israel, where he received an honorary degree. ... Maurice is still a huge supporter if the S.F. Film Festival, which reports a very successful year. At a gala to honor the legendary screenwriter Robert Towne at the St. Francis last month, Warren Beatty mingled with a few of us mortals. "I have to tell you that I pestered you for an interview at the Democratic National Convention in 1984," I told Beatty. "You refused because you'd have to give an interview to everyone, if you acceded to my request." Beatty replied, "You know what? The answer is still no." I'm sure Warren said that just for old time's sake. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He continues to pester all sorts of people because Bellingham has no sense of shame. He basks in the luminescence of prominent personalities, seeking a vague form of validation. It's sort of sad, isn't it? ...
Bellingham by the Bay, SF Northside, June 2008
The State Supreme Court's decision to reinstate same-sex marriages seems to have riveted more people who are out-of-state than here in San Francisco. So, what else is new? Of all that things that might concern us, I don't see gay marriage being a problem. Gavin Newsom was prescient when he recommended the legislation four years ago. I don't think being a bigot, such as the famous segregationists like Jesse Helms, pays off in the long run. They have to apologize eventually. Besides, if S.F. is irritating everyone else, we're doing the right thing. Mark Leno was at City Hall that day four years ago, and was one of the many local officials who were performing these notorious same-sex marriage ceremonies. "Hey, Bruce," Leno said to me with a smile, "why don't you do a few of these ceremonies, too? I'll let you." I declined. I just don't perform well under pressure, I guess. But it was nice to be around some happy people for a change. ...
The irrepressible author Herb Gold was in The Crepe House on Polk Street the other day, and reports that he was off late last month to speak in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. He wanted to invite me along but it seems he didn't need anyone to hold his jacket for him. Herb's an expert on Haiti, and has written a few books and New York Times pieces about the place. "It's gotten a little dangerous lately," Herb concedes with his understated wit. Herb Gold's new book, Still Alive, comes out in July, and he's being honored at a dinner in New York, sponsored by his publisher. "I suppose you heard that Oakley Hall died in May," Herb said. "All of my old friends are disappearing, so I'd better keep an eye on you, Bruce." ...
Chasing our tales: Former Nob Hill resident Dorothy Hearst's first novel is about to be published. It's called Promise of the Wolves. She just loves those wild beasts. Speaking of wildlife, Dorothy has moved to Berkeley, where it's likely that you'll find an apartment that accepts pets. ... More literary news: Dame Edna Everage returns to S.F. for a run at the Post Street Theatre from Nov. 20 to Jan. 4. La Dame is still outrageous, and promises "a spookily intimate show." She's also announces that "Amy Tan wants to write a book about me, and Armistead Maupin is weaving me into a new Tale of the City." ...
A few people got together at Garry Graham's night club in Fairfax, the 19 Broadway, to remember Chuck Day, who was a regular customer and a regular fellow with not-such-a-regular talent as a guitar player. Chuck would occasionally play his Fender Stratocaster in the club's bar. In the 60's, he was a first-rate session player in L.A. and had a long romance with Mama Cass Elliot. Chuck was a burly, bearded chap & a really sweet man. ... One of the best & sweetest S.F. chantootsies is long, tall & lithe Lorna K., who just landed a regular gig at the Hotel Rex on Sutter at Mason. Lorna sings there on June 6 & June 27. ... Tim Hockenberry has become a regular at the Rrazz Room in the Hotel Nikko. ...
Jazz singer Kim Nalley was having her nails done & all that girl stuff on Nob Hill the other day. She's happy to say that she'll continue to run her club, Jazz at Pearls, for as long as she can. Kim had announced the club's closing, then had a change of heart. "The only problem is that I have to get the musicians who thought I was closing booked all over again," she confesses. "Oy." ... Maurice Kanbar, the peripatetic philanthropist of Pacific Heights, was hanging out at the Cannes Film Festival again this year (he's gone to Cannes every year since 1968). Then Maurice pressed on to Israel, where he received an honorary degree. ... Maurice is still a huge supporter if the S.F. Film Festival, which reports a very successful year. At a gala to honor the legendary screenwriter Robert Towne at the St. Francis last month, Warren Beatty mingled with a few of us mortals. "I have to tell you that I pestered you for an interview at the Democratic National Convention in 1984," I told Beatty. "You refused because you'd have to give an interview to everyone, if you acceded to my request." Beatty replied, "You know what? The answer is still no." I'm sure Warren said that just for old time's sake. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He continues to pester all sorts of people because Bellingham has no sense of shame. He basks in the luminescence of prominent personalities, seeking a vague form of validation. It's sort of sad, isn't it? ...
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