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
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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
###
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