The Christmas Curmudgeon, December 2009

Some of us find it easy to be cynical this time of year. Everyone should have a hobby, even if it's cynicism. But it would be unseemly to pick on the holidays right now when so many people are feeling apprehensive and vulnerable. That is, just plain scared out of their wits. I never liked this expression very much -- "Things could be worse" -- because it's facile and dismissive. And quite meaningless. Having said that (another meaningless expression), it's heartening to know that Timothy Geithner has not ordered the suspension of Christmas until fiscal 2011 or that, to my knowledge, there is no Home Shoplifting Channel on cable right now. Not yet.

Recently Tony Bennett was asked what it was like to grow up during the Great Depression. His answer was surprising: "It was terrific," Tony said. "Everyone knew their neighbor, and everyone looked out for each other. It was a great time."

Tony always kept his glass half-full.

In the past, it was traditional to make a meek request for tidings of comfort and joy. All right. So we lost joy in the stock market. We'll settle for simple comfort this year. That's what people really want. They want to feel safe again. They want something or someone to hold onto. There is uncertainty everywhere. It's a good time to be in love. It's a good time to find comfort wherever it may be found.

I find comfort by walking through dog-friendly and somewhat people-friendly Huntington Park atop Nob Hill. Grace Cathedral stands over the park with a stately, Gothic, timeless reassurance. I find comfort by gazing down California Street in the custody of the clattering cable cars, and see the smart, sharp outlines of white lights that frame the Embarcadero Centers this time of year. This looks like San Francisco is all dressed-up for a holiday party, in a tux, looking terribly grown-up. There was a time when sophistication without pretentiousness was a valuable thing. Perhaps that was a pretentious thing to say. I'll risk it.

My old friend, The Christmas Curmudgeon, is not pretentious. He keeps his glass half-empty. That's because he's always spilling his drink.

I caught a glimpse of the half-empty curmudgeon the other night. He was lurking under the half-moon amid the shadows in Huntington Park, at the annual Tree Lighting Ceremony. The Christmas Curmudgeon is not a cynic. He simply can't enjoy himself while others are suffering. There's compassion underneath his crusty exterior. He still embraces enough humanity to be outraged. But no one was outraged this evening as the holiday lights suddenly illuminated the trees in the park. There was a sigh of pleasure from the crowd.

The genteel, unflappable Simon Harrington, the Big 4's food & beverage director, handed out cups of hot chocolate. The S.F. Girls Chorus sang like angels before the park's fountain. It was all very comforting.

I saw a familiar-looking couple standing off by themselves, silhouetted by the cathedral lights. They were oblivious to the world, and paid no attention to this eavesdropper.

The half-moon, showing itself through the clouds, hovered in the black sky.

I sauntered closer to the couple. She whispered hopefully, anxiously, to him, "It's going to be a good Christmas this year, isn't it?"

He murmured to her with all the courage he could muster, holding her close to him, feeling her tremble: "Yes, my darling, it’s going to be the best."



Bruce Bellingham is crazy about the holidays. He thinks everyone should be happy this time of the year, and should be filled with the spirit of comfort & joy – in the words of Gavin Newsom – whether you like it or not. Talk to Bruce at bruce@northsidesf.com





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When October Goes ... Northside San Francisco, Nov. 2009

October was chock full of activity, lots of things to talk about at the office water cooler. That is, if people still had jobs to go to at the office. Popular topic: Two Northwest Airlines pilots overflew Minneapolis by 150 miles. They may have been asleep. I admire those pilots. I can never sleep on airplanes. ... Did you know that every year, more people get killed by donkeys than by plane crashes? "What does that mean?" asks Edwin Heaven. "Never ever ever fly Donkey Airlines." ... It was hard to escape the Balloon Boy story. The minute people found out the kid was all right, they wanted someone to punish. The Balloon Boy's daddy will pay the price for inventing a hoax. Some hoax. Kid's stuff, if you will. Here's a real hoax: the war in Iraq. ...

October brought a lot of recollections of the Loma Prieta earthquake, 20 years on. Art Agnos told 300 people at Ft. Mason's Cowell Theatre that one of his proudest moments as mayor was to press for the demolition of what Herb Caen called "the Dambarcadero Freeway." Before that grey monstrosity on the waterfront became our Tectonic Parkway, like the Cypress in Oakland, the Board of Supervisors agreed to tear it down. The measure, Agnos recalled, passed by only one vote. ...

There were laughs, but more tears as 500 mourners celebrated the life of Ray Piccinini at Sts. Peter & Paul on Oct. 7. Ashling Cole sang well & soulfully. Over the years, Ray was a popular waiter at Enrico's, Jovanello's & The Stinking Rose. He was equally famous for cheering up sick kids at various hospitals on Easter. After the Mass, a procession of fans, friends & family carried flower arrangements down Columbus to The Stinking Rose for a farewell party. ... Jimmy Hamilton, the screenwriter who worked with Sam Peckinpah, & would grace the Washington Square Bar & Grill with his bonhomie, died last month. He was 79. Jimmy was also at times a longshoreman like his old friend, the late Johnny Weissmuller Jr. They were big men in all the right ways. The North Beach literati, including Tony Dingman, Curt Gentry, Ron Fimrite & Michael McCourt were part of the tribute to Mr. Hamilton at the Sausalito Cruising Club on Oct. 17. One of my favorite lines from Cross of Iron, the movie he wrote for Peckinpah: “I believe God is a sadist, but probably doesn’t even know it.” Jimmy Hamilton was anything but a sadist. “He was truly one of the kindest men I ever knew,” said a wistful Diane Weissmuller. …

Robert Plant was in town for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass show, but simply had to catch a rugby match on TV while here. He wandered into the Nob Hill neighborhood bar, the Hydeout, and asked Kelly O’Blennis, who was pouring the drinks, how he could see some “English football.” She said it was not usually available. Producing a C-note, he asked if something could be arranged. The next day, Mr. Plant was happy with his rugby & his Tanquerary & tonics, hiding at the Hydeout. Kelly wasn’t quite sure who he was: “I saw an old, ugly guy with a really beautiful young girl, so I figured he had to be somebody.” …

There were other water cooler stories from last month. NASA crashed a vehicle the size of an SUV into the moon. I can understand that. What I can't understand is why Lindsay Lohan was at the controls. ... Ernie Beyl says he wants to read Sarah Palin’s new book – as soon as the English translation is available. … Sharon Anderson heard that Tom Cable, head coach of the star-crossed Raiders, is off the hook for an assault charge. “Perhaps he’d be more useful in Afghanistan,” says Sharon. … Rush Limbaugh dropped his effort to be a part owner of the St. Louis Rams. Maybe he found out colored people were on the team. Too bad for Rush. The NFL has access to all those painkillers. … Edwin Heaven muses, “The ultimate irony would be if Michael Vick developed a medical condition which requires an assistance dog.” …

The aforementioned Ms. Anderson was in town last month. I was happy to show her some of the brighter spots on a Sat. morning that included Diva’s, the tranny bar in Polk Gulch, & a wonderful breakfast at Little Henry’s Italian Food, 955 Larkin at Post. Henry & his wife, Jade, are terrific people. Their place in the Tenderloin draws real characters: cops, pensioners, politicos, aging hippies, hustlers, bohunks and hornswogglers – and some real nice local folks. Jade suggests that all of us come for dinner the night before Thanksgiving to relieve the stress of the holiday. Then come back Thanksgiving Day, too. Last year they served 42 turkeys, & many more people. …

Here it is, November. Norm Goldblatt is already thinking of the holidays at the close of this most rewarding year. “It’s like the old Jewish joke,” says Norm. “Grandmother gives the kid two shirts for Hanukkah. He comes downstairs wearing one. Grandmother says,” What's wrong? You don’t like the other one?” … Did I mention October also marked 80 years since the Big Wall Street crash? And this month it will be 100 years since Johnny Mercer was born in Savannah (Nov. 18). Lee Lessack & Linda Purl will celebrate Mercer’s life of song at the Rrazz Room, Nov. 23-25. Check out www.therrazzroom.com. Mercer wrote: “I should be over it now. I know it doesn’t matter much how old I grow. I hate to see October go.” … I dunno, Johnny. I’m not so sorry to see October go. …

Bruce Bellingham is working on a book with the working title, The Remorse Code, where the narrator’s intransigence is only outmatched by his recalcitrance. It will be published in 2050. Or so. Meanwhile you may reach Bellingham at bruce@northsidesf.com



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Twenty Years On, Loma Prieta Quake Is Recalled

A strange thing about the Loma Prieta Earthquake, which struck the Bay Area twenty years ago this Oct. 17 with a 6.9 Richter Scale ferocity: it hit the Marina District particularly hard, compared to other parts of San Francisco. Four died in the Marina. The neighborhood was devastated. Fires broke out. Houses collapsed. Many were permanently driven from their homes. Yet just blocks away, north of Van Ness, in Cow Hollow and Pacific Heights, the glassware was intact. Not a dish was cracked. Odd that the serious damage in this area was contained to the Marina. Later we'd find out about the landfill and the precarious seismic state of the ground where homes were built in the 1920s, where people live today. Many live, it seems, without thinking about the next quake too often or perhaps not at all.

"This is landfill all right," a soil engineer said to me during the days following the quake. "And it's really lousy landfill."

The question will be heard over and over this month: Where we you when the quake hit twenty years ago, if you were here, of course?

It's easy for me to recall where I was at 5:04 p.m. on Oct. 17, 1989. I was on the radio. I'd read the local news updates to the afternoon show, "All Things Considered," on KQED-FM. I remember thinking what a dull story I was reading when the building began to shake violently. It threw my chair against the wall behind me.

I pulled myself back to the microphone, and spoke as calmly as a could, speaking to the engineer behind the glass, "You know, Jerry, I think we're having an earthquake -- a rather severe earthquake."

Jerry Neuman nodded, looking for a way to get out of the studio at 8th & Bryant. You'll recall that area is also built on landfill. The shaking seemed to go on forever, but it was only fifteen seconds. Suddenly we were plunged into darkness, and we were knocked off the air. As I made my way out of the darkened building, there was pandemonium in the hallway. There was no way to get back on the air. As the first temblor subsided, and the aftershocks began, I snapped into action: I went across the street to get a drink. In the saloon, the bartender was rattled. The TV sets that normally rested on high shelves were on the floor, picture tubes shattered. Bottles were there, too, a small sea of broken glass. In the street, high-voltage power lines were down, sputtering and crackling -- shooting sparks across the pavement as a weirdly still dusk settled over The City. Little by little I understood the staggering power of this quake. I walked back to the radio station, which was located under a freeway overpass. Several rivets from the steel roadway frame had popped at at unimaginable speed, like shells from a howitzer, shattering car windshields in the parking lot.

As I looked toward the north, I could see the glow on the horizon from a big fire in the Marina. I assumed the neighborhood -- and my home -- were history. Just like the films I saw of the 1906 quake, I also assumed San Francisco might be swallowed up in flames.

But it time it was clear that The City would survive, and, as I mentioned, most of the town went unscathed. Maybe that's because the epicenter was seventy miles to the south. The 1906 quake's center was a few miles off the Golden Gate. The vulnerable landfill parts of San Francisco provided a map of where the worst would occur next time. A few blocks from the radio station, South-of-Market, an old, brick building on Bluxome St. crashed to the ground, crushing five people to death as they got into their cars. Many escaped injury by leaving work early that day to attend the World Series at Candlestick Park.

When I got back to the Marina, very late that night, I was stunned by the devastation. Buildings had keeled over. The fire that had incinerated scores of apartments was still smoldering. The ominous smell of gas still hovered in the air.

The liquid sand was still pumping out of the cracks in the ruptured sidewalks.

I still remember how still it was that night – not a hint of a breeze off the Bay – and very warm, unusually warm for San Francisco. That made a scary night even spookier. I guess this was what they call “earthquake weather.”

As for being a reporter who lived in the Marina, misery was not hard to find during the days and weeks that followed the quake. There was no running water nor electricity for weeks. The only businesses that were open, it seemed, were the bars. So many people fell off the wagon, it could have been covered as a traffic story. Even Joe DiMaggio had been displaced from his home on Francisco Street. That gives “Joltin’ Joe” new meaning. He joined the legions of homeless at the Marina Middle School, a temporary shelter. In fifteen seconds, the world had been altered dramatically. The Marina, which had been a sleepy village, had been discovered by the outside world, changing the neighborhood forever.



Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which includes a longer account of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Send your ideas to bruce@northsidesf.com



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Vampires Aren't What They Used to Be, Northside San Francisco, October 2009

Vampires are all the rage these days. There's a whole batch of new, popular vampire books, movies and TV shows. Small wonder. Most of the world is wobbling from the effects of economic anemia, inflicted on us by insatiable children of the night who've drained us of practically everything we have. Stories about vampires only reflect what's going on. While we were sleeping, someone was noshing on our necks, drinking the lifeblood from the collective body.

With his cape, and his Carpathian countenance, Bela Lugosi was the definitive vampire of cinema. Then movie vampires got younger, and prettier. Even the females. Vampires now come in every stripe. Even in pinstripes. Oh, there are also vegetarian vampires. Did you know that? They'll sink their teeth into your celery root when you're not looking. Then, without warning, they'll charge you $2.29 a pound for pinto beans. The real vampires in the world, robbing you of your energy, even your identity. Some people simply wear you down, even during a casual meeting. Others will nickel-and-dime you into paralyzing fatigue with credit card charges, sin taxes, and parking tickets. Vegetarian vampires can be as wearying as the other kind. Perhaps they have even a little more smugness than their carnivorous counterparts.

Even the Night of the Ghouls is not safe anymore. The Grinch stole Halloween this year. He foreclosed on the holiday. There will be no big parties in the streets of San Francisco. Too much money, too much trouble. Only the Big, Bad Bailed-Out Bankers can afford to throw parties these days. No matter. We're all getting too old for parties anyway. Our party's over. Besides, we have to be in good shape for All Saint's Day, that pious day after the debauchery of Halloween. My favorite day is All Souls' Day. It follows All Saints' Day. Membership has its privileges. Ah, but let's face it: saints and sinners alike, we're all in the same boat. Some of us just get better cabins, that's all. The difference between a saint, and a sinner is a process called transfiguration. That's the Catholic Church's version of Extreme Makeover. It makes for a dramatic change. For example, Sebastian looked pretty bad at one time, with about 135 arrows in him. Now, beatified, he looks terrific in that painting.

"There are three phases of life," says Charlie Mandel. "Youth, middle-age, and 'Gee, you look great!'"

St. Augustine found beauty in proportion. So did Hugh Hefner, but I think that's another story.

There's a new movie for younger audiences about John Keats, who famously observed, "Truth, beauty. Beauty, truth -- that is all."

But looks are fleeting in a temporal world. That's why the memories of people who were close to us are so valuable. We often recall them in their finer moments, remembering them with a simple beauty. These recollections transcend time, and push aside the nastiness of aging.

"Imagination is memory," said James Joyce.

On All Souls' Day, the departed are permitted to return to the world for the day. Just my luck. I probably owe them money. Nah, it's a day for reconciliation and forgiveness. With all its religious overtones, it also smacks of a ghost story. We all love ghost stories. The storied vampires, with their legendary immortality, and their dark sexuality, take up a big place in the realm of spooky tales.

Here, take the garlic, the crucifix, add them to your earthquake kit. We are certainly living in spooky times.

Bruce Bellingham, author of Bellingham by the Bay, is a big fan of classic horror films. But he finds nothing more terrifying these days than looking at the evening news. Tell him what you know: bruce@northsidesf.com

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Bellingham by the Bay, October 2009

Satire has been permanently ransacked. I mean, what's the use of continuing the effort to make fun of things when the surreal becomes the commonplace? One example is Tom DeLay's appearance on "Dancing with the Stars" last month when he cavorted about, and in karaoke style, mouthed the words to The Troggs' 1966 hit "Wild Thing." For a moment, even I was speechless. The Troggs, a Brit band, named their group as a lark after the term troglodyte. Life imitates art. Tom DeLay is the real thing. Next, they'll bring on Bernie Madoff to dance the hora and sing "Havah Nagilah." Tom DeLay gives crooks a bad name. While his associates remain in prison for cheating Native-Americans over fake casino schemes, Tom, a former pest controller before becoming a pest in the House of Representatives, now takes low-brow taste to new heights with the happy assistance of Disney ABC. Heigh-ho. Go, ahead, Tom, sue me. Then I can put on my hi-heel sneakers, and appear on "Dancing with the Defendants." ... Speaking of Disney, the new Disney Family Museum opens in the Presidio this month. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to know this. Perhaps Tom DeLay will greet you at the door. He’ll be dressed as Goofy. …

So glad that’s out of my system. … Charlie Mandel is reviving his old Media People publication, this one, online of course. “I want only positive, terrific writing from journalists these days,” says Charlie. “Emphasize positive.” Unlike the preceding paragraph, I guess. Charlie once said the USA Today is wonderful: “I learn less than I knew before I picked it up.” Not so positive. …Brandy Marts is positively the new President of the Board of the North Beach Chamber of Commerce. She assures me there’s no truth to the rumor that one of the saints at Peter and Paul will be laid off during the recession. Well, someone’s gotta celebrate Mass at Gino & Carlo. … Speaking of saints, we send good wishes to Ray Piccinini, the celebrated waiter at The Stinking Rose on Columbus, who’s in Kaiser recovering from a kidney problem. Ray so dazzled King Abdullah II of Jordan, and Queen Raina one night at the restaurant, the royal couple invited Frank and his wife Pamela to the palace in Amman for a visit. Ray’s no stranger to hospitals. He’s been cheering up sick kids there for over 40 years. …

Actors Joe Bologna and Renée Taylor haven’t been able to get back to S.F. lately, mostly tied up with rebuilding their house in Beverly Hills. Joe, droll as ever, says, “We had an unlimited budget and we exceeded it.” … Norm Goldblatt, also an assiduous watcher of the economy in Silicon Valley: “Still bad down here,” says Norm. “Special at Outback Steakhouse? Sub-prime Rib. Don't order it. Too risky.” ...

Mary Travers died on Sept. 16 at the age of 72. Of course she was the Mary in Peter, Paul & Mary. Her parents were journalists, and organizers of the Newspaper Guild. I ran into Mary back in the 1990's at the dim sum place on Battery Street, Yank Sing. Appropriate name, now that I think about it. I chatted her up at the bar. I asked her how she and the group got its hands on an obscure Bob Dylan song called, "Too Much of Nothing." Mary told me it was a song that Dylan couldn't fit it onto one of his LPs. "Speaking of old times," said I, "I was just talking to Enrico Banducci at his restaurant up in North Beach a little while ago. I bet he'd love to see you."

You'll recall that Peter, Paul & Mary got a break by playing at the hungry i in San Francisco, owned by Enrico in the wee, small hours of the 1960's.

She scribbled a note on a cocktail napkin for me to carry to Banducci, thanking him for launching her career.

I said to Mary, "This would a whole lot better if you just carry the note yourself."

She replied, "I can't. Too many years have passed. I'm too embarrassed to face him now."

I dutifully carried the cocktail napkin back to Enrico's, gave it to Banducci. Naturally, he regarded me with disgust, and said, "You couldn't do better than this? How come she didn't come in person?"

Mary was a real sweetheart, there was an air of kindness & authenticity about her.

Peter Yarrow, the Peter in Peter, Paul & Mary, sent me an e-mail after Mary died.

"Contrasting with the times when we were at odds or 'figuring it out'," wrote Peter, "when those moments of beautiful flight of spirits joined on stage, particularly at benefits and marches, or even when we found that 'sweet spot' in our testing and debating our differing perspectives on issues, or the aesthetic value of a piece of music or art, the sense of the security of our 'family' was reasserted. Such moments kept us humble in our awareness of the great privilege of our association and, of course, kept us together."

50 years of singing, fighting for causes or fighting each other, yet staying together, that's quite a legacy, a very positive one. … Heigh-ho …

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s been wandering lately. Not so much a troglodyte – more of a Meanderthal. Get his attention at bruce@northsidesf.com



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In San Francisco, A Famous Watering Hole Celebrates 40 Years

About two-thousand revelers came out for a block party on Union Street -- between Laguna and Buchanan -- to celebrate 40 years of Perry's, the legendary saloon and restaurant, on a cool, sunny Sunday, Aug. 23.
Perry Butler, who has transformed his informal dining spot and popular watering hole into a franchise around the Bay, seemed to be enthralled by the turn-out.
The block was closed to traffic. Muni cooperated by running motorized buses on the 45-line to accommodate the celebrants. From a stage, music was provided by the jazz group California Honey Drops and The Sun Kings, a popular Beatles cover band.
"This is really terrific," Butler said to dozens of people as they grabbed his hand to offer congratulations. He seemed a little overwhelmed.
Cow Hollow was a sleepy little village when Butler opened Perry's in 1969, fashioned after P.J. Clarke's, the saloon on New York's East Side. Perry's soon altered the neighborhood, a loose collection of mom & pop groceries, a few drugstores, a hardware store or two, as it burgeoned into a hot single's spot with an urbane clientele. Perry's began to take on a life of its own. It created new life on the street. Much of the word was spread by stewardesses -- now called flight attendants -- who found Perry's to be a great place to unwind after the jets were cooled on the tarmac. Perry's became the place to go when in San Francisco.
"You should have been here in the old days," a seasoned vet of the Perry's 40-year experience said. "The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn't shown up yet. If you went home alone at the end of the night from Perry's, then something had to be really wrong with you."
Aside from the lusty single's scene, Perry's became a media hang-out, particularly for sports figures, and newspaper people. Herb Caen was often there, as was Charles McCabe. So was Ron Fimrite. Kevin Keating and Glenn Dorenbush made it their office. Scott Beach's stentorian voice was often heard booming at the bar. Johnny and Diane Weissmuller were convivial regulars.
"I first met Charles McCabe on a rainy night at Perry's," recalled Carole Vernier, Herb Caen's longtime assistant. "McCabe inadvertently stomped on my toes as he shambled out the front door. He broke my foot. It hurt like hell, but I was thrilled to meet him."
Ball players of every stripe would roll in. Chub Feeney, former president of baseball's National League, was a regular (his picture is still on the wall, along with a that of another regular, Hank Greenwald, who was a celebrity bartender on the two nights that led up to the street party). Other celebs behind the bar were Joe Montana, the Chronicle's Bruce Jenkins, Channel 2's Tom Vacar, former 49ers President Carmen Policy, and the unsinkable Willie Brown. Thing is, all bartenders at Perry's, whether former or current, are celebrities. Michael McCourt, Michael English, Paul McManus, Howie Mayser, Bob Tobias, Joe Nazzaro, Mike and Chris Fogarty, Billy and Tony Masarweh, and Kevin Young were among those in attendance.
"The party was an incredible success," said host Iain MacKinlay on Monday morning. "It was beyond our best expectations. And we're really feeling it today." It's hard to access just how many hamburgers were served in the restaurant. The dishwasher could not keep up, plastic cups of all sorts were soon brought out from the storeroom.
"There are people here today I haven't seen in years and years," said Ed Guelld, longtime San Francisco resident.
Indeed. Steve McPartlin, who used to be a Bay Area TV personality, winged in from Palm Beach, Fla. for the occasion.
"It's great to be here," he said, "but it saddens me to see so many businesses on Union Street shuttered. All the same, the turn-out of all these people today is really amazing."
There was a large coterie of old-timers in front of Perry's and inside the place, too, but the overwhelming numbers were comprised of younger people.
"This is a lot of fun," exclaimed Katie Johnson, a Cow Hollow resident in her 30s. "I feel like I'm part of the neighborhood. After all, everybody knows Perry's."
"Perry's means having a good time," gushed Dustin Moore. "I'll be coming here for the next forty years."
Why did Melissa Mahony go to the block party? "Why not?" she shrugged.
"I saw so many old-timers today, many of my old friends who opened Perry's," mused Elaine Robinson. "I saw a guy from way back who we used to call Buffalo. He told me he was in town for five days only. He said his liver wouldn't be able to take more than that." Buffalo? "Yes, in the old days, everyone had a nickname."
Ms. Robinson's nickname from the old days?
"I don't have to reveal everything," she said mysteriously. "Not even for old-times' sake."


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Bellingham by the Bay, for Northside San Francisco, September 2009

A couple of days before the "full-blown Irish wake" at the Washington Square Bar & Grill for the great writer Frank McCourt on Aug. 29, Frank's kid brother, Michael, who pours drinks at The Square, revealed a great accolade for his late brother. Frank died in N.Y. on July 19. "I'm not talking about the Pulitzer Prize or those other awards that Frank got," Mike said. "Get this. He was mentioned on The Simpsons. I really wish Frank had been able to see that. He would have been thrilled." That's the big one. On the show, Homer & his dad drink up a storm in a pub in Dublin then buy the tavern while awash in all sorts of liquid & Irish literary references. Getting a mention on The Simpsons? That's cool. It's really arriving while you're going. Frank always had style, coming or going. ... Also in the realm of immortality, someone exclaimed on Showtime's hit show, Weeds, "You're hotter than Gavin Newsom!" That's bound to garner a few more votes for the Gav. Yes, but remember: smoking is not permitted at the polling places. ...

At the Balboa Cafe, Judge Bill Newsom, the father of the next governor of California (yes, I think Gavin will pull it off) sat down with Carole Vernier & Diane Weissmuller to show pics of his trip to the nether regions of British Columbia. "We stopped off in Juneau to buy nine cases of wine, then flew 480 miles to the interior of B.C., one of the most beautiful places on the planet," said Bill. If you're 500 miles from civilization -- that is, away from a liquor store -- you have to be prepared. "There we were, several of us in the wilderness, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman comes out of nowhere, and demands to know if we paid a tariff on the wine. I said we had not. He then announced, and was pretty stern about it, that he had to confiscate the wine. I was speechless, and a little unnerved. Then I heard giggling from beyond the trees. The Mountie broke down, laughing, saying it was just a joke that he and his pals were playing. I still don't know where they came from, but we certainly were happy to share the wine with them." Yes, Judge Newsom had been punked by the Canadians. You know the old expression: a Mountie always gets his wine. ... Diane Weissmuller, the widow of Johnny, the son of Tarzan, also collects old sayings: "Johnny used to tell me that he was born with a silver knife in his back." Ah. Hooray for Hollywood. Speaking of Johnny Mercer, Turner Classic Movies will air what appears to be a great doc about Mercer, The Dream’s On Me, directed by Clint Eastwood, on Wed., Nov. 4, at 8 p.m. It features a few of my friends, Rod McKuen, Gene Lees, and Jonathan Schwartz. This is almost enough to move me to get cable, though my cardiologist ordered me never to watch Glenn Beck. Beck's Fox News on-air companion is often Kimberly Guilfoyle, who apparently took a sharp right turn in order to get to New York ... On the passing of the vituperative cable TV star/newspaper columnist Robert Novak, Charlie Mandel deadpanned, "Everything he ever said went under my head." ... They say Carly Fiorina doesn't bother to vote on Election Day. What's the big deal? Only the little people vote. ... How long will it be before the Board of Supes declare it "Squeaky Fromme Day" in S.F? ... The riveting Chiching Herlihy, longtime girlfriend of the brilliant Myles O’Reilly of North Beach pub fame, was in high dudgeon the other day. “Whatever happened to chop suey?” she demanded. Good question. It was invented in S.F. but seems to have gone the way of the Hangtown Fry, hang it all. The Hangtown Fry, invented during the Gold Rush is an omelette with oysters & bacon can be found only at three places on the planet: the Tadich Grill, Sam’s Grill on Belden Place & Brenda’s on Polk Street. Most of the gold can be found now in the pawn shops. “There are mysteries in the universe,” contends Deirdre Black, the Goddess of Galway, “such as why there seems to be an Irish pub near every funeral parlor.” …

You have to give Bill Maher credit for talking to Obama through The Huffington Post about the President's sudden interest in golf: "The only sand trap I want to see you get out of is Afghanistan."… Yes, our engagement there is a calamity in the works, doomed from the start. It's not quite like taking Kandahar from a baby. ...

Good on Perry Butler for the 40th anniversary of Perry’s on Union Street. “You shoulda been here in the 1960s,” an old-timer said to me at the bar. “The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn’t shown up yet.” Perry’s was a great gathering-place for “stews” in the old days, now known as flight attendants. Many of them lived downtown. That’s why, explains Carole Vernier, the catch-phrase of the 60s and early 70s was, “Are you married or do you live on Bush Street?” … Next door to Perry’s is the office of Sal Salma & Co., also celebrating 40 years in the Marina. Sal, a genial, safe-made man, owned the Marina Café on Lombard. He once held a “Calamari Festival.” I wrote a poem in honor of the occasion: “Would I be a quisling to a brisling if I professed a preference for squid?/Would I be a bounder to a finnan haddie or flounder, a rat to the sprat if I did?/Would I be forsaken by cod if I pledge my palate to calamari?/Rebuffed by beluga, the tuna, the tortuga, a heel to the sole? OK, OK, so I’m sorry.” … And we’ll leave it at that. …

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s currently working on a new book with the unworkable title of In the Realm of the Senseless. Please torment him at bruce@northsidesf.com



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The Final Word for San Francisco Northside, Sept. 2009

The other day Tom Ridge, former head of Homeland Security, admitted that he was under pressure by Republicans to manipulate the color-coded Terror Alerts in order to play politics with the 2004 presidential election. He says he did not acquiesce. Maybe he just stuck to his favorite colors. Or maybe his true colors. I go to San Francisco International Airport every month. I can tell you that the Terror Alerts have been at Level Orange for years. That means "high," a condition that limits coffee breaks for the legions of TSA workers at the airport when they're not taking away your might-have-been-explosive Ralph Lauren body lotion. I wonder what happens to all of that pricey cosmetic stuff that they seize at the airport. It must account for that sweet smell of security that lingers in the air.

Lots of things are arbitrary these days. How about the overworked term in broadcasting -- "breaking news"? When breaking stories break, what do they break? Hearts? Furniture? Fine china? New ground? Or just break wind? Just as capricious as the breeze. It seems breaking news can describe anything, from a back-up on the Bay Bridge to a catastrophe at the airport. That's when the media rush to find a grief counselor to put on the air. That's the heart-breaking news.

Curious career, grief counseling, no? Imagine the little tyke suddenly uttering at the kitchen table, "You know, Mom, Dad, I've been thinking about it. I really don't think I'm cut out to be an astronaut or a fireman or a surgeon or a hacker or even the President of the United States. I want to be a grief counselor! I'd get to be on TV a lot, too.”

Being a Sherpa guide in this treacherous world seems to be big business. Half of the people I see on Twitter are offering their service as "life coaches."Look at Jayson Blair, the most famous plagiarist at The New York Times. He's now a life coach in Virginia. And I thought they were all in Southern California. Maybe Jayson's trying to do something original for a change. No, being a life coach is not all that original, no matter where you are. Not so long ago, I encountered a woman who called herself a life coach. Surely she's on the Greyhound to Inner Growth. I’ll be in the back of the bus until I get off in Paso Robles. Inner Growth is on the itinerary for next year.

She explained to me, with all dead seriousness, "My work involves a muscular training of the mind and heart to get one in better shape for a direction in life."

There's nothing too original about that, either. The Jesuits have been doing that for centuries. Jesuits do it, even over-educated fleas do it. Speaking of Cole Porter, do you think he could find a rhyme for "Jesuit"? Something other than, "A Jesuit. No matter how you measu-it."

Now that Norm Howard has been retired from KQED-FM, he's looking for a new career. Life coaching is not out of the question. Norm’s starting with an advice column that might fit in well in Parade magazine called, “Too Much Self-Esteem? Try This Quiz.”

I always thought that there’s nothing really intrinsically bad about having self-esteem. I just tends to fall into the wrong hands.

I’m sure my life coach would object to a negative affirmation like that.



Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He loves hanging out at the airport. He doesn’t really go anywhere. He accompanies his girlfriend as she get on the plane to Los Angeles. Bellingham likes the transitory nature of the air terminal. Later, when he gets off the BART train at Powell Street in San Francisco, he invariably sighs, “Ah, it’s so good to be home again.” E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com



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The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August 2009

During the long, cold summer that San Francisco experiences, I'm reminded how this city is not like others. Though we're connected by peninsula to sunny San Mateo County, the disconnect to the rest of California is often evident. It's not the just the drizzle, and the fog of the summer months -- it's the culture, the politics, and the attitudes here. I sometimes wish we could disconnect ourselves from the attitudes here.
Years ago the BBC aired a documentary called San Francisco: The City That Waits To Die. It was about how San Franciscans oddly, perhaps thoughtlessly, continue to live atop the San Andreas Fault.
Every April 18, at 5:12 a.m., the time of the Great Quake, locals gather downtown at a fountain where an opera singer took money out of her pocket in the aftermath of the disaster to help the displaced.
The San Andreas, just off the coast, is under water, beyond the Golden Gate. I've looked for traces of that fault line many times. All I see are waves. I've been fishing for Pacific salmon off the coast; I've attended ceremonies on boats where people's ashes are cast to the wind. I've stood on the walkway of the Golden Gate Bride Bridge, and looked westward into the Pacific. The bridge itself, rusty red, is magnificent, holding mightily in the relentless gusts, like a great dance partner to hold onto when one feels unsteady after too much vin ordinaire.
I never liked dancing.
Silly me. I live in California -- land of faults, and no-fault divorces. Truth is, most of the rest of California despises us. Mostly because of politics. I gather the outsiders have a sense of moral indignation. Oh, right, that gay marriage thing. Isn't that ridiculous? Can you imagine how medieval it is to assess who may marry, and who may not? Let everyone marry: let God decide.
Many Americans are angry because it appears that we're having a better time than they have.
I once asked a priest what St. Francis of Assisi might say if he learned that San Francisco had been named in his honor.
"I don't know," the good father said sincerely, "whether St. Francis would laugh or cry."
Cities here, as well as the fault lines, are named after saints. I guess Saint Andreas is the patron saint of broken dishes. Fortunately, the San Andreas Fault sleeps a lot. I have to tell you, though. San Franciscans don't lose a lot of sleep over it.
George Will once asked me how I could live here, knowing an earthquake "could throw you and me out the window at any time." We were on the 32nd floor of a high-rise in San Francisco.
I responded, "Gee, George, I could move to Kansas, and die of boredom. That's just as inevitable."
He nodded knowingly, then quickly winged back to Washington, where a shake-up might be a good thing.
Mr. Will, strangely, did not ask me how I could live in a town infamous for the deification of Harvey Milk, for the protection of illegal immigrants, for the legalization of marijuana, support nuclear-free ice cubes, -- or for forgiving Karl Marx, Hugo Chavez, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro or any their perceived crimes in their past or in their future, specious as the prognosis may be.
Many of us came here to get away. The Puritans tried to get away from their European oppressors during the 17th They found their way to the eastern shores of America, no good restaurant in sight. Would Puritans like good cuisine anyway? Forget the vin ordinaire.
Centuries later, many young Americans, and Europeans, trundled themselves here to San Francisco by any method to get away from the Puritans.
Janis Joplin was one of them.
She found that not only was San Francisco was a great town, it was a community. Small enough to be a city, but not so small you couldn't call anyone a village idiot. As the Summer of Love burgeoned in 1967, village idiots were no longer a rare commodity. People still talk about how sweet Janis was. Careful. There are hazards here. One can be swallowed up in all the swallowing.
"I love this city," announced a young woman bartender in the Tenderloin. "It's a real city. I can walk around, I don't have to rent a car like L.A. I know where I'm going here, I don't need any GPS."
I have a feeling that people in San Francisco figure out why they're here. The earthquake twenty years ago was not a lot of fun, but most of us stayed to pick up the pieces.
I wandered up California Street this afternoon, top of Nob Hill. The hills are as high as the rents. I thought that it could be the windiest street in the world. Just a few blocks away, on Russian Hill, is Lombard Street. It's known at "the crookedest street in the world." And I thought that was Wall Street.
I get a certain glee on the faces of the tourists who are freezing in their seersucker suits in the July chill.
Is this a city that waits to die? Hardly. Why wait for anything? We can go for a walk, have breakfast, gaze at the water all around us. It's more like a city that's dying to live.

Bruce Bellingham is a columnist, and arts editor for this paper, and a writer for the Marina Times.

###

Bellingham by the Bay, Northside San Francisco, August 2009

There were some muted conversations on a Monday late last month as Washington Square Bar & Grill regulars sauntered to the bar to express their condolences to Michael McCourt for the death of his brother, famed author Frank McCourt, who wrote his first book, Angela's Ashes, at the age of 65, and quickly won a Pulitzer Prize. Frank died in New York on July 19. He was 78. Frank often visited the Washington Square where denizens always express their admiration and affection for him. He was the sweetest guy. Angela's Ashes (named for the McCourt's mum) is about growing up in gruesome poverty in Limerick, Ireland. "It was Calcutta with rain," Frank once said. "At least Calcutta is warm." The story is heartbreaking yet sometimes achingly funny.

Mike was at his post pouring drinks on Monday. He was at work partly because he wanted to talk about Frank. Mike recalled the time 60 Minutes sent all four McCourt Brothers to Limerick to revisit their hometown. "We had a great time frollicking in an old cemetery, so old that the bones rise to the surface of the ground." Some in Limerick still have a bone to pick with the McCourts, there’s resentment about Angela's Ashes, how it exposed some shameful cruelty from the natives. In New York one time, a Limerickian cursed at me for speaking highly of Frank. Not everyone likes to be reminded of their humble beginnings, nor hear jokes about it. "Never try to be subtle in a developing nation," Pete Hamill once said.

Valerie Pinkert was always charmed by the McCourt humor. Years ago, she told MIke she was going to New York. "Be sure to go to Angus McIndoe's restaurant on W. 42nd Street," Michael said. "Frank's often there." Mike gave her a note an envelope to hand to Frank when she got there. She did. Frank opened the envelope, and burst out laughing. It read: "This is one fine lady, but count the silverware before she leaves." ...



I picked up an old video copy of Hitchcock's The Birds at a sidewalk sale on Nob Hill. It's always fun to see movies that were shot in San Francisco. The Birds also made Bodega Bay famous. Stefano Cassolato, the energetic North Beach publicist, was visiting Bodega Bay not so long ago. To his surprise Tippi Hedren was in a book store signing some photos from The Birds (that was her first film). "It was amazing to see how people just flocked to her," Stefano quipped.

Tippi played Melanie Daniels in the Hitchcock classic, and yes, she's the mother of Melanie Griffith. The birds may have been pretty tough on Melanie Daniels, but Tippi found it in her heart to found the Shambala Preserve in SoCal in 1983. She still keeps about 70 beasts there, mostly too big, and way dangerous to keep around anybody's house. Tippi took in Anton LaVey's lion Togar after the SFPD told the founder of the Church of Satan that the cat had to go. The neighbors were nervous. Tippi also provides a home for two of Michael Jackson's tigers. ... Years ago I was told by someone in Hollywood who worked for producer/director Roland Emmerich that Michael Jackson constantly pestered Emmerich to cast him in a movie about King Tut, the Boy King. It seems Michael was already living the part. ...

Hitchcock was King of the Blondes – Tippi … Kim Novak … Eva Marie Saint … Grace Kelly. But Jenevieve Randall reports that there’s another King of the Blondes on Geary Street. He’s stylist Keith James. “We blondes who like to stay blonde swear by him,” says Jenevieve. … Hitchcock loved San Francisco. Carole Vernier recalls the time in the 1940s when Hitch and Louis Lurie sat in Jack's restaurant on Sacto St., trying to concoct a cure for a hangover. They came up with the mimosa -- champagne & orange juice. I know what you’re thinking: why ruin perfectly good champagne with orange juice? S.F. seems to be a nursery for original drinks. For the past seven years, Jack's has been Jeanty at Jack's. But sadly, Phillipe Jeanty has closed the place. ... The Post Street Theatre is also dark now. ... You may want to know that the mimosas are good at The Crepe House on Polk & Washington. Saad Natsheh will take care of you. They're also good at the Big 4 in the Huntington Hotel, too. What isn't? Might be nice to have a mimosa in their newly-restored Mulholland Suite which costs $1,200 per night. Yes, it's appointed with lots of leather by those legendary leather boys, the Mulholland Brothers ... More family matters: Morgan Hamm, who runs the deli at Nob Hill’s Le Beau market with partner Drew Stephenson, doesn’t look so worse for the wear. His business is in its infancy. So is his new daughter, born to Morgan & Jennifer on June 29. … David Kidd, who runs the You Say Tomato British food import shop on Calif. St., says the recession is having no real impact on him. “People need to buy food,” says David. “It’s necessary. This is not a wine bar.” You mean a wine bar is not necessary? … Peach & whisky chutney must be necessary. That’s what Alison McQuade has been making lately, working with volunteers to end world hunger. Check out feelgoodworld.org …

Father Floyd Lotito, the guiding force of St. Anthony Dining Room, died the other day. Not only was he renowned for his humanity, but he was very funny, too. Some people would be shocked by the priest’s gangsterisms, sounding more like The Sopranos than the sacristy. “I’m an Italian first,” Father Floyd would deadpan, “and a Catholic second.” …

Bruce Bellingham is the author of “Bellingham by the Bay,” and also writes for the Marina Times.

Room for Improvement -- San Francisco Marina Times, Sept. 2009

"When are you gonna start writing something good?" the blustery Irishman bellowed as he lumbered out of a Marina District saloon.
Yes, his remark was directed at me.
Thinking maybe he was kidding -- perhaps he was -- I simply smiled weakly, and said, "There's always room for improvement."
I say that in contrast to my nature. You see, underneath this all-too-sensitive skin, deep down, I think I'm just great. Deeper down, I don't believe that at all.
"If I had the kind of nerve that most people have," I once said to Dr. Dean Ornish, "I'd be somebody."
Predictably, he shot back, "Knock it off, Bruce. You ARE somebody."
I knew he'd say that. I was spearfishing for compliments.
What's a somebody, anyway?
In the magnificent 1936 movie, My Man Godfrey" -- written by Morrie Riskind & Eric Hatch -- Godfrey, the Harvard-educated butler played by William Powell, is accosted by the master of the house, Alexander Bullock, played by Eugene Pallette.
"Say," Bullock growls to Godfrey, "who are you, anyway?"
"I'm just a nobody," murmurs Godfrey.
We know better. Godfrey's not a nobody. The future of many people will hinge on his success. He may have once been a "Forgotten Man," down-and-out in the Depression, but we know, deep down, that nobody has to be a nobody. Not until they're willing to accept the role.
Nobodies are often somebodies, even if they no longer believe it. Whether I'm a nobody or a somebody, I rarely took criticism well. I'm better about it now, almost amused to hear people try to rattle me with snarky comments. You see, I'm a bit claustrophobic. If I can kick my ego out of the way on occasion, I can find some room for improvement in these close quarters.
In times like these, it easy to believe that we’re not as valuable as we thought we once were. With staggering job losses, terrifying uncertainties, and with the hemorrhaging of hope, anger has replaced what was once construed as confidence.
A friend of mine runs an office at a big company. She had to give an employee a performance review recently. In the course of the ordeal, my friend suggested that the employee work harder, try to make improvements to her lackluster efforts.
Shocked and defensive, the woman said, "No one has ever told me that I have to improve. I've never heard anything like that in my life."
That's funny. I hear it all the time. That's all right. To me, it means that perhaps I should try harder, should write better, should pay attention to the world a little more carefully. And not get upset about the cascade of critics that the world graciously provides. It means there still might be time to make things better. It's like getting another chance.
I mean, if I thought there was no more room in my life for improvement, then I would really be a nobody. And nobody really wants to be a nobody.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. If he can't be found at the No Name Bar in Sausalito, accompanied by nobody, you may reach him at his e-mail: bruce@northsidesf.com

###

The Summer of Our Disconnect

Fat, we are, reminded once again, is bad for us. Not surprisingly, a new study shows that Americans eat far too much fat and it's a major cause of the myriad medical maladies that people suffer these days, mostly heart disease and cancer.
Fat is now considered the universal enemy of the human body, although it's been pretty good for Dr. Dean Ornish, who has several best-sellers about the dangers of consuming the flesh of animals, and the attendant "bad" cholesterol.
In the old days, fat wasn't so bad. The table wasn't complete without a stick of butter. Bacon fat was saved and stored in the fridge for reuse.
When I was a kid, we used to give greasy food to the dog because "it was good for his coat." But even at an early age I knew it wasn't good for my coat. I learned that after being punished for hiding fried onion rings in the pocket of the new blazer that I got for Easter.
The only thing worse for your heart than fat is the stress generated by reading the relentless news reports about how just about everything we eat kills us. Chinese food, Mexican food, popcorn, hot dogs and margarine - all deemed deadly.
But let's face it. Is anyone really surprised? Not even the bravest knosher really thinks he is going to get away with eating hot dogs on a regular basis without a metabolic penalty.
People who buy loge seats at the movies and insist on having popcorn drenched in hollandaise sauce know they're risking myocardial infarction even before the feature begins.
Chinese food was simply too good to be true.
The dangers of margarine are only a cruel joke on those who believed there was a substitute for butter. It turns out they would have been better off smearing Crisco on pieces of bread.
"Everything your parents told you was good for you turned out to be bad for you," says Woody Allen. "Milk, red meat, college."
I'm still stunned to learn that bran muffins are suppose to be bad for you. Big muffins, all bulbous and browned - resembling a mushroom picked at Chernobyl - that taste like furniture stuffing, mixed with mucilage and covered with a sweetened lacquer are as treacherous as a king cobra. The muffins have as much fat, it seems, as five McDonald's hamburgers.
Cruel, isn't it? This alleged cholesterol-lowering ballast turns out to be artery-blocking sludge, pulmonary paraffin, concrete in the capillaries. Wham, bam, thank you, bran.
I confess I'm old enough to recall when sunlight was suppose to be good for you. Remember the advertising slogan, "Sunshine Vitamin D"? Now we know "D" stands for "deadly."
Exposure to sunshine now falls in a nefarious category with botched breast implants, flesh-eating bugs, Eboli, E-coli, pets with plague, lead laden emissions, seeping selenium and Reality TV.
Experts warn, cheerfully, that most of the damage from the sun already has been done -- all before we reach the age of 14.
Now I might be in some cardiovascular peril due to a childhood fueled by french fries and doughnuts, but I must say it isn't likely I will suffer the effects of ultraviolet exposure. And I owe it all to horror movies.
As summer draws to a close, I think back on wondrous dark days as a youngster at my grandmother's house.
With the shades drawn to keep out the garish sun, I'd watch sci-fi and horror films on TV all afternoon. It was my education in classic creep show -- "Dracula," "The Wolf Man," and "The Mummy."
My brothers played ball in the sandlot by the river. But I was fat and pale and only enthusiastic about wrapping my face in my grandfather's Ace bandages that smelled like Absorbine Jr.
With hat and sunglasses, I could look pretty much like Claude Rains in "The Invisible Man."
"You're going to have nightmares," my grandmother would warn me. But I never did--not until I saw "On the Beach" -- the parable of worldwide nuclear annihilation. That movie was too real, too believable, and I had bad dreams for weeks. (To this day, I get the chills when I see a nuclear submarine come into the Bay under the Golden Gate Bridge--just like in the film.)
One day, my brothers discovered a new activity, to ride their bicycles behind a converted fire engine that sprayed mosquitoes with DDT. It belched great white clouds of pesticide, and they said it was great fun to fall behind on bikes and get lost in the weird smoke.
That got me out of the house like a shot. When the red roadster rolled around each day at dusk, I was there with a mob of neighborhood kids, breathing it all in, eyes running with copious tears of chemical irritation. Now, that's what I call fun.
Over the years, I've wondered what this may have done to my brothers and me. Perhaps I should donate my body to Union Carbide.
*****
When I think of summer days at the Jersey shore, I think of Midnight. Every lad and lassie should have a rabbit.
Mine was Midnight, jet black--not a trace of white or brown. All black. That was unusual, I heard my parents say. But I knew Midnight was special anyway.
He (or she) would go with me to school--I was in first grade-- and Midnight was a big hit. Pictures were displayed on the walls and a biography was prepared by the children. The bunny made me a bit of a celebrity, too, and I liked that.
"You and me, Smid," I'd say to the famous-in-the-classroom black rabbit, "we're going places."
Like most performing artists, Midnight had some bad habits.
He (let's just settle on "he") would like to nosh on my mother's new green carpet and leave little holes in it. Perhaps it resembled a lawn. Ruining the new carpet is about the worst thing you can do to a suburban housewife.
For this, Midnight was remanded to the downstairs recreation room during the nights--and kept out of the house during the days.
Heating can cost a fortune on the East Coast so the door to the rec room remained closed and the heat was turned off in the basement, where Midnight was kept. One night, one of those famous frosts came early. I dashed downstairs to find Midnight on the cold floor, stiff as a board. I mean stiff. You could have picked up the poor rigid beast and used him for a cricket mallet. If you dropped him, I fear he'd shatter.
I was hysterical. I accused my mother of lepus-ide. But wise woman she was, she got a heating pad. Within an hour, the rabbit was completely restored to life, with no apparent damage incurred by his cryonic experience.
But, ironically, it wasn't the cold that was Midnight's downfall--it was the heat.
Midnight loved my mother. He'd follow her all over the back yard as she'd hang up the wash. If she took a step, he'd take a step, just a few paces behind her. It was remarkable to watch.
The New Jersey summers can be as brutal as the winters. On a particularly sweltering afternoon, my mom was out in the yard with Midnight. One moment he was keeping up with her. In the next, old Smid was stretched out peacefully in the grass--for good.
With his black fur, the poor thing was exceptionally vulnerable to heat stroke.
My mother sobbed to my father on the phone while he was at work. She couldn't get the words out.
"What is it?" he asked, alarmed, of course. "Is it one of the kids?"
"No, no," mom wailed. "It's the rabbit! Midnight is dead."
"Oh," my father replied grimly. "I guess we'll have to tell Bruce."
And so, still at the Jersey Shore with my brothers, I was informed of the passing of Midnight, the famed black rabbitt, who gave me my first brush with show business, my first encounter with animal resuscitation, and my first experience with things that die.
We buried Midnight under the sycamore tree. That way he got plenty of shade.

Years later, when my older brother, Jack, returned from college on the summer break, he brought a rabbit with him. He called him Nigel.
I only mention this because Nigel, too, ended up having an out-of-body, near-death, experience. But this wasn't caused by the cold.
Nigel--like all rabbits--was fascinated by green things. He managed to get into my brother's suitcase, and eat all of his high-octane marijuana that Jack had brought back from Oklahoma. Yes, Nigel gobbled up the entire ounce or two of the Shawnee Wowee or whatever it was.
The rabbit remained unconscious for a few days. He finally awoke and, boy -- was he hungry.
It was all we could do to keep him away from my mother's green carpet.

###

a piece from the archive, ten years on now, it's still "happiness is just a cup of joe" ..

Norm Howard was listening to KCBS, caught a bit of the debate over the now ill-footed, I mean ill-fated, plan to erect an 18-foot-tall sculpture of a human foot at the foot of Mission Street, near San Francisco's famed Ferry Building.
Says Norm, "A very intense woman explained that she was opposed to the sculpture on the grounds that it very obviously depicted a 'male, Caucasian foot.'"
How she could discern this from a stainless steel structure, I have no idea.
At any rate, the Board of Supervisors, caught in a toe jam, got cold feet and es-shoed the $500,000 project.
If anyone wondered if San Francisco suffers from chronic provincialism, then one need not look further than seeing how Oprah Winfrey got two parking tickets during a visit here last week -- making front page news.
The real item, of course, is how she summarily handed the tickets over to Willie Brown so he could "fix" them. But City Hall says the mayor does not use his office to "fix" tickets, he simply pays them. Sure, he can afford it, but Oprah might have spent a little of her lunch money on purchasing a one-day parking amnesty for the whole city. Now, that would have been classy.
Deb Jarrett, who works in the Marina, has been touched by the pungent scent of politics: "I was in an elevator with Mayor Brown the other day," reports Deb. "I swear he smelled like a French whorehouse."
Goes to show that some things do, after all, stick to Teflon Willie.
Nice line from Coppola's "Godfather III," on the telly this week. Al Pacino, as Michael Corleone, mutters, "Politics and crime. They're the same thing."
Paleotologists, digging in Ethiopia, have found what could be evidence of the "missing link" between monkeys and mankind.
Researchers in the region reportedly discovered the rusty remains of a Thighmaster among fossils of ancient apes. "As for the cell phone," explained a flustered Dr. Anthony Farouche, "one of us may have dropped it there."
As a skeptic, I know that coffee was discovered in Ethiopia when herders noticed the goats were staying up all night after chewing on the coffee plants. Maybe the remains of these subhumans are really people who couldn't get their hands on any caffeine. I mean, who's really human until we get that first cup of coffee? Well, it's just a thought.
Ulrica Hume has a nice, new book out, "San Francisco in a Teacup," about where to find a nice place that serves a nice afternoon tea -- or tea anytime.
Bob Hope talks about one of the secrets of his longevity, "When I was touring in vaudeville, I never would go to the greasy spoons to eat -- it was always tea rooms."
Old ski-nose saw many a performer turned into a colonic casualty from eating in those domains of ptomaine.
The inimitable Dave Burgin, formerly the editor of the San Francisco Examiner, the Oakland Tribune, the Atlanta Constitution and innumerable other dailies, has re-emerged as editor/publisher at Woodford Publications, a SF-based house that's handling Barnaby Conrad's excellently grand art book on John Register and Hank Greenwald's autobiography. Hank was the voice of the San Francisco Giants ball club
The Greenwald memoir made the front page this week after the Giants organization took umbrage over some of Hank's disparaging comments about the team.
Burgin says he just doesn't understand why the Giants would ban the book from their Dugout stores. "Can you imagine?" Dave writes. "Killing 500 copies of Hank's book in the Dugout stores, then accusing us of 'just trying to sell books.' Unclear on the concept."
All in all, it spells hefty publicity for the book. That's a topic Dave handles brilliantly. He very nearly orchestrated Herb Caen's defection from the Chronicle to the Examiner back in the 1980s -- but some in-house politics nixed the deal. Sure would have changed the landscape of the newspaper business here.
Yes, old-timers will recall that Caen left the Chron and worked at the Ex for eight years, back in the 1950s.
NATO looks awfully silly as it puts on its 50th birthday party while this agency of European stability plans a ground war in Yugoslavia.
Organizers downplayed the festiviities. The cork was kept in the Dom Perignon while delegates secretly sipped the Sterno located under the hot hors d'oevres.
Yes, the occasion was a grim one but let's look on the bright side: they won't have to have another one for another 50 years -- or never -- whichever comes first.
Well, have a swell weekend. If you plan to see a movie, check out "Lost & Found," with David Spade. New York Times critic Stephen Holden calls it "a rancid, little nothing of a movie." A deadly ringing endorsement.


Cheers from the City by the Bay -- Bellingham, April 23, 1999

Elegy for the Tragically Unhip

When I got a rejection slip from a trendy, au courant magazine the other day, I immediately went off to see my friend Anne Masarweh, whom I often consult on matters of coolness, hipness and other vagaries of fashion.
Anne knows these things. After all, she runs a hip, cool clothing store on San Francisco's Grant Avenue called wearEver. Clever name. Whatever. As you walk in the door, you find a conspicuous display of the latest issue of Details magazine, that arbiter of what's cool, the oracle of 20-something style.
"You're just not weird enough," Anne said as she handed the thank-you-but-no-thanks letter back to me.
Ms. Masarweh is a little unusual in the sense that she's always kind, and certainly diplomatic.
But I knew the truth. She didn't have to spell it out for me. I just don't have the quality that is necessary to be part of contemporary culture. It's called "attitude."
Attitude is the key these days. I know I'm getting old because I can remember when you needed an adjective before the word to convey its meaning, that is, "good attitude" and "bad attitude." Plenty of times, in my shoddy youth, I was chided by one authority or another with, "You have a bad attitude, Bruce."
This assessment was always accompanied by a warning, such as, "You're going to walk a straight line from now on" or "Better turn over a new leaf" and that sort of thing. That's when a bad attitude was generally accepted as a bad thing -- insubordinate, intemperate, and incorrigible.
Of course, I used to think anarchy was pretty romantic, too. That was before we actually had it. Anarchy is no longer romantic because it is the commonplace. It fell into the wrong hands: everybody's.
Today's attitude is a mixture of anarchy, and narcissism. The anarchy comes from the stunning lowering of standards. The narcissism comes from the justification that "we don't know anything and we don't have to know anything. That's good enough for us."
It has crept into the culture. The new radio station calls itself "radio with attitude." What does that mean? It means that the talent on the air has nothing worth listening to, so the host resorts to shouting. Often it's an attack on safe targets like old white guys. That's attitude from the left. The right wing also has discovered attitude. Rush Limbaugh's search-and-destroy skill on the airwaves made a difference in the political playground.
It's style over truth. Republicans even played one-upmanship with feminists and borrowed their term "empowerment" to name their GOP channel on cable, National Empowerment Television. That's attitude.
It has crept into sports with the "I don't need to be a role model" sort of thing and the celebrating that goes on when a player scores while his team trails hopelessly by four touchdowns.
It has crept into advertising, where the California lottery ads boast that getting a winning ticket is like taking credit for someone else's joke (I'm a little touchy about that) or brings one all the exhilaration of "using a postage stamp all over again."
The message is that getting away with something, at the expense of someone else, is the key to success.
Attitude is thriving in American politics. A legislator on Capitol Hill calls the president of the United States, a "scumbag." And the man who occupies 1600 Pennsylvania has trouble telling the truth -- even with cue cards.
Yes, life is difficult, but it doesn't have to be uncivil.
Of course, if M. Scott Peck tried to publish his "The Road Less Traveled" today, the first line, "Life is difficult..." would probably be changed to "Life really sucks, man ..."
It's sad to see people with class and elegance pushed aside.
On C-SPAN, I saw a group of old white guys paying tribute to Charles Kuralt, not long before he died.
Kuralt was roasted by Ed Yoder, Calvin Trillin, Andy Rooney, and Bill Moyers. Just a bunch of tired old codgers wallowing about in civility and eloquence.
"There's something to be said for plainness," Kuralt once wrote.
"And I might add," Moyers continued, "there's something to be said for grace, humility, and humor in a medium growing crude, trivial, and tabloid before our very eyes. Something to be said as well for Penstaff's Gas Station and Poem Factory, for chats with Wahoo McDaniel and Tiger Olsen, and stories of lumberjacks and gandy-dancers, and beer can collectors. Something to be said for news of maple leaves turning and wild mustangs running, and magpies taking to the wing. Something to be said for saluting the minds of the scientist, the soul of the poet, the sound of the flute, and the faith of the believer's heart.
"Something to be said of victimless wit and wisdom that is humble. And something to be said for words, clear words and honest, that get it just right. Something to be said for being reminded that the ordinary endures and is good, and is us."
There's also something to be said for saying something.
Oh, well. I guess Anne is right: I shouldn't worry about the editors at the hip mag, bless their pop culture, pea-picking, post-pubescent hearts.
Besides, one of these days Gwyneth Paltrow's going to be on the cover of Modern Maturity. You wait and see. She's already hip to that.

###

A Cascade of Celebrity Deaths

I would have written sooner, people, but I've been busy making a deal with Mrs. Bernie Madoff ... then I got distracted by Twitter. Isn't Twitter great? I just got a message that reads, "Breakup sucks dick." I don't think I can keep up with that level of eloquence.
Then there are all the obligatory Michael Jackson stories. Another distraction. Why do some of us think that celebrities are immune to mortality anyway? I guess it's because we think that they are a little larger than life.
As was sweet Farrah Fawcett. She did more for the calendar business than Julius Caesar. Farrah was the 1970s -- full of fun, frippery, and flirting. She was the girl next door -- the one who just might let you climb through her bedroom window, if the mood suited her. A symbol of American innocence, she was the girfriend every schoolboy could wish to have. Maybe that's why she fought so hard later to be taken seriously.
If I'd known that Gale Storm lived here in the Bay Area, I might have been tempted to visit her in the convalescent home in Danville. She was 87 when she died this weekend. I recall that as her star faded in the 1960s, she bravely did PSA's on TV about her alcoholism. That takes guts. It shocked a lot of people to see the funny star of "My Little Margie" suddenly being deadly serious, bringing up a topic that makes many queasy. People quietly put down their Tom Collinses on their TV trays for a good three minutes.
Yes, I'm old enough to remember "My Little Margie," one of the few TV shows that was actually named after a song. By the way, Ray Charles did a wonderful version of the tune back in the 1960s.
I always loved Fred Travalena, always marveled at his good-natured way of impersonating show biz icons. He was only 66 when he died in Encino on Sunday.
Death of a Salesman: It's being suggested that a slight blow to the head on an airplane ride may have contributed to the death of the great TV pitchman Billy Mays, who could sell sand to the Bedouins.
A tough weekend to die if you're a celebrity. Not much airtime or space for anything but Michael Jackson. A shame we can't see Billy Mays sell Demerol to Gale Storm on the television in the middle of the night as Fred Travalena does the Moonwalk.

Mr. B

An Inconvenient Lack of Truth

In late June the students, and faculty at San Francisco's Academy of Art University held a vigil to encourage the North Korean government to release two San Francisco-based journalists who are being held in prison there. You've been hearing and reading about them. The two women, Laura Ling, and Euna Lee, work for Current TV, which has its headquarters down by the ball park. Euna graduated the Academy of Arts University on 2001 with a bachelor of arts degree. These reporters are really adopted hometown gals, and merit support from all of us as San Francisco citizens.
But that doesn't mean that key players in this mess should start getting on the air, and on the blogs to rail against the people in power in Pyongyang. Not yet.
Al Gore, the co-founder of Current TV, is taking a lot of heat for not being more outspoken about the women's incarceration. They were sentenced to 12 years at hard labor for illegally sneaking into the country, and committing "grave crimes" against North Korea. That's a real reporter for you. Most people in North Korea would like to sneak out of the country. A journalist has to finagle a way to get into it. My definition of a reporter is someone who goes out into the rain without an umbrella just to be able to impart what it's like to get wet.
Vice-president Gore is doing the right thing for being circumspect, and not giving interviews about the matter, which is grimly complicated by North Korea's threats to continue nuclear weapons tests, and promises to fire missiles in the direction of Hawaii. Gore has also directed his Current TV staffers not to discuss the case of Euna Lee, and Laura Ling. They have wisely agreed. It's perfectly appropriate for the families of these two women to make public statements. The two husbands of the imprisoned women appeared at the Academy of Art U.'s rally downtown on Post St. This is their certainly their business. Laura's more famous sister, Lisa Ling, apologized earlier to the North Koreans for whatever her sister, and Ms. Lee had done, insisting they hadn't intended any harm. Lisa's language was careful, contrite. She's nobody's fool, though her kid sister may have acted a bit foolishly.
It's a tough premise to demand forgiveness from others. It doesn't work. Lisa Ling understands that, Al Gore knows it, too. It's takes time to allow someone to change his or her mind or allow providence to prevail. One example of this is the case of New York Times reporter David Rohde, who, after seven months, escaped his Taliban captors in Pakistan. The Times had kept the story under wraps, curtailing coverage about Rohde's kidnapping, which took place in Afghanistan. A little bribery may have played a role in his escape, but a big ransom, it seems, was not paid. An armed assault was considered, but then reconsidered. It looks like patience, and restraint may have worked. The rules of the game are changing in this world. Wait a minute. What rules? There is none. The Iranians freed American journalist Roxana Saberi after a lot of publicity was generated. But the North Koreans are not the Iranians. Nor are they the Taliban.
Bill Keller, the executive editor of the N.Y. Times, said, "I was relieved when I talked to David and he said, 'By the way, thank you for not making a public event out of this. We heard the people who kidnapped me were obsessed with my value in the marketplace. If there were a lot of news stories, they would have held me much tighter."
When considering Al Gore, one cannot imagine a more different vice-president than Dick Cheney.
I think it's fair to say that Dick Cheney forgot more than we'll ever know -- about Dick Cheney. I'd like to forget more about Dick Cheney, but he simply won't let anyone forget him just yet. Here's a man who has no sense of the value of remaining quiet. I'm fascinated to learn that his memoir will be released in the spring of 2011 by Simon & Schuster. Don't be surprised to see much of it redacted -- and much of it stolen by Elizabeth Hasselbeck. There's no word on what the title may be for the Cheney memoir. I suggest Disclosures From An Undisclosed Location or ... An Inconvenient Non-Truth.
Ah, but there are times when I certainly wished I'd kept my mouth shut, and let things progress in their own way for awhile. Much trouble could have been avoided, much pain might not have been inflicted.
There's a premium in holding one's tongue sometimes. When I was young and foolish, I'd try to hold other people's tongues, but that got rather messy, and awkward. I hope there's a lesson in all of this. But I doubt if I'd learn it anyway. I'm holding my tongue.

Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Northside, and the author of Bellingham by the Bay. Castigate him, nay, give him a tongue-lashing at bruce@northsidesf.com


###

David Gockley, San Francisco Opera's Boss, Looks Back at a Dazzling Summer Season

As the San Francisco Opera's Summer Season draws to a close, it's being heralded as one of the most successful runs on record for the company.

One of the highlights was the simulcast of Puccini's Tosca at AT&T Park. It drew 27,000 people on June 5. That's four-thousand more than last year's event at the ball park. Beer, hot dogs and arias are compatible after all. Back at the Opera House, there was a mad rush for tickets to all three productions. Tosca, with wonderfully tight, well-crafted performances, and La Traviata, with Anna Netrebko, the most famous soprano in the world, were on their way to being completely sold-out at this writing. Porgy and Bess was a sell-out from the day the box office opened. Tickets were reportedly being scalped at $600.

Back at the Opera House, the ball park crowd was part of the performance. People stood in the house and in the stadium to sing the national anthem.

“Say, there are some pretty good voices here tonight,” marveled the S.F. Opera’s Julia Inouye.

David Gockley, the Opera’s General Director, took the stage and exclaimed, “Play opera!” And the game, according to Puccini, began.

It's Porgy and Bess that holds a special place in Gockley’s heart. The Northside sat down with him to talk about this phenomenally American masterpiece.

Northside: When you were running the Houston Grand Opera, you staged Porgy and Bess as a real opera for the first time. Then you took the show on the road. That's now part of opera history. (The production won Gockley a Tony Award and a Grammy back in 1977). That was the first time you brought Porgy to San Francisco, right?

Gockley: Yes, the point is that we always tried to keep the costs down, working out of Houston, it worked well in smaller, commercial houses, like the Golden Gate Theatre or the Orpheum. But when we later brought that small company to the Opera House, the production was dwarfed. That was also a summer season, directed by Lotfi Mansouri. I remember being frustrated by it. Should we amplify? Should we take take the chorus downstage? But this year, we have fifty choristers, a full orchestra. It's the first time under my aegis there's been a fully operatically-scaled production. But it's a regular opera. We're not trying to double-cast. We have our Porgy, we have our Bess. It's not something being exploited because it has popular songs in it.

Northside: There are those who have complained for years that Gershwin's opera was never taken seriously enough as an opera.

Gockley: What we did was add back the recitative, we added back some music numbers because it had devolved by hat time into a musical with dialogue connecting the music numbers. There was no Buzzard Song, there was no Jazzbo Brown and so on. I think it devolved out of a tour that went to Russia under the stage direction of someone named Ella Gerber. She was the only stage director authorized to direct it. You had to hire Ella Gerber. She had her own musical comedy version of it.

Northside: The Gershwn Estate has complete control over all this, yes? Is that the Strunsky Family here in San Francisco?

Gockley: Yes, the Gershwin Estate does have control. The Strunskys represent the Ira Gershwin side. There's also a group that represents the George side. They were eager to license the piece as much as possible. I guess it was easier to license to a cut-down version than a full opera. The first hurdle we had was to get Jack O'Brien engaged as director. We had to start from scratch. (O'Brien has won three Tony Awards, nominated for seven more, and won five Drama Desk Awards.)

Northside: Where do you find the parts of the opera that have been set aside for years?

Gockley: The person who did a lot of that detail work is John DeMain, who is here. (He served as Music Director and Principal Conductor for the Houston Grand Opera for eighteen years.) He was the conductor on the 1976 version in Houston. I think he went to the Library of Congress where a lot of Gershwin materials are stored.

Northside: You hired the great Anna Netrebko to sing in La Traviata this season. Do you have to sacrifice a part of your budget in order to acquire a superstar like that?

Gockley: We stick to a top fee. The gossip is that it's $15,000 per performance. To go back to Lily Pons in the 1940s, she was getting 5-thousand then. And Merola was paying it. It's interesting that the singers of that era got much more of a percentage of the budget than they do today -- with the unionized orchestras, the unionized stagehands, the choruses, the extensiveness of the physical productions and all that now. They (the star singers) get paid more when they do a concert. A typical Renée Fleming concert fee -- especially in Europe where she's more of a box office draw than she is here -- and, according to gossip, is more like $75,000. So doing a string of concerts is much more lucrative. We have to go up against that when we're trying to get people to be here for five weeks to do seven performances. Five weeks, seven performances. Seven times fifteen. Do the math.

Northside: What are you working on next? How far do you have to plan in advance?

Gockley: Well, yesterday we were talking about the 2015 season.

Northside: Really? How optimistic.

Gockley: We were talking about Meistersinger, we were talking about Trojans, we were talking Die Frau Ohne Schatten, we were also talking about the more popular pieces. We're considering new commissions. We announced three new commissions in January, and they are chugging along.

Northside: Do you worry about the composers of new works not being able to make their deadlines? Does that sort of thing keep you awake at night?

Gockley: The aches and pains of being my age are the things that keep me awake at night. I don't worry too much. I just get up, do my best.

Northside: Did you ever have a career disaster, one that still hurts to this day?

Gockley: Yes, I suppose I have. A Quiet Place by Leonard Bernstein. A wouldn't call it an out-and-out disaster -- more of a stinging disappointment. It's a serious, worthy piece. As you know, Michael Tilson Thomas does a part of it in his opening concert every year at Carnegie Hall. But it was not what the Houston public was looking for, the ones who love West Side Story. You see, the first line of A Quiet Place is "Merry Christmas to you, too, asshole."

Northside: Not so quiet. And it's downhill from there, right? Is Candide also pushing the audience too much?

Gockley: Candide, yes, we did that. It didn't make much of an impression. It was when we were still in a three-thousand seat, old, multi-purpose theater in Houston. We didn't have any real big personality people in it. I wouldn't call it a chamber opera but I'd call it it, you know, for a theater with 12-hundred or a thousand seats. Other than that, it just did not have an impact.

Northside: I attended a kick-off, if you will, for the upcoming Opera Ball. (It's the major fundraiser for the Opera's Education Program for the public schools.) Is that the sort of thing that could alienate people during this dreary economic slump?

Gockley: Our purpose in having that event was to remind people that there's a very positive outcome of the Opera Ball, whether it being good times, or very, very challenging times. One might ask, 'Why have something this frivolous as a society Opera Ball?' Well, it's because people come out, put on their dresses, spend that kind of money, and have all that good food because it raises 800-thousand to a million-dollars that is spent exclusively on education.





####

Bellingham by the Bay, San Francisco Northside, July 2009

Walter Cronkite has been in the news, but, as of this writing Uncle Walter -- the most trusted man in America before Homer Simpson came along -- seemed to be doing all right up there in Cape Cod. When I think of Walter Cronkite, I think of his appearance at Herb Caen Day on June 14, 1996. On Channel 5, Marcia Brandwynne asked me why Walter was there. "Cronkite & Herb go back to WW II when they met in London; Walter was working for what was then called United Press, before it was UPI. Herb was there for the Chronicle." Then Cronkite explained the whole story to the crowd. I was relieved I'd gotten it all right. He marveled about how a whole city could turn out to honor a columnist: "San Francisco didn't need Herb Caen to bring it fame, but he put a frame around its gorgeous and glorious image." When I think of Walter Cronkite, I think about the time he talked to Michael Dixon and me about his book on sailing. I also think about how my lust for spare ribs & champagne on my 12th birthday kept me home sick from grade school the next day. That's how, on Nov. 22, 1963, I watched Walter Cronkite, without his jacket on, break into As the World Turns on CBS live, & announce the shooting of JFK in Dallas. I owe that witness to history to my mother's indulgence & to my youthful penchant for pork & bubbly. "The road to excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom," wrote the poet. I wonder. ...

More carnal knowledge: Morgan Hamm & Drew Stevenson, who run the deli in Nob Hill's Le Beau Grocery on Clay & Leavenworth, famed for their Friday Fried Chicken, have become local stars. The gals gush over them, the guys hover about to pose probing questions about Thuringer & other meaty matters. My grandmother used to say, "Lips that have touched head cheese shall never touch mine." She had that message embroidered in a frame, hanging in the kitchen. Nah, Nana never said that. Sorry. Now I owe an apology to animal rights advocates for freely discussing all this anti-veggie behavior. But, PETA, let me ask you: Do you really want a president who wouldn't harm a fly? ...

After 35 years or so, Van Morrison, who's been living in Ireland & England, is moving back to the Bay Area, Mill Valley, actually, where his daughter, songstress Shana, lives. She acquired her musical education in her grandparents record store in Fairfax. "Van wants to lie low and cool out for three or four years," says his old friend, Myles O'Reilly. "Mill Valley is the right place to do it." In the old days, Van & his band used to show up unannounced at small clubs all over Marin & San Francisco. Of course, most of those clubs, such as, The Lion's Share, Keystone Korner & The Boarding House, are gone now. For the first time in 13 years, Myles did not have a Bloomsday celebration last month at his pub & restaurant at 622 Green St. "We thought we'd give it a rest this year," says his companion, Chiching Herlihy. No worries. James Joyce is always in attendance in the pub -- in the mural with the other Irish writers on the wall. Every day is Bloomsday at O'Reilly's. ...


A big turnout at the Washington Square Bar & Grill on June 20 to honor Linda Fimrite, who was the popular hostess there for six years. Linda, who was married to the wonderful writer, Ron Fimrite, had been fighting cancer. She died on May 26 at the age of 72. She was famous and loved by many through her years as a painter, a publicist & a political consultant. Linda loved to tell stories about her time working on Sen. Eugene McCarthy's presidential campaign in 1968. Linda also worked on John Tunney's U.S. Senate campaign. She also didn't mind saying that she delighted in seeing herself described as "the gorgeous Linda Fimrite" by P.J. Corkery and, later, in my column in the Examiner. It became a bit of a tradition. Linda Fimrite was indeed gorgeous, both inside & out. ... Another loss to the neighborhood: Two hundred people crowded into MoMo's near the ball park on June 11 to bid a farewell to Leslie Asche, the irrepressible server at Momo's & the Washington Square Bar & Grill. Leslie, a voracious reader & astute interpreter of human nature, died on May 1 after a brief illness at the age of 62. No quicker nor saltier wit than Leslie's. It was a bit unsettling when Jim Schock, the author & broadcaster, suffered a seizure at the bar during the wake for Leslie, and had to be trundled away by ambulance. But Jim's all right. The doctors declared his condition as indefatigable & sent him home. ... Speaking of ambulances, Oscar Levant's favorite conveyance, among the fees that are skyrocketing in order to live in San Francisco is the fare for riding in a city ambulance. It will rise from about $1000 to $1500. That's one-way. I might have to go back to taking taxicabs. ...

The veteran actress Diane Baker, who’s in charge of the acting department at the Academy of Art University, is promoting the 50th Anniversary DVD Edition of The Diary of Anne Frank. Ms. Baker played Anne’s sister, Margot, when Ms. Baker was 19 years old. “Please don’t tell me that movie was made fifty years ago,” laments Carole Vernier. “I can vividly remember seeing the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam when I was a kid.” I guess it’s best we not forget. … "I'm not going to let Doctor Sorrow operate on me today," avows Sharon Anderson. “I wish I'd said it, but Tom Waits did. He said everything good that Bob Dylan didn't.” … Perry’s on Union St. is observing its 40th anniversary this year. Dr. Harvey Caplan, a Perry’s regular, just observed his 70th anniversary. Harvey’s a rare fellow -- a scholar, a musician, and a very convivial, compassionate physician. No Doctor Sorrow is he. … Stu Smith describes Connie Champagne as "San Francisco musical royalty." She's to be forgiven for living in Los Angeles. She's still part of the local fabric of this town. And such fabric, I'm tellin ya, dollink, just touch it. Connie sings Judy Garland better than Judy Garland. Connie's back in town, boys, performing Songs to Make You Gay at the New Conservatory Theatre, 25 Van Ness, from July 9 through August 1. …

A new study shows that a regular toilet plunger when properly used is just as effective as traditional CPR in saving a heart attack victim. Yes, a toilet plunger. “Unfortunately,” observes Norm Goldblatt, “most health plans won't cover it. Too expensive. Do you KNOW what a plumber charges these days?” …

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. He’s not about to let Dr. Sorrow operate on him: bruce@northsidesf.com

Let's Go Ahead and Make Promises Anyway

The other day a good friend of mine tried to hoodwink me a bit. I almost fell for it.
"Give me your business card, Bellingham," he demanded. Believe it or not, I have one. Believe it or not, it actually depicts my real business.
"Here 'tis," said I.
"Now I want you to write this. 'I am sorry that I voted for Obama' -- and sign it."
"But I'm not sorry I voted for Obama. Not yet, anyway."
"C'mon," he pressed, "I'm collecting these things from all sorts of people."
"They're actually writing these things?"
"Yup, they sure are."
"He's only been in office for six months."
"They're already sorry."
I am sorry for all kinds of things. I'm sorry that 59-million Americans voted for George Bush in 2004. I am sorry that I did not see the Beatles at Shea Stadium when I had the chance. I am sorry I never met Edgar Rice Burroughs. But no one is inviting me to write anything about that. I wonder why.
I'm sorry I did not vote for Eugene Debs in 2008 -- but he wasn't on the ballot. No point in writing in the name of a dead candidate. I guess a write-in on Election Day is the only form of legal graffiti that’s left to us before the authorities take us away. Just as effective, too. I was accused last month of being a Socialist. That's funny. C'mon. I wouldn't know the difference between being a Socialist and being a socialite.
During the Great Depression, FDR was worried about a Socialist uprising. Funny, though, the collapsed economy seemed to play favorites for the Fascists.
"What did Franco do that was so wrong?" someone asked me not so long ago.
He killed Garcia Lorca for starters. Is that not bad enough? I am sorry about that horrific crime. But, for the fascists, it was very effective.
For what I am really sorry about, in a personal way, I could not fit on a thousand business cards. Fortunately, most of it is no one's business, even the business of my readers, whom I hold in high regard. If you really want to know what I'm sorry about, I'll answer requests individually. But that, as Vernon Alley used to say, makes no never mind.
I still chuckle to myself when I think of the song that Paul Anka wrote for Frank Sinatra, (I Did It) My Way.
"Regrets -- I've had a few -- but, then again, too few to mention."
Sinatra had no regrets? Maybe not. Although I'm sure he found growing up in Hoboken regrettable. He hated it. On the waterfront, you can look out at the Empire State Building across the Hudson River, and dream of reaching the heavens. And Sinatra did. He was a Hoboken Cinderella.
You've heard that old adage, "A picture is worth a thousand words." I have bad news for you. Because of the economic downturn, a picture is now worth about 752 words. That's about as long as this column. All right, already, the picture will come next month. I promise. No column. Just a picture. You won't have to trudge through all these sentences, and get your imaginary boots all muddy. I promise. Hah! You believed me. Aren't you sorry now? No, no, no, you can trust me. I'm an honorable man. We are all honorable men. Sure, I gave up my gig at Bear Stearns to become a writer. Listen. If you can't trust your local columnist, then who can you trust? I promise you, prosperity is just around the corner. There's something to say about promises. In the stock market, they're called "futures." At the Cache Cow Casino, it's called "gaming." It used to be called gambling. Let's face it: we're all gamblers. That's because we want to stay in the game, no matter what happens. Most of us are slaves to hope. The Audacity of Hope. That title paid off big for Obama. It's a good title. I'd be pleased simply to maintain a capacity to hope. I hope.
"Titles are everything," says my sagacious friend, Maurice Kanbar. He should know. He's a marketing genius. Maurice produced a fine film called Hoodwinked. No, it's not about the Bush years. Good title, though.
One of our local writers, Michael Savage, has a knack for coming up with best sellers, too, you know. Like Obama, he's made millions off his books. The titles don't come to my mind immediately, but I think Michael, the former San Francisco Democrat, wrote I Hate Everybody, then he published its sequel, I Hate Nearly Everybody Except Those Who Believe Fox News. I think the latest is called Not To Worry: I'll Hate Everyone You Hate, Just Give Me Their Names. His books are hugely popular.
I'm pleased to know that, in this Depression, people still find money to spend on real literature.
I don't see fortunetellers going out of business. OK, a few. But they could see it coming. I love that scene in the movie Touch of Evil where Marlene Dietrich is preposterously portrayed in a brunette wig (I think it's brunette, could be red. I can't be sure. The movie's in black & white). Dietrich explains chillingly to a bereft Orson Welles why she cannot forecast his fate: "You haff no future," she says, "you used it all up."
When I was a kid, I used to see a folk singer named Tim Hardin at the Café Au Go Go in Greenwich Village. One of his great songs was Don't Make Promises You Can't Keep. Even as a teen, I sensed that he was singing about himself, knowing that he could not make good on his promises, nor could he find the coordinates for his capacity to hope. Tim was a heroin addict, and it seemed that he had the weight of his world on his shoulders. He'd hover over his guitar like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Out of his great despair came his little songs. He left those great songs for us to savor. I’m certainly not sorry that I, as a kid, went to see Tim Hardin in that little café on Bleecker Street with the rickety wooden chairs, and that irrepressible smell of stale beer.
In fact, all these years later, I remain hopelessly hopeful, and regrettably short on regrets.
I could write that down, if you’d like. Here's my business card.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes a regular column, well, as regular as it can be, for this newspaper, as well as the Marina Times & Media People. Yes, they are newspapers. Newspaper. Now, that’s a beautiful word.


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