Black and White Ball Remains A Perennial San Francisco Treat
by Bruce Bellingham
from the archive of the Marina Times, 21 June, 2005
San Francisco's biennial Black and White Ball is a fixed point in an ever-changing world. Even if the Big Quake shakes the city to its foundations during June on an appointed year, there would likely be a way to put on the Black and White as scheduled, hell or high water -- though it might be the Black and White Bouncing Ball. The hard-driven organizers are that determined to let nothing slow them down. They use lots of tents anyway. In the event of a tsunami, maybe they'd construct rafts, too. It's unclear if Ball chairman Patricia Sprincin has considered any of this. She seemed too busy for us to pester her so we didn't ask.
This year the event drew about 10,000 partygoers. "That's about 2,000 more than the last time around," said Jon Finck, of Encore Productions. It cost about $200 a ticket -- unless you were between 21 and 30 years old. They knock 40-bucks off for the kids. It's sort of a reverse senior discount.
"They need to do things like that," said Mandana, a Pacific Heights hair stylist. "It's like the old Hollywood. The old social register types are fading away. There was a lot more elegance in the past."
The nostalgia was evident in the selection of musicians who entertained. For punks of all ages, the Violent Femmes tore it up. The group, Train, went roaring through. It seems that inviting The Village People to San Francisco is like carrying coals to Newcastle but they were certainly on friendly territory.
"I think the Village People are a little burned out," observed Sandra Stolz, a fine arts representative. "Then again, I guess we all are." But it was early yet. Most people consider the Village People harmless fun and that suited the mood of the evening. For those of us who can recall the 70s when the Village People were disco royalty -- that is, those who had to pay the full $200 for a ticket -- we got a chance to laugh at ourselves and the folly of our feverish youth.
At 9:30 p.m. Mayor Gavin Newsom officially opened the ceremonies on the City Hall steps as a curiously cartoonish light show began. The crowd scrutinized the Mayor's invisible date.
"I wish I had brought long gloves," sighed Sheila Von Driska, the graphic designer, who looked great without her gloves. "It wasn't until Patti La Belle came on that I decided I was happy I went. The event is just too big to meet people and really enjoy it."
The Mother of All Block Parties is bound to bewilder. It is sensory overload. "I had to leave early," said Maurice Kanbar, San Francisco's famed inventor and philanthropist. "It gets to be a bit too much."
Von Driska said she felt as if she were on another planet, in the middle of San Francisco. "Waiting in line for a cocktail, while dressed to the nines seems odd. Beer and bad red and white wine also didn't do it for me. If one is going to have a black & white ball, it needs to be accompanied by matching fare, or at least caviar and champagne. Not Krispy Kremes. But, the Patti LaBelle concert gave me chills. I've always loved her and I loved how she gave the mike to one of her backup singers. I loved how genuine she is."
Sandra Stolz was also impressed by LaBelle's generosity on stage toward her musicians but was a little unsettled by LaBelle's strange moods. There was hard-driving, ecstatic rhythm and blues but a touch of melancholic religious fervor was also tossed into the mix. It was almost riveting -- like watching snake-handling. With an intermittent patter about her long marriage and eight-year old divorce ("Just get rid of that man," she admonished the women in the audience), a plea for brotherly love and "bring the troops home," LaBelle finally sang a teary, histrionic version of "The Lord's Prayer" to a slightly nervous crwod. She seemed to be possessed by some sort of trance. Yes, slain in the spirit. It made for an interesting but hardly get-down-and-party performance. "It's all part of the show, folks." Aimee Semple MacPherson meets Etta James. But the Black and White includes so many wild mixtures. On that point, the bartenders were working at a breakneck pace as if Prohibition was returning at midnight.
Minnie Driver brought her retro-sixites folk rock band along and seemed to have a helluva good time tearing into the songs. The show and the food -- prepared by McCall Associates -- were a big hit at the Asian Art Museum where the Contemporary Jazz Orchestra Trio brought a sweet sophistication to a classy venue. The Indian food was terrific.
Mercedes-Benz was the main corporate sponsor and drivers transported guests around the Civic Center, if their feet were getting tired. It would be nice if they could do that for pedestrians all the time.
"This is our first time here," exclaimed a delighted Dr. David Agard, a bio-physicist at UCSF, over the din at City Hall, where players from the San Francisco Symphony with Michael Tilson Thomas were performing. "We are so pleased we came tonight." Nodding in agreement were his wife, Dr. Lisa McConlogue, and their friends, Stacia Topping and Lara Medanich.
The San Francisco Symphony's first Black and White Ball, under the guidance of Mrs. John H. Upton, predates the famous bash that Truman Capote hosted at New York's Plaza Hotel by ten years. Capote later said, "I invited 500 friends and made 15,000 enemies." The New York soiree in 1966 was described as "The Party of the Century." San Francisco has been partying since Sir Francis Drake and his crew dropped anchor and convinced the Miwok Indians to teach them how to fire up barbecued oysters.
By midnight, the spirits of the revelers were cooling a bit. Under a clear sky, with actual stars on a June night, if you can imagine, the gentlemen began the Black and White Ball end-of-the-evening ritual: to pick up their wilting dates with their throbbing feet and carry these beautiful, exhausted casualties -- with their new shoes clutched in their hands -- to the car, the taxi or the bus for that ride home to reality in the wee hours.
"Did you have a good time?" you could hear murmured as the couples shuffled by. "Hmmm." After all these years, one would be hard-pressed to recall anyone ever saying they were sorry they went to the Black and White Ball.
###
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Happy 90th Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti
I want to wish Lawrence Ferlinghetti a Happy 90th Birthday this March 24. It's a privilege for this writer to do so.
The good things Lawrence has done for San Francisco are incalculable. He ignited world interest in this town, recreated its literary life, and gave it a sweet insurgent character. He provided a rhythm to the Beats. Never really a so-called "Beat," Lawrence Ferlinghetti also found a way, through his business acumen, along with Peter Martin, to start City Lights Books. The store on Columbus draws people from all over the planet who are approach the spot as if it were a shrine. Who is not fascinated by the punchy, political messages on the posters along the top floor that face the street? Did Lawrence accrue his public relations savvy from the Vatican, I wonder? It’s startling to see young people grow suddenly reverent and quiet as they enter the City Lights. I guess it really is a shrine here in the City of St. Francis. Why not? It was engendered by a real visionary, gentle of spirit, who decries the oppression of innocents, and who was tough enough not to fall into the traps that gobbled up so many men and women of the Beat Generation. ( I know. Lawrence, and David Amram, and other people from that era around today bristle at that term, “Beat.”)
Hard to imagine a wild man poet/painter who issued the warning, "Don't let that horse eat that violin!," and living amid the feral, licentious cadre of artists during the chilly atmosphere of the 1950s, could actually be a real businessman. Lawrence made the lives of writers like Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac indelible -- even legendary. And Mr. Ferlinghetti got arrested for his free speech effort, damn near got sent to prison. Yes, Lawrence was a cool cat who could actually keep his cool. His own book of poetry, A Coney Island of the Mind, changed my life and the lives of many others. It's a familiar story. I was a high school kid in New Jersey when a copy tumbled into my hands, (A trouble-making English teacher gave it to me. I'll never thank him enough). I was stunned. I had no idea that poetry could be this accessible -- or could be so funny. It gave me encouragement to write. Well, more precisely, he gave me courage to write – and not be afraid to look ridiculous or be someone “constantly risking absurdity,” as Lawrence said.
It also gave me an insurgent if not ridiculous notion to live in San Francisco one day. That's when my English teacher tried to talk me out of it. Too late. I was too far gone. Here I am, 39 years later, still here. Still a gone cat. Well, just gone.
When you walk into City Lights today, one of the first things you'll see near the front door is a rack of books about surrealism. It's a tabernacle to absurdity. And why not? Like Ferlinghetti’s heroes – Andre Breton, Philippe Soupault, Louis Aragon, and Tristan Tzara -- the surrealists were infuriated by the waste, and carnage of World War I. Their reaction was to produce outrageousness – bits of incomprehensible words, art that upset the senses of the sensible –even exhibit urinals in galleries. They met craziness with craziness. Or apparent craziness. Lawrence, serving in the U.S. Navy during the subsequent World War – as a lieutenant commander on a sub-chaser at Normandy -- was later stationed at Nagasaki just days after the atomic bomb blast. That was enough to sicken him for quite some time. What could be crazier?
Well, the next time could be. The next time an atomic bomb is dropped.
The first time I heard Lawrence’s voice was on an LP, a poem, read in a dry, plaintive, sarcastic tone, a meditation on the Cold War: Tentative Description of a Dinner Given to Promote the Impeachment of President Eisenhower, published in 1958.
Happily, the last time I heard Mr. Ferlinghetti’s voice was at LaRocca’s corner on Columbus a few months ago, warmly chatting up my brother, Paul. Lawrence, drink in hand, still has that mad gleam in his piecing blue eyes. He’s not crazy. The world is.
The poetic madness, the l’amour fou, and the mischief is still vibrating in Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It always was. In 1998, he was named San Francisco’s poet laureate, Lawrence wasted no time talking to people like me in the media, who he calls “the usual unreliable sources.” He took to the position like a duck to water – and started trouble right away. Ferlinghetti called for banning cars in the downtown area, digging up the old creeks and marshes throughout town to "restore the former riparian integrity," having Coit Tower lean a little bit: "Look what it did for the city of Pisa," permitting more "pirate" or underground radio stations and painting the Golden Gate Bridge gold. After all, it IS the Golden Gate, right?
Lawrence gave his last public reading at City Lights in Nov. 2007. He read from his latest book – an apparent benediction for those who might still be paying attention – Poetry As Insurgent Art. One hundred people jammed into the store to listen to his advice.
"Speak up. Act out. Silence is complicity," the poet urged.
"Question everything and everyone, including Socrates, who questioned everything." ... "Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage."
Happy Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Buon Compleanno, we cannot thank you enough.
The good things Lawrence has done for San Francisco are incalculable. He ignited world interest in this town, recreated its literary life, and gave it a sweet insurgent character. He provided a rhythm to the Beats. Never really a so-called "Beat," Lawrence Ferlinghetti also found a way, through his business acumen, along with Peter Martin, to start City Lights Books. The store on Columbus draws people from all over the planet who are approach the spot as if it were a shrine. Who is not fascinated by the punchy, political messages on the posters along the top floor that face the street? Did Lawrence accrue his public relations savvy from the Vatican, I wonder? It’s startling to see young people grow suddenly reverent and quiet as they enter the City Lights. I guess it really is a shrine here in the City of St. Francis. Why not? It was engendered by a real visionary, gentle of spirit, who decries the oppression of innocents, and who was tough enough not to fall into the traps that gobbled up so many men and women of the Beat Generation. ( I know. Lawrence, and David Amram, and other people from that era around today bristle at that term, “Beat.”)
Hard to imagine a wild man poet/painter who issued the warning, "Don't let that horse eat that violin!," and living amid the feral, licentious cadre of artists during the chilly atmosphere of the 1950s, could actually be a real businessman. Lawrence made the lives of writers like Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac indelible -- even legendary. And Mr. Ferlinghetti got arrested for his free speech effort, damn near got sent to prison. Yes, Lawrence was a cool cat who could actually keep his cool. His own book of poetry, A Coney Island of the Mind, changed my life and the lives of many others. It's a familiar story. I was a high school kid in New Jersey when a copy tumbled into my hands, (A trouble-making English teacher gave it to me. I'll never thank him enough). I was stunned. I had no idea that poetry could be this accessible -- or could be so funny. It gave me encouragement to write. Well, more precisely, he gave me courage to write – and not be afraid to look ridiculous or be someone “constantly risking absurdity,” as Lawrence said.
It also gave me an insurgent if not ridiculous notion to live in San Francisco one day. That's when my English teacher tried to talk me out of it. Too late. I was too far gone. Here I am, 39 years later, still here. Still a gone cat. Well, just gone.
When you walk into City Lights today, one of the first things you'll see near the front door is a rack of books about surrealism. It's a tabernacle to absurdity. And why not? Like Ferlinghetti’s heroes – Andre Breton, Philippe Soupault, Louis Aragon, and Tristan Tzara -- the surrealists were infuriated by the waste, and carnage of World War I. Their reaction was to produce outrageousness – bits of incomprehensible words, art that upset the senses of the sensible –even exhibit urinals in galleries. They met craziness with craziness. Or apparent craziness. Lawrence, serving in the U.S. Navy during the subsequent World War – as a lieutenant commander on a sub-chaser at Normandy -- was later stationed at Nagasaki just days after the atomic bomb blast. That was enough to sicken him for quite some time. What could be crazier?
Well, the next time could be. The next time an atomic bomb is dropped.
The first time I heard Lawrence’s voice was on an LP, a poem, read in a dry, plaintive, sarcastic tone, a meditation on the Cold War: Tentative Description of a Dinner Given to Promote the Impeachment of President Eisenhower, published in 1958.
Happily, the last time I heard Mr. Ferlinghetti’s voice was at LaRocca’s corner on Columbus a few months ago, warmly chatting up my brother, Paul. Lawrence, drink in hand, still has that mad gleam in his piecing blue eyes. He’s not crazy. The world is.
The poetic madness, the l’amour fou, and the mischief is still vibrating in Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It always was. In 1998, he was named San Francisco’s poet laureate, Lawrence wasted no time talking to people like me in the media, who he calls “the usual unreliable sources.” He took to the position like a duck to water – and started trouble right away. Ferlinghetti called for banning cars in the downtown area, digging up the old creeks and marshes throughout town to "restore the former riparian integrity," having Coit Tower lean a little bit: "Look what it did for the city of Pisa," permitting more "pirate" or underground radio stations and painting the Golden Gate Bridge gold. After all, it IS the Golden Gate, right?
Lawrence gave his last public reading at City Lights in Nov. 2007. He read from his latest book – an apparent benediction for those who might still be paying attention – Poetry As Insurgent Art. One hundred people jammed into the store to listen to his advice.
"Speak up. Act out. Silence is complicity," the poet urged.
"Question everything and everyone, including Socrates, who questioned everything." ... "Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage."
Happy Birthday, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Buon Compleanno, we cannot thank you enough.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Fridays Used to Be So Great
It's Furlough Friday! This is a new adventure, and boy, am I excited. Last month Governor Schwartzenegger closed down government offices in California. Case in point, the DMV -- yes, the Division of Motor Vehicles -- where one gets driver's licenses, their cars registered, and where one obtains a California ID card. The offices will be closed on the first & third Fridays of the month. If you've ever been to the DMV, you'll know this probably will not make any difference. But now, people will suddenly grouse about the DMV being closed. They used to bitch about its hopeless lack of service. Californians will get sentimental about the DMV office now that it's unavailable to us. Gosh, look, it's no longer there to abuse us. Not to worry: other negligent, ineffective agencies will abandon us in short order. One by one, they will quietly skulk away. We will miss them terribly. We’ll grouse about their callousness and their negligence – as if it were something new – but protest passionately about how functionaries don’t bother to treat its customers badly anymore. It's a terrible thing to be mistreated but, as the therapists say, at least it's familiar. It seems to me that we hunger for Stockholm Syndrome. I know I do: it's the closest I can get to actually visiting Sweden.
Or at least getting my hands on Swedish Meatballs. They used to serve those brown, nasty, glutinous, sublimely salty specimens in various Financial District bars at Happy Hour. "Knock it off, Bruce, some of my closest friends are Swedish Meatballs."
Just a moment. Everyone knows that Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological term for becoming emotionally attached to one's kidnappers. I'm taking it to a broader meaning, of course.
Sweden, now that I think about it, is likely more accessible to me. I suspect Stockholm would be friendlier than my adopted hometown of San Francisco. I wonder. Do people in Stockholm actually suffer from Stockholm Syndrome? Perhaps they call it something else. Or maybe they describe this pathology as San Francisco Syndrome. The other day I noticed that it had been 35 years since the Patty Hearst kidnapping. A better story, a reporter cannot dream of. Patty was literally the poster girl for all sorts of syndromes. When the gunfire finally subsided, Patty was in a federal courtroom in San Francisco, fighting for her freedom all over again. Her lawyer, F. Lee Bailey, tried to convince the jury that Patty was a victim of her terrorist kidnappers, and had been overcome by Stockholm Syndrome.
The jury did not buy it.
That's because they had forgotten their experiences at the Division of Motor Vehicles. Today, on this Furlough Friday, I'm sure the jury would have a change of heart. The truth of the matter is that we are all held hostage by one thing or another -- we're just afraid to admit it.
All of this gives me pause.
Let me think. I might even be able to drive a car in Sweden. Just don’t tell the already angst-ridden Swedes about it. I haven't had a driver's license here in California for more than 25 years. It's been so long, I can't remember if denying me a driver's license was my idea or an idea suggested by the authorities. It doesn't matter anymore. I think it was my choice. Walking trumps parking in San Francisco. All the same, I have to confess I have an irrational fondness for the DMV. Imagine that. The DMV has always been cold and dismissive to me -- yet I crave the attentions of this faceless bureaucracy.
This is what I'm going to do: before the next Furlough Friday flies this way, I'm going back to the DMV, stand in line, the longer the better, absorb the rebukes, and the chilly nonchalance from the mirthless, beaten-down employees -- if there are any left -- and wait for them to approve my new California ID card.
Not to worry: I have no intention of driving. We already have enough hazards hovering around us.
When I get the official proof of my identity, I can assert this: I am somebody! Attention must be paid! Ich bin ein Berliner! I have proof right here in my hands! But will it get me backstage to the Rufus Wainwright show?
Now, can anyone give me a ride to a joint that serves Swedish Meatballs at Happy Hour? You bet I'm buying. Baby, you can drive my car. Let’s go.
Bruce Bellingham, who also writes for the Marina Times and Media People, is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. He can be observed perambulating hither and yon over sidewalks in search of the next medical miracle that’s been bubbling up from the steam table in some unspeakably uneasy speakeasy. “Pardon me, this is the Barbary Coast, right?”
###
Or at least getting my hands on Swedish Meatballs. They used to serve those brown, nasty, glutinous, sublimely salty specimens in various Financial District bars at Happy Hour. "Knock it off, Bruce, some of my closest friends are Swedish Meatballs."
Just a moment. Everyone knows that Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological term for becoming emotionally attached to one's kidnappers. I'm taking it to a broader meaning, of course.
Sweden, now that I think about it, is likely more accessible to me. I suspect Stockholm would be friendlier than my adopted hometown of San Francisco. I wonder. Do people in Stockholm actually suffer from Stockholm Syndrome? Perhaps they call it something else. Or maybe they describe this pathology as San Francisco Syndrome. The other day I noticed that it had been 35 years since the Patty Hearst kidnapping. A better story, a reporter cannot dream of. Patty was literally the poster girl for all sorts of syndromes. When the gunfire finally subsided, Patty was in a federal courtroom in San Francisco, fighting for her freedom all over again. Her lawyer, F. Lee Bailey, tried to convince the jury that Patty was a victim of her terrorist kidnappers, and had been overcome by Stockholm Syndrome.
The jury did not buy it.
That's because they had forgotten their experiences at the Division of Motor Vehicles. Today, on this Furlough Friday, I'm sure the jury would have a change of heart. The truth of the matter is that we are all held hostage by one thing or another -- we're just afraid to admit it.
All of this gives me pause.
Let me think. I might even be able to drive a car in Sweden. Just don’t tell the already angst-ridden Swedes about it. I haven't had a driver's license here in California for more than 25 years. It's been so long, I can't remember if denying me a driver's license was my idea or an idea suggested by the authorities. It doesn't matter anymore. I think it was my choice. Walking trumps parking in San Francisco. All the same, I have to confess I have an irrational fondness for the DMV. Imagine that. The DMV has always been cold and dismissive to me -- yet I crave the attentions of this faceless bureaucracy.
This is what I'm going to do: before the next Furlough Friday flies this way, I'm going back to the DMV, stand in line, the longer the better, absorb the rebukes, and the chilly nonchalance from the mirthless, beaten-down employees -- if there are any left -- and wait for them to approve my new California ID card.
Not to worry: I have no intention of driving. We already have enough hazards hovering around us.
When I get the official proof of my identity, I can assert this: I am somebody! Attention must be paid! Ich bin ein Berliner! I have proof right here in my hands! But will it get me backstage to the Rufus Wainwright show?
Now, can anyone give me a ride to a joint that serves Swedish Meatballs at Happy Hour? You bet I'm buying. Baby, you can drive my car. Let’s go.
Bruce Bellingham, who also writes for the Marina Times and Media People, is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. He can be observed perambulating hither and yon over sidewalks in search of the next medical miracle that’s been bubbling up from the steam table in some unspeakably uneasy speakeasy. “Pardon me, this is the Barbary Coast, right?”
###
Thursday, February 05, 2009
The Big Digital Changeover: The FCC Preaches to the Not-Quite-Yet-Converted
A new term has crept into the American lingo: "converter box." This is the device that will allow the primordial part of the population (and that includes me) -- the portion which does not subscribe to cable or satellite nor owns a new television set -- to be able to get TV reception after analog signals are discarded for digital.
Remember the old TV show, The Outer Limits?
"There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. ... We repeat, there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to ... The Outer Limits."
And reaches, perhaps, to dead air. Or, I'm told, more likely a snowstorm on the screen instead of a picture.
The great adventure of switching analog to digital has been in the works for years. But despite a huge push to inform the viewers of the land, the imminent switchover has taken millions of Americans by surprise. You'd think people were being distracted by other things -- like hustling to pay the mortgage, avoiding creditors, ducking the landlord, feeding their families, finagling a way to keep their jobs, and not being thrown out onto the street.
So Congress pushed back the deadline to shut down analog television signals in favor of digital until June 12.
This delay cut it pretty close to the original deadline of Feb. 17.
The Republicans in the House had already delayed the delay.
I shudder to think of where all those unwanted, antiquated, analogged TV sets might be dumped. Off the Jersey Shore? Or shipped straightaway to the burgeoning electronic wastelands in Africa.
Oh, that's another term that's new to a lot of folks: "analog." Most of us did not know that the world was divided into two camps: analog and digital.
I thought the world was divided into "on" and "off." This is awfully complicated for Luddites like me.
In the classic film, The Manchurian Candidate, Lawrence Harvey (as Raymond Shaw), observes: "There are two kinds of people in this world: Those that enter a room and turn the television set on, and those that enter a room and turn the television set off."
That's right. On and off. Ah, yes, life was simpler in 1962.
Gail Collins lambasted the way the government has bungled the changeover in her column for The New York Times (Jan. 30):
People who needed a converter box were supposed to request a $40 coupon, which could be used toward the purchase. The coupon was then sent to them by third-class mail — an interesting choice which sometimes meant the coupons, which expire in three months, did not arrive for four to eight weeks. The lucky recipient could then go to an electronics store, find the right kind of box, take it home and install it. (Just for fun, imagine the oldest member of your family doing this.)
The Republicans in the House ostensibly wanted the digital changeover right away because it means more revenue for the government.
I have my doubts. I get calls from cable companies champing at the bit for my business because so many consumers are signing up for cable or satellite service in order to avoid this converter box mishegoss. It's too much to think about. Quite a boondoggle.
Writes Ms. Collins:
In 2005, Congress voted to end analog broadcasting. The impetus was to raise money for the Bush tax cuts by selling off the emptied space. (Bad) But it also freed up lots of room for better Internet reception and public safety communication. (Good).
If you believe that, I've got three or four bridges to sell you. Politicians are constantly pitching us things based on the good that it will do us. It's malarkey.
I have deeper suspicions. It's more nefarious. I think the converter boxes might be used to convert us to something else. A religious conversion, perhaps, aimed at the so-called "under-served" parts on the citizenry. Now that President Obama has established an Office for Faith-Based Initiatives, my paranoiac visions might have more credence. Do we really know what these converter boxes are all about? If I get one, will I suddenly be compelled to watch Pat Robertson's 700 Club, broadcast in a dazzling diadem of a digital picture? I see it now. I can imagine thousands of enraptured, and otherwise disaffected Americans, swooning amid the switchover euphoria, standing at the precipice of a cliff, clutching their converter boxes, looking skyward, shouting to the heavens, "Where Is God?"
Let me catch my breath. Such exhilaration.
Oh, Gail Collins had more to say about those coupons:
Needless to say, the Republican-controlled Congress did not consider anything that socialistic in 2005. No, our plan was so deeply privatized that one DTV converter box retailer hired Joe the Plumber as a spokesman.
... Did I mention that once the government ran out of coupons, no new ones could be issued until the old ones expired? Or that people who didn’t manage to cash their coupons in before the expiration date couldn’t ask for a replacement?
Yes, I confess this happened to me. No coupon, no box, nowhere to go. I am now without a real TV identity, drifting between analog and digital, a man without a TV country.
I am bereft. I might take these useless rabbit ears, and try them out as a divining rod, searching for spindrift treasures in the landfill where those old, discarded television sets now reside.
I do like the idea, though, of Congress delaying action on this. Congress should be busying itself with delaying action on more things. Maybe on all things. Oh wise ones, just give us more time -- more time to pay to pay the mortgage, feed the family, delay the company's plans to lay us off. Give me Lara Spencer or give me death.
Henry Miller once wrote, "If you're in a restaurant, and don't have any money to pay the bill -- then keep ordering. You'll think of something."
Any ideas?
I have one. Let's replace Tim Geithner with Bernie Madoff. Maybe he can steal all of our money back.
Bruce Bellingham is a San Francisco columnist for the SF Northside, and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. Tell him what he should know at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Remember the old TV show, The Outer Limits?
"There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. ... We repeat, there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to ... The Outer Limits."
And reaches, perhaps, to dead air. Or, I'm told, more likely a snowstorm on the screen instead of a picture.
The great adventure of switching analog to digital has been in the works for years. But despite a huge push to inform the viewers of the land, the imminent switchover has taken millions of Americans by surprise. You'd think people were being distracted by other things -- like hustling to pay the mortgage, avoiding creditors, ducking the landlord, feeding their families, finagling a way to keep their jobs, and not being thrown out onto the street.
So Congress pushed back the deadline to shut down analog television signals in favor of digital until June 12.
This delay cut it pretty close to the original deadline of Feb. 17.
The Republicans in the House had already delayed the delay.
I shudder to think of where all those unwanted, antiquated, analogged TV sets might be dumped. Off the Jersey Shore? Or shipped straightaway to the burgeoning electronic wastelands in Africa.
Oh, that's another term that's new to a lot of folks: "analog." Most of us did not know that the world was divided into two camps: analog and digital.
I thought the world was divided into "on" and "off." This is awfully complicated for Luddites like me.
In the classic film, The Manchurian Candidate, Lawrence Harvey (as Raymond Shaw), observes: "There are two kinds of people in this world: Those that enter a room and turn the television set on, and those that enter a room and turn the television set off."
That's right. On and off. Ah, yes, life was simpler in 1962.
Gail Collins lambasted the way the government has bungled the changeover in her column for The New York Times (Jan. 30):
People who needed a converter box were supposed to request a $40 coupon, which could be used toward the purchase. The coupon was then sent to them by third-class mail — an interesting choice which sometimes meant the coupons, which expire in three months, did not arrive for four to eight weeks. The lucky recipient could then go to an electronics store, find the right kind of box, take it home and install it. (Just for fun, imagine the oldest member of your family doing this.)
The Republicans in the House ostensibly wanted the digital changeover right away because it means more revenue for the government.
I have my doubts. I get calls from cable companies champing at the bit for my business because so many consumers are signing up for cable or satellite service in order to avoid this converter box mishegoss. It's too much to think about. Quite a boondoggle.
Writes Ms. Collins:
In 2005, Congress voted to end analog broadcasting. The impetus was to raise money for the Bush tax cuts by selling off the emptied space. (Bad) But it also freed up lots of room for better Internet reception and public safety communication. (Good).
If you believe that, I've got three or four bridges to sell you. Politicians are constantly pitching us things based on the good that it will do us. It's malarkey.
I have deeper suspicions. It's more nefarious. I think the converter boxes might be used to convert us to something else. A religious conversion, perhaps, aimed at the so-called "under-served" parts on the citizenry. Now that President Obama has established an Office for Faith-Based Initiatives, my paranoiac visions might have more credence. Do we really know what these converter boxes are all about? If I get one, will I suddenly be compelled to watch Pat Robertson's 700 Club, broadcast in a dazzling diadem of a digital picture? I see it now. I can imagine thousands of enraptured, and otherwise disaffected Americans, swooning amid the switchover euphoria, standing at the precipice of a cliff, clutching their converter boxes, looking skyward, shouting to the heavens, "Where Is God?"
Let me catch my breath. Such exhilaration.
Oh, Gail Collins had more to say about those coupons:
Needless to say, the Republican-controlled Congress did not consider anything that socialistic in 2005. No, our plan was so deeply privatized that one DTV converter box retailer hired Joe the Plumber as a spokesman.
... Did I mention that once the government ran out of coupons, no new ones could be issued until the old ones expired? Or that people who didn’t manage to cash their coupons in before the expiration date couldn’t ask for a replacement?
Yes, I confess this happened to me. No coupon, no box, nowhere to go. I am now without a real TV identity, drifting between analog and digital, a man without a TV country.
I am bereft. I might take these useless rabbit ears, and try them out as a divining rod, searching for spindrift treasures in the landfill where those old, discarded television sets now reside.
I do like the idea, though, of Congress delaying action on this. Congress should be busying itself with delaying action on more things. Maybe on all things. Oh wise ones, just give us more time -- more time to pay to pay the mortgage, feed the family, delay the company's plans to lay us off. Give me Lara Spencer or give me death.
Henry Miller once wrote, "If you're in a restaurant, and don't have any money to pay the bill -- then keep ordering. You'll think of something."
Any ideas?
I have one. Let's replace Tim Geithner with Bernie Madoff. Maybe he can steal all of our money back.
Bruce Bellingham is a San Francisco columnist for the SF Northside, and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. Tell him what he should know at bruce@northsidesf.com
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Why Joe the War Correspondent Likes to Toss Bombs
As Sarah Palin starts her political action committee, signaling her interest in playing a part in national politics as a solo act, her former protégé, Samuel "Joe" Wurzelbacher aka Joe the Plumber, has wrapped up his first gig as a "war correspondent" for a right-wing video website with the unlikely name of Pajamas Media.
Joe the Reporter presses on in hopes of capitalizing (the new word is "monetizing") on the fleeting fame that was provided by the 2008 presidential campaign. Joe's book (yes, he got a book published. It's called Fighting for the American Dream) seems to have vanished from sight -- like the real American dream.
Wurzelbacher is booked as a speaker for Pajamas' Media's Conservatism 2.0 Conference in Washington D.C., Feb. 26-28.
Though Joe the Plumber was first introduced to the public by Obama, he was quickly co-opted by the other side. He became a celebrity borne of the desperate silliness that characterized the McCain/Palin effort. He was later hired by Pajamas Media to "cover the war in Gaza." His real job, of course, was to praise the Israeli Defense Forces, and demean Obama. His assignment outraged innumerable columnists and bloggers. Small wonder people in the industry were miffed. Joe got a job and thousands of professionals lost theirs recently.
How come this guy gets hired when the pros are getting their pink slips?
It seems to me that frugally-minded news agencies who hyped the notion of "citizen journalist" opened the door for amateurs to play reporter. Sometimes, though, you're not going to like what they say. We can drop the pretense of objectivity, too. While we're at it, I wouldn't count on accuracy, either.
Let's face it: Joe the Reporter was hired to talk, not really report.
Alex Koppelman writing on Salon.com, suggested that Wurzelbacher lacked integrity. That, undoubtedly, is a wholesome quality for a good journalist:
Pajamas Media co-founder Roger Simon wrote that they intended to "right" what they perceive as an anti-Israel "imbalance" in the mainstream media's coverage.
Of course, Joe's not exactly a noted truth-teller himself: The question that made him famous was predicated on the idea that he'd be affected by Obama's plan to raise taxes on those who make more than $250,000 a year. It was later revealed, however, that he wouldn't reach that threshold and might in fact be eligible for a tax cut.
Wurzelbacher said he believed that a vote for Barack Obama was tantamount to a vote for the death of Israel.
You remember Joe E. Brown in Some LIke It Hot: "Nobody's perfect."
Mr. Koppelman suggested that the idea of "citizen journalism" may have been misapplied by the folks at Pajamas Media:
Looking back some day, we might remember this moment as the one when the seriously overhyped phenomenon known as citizen journalism finally jumped the proverbial shark.
During the campaign, it became known that Wurzelbacher, a plumber from Ohio, did not actually have a plumber's license. So he was really Joe the Unlicensed Plumber. You see, you need a license to be a real plumber. But you don't a license to be a real journalist.
Tom Bevan, who blogs on Real Clear Politics, wrote that sending Wurzelbacher around the country to interview people as an Everyman was a good idea. But creating Joe the War Correspondent was a disaster:
If you told me someone was sending Joe the Plumber into a war zone in the Middle East to report on a conflict that he appears to have no particular qualifications or expertise to cover, with the intent of letting Israel's Average Joes share their story, I'd say that sounds like one of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard.
What about those qualifications? In 1984, during the Democratic National Convention is San Francisco, I chatted up the veteran NBC reporter Douglas Kiker in a saloon not far from the Moscone Convention Center. He stood at the bar sipping an Anchor Steam Beer. (All good reporters avail themselves of the local products.) The place was packed. A middle-age cocktail waitress, carrying a tray full of drinks, recognized Kiker, and rushed over to him.
"Oh, Mr. Kiker," she gushed, "my daughter's going to journalism school. What advice do you have for her?"
"Tell her to study anything but journalism," he muttered.
She looked as if she'd been struck across the face. After all, this lady is working her tail off in this bar to put her kid through school. Kiker recognized that immediately, and tried to soften his curmudgeonly response.
"Uh, what I mean," he stammered a bit, "is tell her to study all sorts of things, history, economics, too. All this will help her in her career."
Wurzelbacher is a hero to some because he embodies the anti-journalist. He personifies the resentments that many Americans embrace about "the treasonous mainstream media."
"I don't think journalists should be anywhere allowed war," Wurzelbacher opined. "I mean, you guys report where our troops are at. You report what's happening day to day. You make a big deal out of it. I think it's asinine. You know, I liked back in World War I and World War II when you'd go to the theater and you'd see your troops on, you know, the screen and everyone would be real excited and happy for'em. Now everyone's got an opinion and wants to downer--and down soldiers. You know, American soldiers or Israeli soldiers. I think media should be abolished from, uh, you know, reporting."
That's a thought. Wurzelbacher must be having the time of his life.
Bob Owens blogs at Confederate Yankee. He says one doesn't need any special training to be a great war correspondent:
Stephen Crane, the novelist and journalist best known for the Civil War novel The Red Badge of Courage, covered the brief Greco-Turkish War and the Spanish-American War, somehow completing his assignments without graduating from a string of colleges. ... Ernie Pyle worked on a much longer and wider stage than Crane, and was known for his folksy, down-home stories of regular people serving in World War II. Pyle didn’t complete his degree at Indiana University, but he didn’t let that stop him from getting syndicated by more than 300 newspapers. He picked up a Pulitzer on his way to becoming the most famous war correspondent in American media history.
That's right.
That's right. No J-school for Ambrose Bierce, either. Yet when I read Ernie Pyle's name next to Samuel "Joe the Plumber" Wurzelbacher's, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Bruce Bellingham is a San Francisco columnist for the SF Northside, and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. Tell him what he should know at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Joe the Reporter presses on in hopes of capitalizing (the new word is "monetizing") on the fleeting fame that was provided by the 2008 presidential campaign. Joe's book (yes, he got a book published. It's called Fighting for the American Dream) seems to have vanished from sight -- like the real American dream.
Wurzelbacher is booked as a speaker for Pajamas' Media's Conservatism 2.0 Conference in Washington D.C., Feb. 26-28.
Though Joe the Plumber was first introduced to the public by Obama, he was quickly co-opted by the other side. He became a celebrity borne of the desperate silliness that characterized the McCain/Palin effort. He was later hired by Pajamas Media to "cover the war in Gaza." His real job, of course, was to praise the Israeli Defense Forces, and demean Obama. His assignment outraged innumerable columnists and bloggers. Small wonder people in the industry were miffed. Joe got a job and thousands of professionals lost theirs recently.
How come this guy gets hired when the pros are getting their pink slips?
It seems to me that frugally-minded news agencies who hyped the notion of "citizen journalist" opened the door for amateurs to play reporter. Sometimes, though, you're not going to like what they say. We can drop the pretense of objectivity, too. While we're at it, I wouldn't count on accuracy, either.
Let's face it: Joe the Reporter was hired to talk, not really report.
Alex Koppelman writing on Salon.com, suggested that Wurzelbacher lacked integrity. That, undoubtedly, is a wholesome quality for a good journalist:
Pajamas Media co-founder Roger Simon wrote that they intended to "right" what they perceive as an anti-Israel "imbalance" in the mainstream media's coverage.
Of course, Joe's not exactly a noted truth-teller himself: The question that made him famous was predicated on the idea that he'd be affected by Obama's plan to raise taxes on those who make more than $250,000 a year. It was later revealed, however, that he wouldn't reach that threshold and might in fact be eligible for a tax cut.
Wurzelbacher said he believed that a vote for Barack Obama was tantamount to a vote for the death of Israel.
You remember Joe E. Brown in Some LIke It Hot: "Nobody's perfect."
Mr. Koppelman suggested that the idea of "citizen journalism" may have been misapplied by the folks at Pajamas Media:
Looking back some day, we might remember this moment as the one when the seriously overhyped phenomenon known as citizen journalism finally jumped the proverbial shark.
During the campaign, it became known that Wurzelbacher, a plumber from Ohio, did not actually have a plumber's license. So he was really Joe the Unlicensed Plumber. You see, you need a license to be a real plumber. But you don't a license to be a real journalist.
Tom Bevan, who blogs on Real Clear Politics, wrote that sending Wurzelbacher around the country to interview people as an Everyman was a good idea. But creating Joe the War Correspondent was a disaster:
If you told me someone was sending Joe the Plumber into a war zone in the Middle East to report on a conflict that he appears to have no particular qualifications or expertise to cover, with the intent of letting Israel's Average Joes share their story, I'd say that sounds like one of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard.
What about those qualifications? In 1984, during the Democratic National Convention is San Francisco, I chatted up the veteran NBC reporter Douglas Kiker in a saloon not far from the Moscone Convention Center. He stood at the bar sipping an Anchor Steam Beer. (All good reporters avail themselves of the local products.) The place was packed. A middle-age cocktail waitress, carrying a tray full of drinks, recognized Kiker, and rushed over to him.
"Oh, Mr. Kiker," she gushed, "my daughter's going to journalism school. What advice do you have for her?"
"Tell her to study anything but journalism," he muttered.
She looked as if she'd been struck across the face. After all, this lady is working her tail off in this bar to put her kid through school. Kiker recognized that immediately, and tried to soften his curmudgeonly response.
"Uh, what I mean," he stammered a bit, "is tell her to study all sorts of things, history, economics, too. All this will help her in her career."
Wurzelbacher is a hero to some because he embodies the anti-journalist. He personifies the resentments that many Americans embrace about "the treasonous mainstream media."
"I don't think journalists should be anywhere allowed war," Wurzelbacher opined. "I mean, you guys report where our troops are at. You report what's happening day to day. You make a big deal out of it. I think it's asinine. You know, I liked back in World War I and World War II when you'd go to the theater and you'd see your troops on, you know, the screen and everyone would be real excited and happy for'em. Now everyone's got an opinion and wants to downer--and down soldiers. You know, American soldiers or Israeli soldiers. I think media should be abolished from, uh, you know, reporting."
That's a thought. Wurzelbacher must be having the time of his life.
Bob Owens blogs at Confederate Yankee. He says one doesn't need any special training to be a great war correspondent:
Stephen Crane, the novelist and journalist best known for the Civil War novel The Red Badge of Courage, covered the brief Greco-Turkish War and the Spanish-American War, somehow completing his assignments without graduating from a string of colleges. ... Ernie Pyle worked on a much longer and wider stage than Crane, and was known for his folksy, down-home stories of regular people serving in World War II. Pyle didn’t complete his degree at Indiana University, but he didn’t let that stop him from getting syndicated by more than 300 newspapers. He picked up a Pulitzer on his way to becoming the most famous war correspondent in American media history.
That's right.
That's right. No J-school for Ambrose Bierce, either. Yet when I read Ernie Pyle's name next to Samuel "Joe the Plumber" Wurzelbacher's, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Bruce Bellingham is a San Francisco columnist for the SF Northside, and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, published by Council Oak Books. Tell him what he should know at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
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