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.


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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

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.


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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.

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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.

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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