It's been difficult not to see and hear the new Scottish singing sensation, Susan Boyle, on the television, and on YouTube. You're even less likely to encounter a negative take on this show biz phenom. Except here. The much-heralded, treacly tune that Susan Boyle of Blackburn sang (and sings and sings) -- with the obligatory pop vibrato -- is wretched. Must be Andrew Lloyd Webber. There's no doubt Ms. Boyle has a real instrument. I'm sure she's a nice lass. Meanwhile, business is good at the Stable of One-Trick Ponies. Ms. Boyle is being used shamelessly, and I certainly hope she has a good time of it. The triumvirate of judges on "Britain's Got Talent" smirked at her plain looks, then launched into near-hysterical praise after she sang a few notes. These three heavy-handed ayatollahs of the British pop landscape shrieked -- one even wept -- as if they suddenly came across a cure for acne.
"Sadly it all Boyles down to image," said Miranda Sawyer in a cute commentary piece for the Daily Mirror.
"No woman gets to perform publicly unless she looks like Mariah Carey. If you're a female singer, you are required by show biz law to appear sexy at all times."
Tanya Gold, writing in the Guardian, asked: "Is Susan Boyle ugly? Or are we?"
Those are legitimate observations -- but they miss the point. The whole freak-show patina of "Britain's Got Talent" and its American cousin, "Idol," creates its own culture that's disturbing, and rather ill-making. It can apply to reality TV shows, too. It's an all-out rush for bathos. As Rod McKuen said to me, "The producers of "American Idol" (and "Britain's Got Talent") have a lot to answer for." A systematic lowering of any reasonable artistic standards. I think of the singers in the San Francisco Opera's Merola Program (true, young operatic talents). Some will never be on TV, perhaps never even perform on a major stage. Network TV goes open-mike, like Russian trawlers who scoop everything out of the sea. In this case, they throw the good ones back. Carrie Underwood? Entertainer of the Year? Who would have imagined? The fix is in.
The "ugly duckling" element in Susan Boyle's story is equally unsavory, and manipulative. Very unkind. Simon Cowell, a sly operator in the Roger Ailes & Rupert Murdoch & Bernie Madoff tradition, is a thug. Like the bankers who cheated us all, he's rewarded richly for rotten behavior. Not only are there few words of protest in response to this arrogant flim-flam, there's an international call for more of the same rubbish. Give us more, give us more. Give us Barabbas.
Susan Boyle doesn't need a makeover. Cowell does. Please make him civilized.
Just a moment. Let's think about this. Perhaps this a trend we can can get in on. Let's find a Tom Jones-sound-alike singer (with maybe a few intonation problems, a bit-off-key, the producers like that, it shows their contempt for the audience). He won't look like Tom Jones. He'll look more like a Cro-Magnon Man -- scraggily-haired, unshaven, stooped over, draped in burlap -- who's also never been kissed. At least not by a human. He's been living in a shack, undetected for years, with his stamp collection, and his gerbils. We'll get him to audition for "American Idol." Are you game? We can concoct a bio for him. Yes, we'll claim that he was discovered by a farmer in upstate New York who dug him up in a cornfield, not far from the place where The Cardiff Giant was reportedly, and apocryphally unearthed all those years ago. He'll need a name. How about Barabbas?
Let's write a song for our new discovery, "I'm So Loathsome, I Could Cry."
Isn't it great to know that one great hoax can inspire another? You'd think that after eight years of deception, mendacity, & malfeasance, we'd be wary of hoaxes.
Apparently not.
###
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Gentleman Is Never Unintentionally Rude
Bellingham by the Bay -- Notes from San Francisco
An online petition, Save the Tonga Room -- savetonga.com -- is making the rounds. Word on Nob Hill is the people who run the real estate division of the Fairmont Hotel are about to convert the rooms in the Fairmont Tower into ownership units. There's talk of shutting down the legendary Tonga Room. Or maybe move it. The petitioners have collected 1,094 signatures at this writing. They ask locals to call the Fairmont corporate offices to protest: (416) 874-2600 or send an e-mail to comments@fairmont.com or to gavin.newsom@sfgov.org.
In an age when we are witnessing the waning influence of daily newspapers, it seems a star has been born in the world of print. It’s Jennifer Wadsworth, a young reporter from the Tracy Press, in Tracy, Calif., who broke some of the bigger stories surrounding the murder case of 8-year old Sandra Cantu.
Jennifer has gained national recognition. She’s writing her updates on the crime, which has riveted people round the country, on The Daily Beast. She also gave a long interview to the ubiquitous & belligerent Dr. Phil, discussing the murky side of the human spirit. Murk always works. … Is there more bad news these days than usual? Many are asking that. The news has always been bad for someone in this world of suffering. Years ago, when I worked in radio, I was hired to do stories for something called The Good News Network. They quickly went out of business. …
Speaking of business, Police Chief Heather Fong seems to be at odds with Sup. Bevan Dufty and the Entertainment Commission because the commissioners want to the power to extend bar & nightclub hours – on a temporary basis – beyond the mandatory 2 a.m. closing time.
Wouldn’t it help the economy to keep the pubs & clubs in S.F. open 24 hours, as they were before World War II, when the town was an “Open City”? Besides, people don’t have to get to bed early anymore – they don’t have any jobs to go to in the morning. …
The boys and girls at Le Beau, the popular grocery store on Leavenworth & Clay, are certainly working hard these days. “Le Beau is a jewel on Nob Hill,” explains Tom Wolfe, the storied concierge at the Fairmont. The place is a nexus of social activity on the Hill. Owner Joe Omram constantly plays great oldies on the house Victrola. Morgan Hamm and his crew, including Drew Stevenson, have turned the deli into a first-rate charcuterie. I’ve been watching the API – the Angus Price Index. The price of the ground beef at Le Beau has remained at $4.99 a pound, economic crisis notwithstanding. I took my discounted bag of spuds to the check-out the other day. “Recession potatoes,” I said to James Francis Abrams, who was working the register. He quipped, “The Irish do well in a recession.” Let’s hope so. …
I’m happy to report that Rod McKuen has contributed a terrific piece of verse to this issue of the Northside. I told Rod about an item on Page Six of the NY Post – another good reason to deport Rupert Murdoch. It asks: “Was Cool Hand Luke a hot-headed drunk and womanizer? Shawn Levy's new bio, Paul Newman: A Life, portrays the late Oscar- winner as a functioning alcoholic who, wearing a bottle opener on a chain around his neck, put away 'beer after beer after beer, a case or more a day,' followed by the hard stuff, usually scotch. … Mort Sahl recalled him filling a brandy snifter with ice and scotch and sipping it in a steam room.”
McKuen notes Newman’s great film work & his extraordinary generosity.
Writes Rod: "Of course the day Rupert Murdoch’s rag can give us half as much pleasure as any single Paul Newman film or he personally (with all his wealth) delivers a 10th of the amount of the late actor’s sizeable contributions to charity will be a very cold day in whatever hell Murdoch is headed toward. But wait a minute; hasn’t this blowhard already given us Hell on Earth? I think it’s spelled F O X N E W S."
I only wish I could have had the chance to drink Scotch in a steam room -- or anywhere else -- with Paul Newman. Though my Mum was from Glasgow, Scotch is the one drink, however -- likely the only drink -- that I could not stomach. I went back to New Jersey, still in my early 20s, to visit her all those years ago. One evening, I went out with my hometown buddies, and the Scotch & the Drambuie began to flow at the local bowling alley where, as a kid, I thought only derelicts drank. Funny how self-image can quickly change.
I came back to Mum's house late in the evening, reeking of Johnny Walker Red. (My Scottish grandfather was named Johnny Walker -- kid you not. He was a pub musician in Glasgow and reportedly a lifelong teetotaler.)
At the house, Mum heard a crash from the bathroom.
She called out, "Bruce, are you all right?"
"Sure, Mum," I shouted back.
She did not know that I was speaking while standing on my head in the bathtub, where I had landed, upside-down. No more Scotch after that. …
Paula West will be singing with the San Francisco Girls Chorus at the First Congregational Church in Berkeley on June 5, and at the S.F. Conservatory of Music, 50 Oak St., on June 6. … I don’t know why I think this is a good idea, but I’d love to hear the Girls Chorus sing an evening of Beach Boys songs sometime. Just a thought. … Perez Hilton owes Miss California an apology, regardless of her position on same-sex marriage. “A gentleman is never unintentionally rude,” observed Oscar Wilde. I guess Perez meant to insult her but he’s still no gentleman. … By the way, where is Paris Hilton? Did the party gigs dry up or did we lose her in the stock market? I thought we’d always have Paris. … Sharon Anderson says an indictment of Dick Cheney would be a better birthday present for her than dinner at Scoma’s. … We all have a wish list. Norm Goldblatt confesses, “When I was a teenager, I had no self-confidence. I used to fantasize in the third person.” …
Niel Mortensen reminds me that it’s been 40 years since the John & Yoko Bed-In in Montreal. That city is celebrating this summer. Speaking of Montreal, that reminds me of a famous Groucho story.
“I was in Montreal. I made a quick exit out of the elevator. A priest comes up to me, puts out his hand, and says, ‘I wanna thank you for all the joy you’ve put into this world.’ I shook his hand, and I said, ‘And I wanna thank you for all the joy you’ve taken out of this world.’” I can’t top Groucho, so we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times, and Media People. He’s also a restless person who haunts regions rife with the tantalizing undercurrent of menace & crime. He needs your guidance: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
An online petition, Save the Tonga Room -- savetonga.com -- is making the rounds. Word on Nob Hill is the people who run the real estate division of the Fairmont Hotel are about to convert the rooms in the Fairmont Tower into ownership units. There's talk of shutting down the legendary Tonga Room. Or maybe move it. The petitioners have collected 1,094 signatures at this writing. They ask locals to call the Fairmont corporate offices to protest: (416) 874-2600 or send an e-mail to comments@fairmont.com or to gavin.newsom@sfgov.org.
In an age when we are witnessing the waning influence of daily newspapers, it seems a star has been born in the world of print. It’s Jennifer Wadsworth, a young reporter from the Tracy Press, in Tracy, Calif., who broke some of the bigger stories surrounding the murder case of 8-year old Sandra Cantu.
Jennifer has gained national recognition. She’s writing her updates on the crime, which has riveted people round the country, on The Daily Beast. She also gave a long interview to the ubiquitous & belligerent Dr. Phil, discussing the murky side of the human spirit. Murk always works. … Is there more bad news these days than usual? Many are asking that. The news has always been bad for someone in this world of suffering. Years ago, when I worked in radio, I was hired to do stories for something called The Good News Network. They quickly went out of business. …
Speaking of business, Police Chief Heather Fong seems to be at odds with Sup. Bevan Dufty and the Entertainment Commission because the commissioners want to the power to extend bar & nightclub hours – on a temporary basis – beyond the mandatory 2 a.m. closing time.
Wouldn’t it help the economy to keep the pubs & clubs in S.F. open 24 hours, as they were before World War II, when the town was an “Open City”? Besides, people don’t have to get to bed early anymore – they don’t have any jobs to go to in the morning. …
The boys and girls at Le Beau, the popular grocery store on Leavenworth & Clay, are certainly working hard these days. “Le Beau is a jewel on Nob Hill,” explains Tom Wolfe, the storied concierge at the Fairmont. The place is a nexus of social activity on the Hill. Owner Joe Omram constantly plays great oldies on the house Victrola. Morgan Hamm and his crew, including Drew Stevenson, have turned the deli into a first-rate charcuterie. I’ve been watching the API – the Angus Price Index. The price of the ground beef at Le Beau has remained at $4.99 a pound, economic crisis notwithstanding. I took my discounted bag of spuds to the check-out the other day. “Recession potatoes,” I said to James Francis Abrams, who was working the register. He quipped, “The Irish do well in a recession.” Let’s hope so. …
I’m happy to report that Rod McKuen has contributed a terrific piece of verse to this issue of the Northside. I told Rod about an item on Page Six of the NY Post – another good reason to deport Rupert Murdoch. It asks: “Was Cool Hand Luke a hot-headed drunk and womanizer? Shawn Levy's new bio, Paul Newman: A Life, portrays the late Oscar- winner as a functioning alcoholic who, wearing a bottle opener on a chain around his neck, put away 'beer after beer after beer, a case or more a day,' followed by the hard stuff, usually scotch. … Mort Sahl recalled him filling a brandy snifter with ice and scotch and sipping it in a steam room.”
McKuen notes Newman’s great film work & his extraordinary generosity.
Writes Rod: "Of course the day Rupert Murdoch’s rag can give us half as much pleasure as any single Paul Newman film or he personally (with all his wealth) delivers a 10th of the amount of the late actor’s sizeable contributions to charity will be a very cold day in whatever hell Murdoch is headed toward. But wait a minute; hasn’t this blowhard already given us Hell on Earth? I think it’s spelled F O X N E W S."
I only wish I could have had the chance to drink Scotch in a steam room -- or anywhere else -- with Paul Newman. Though my Mum was from Glasgow, Scotch is the one drink, however -- likely the only drink -- that I could not stomach. I went back to New Jersey, still in my early 20s, to visit her all those years ago. One evening, I went out with my hometown buddies, and the Scotch & the Drambuie began to flow at the local bowling alley where, as a kid, I thought only derelicts drank. Funny how self-image can quickly change.
I came back to Mum's house late in the evening, reeking of Johnny Walker Red. (My Scottish grandfather was named Johnny Walker -- kid you not. He was a pub musician in Glasgow and reportedly a lifelong teetotaler.)
At the house, Mum heard a crash from the bathroom.
She called out, "Bruce, are you all right?"
"Sure, Mum," I shouted back.
She did not know that I was speaking while standing on my head in the bathtub, where I had landed, upside-down. No more Scotch after that. …
Paula West will be singing with the San Francisco Girls Chorus at the First Congregational Church in Berkeley on June 5, and at the S.F. Conservatory of Music, 50 Oak St., on June 6. … I don’t know why I think this is a good idea, but I’d love to hear the Girls Chorus sing an evening of Beach Boys songs sometime. Just a thought. … Perez Hilton owes Miss California an apology, regardless of her position on same-sex marriage. “A gentleman is never unintentionally rude,” observed Oscar Wilde. I guess Perez meant to insult her but he’s still no gentleman. … By the way, where is Paris Hilton? Did the party gigs dry up or did we lose her in the stock market? I thought we’d always have Paris. … Sharon Anderson says an indictment of Dick Cheney would be a better birthday present for her than dinner at Scoma’s. … We all have a wish list. Norm Goldblatt confesses, “When I was a teenager, I had no self-confidence. I used to fantasize in the third person.” …
Niel Mortensen reminds me that it’s been 40 years since the John & Yoko Bed-In in Montreal. That city is celebrating this summer. Speaking of Montreal, that reminds me of a famous Groucho story.
“I was in Montreal. I made a quick exit out of the elevator. A priest comes up to me, puts out his hand, and says, ‘I wanna thank you for all the joy you’ve put into this world.’ I shook his hand, and I said, ‘And I wanna thank you for all the joy you’ve taken out of this world.’” I can’t top Groucho, so we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times, and Media People. He’s also a restless person who haunts regions rife with the tantalizing undercurrent of menace & crime. He needs your guidance: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Inside Marilyn Chambers, Outside Miss California vs. Perez Hilton
My brother Jack sent me a note: "One of your porn buddies is dead." Marilyn Chambers, the Ivory Snow Girl-turned smut star, had died in Los Angeles. She was 56. Truth is, I did not know Marilyn Chambers. Yes, I had some contact with the Mitchell Brothers, Marilyn's benefactors (if that's the right word, and it's not) in the old days. I wish I had met Marilyn. I never heard a bad story about her. I'm told she was very sweet. The porn business is, and was rife with brutality. I think about the pain that was inflicted on her. I sure hope she had some fun along with it. When I first came to San Francisco, the young male denizens (and a few females, too) would brag about their salacious conquests. What was missing from the news stories about Marilyn's death is this: porn in the 1970s was part of the fervent insurgency that was a hallmark of the time. That's partly why it was attractive to restless, young people looking to rattle the status quo. Shocking the public was one method. Porn was as political as it was prurient.
Is the world a better place for having Marilyn Chambers? I dunno. It's certainly not a better place without her.
Now that "Firing Line" is no longer on the air, and the deadline for "Bill Moyer's Journal" had passed, it's a good thing we have the Miss USA Pageant. This is where political and social topics of the day can now be examined.
As one floor manager barked backstage at the contestants during the competition, "This is not your mother's beauty pageant!"
Too bad.
My mother would have insisted that Perez Hilton not be invited, not be a pageant judge, and certainly may not use the towels.
I'm referring to the now-famous dust-up between Perez Hilton and Miss California, Carrie Prejean. Unfortunately for Ms. Prejean, she randomly picked his name to pose a question to her as millions of TV viewers watched. He eagerly asked her what her position was on same-sex marriage. She uneasily explained her family background and religious instruction compelled her to believe that only men and women should be married.
It was a no-win consequence for her. She didn't win. She came in second. Hilton certainly voted against her, perhaps other judges did, too. She told Matt Lauer on the following Monday on the "Today" show that she knew her dream to be Miss USA was over the minute she answered the question. She explained, gracefully, at the pageant, that she meant no offense to anyone, but this is what she believes, and she will not compromise her resolve.
Is that not called freedom of speech? It also takes guts.
Perez Hilton, the man with the preposterously manufactured name, promptly uploaded a video on his site where he called Ms. Prejean a "dumb bitch." I guess that form of free speech is acceptable to many. It didn't faze many in the enlightened world of show-business.
Perez Hilton calls himself "queen of all media." I guess he wanted to wear the tiara.
What did she say?
Hilton asked her: "Vermont recently became the fourth state to legalize same-sex marriage. Do you think every state should follow suit. Why or why not?"
Prejean paused for a moment then said, "Well, I think it’s great that Americans are able to choose one or the other. We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage."
She continued: "And you know what, in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman."
I'm not sure what she meant by choosing "same-sex marriage or opposite marriage." You can't. That's the issue.
Aside from this rhetorical cloudiness, Hilton decided to exploit the moment with a well-designed ambush on the gal, and derive all the publicity he could out of it in his typically crude fashion.
In Hollywood, one might not recall that Prop 8, California's anti-same-sex ballot measure, was approved by a majority of voters in California last November. The state remains just about split on the issue.
"Hollywood isn’t just liberal, it is fearfully liberal. It is easier in Hollywood to say you’re a drug addict or to pretty much anything than to admit to being a committed Christian," Hollywood publicist, Michael Levine told FOXnews.com.
Despite media reports, Perez did not do his cause any good. He said, "Miss USA is supposed to represent all of us." He's kidding, right?
It's a very touchy topic. Perhaps the pageant's owner, Donald Trump, should have rushed in to lecture us all on the sanctity of marriage.
The would-be, could-have-been Miss USA did what she was supposed to do: remind us there is such a thing as free speech. Free speech trumps, if you will, gay marriage -- or any other kind of marriage -- any day.
And, Perez Hilton, wash your mouth out with designer soap -- and don't use the towels.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist & arts writer for the Northside newspaper in San Francisco He has an idea for a new book. He'd like to call it A Brief History of Time. We think the title's been taken already. But that's all right, it's not likely Bellingham will find the time to write it anyway. Advise him: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Is the world a better place for having Marilyn Chambers? I dunno. It's certainly not a better place without her.
Now that "Firing Line" is no longer on the air, and the deadline for "Bill Moyer's Journal" had passed, it's a good thing we have the Miss USA Pageant. This is where political and social topics of the day can now be examined.
As one floor manager barked backstage at the contestants during the competition, "This is not your mother's beauty pageant!"
Too bad.
My mother would have insisted that Perez Hilton not be invited, not be a pageant judge, and certainly may not use the towels.
I'm referring to the now-famous dust-up between Perez Hilton and Miss California, Carrie Prejean. Unfortunately for Ms. Prejean, she randomly picked his name to pose a question to her as millions of TV viewers watched. He eagerly asked her what her position was on same-sex marriage. She uneasily explained her family background and religious instruction compelled her to believe that only men and women should be married.
It was a no-win consequence for her. She didn't win. She came in second. Hilton certainly voted against her, perhaps other judges did, too. She told Matt Lauer on the following Monday on the "Today" show that she knew her dream to be Miss USA was over the minute she answered the question. She explained, gracefully, at the pageant, that she meant no offense to anyone, but this is what she believes, and she will not compromise her resolve.
Is that not called freedom of speech? It also takes guts.
Perez Hilton, the man with the preposterously manufactured name, promptly uploaded a video on his site where he called Ms. Prejean a "dumb bitch." I guess that form of free speech is acceptable to many. It didn't faze many in the enlightened world of show-business.
Perez Hilton calls himself "queen of all media." I guess he wanted to wear the tiara.
What did she say?
Hilton asked her: "Vermont recently became the fourth state to legalize same-sex marriage. Do you think every state should follow suit. Why or why not?"
Prejean paused for a moment then said, "Well, I think it’s great that Americans are able to choose one or the other. We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage."
She continued: "And you know what, in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman."
I'm not sure what she meant by choosing "same-sex marriage or opposite marriage." You can't. That's the issue.
Aside from this rhetorical cloudiness, Hilton decided to exploit the moment with a well-designed ambush on the gal, and derive all the publicity he could out of it in his typically crude fashion.
In Hollywood, one might not recall that Prop 8, California's anti-same-sex ballot measure, was approved by a majority of voters in California last November. The state remains just about split on the issue.
"Hollywood isn’t just liberal, it is fearfully liberal. It is easier in Hollywood to say you’re a drug addict or to pretty much anything than to admit to being a committed Christian," Hollywood publicist, Michael Levine told FOXnews.com.
Despite media reports, Perez did not do his cause any good. He said, "Miss USA is supposed to represent all of us." He's kidding, right?
It's a very touchy topic. Perhaps the pageant's owner, Donald Trump, should have rushed in to lecture us all on the sanctity of marriage.
The would-be, could-have-been Miss USA did what she was supposed to do: remind us there is such a thing as free speech. Free speech trumps, if you will, gay marriage -- or any other kind of marriage -- any day.
And, Perez Hilton, wash your mouth out with designer soap -- and don't use the towels.
Bruce Bellingham is also a columnist & arts writer for the Northside newspaper in San Francisco He has an idea for a new book. He'd like to call it A Brief History of Time. We think the title's been taken already. But that's all right, it's not likely Bellingham will find the time to write it anyway. Advise him: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Monday, April 06, 2009
A Portrait of Pat Kelley by Bruce Bellingham
Pat Kelley: The Face of the PlumpJack Dream
When it comes to telling stories, few can beat the vivacious Pat Kelley, who knows just about everyone in San Francisco.
"She's the exquisite Rolodex," says the legendary politico Hadley Roff, who has worked for six San Francisco mayors and now consults for the Political Science and Urban Affairs departments at San Francisco State University. "Without Pat Kelley, the character of the Balboa Café would be lost."
Over the years, columnists have quietly called Pat to ask her the "what's what" and the "who's who." It's a rare day when she doesn't have an answer. If she doesn't have an immediate answer, she'll graciously call back and rattle off a list of names and a constellation of characters that require a scorecard to follow. Fact is, Pat is one of the most fascinating of all San Franciscans on her own merits. Splashy and dazzling in her ingenue days, she takes her place among the local legends over the epochs, such as Alma Spreckels, Lillian Hitchcock Coit and Lola Montez.
She's played the part of courtesan and eminence grise. She gives the term "working girl" new meaning.
Yes, Pat was known to dance on the bar, martini glass in hand, until the cows came home. Her old friend, Herb Caen, would describe her as "the blond bombshell" or simply, "La Kelley." Sure, she could put away the martinis. But now, she's put them aside.
Today most people know Pat as the poised, graceful woman with the twinkling eyes and the elegant scarves who seats people for lunch at the Marina's storied Balboa Café -- a nexus for politicos, socialites, the shamelessly successful, and the rest of us. The current incarnation of the Balboa is part of the PlumpJack Group that was founded by Gavin Newsom. Among the investors are Gavin's childhood chum, Billy Getty, and various members of the Getty family. Gordon Getty is the patriach. At first glance, Pat appears to be a highborn lady who has a hostess gig in order to occupy her days and mingle with her well-heeled Pacific Heights friends.
That's not the case. Pat has made and lost fortunes without benefit of inheritance or husbands. She has always worked hard; was a "single mom" and a "career woman" -- before the terms were invented. In fact, she was the first female stockbroker in San Francisco and was one of the most successful real estate people in town. She achieved that through a combination of smarts, charm, and absolute fearlessness. She modestly calls it "naivete."
"I never really knew about the big picture," says Pat. "that I might have been ahead of the pack."
It was 1962. Tired of her meager wage at Allstate on the Peninsula and with a child, she went to the personnel manager to ask for more money. Pat was told she would not be able to go any higher in the company because she was a woman.
"When I asked about being a manager, a higher level, I was told that women weren't managers," Pat recalled. "The woman in personnel was stunned when I quit. I had no child support, and now, no job."
In Menlo Park, Pat approached a small investment firm run by Sheldon Luce, of the famous family. Again, she encountered a woman in personnel.
"Any college?" she asked.
"No."
"Can't use you."
Pat came back the next day.
"How much typing?"
"Not much."
"Can't use you."
Determined, Pat returned on Monday and asked to talk to Mr. Luce. "He hired me," Pat says, "for my persistence."
That persistence rarely left her. Luce gave her advice, such as, "Don't read other people's theories and never tell anyone what you do for a living."
Then one day, she said, "Mr. Luce, I was thinking over the weekend ..."
"Don't ever think," he shot back. "If I wanted someone to think, I would've hired a man. Maybe you should be a stockbroker." He gave her a list of names.
She landed a job at E.F. Hutton. They sent her to New York for training. There were 100 men and Pat Kelley in the room. Pat became the first female registered stock representative in San Francisco. In the first year, she was third best producer in the San Francisco office.
"All the other stockbrokers wanted to get through the day and go home," Pat recalled. "But I'd stay in the office until eight o'clock at night, picking up all the walk-in business."
These days, Pat gets to the PlumpJack Management office on Fillmore Street at six in the morning. There she handles all sorts of paperwork for the company. At 11:30, she crosses the street to the Balboa and begins her "mayter-dee" (as Herb Caen would say) duties until late afternoon.
"Pat was really the backbone of PlumpJack at its birth," Judge Bill Newsom, Gavin's dad, said the other day. "She had the breadth of experience that Gavin and Billy lacked -- in retail, in wine, and in food. She still is the public face of the PlumpJack enterprise."
Since her E.F Hutton days -- she was a broker for 12 years -- Pat says it has all been "a kaleidoscope." She made lots of friends, went to lots of places.
"In 1970, I met Herb Caen and Billy Gaylord (crown prince of interior design), " Pat says, "I always had interesting friends who are interested in people, people who are doers. Harry de Wildt (Caen dubbed him "Sir Lunch-a-lot") would give parties two nights in a row and sometimes not even show up."
She went along when real estate mogul Vincent Friia would take 25 people to Paris to celebrate New Year's with a midnight supper at Maxim's several years in a row.
There were the best of times and it seems they couldn't be better. She took her stock money and bought real estate, was at the vanguard of condo-conversion, went into the wine store business -- she called the shops Crane & Kelley --and a hardware store at Polk & Pacific.
"I always wanted to own something that was somewhere between the Crystal Palace and Harrod's," she says. "So I created the Oakville Grocery with Joe Phelps (of winery fame). With that, another Crane & Kelley, and La Cuisine, a cooking school that included instructors such as Marion Cunningham, Carlo Middione, Marcella Hazan, Giancarlo Bugialli, Flo Braker, and Jeremiah Tower.
Pat and Jeremiah became an item. On a trip to Honolulu, they actually discussed marriage. Kelley recalls those days: "Jeremiah was going through -- how shall I say? -- an ambivalent stage. Back at the Balboa, I finally said, 'Jeremiah, I've been thinking. I really don't think we should get married.' He sighed and blurted out, 'Thank God!' in relief."
Tower, who lives in Merîda, Mexico, in the Yucatan, is now writing and consulting. He recalls cooking for Pat's dinner parties on Russian Hill and in Napa in the old days:
"Pat was the first high-flying member of some part of San Francisco's society to invite me to sit down to dinner at her table afer I had cooked the dinner, even when other people at the table, some of those flying in that town's highest circles were appalled to sit next to a cook. Later, of course, with my local fame as a superstar and chef, some from society wanted to sit next to me."
Pat says the Oakville Grocery was her dream come true.
"And it didn't even have parking." Her eyes sparkle as she speaks. "We had the best produce in town. We sold 100 kinds of mustard. Cyril Magnin came in every day. Then the union struck us over a dispute that was about our using novices. Genteel ladies did not like crossing a picket line and being called names like 'scumbag' by nasty people. It took them 18 months to put us out of business."
The real estate business also went south.
"I'm still not sure what happened, but I spent five years as a defendant, and wound up without a dime."
She went to work for Cliff Abbey, the St. Helena vintner, who then owned the Trattoria Contadina in North Beach.
Says Pat, "This was my college experience when it came to the restaurant business, from washing pots and pans to all the rest." Pat confesses she actually switched the place cards at a dinner so Cliff could sit next to her friend, Clare Boothe Luce, granddaughter of the famous playwright and congresswoman. Clare and Cliff, now married, "haven't been out of each other's sight since that night."
Yes, Clare is from the same family as Sheldon Luce, who gave Pat her a break in the finance world all those years ago.
She opened the Dixie Café for Tom Clendenning and opened Rosalie's on Van Ness Avenue. It closed. She reopened it as Rosalie's Redux with Harry de Wildt. It closed. "I think Harry accidentally wandered into the kitchen and recoiled at the sight of the butcher in a bloody smock. It was all over."
Pat went back to work for Cliff Abbey, producing jeans on Potrero Hill.
One day, Pat and Gavin had a chat at the Balboa about opening a wine store in the Marina. What would they call it? Gordon Getty had composed an opera called "Plump Jack." Pat thought it might be a good name for the shop, considering the Gettys were involved. After a protracted battle with some neighbors who didn't want another wine shop in the area, PlumpJack Wines finally opened.
Kelley retains undying respect and loyalty for Mayor Newsom. The feeling is mutual.
"Gavin is awfully smart, a self-taught businessman," Pat says. "He exudes honesty and loyalty. In turn, he expects commitment. We made it with pluck and hard work -- not always knowing what we were doing. Sure, we had advantages -- people wanted to see what the Gettys were doing. I was perfectly happy. Two years into the wine store, I hear from Gavin, 'We're going to buy the Pixie Café. I need a challenge."
That became the PlumpJack Cafe on Fillmore.
Meanwhile, Jack Slick and his partners, Cathe and Doyle Moon, were running the Balboa Café, which had been a funky neighborhood bar in the old days, frequented by sodden merchant sailors. Jack, Cathe and Doyle took it over and it became a very hip spot. Boz Scaggs, a friend of Slick's, was among many musicians often seen at the Balboa. Yes, Pat worked for Jack at one time, too. (Slick now owns a bar in Sacramento.) The Jack Slick days became quite notorious for his bizarre, rambunctious behavior. Herb Caen reported the time Slick dragged a man out of the bathroom with his pants down, holding a syringe. Slick screamed, "I don't want any junkies in my bathroom!" The man was a diabetic. The syringe contained insulin. The restaurant paid the man a $600,000 settlement. It was another blow to a foundering ship. Kelley suggested to Gavin that the PlumpJack people pick up the Balboa, that it could be as great as it used to be. They got it for a song.
Pat's not comfortable with the moniker of "kingmaker" but she's undoubtedly and relentlessly imaginative. One fateful night at the PlumpJack Cafe, Pat Kelley introduced then-Mayor Willie Brown to Gavin. Later, Pat nudged Willie with the notion of appointing Gavin to a commission. "After all," Pat said, "You gave Billy Getty a commission."
Mayor Brown appointed Gavin to the Parking and Traffic Commission. The rest is political history. Gavin was later appointed supervisor in District 2. Then he was elected to the office. When Newsom was elected mayor, he had to relinquish his PlumpJack holdings in San Francisco.
Today Pat has a 28-year old son, Kevin, a real estate agent at Sotheby's. Her daughter, Kathleen, 44, is married with three boys.
What's left for Pat Kelley to conquer? She might conquer the English lexicon. She has a passion for words. A dictionary remains open on the counter in the kitchen of her cozy Marina apartment. "I try to learn a new word every day. Aside from that, "I'd like to go another NCAA tournament. I'd like to meet Frederick Larsen (the Chronicle photographer); I want to have lunch with Lance Armstrong and Wayne Gretsky. I've met Domingo, Pavorotti and Joan Sutherland. Who's left? I'd like to get backstage and meet Donald Fagen when he comes the Paramount in Oakland on March 28th. There are so many challenges and wonderful things yet to do."
####
When it comes to telling stories, few can beat the vivacious Pat Kelley, who knows just about everyone in San Francisco.
"She's the exquisite Rolodex," says the legendary politico Hadley Roff, who has worked for six San Francisco mayors and now consults for the Political Science and Urban Affairs departments at San Francisco State University. "Without Pat Kelley, the character of the Balboa Café would be lost."
Over the years, columnists have quietly called Pat to ask her the "what's what" and the "who's who." It's a rare day when she doesn't have an answer. If she doesn't have an immediate answer, she'll graciously call back and rattle off a list of names and a constellation of characters that require a scorecard to follow. Fact is, Pat is one of the most fascinating of all San Franciscans on her own merits. Splashy and dazzling in her ingenue days, she takes her place among the local legends over the epochs, such as Alma Spreckels, Lillian Hitchcock Coit and Lola Montez.
She's played the part of courtesan and eminence grise. She gives the term "working girl" new meaning.
Yes, Pat was known to dance on the bar, martini glass in hand, until the cows came home. Her old friend, Herb Caen, would describe her as "the blond bombshell" or simply, "La Kelley." Sure, she could put away the martinis. But now, she's put them aside.
Today most people know Pat as the poised, graceful woman with the twinkling eyes and the elegant scarves who seats people for lunch at the Marina's storied Balboa Café -- a nexus for politicos, socialites, the shamelessly successful, and the rest of us. The current incarnation of the Balboa is part of the PlumpJack Group that was founded by Gavin Newsom. Among the investors are Gavin's childhood chum, Billy Getty, and various members of the Getty family. Gordon Getty is the patriach. At first glance, Pat appears to be a highborn lady who has a hostess gig in order to occupy her days and mingle with her well-heeled Pacific Heights friends.
That's not the case. Pat has made and lost fortunes without benefit of inheritance or husbands. She has always worked hard; was a "single mom" and a "career woman" -- before the terms were invented. In fact, she was the first female stockbroker in San Francisco and was one of the most successful real estate people in town. She achieved that through a combination of smarts, charm, and absolute fearlessness. She modestly calls it "naivete."
"I never really knew about the big picture," says Pat. "that I might have been ahead of the pack."
It was 1962. Tired of her meager wage at Allstate on the Peninsula and with a child, she went to the personnel manager to ask for more money. Pat was told she would not be able to go any higher in the company because she was a woman.
"When I asked about being a manager, a higher level, I was told that women weren't managers," Pat recalled. "The woman in personnel was stunned when I quit. I had no child support, and now, no job."
In Menlo Park, Pat approached a small investment firm run by Sheldon Luce, of the famous family. Again, she encountered a woman in personnel.
"Any college?" she asked.
"No."
"Can't use you."
Pat came back the next day.
"How much typing?"
"Not much."
"Can't use you."
Determined, Pat returned on Monday and asked to talk to Mr. Luce. "He hired me," Pat says, "for my persistence."
That persistence rarely left her. Luce gave her advice, such as, "Don't read other people's theories and never tell anyone what you do for a living."
Then one day, she said, "Mr. Luce, I was thinking over the weekend ..."
"Don't ever think," he shot back. "If I wanted someone to think, I would've hired a man. Maybe you should be a stockbroker." He gave her a list of names.
She landed a job at E.F. Hutton. They sent her to New York for training. There were 100 men and Pat Kelley in the room. Pat became the first female registered stock representative in San Francisco. In the first year, she was third best producer in the San Francisco office.
"All the other stockbrokers wanted to get through the day and go home," Pat recalled. "But I'd stay in the office until eight o'clock at night, picking up all the walk-in business."
These days, Pat gets to the PlumpJack Management office on Fillmore Street at six in the morning. There she handles all sorts of paperwork for the company. At 11:30, she crosses the street to the Balboa and begins her "mayter-dee" (as Herb Caen would say) duties until late afternoon.
"Pat was really the backbone of PlumpJack at its birth," Judge Bill Newsom, Gavin's dad, said the other day. "She had the breadth of experience that Gavin and Billy lacked -- in retail, in wine, and in food. She still is the public face of the PlumpJack enterprise."
Since her E.F Hutton days -- she was a broker for 12 years -- Pat says it has all been "a kaleidoscope." She made lots of friends, went to lots of places.
"In 1970, I met Herb Caen and Billy Gaylord (crown prince of interior design), " Pat says, "I always had interesting friends who are interested in people, people who are doers. Harry de Wildt (Caen dubbed him "Sir Lunch-a-lot") would give parties two nights in a row and sometimes not even show up."
She went along when real estate mogul Vincent Friia would take 25 people to Paris to celebrate New Year's with a midnight supper at Maxim's several years in a row.
There were the best of times and it seems they couldn't be better. She took her stock money and bought real estate, was at the vanguard of condo-conversion, went into the wine store business -- she called the shops Crane & Kelley --and a hardware store at Polk & Pacific.
"I always wanted to own something that was somewhere between the Crystal Palace and Harrod's," she says. "So I created the Oakville Grocery with Joe Phelps (of winery fame). With that, another Crane & Kelley, and La Cuisine, a cooking school that included instructors such as Marion Cunningham, Carlo Middione, Marcella Hazan, Giancarlo Bugialli, Flo Braker, and Jeremiah Tower.
Pat and Jeremiah became an item. On a trip to Honolulu, they actually discussed marriage. Kelley recalls those days: "Jeremiah was going through -- how shall I say? -- an ambivalent stage. Back at the Balboa, I finally said, 'Jeremiah, I've been thinking. I really don't think we should get married.' He sighed and blurted out, 'Thank God!' in relief."
Tower, who lives in Merîda, Mexico, in the Yucatan, is now writing and consulting. He recalls cooking for Pat's dinner parties on Russian Hill and in Napa in the old days:
"Pat was the first high-flying member of some part of San Francisco's society to invite me to sit down to dinner at her table afer I had cooked the dinner, even when other people at the table, some of those flying in that town's highest circles were appalled to sit next to a cook. Later, of course, with my local fame as a superstar and chef, some from society wanted to sit next to me."
Pat says the Oakville Grocery was her dream come true.
"And it didn't even have parking." Her eyes sparkle as she speaks. "We had the best produce in town. We sold 100 kinds of mustard. Cyril Magnin came in every day. Then the union struck us over a dispute that was about our using novices. Genteel ladies did not like crossing a picket line and being called names like 'scumbag' by nasty people. It took them 18 months to put us out of business."
The real estate business also went south.
"I'm still not sure what happened, but I spent five years as a defendant, and wound up without a dime."
She went to work for Cliff Abbey, the St. Helena vintner, who then owned the Trattoria Contadina in North Beach.
Says Pat, "This was my college experience when it came to the restaurant business, from washing pots and pans to all the rest." Pat confesses she actually switched the place cards at a dinner so Cliff could sit next to her friend, Clare Boothe Luce, granddaughter of the famous playwright and congresswoman. Clare and Cliff, now married, "haven't been out of each other's sight since that night."
Yes, Clare is from the same family as Sheldon Luce, who gave Pat her a break in the finance world all those years ago.
She opened the Dixie Café for Tom Clendenning and opened Rosalie's on Van Ness Avenue. It closed. She reopened it as Rosalie's Redux with Harry de Wildt. It closed. "I think Harry accidentally wandered into the kitchen and recoiled at the sight of the butcher in a bloody smock. It was all over."
Pat went back to work for Cliff Abbey, producing jeans on Potrero Hill.
One day, Pat and Gavin had a chat at the Balboa about opening a wine store in the Marina. What would they call it? Gordon Getty had composed an opera called "Plump Jack." Pat thought it might be a good name for the shop, considering the Gettys were involved. After a protracted battle with some neighbors who didn't want another wine shop in the area, PlumpJack Wines finally opened.
Kelley retains undying respect and loyalty for Mayor Newsom. The feeling is mutual.
"Gavin is awfully smart, a self-taught businessman," Pat says. "He exudes honesty and loyalty. In turn, he expects commitment. We made it with pluck and hard work -- not always knowing what we were doing. Sure, we had advantages -- people wanted to see what the Gettys were doing. I was perfectly happy. Two years into the wine store, I hear from Gavin, 'We're going to buy the Pixie Café. I need a challenge."
That became the PlumpJack Cafe on Fillmore.
Meanwhile, Jack Slick and his partners, Cathe and Doyle Moon, were running the Balboa Café, which had been a funky neighborhood bar in the old days, frequented by sodden merchant sailors. Jack, Cathe and Doyle took it over and it became a very hip spot. Boz Scaggs, a friend of Slick's, was among many musicians often seen at the Balboa. Yes, Pat worked for Jack at one time, too. (Slick now owns a bar in Sacramento.) The Jack Slick days became quite notorious for his bizarre, rambunctious behavior. Herb Caen reported the time Slick dragged a man out of the bathroom with his pants down, holding a syringe. Slick screamed, "I don't want any junkies in my bathroom!" The man was a diabetic. The syringe contained insulin. The restaurant paid the man a $600,000 settlement. It was another blow to a foundering ship. Kelley suggested to Gavin that the PlumpJack people pick up the Balboa, that it could be as great as it used to be. They got it for a song.
Pat's not comfortable with the moniker of "kingmaker" but she's undoubtedly and relentlessly imaginative. One fateful night at the PlumpJack Cafe, Pat Kelley introduced then-Mayor Willie Brown to Gavin. Later, Pat nudged Willie with the notion of appointing Gavin to a commission. "After all," Pat said, "You gave Billy Getty a commission."
Mayor Brown appointed Gavin to the Parking and Traffic Commission. The rest is political history. Gavin was later appointed supervisor in District 2. Then he was elected to the office. When Newsom was elected mayor, he had to relinquish his PlumpJack holdings in San Francisco.
Today Pat has a 28-year old son, Kevin, a real estate agent at Sotheby's. Her daughter, Kathleen, 44, is married with three boys.
What's left for Pat Kelley to conquer? She might conquer the English lexicon. She has a passion for words. A dictionary remains open on the counter in the kitchen of her cozy Marina apartment. "I try to learn a new word every day. Aside from that, "I'd like to go another NCAA tournament. I'd like to meet Frederick Larsen (the Chronicle photographer); I want to have lunch with Lance Armstrong and Wayne Gretsky. I've met Domingo, Pavorotti and Joan Sutherland. Who's left? I'd like to get backstage and meet Donald Fagen when he comes the Paramount in Oakland on March 28th. There are so many challenges and wonderful things yet to do."
####
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Maggie McCall: A Remembrance -- San Francisco Marina Times, April 2009
Even now it's hard to imagine the Marina District without Maggie McCall. When I wrote for the Marina Times in those old days -- the late 1980s and through the 1990s -- Maggie was editor-in-chief & publisher of the neighborhood's chief voice.
Maggie's influence, and her drive were unquestioned. Her dedication to the Marina was fierce, relentless. After traveling the world, she came home to her turf, and dammit, she protected it to her level best.
Maggie McCall died on March 16 at Kaiser Hospital in San Francisco from complications of pneumonia and Alzheimer's Disease. She was 77.
She must have hated the slow deterioration that led to her death. Her daughter, Stacy Bobu, who ran the Marina Times for 13 years with Maggie, said her mom could not speak for the last two years of her life as she was remanded to convalescence in Marin County, and San Francisco. That's a terrible notion. Maggie, silent? Maggie loved to talk -- and was very good at it. She would engage people through her storytelling. She did not simply speak. She held forth. Maggie also never held back. Sometimes that would infuriate people.
When she wasn't expostulating or opining (some of her favorite words), she’d let the Marina Times do the talking.
She'd shout out in her own terms or let someone else vent, sometimes with a little less than reasonable restraint.
Maggie gave a loud voice to this small, contentious creature that's called a neighborhood newspaper. She believed neighborhood newspapers were as essential to The City as the 30-Stockton line; as vital as the power that illuminates the street lights; as important as the firefighters at Truck 16 -- even if she were occasionally setting the fire, in a figurative sense. All things of this nature worked in concert in the world of Maggie McCall. It's part of the design of a community. The Marina was Maggie's.
Maggie loved running her newspaper. Her passion was infectious.
She reminded me of those pictures of pioneers of publishing in the Wild West. That is, a green visor pulled down over the eyes, cuff protectors that keep shirtsleeves from being drenched in ink. You know, those old westerns where someone like Edmund O'Brien, playing the newspaper editor, recklessly defied the bad guys at his own peril.
Maggie, like the beleaguered defender of the free press, short of stature, would stand tall, stand up to anyone. Brave as the night, tough as nails.
Naturally this could cause friction. But most of the causes were right.
I would marvel at her indignation.
Let's see. It was 1988. I was a radio reporter at KQED-FM. I lived at Chestnut & Fillmore, above the Horseshoe Saloon, across the street from O Sole Mio restaurant & the wonderful House of Magic – that domain of tricks, the emporium owned by the inimitably crusty Mark Burger. He wanted all to believe that he he didn't believe in anything. But, you know, folks, he's a trickster. He was chronically disappointed because he believed in too much. Maggie loved him -- though Mark resists such supplications. Don't tell him I said all this, by the way. He might put a Santerîa curse on me. Santerîa? That only comes at Christmas, right? I guess I still believe in Santerîa, even if I still get coal in my stocking.
OK, Bruce, knock it off. Maggie would say that to me sometimes.
There were so many characters in the Marina in those days. It was fun to be here.
As I mentioned, as a radio reporter & local resident, I noticed that there was a neighborhood paper called The Marina. Then there was another paper, called the Marina Times. I sensed “newspaper wars” in the Marina District. So I made up a radio story about it. I talked to David Ish, who published a breezy paper, mostly about the outdoors. Then I found this woman, Maggie McCall, who had broken away from David, to start this paper, the Marina Times, that had a bit more of an edge to it. They fought like cats & dogs but became friends. I became their friends, too. But Maggie hired me to write a column. It’s a little disarming to interview someone & realize you are the one being interviewed. It happens.
Maggie gave me an introduction to what a neighborhood is all about. I thought the Marina was that “bigoted little village,” as Herb Caen described it. It’s that, for sure – but it is so much more.
Maggie told me about her times writing for Stars & Stripes in Germany, how she and her lovely & loving husband, Sam, a true hero of World War II, decided to travel around the world with their two young children, Ken & Stacy. That’s why they’re so oddly multi-lingual. Maggie also reveled in her time writing for Broadcast magazine in New York City. Broadcasting: another love we shared. When Mags, as I called her sometime, asked me to write a column, I could scarcely say no.
Then came the 1989 earthquake. A defining moment for the Marina. The neighborhood was plunged into darkness, and in many cases, despair. Some were hurt irreparably. Some died. For all of it, I never saw such compassion and generosity in my life. Pete Pallari, at O Sole Mio created a backdoor barbeque for a week or two. All the restaurants that lost power (we all did) simply brought their food to Pete and his friendly staffers and supporters, including Mario Macias. John Hizy was there. Johnny Brattesani (Steven, the dentists’s dad, and Steven’s wonderful mom, Mirella,) from Caesar’s Restaurant over in the Wharf, brought crates of food. Yes, they were all Marina heroes. Many more names come to mind – Gloria Fontanella, Maya Brouwer, the great people at La Pergola restaurant, the Wine Shop. Gee, it seems like it was only twenty years ago.
Yes, well, it was. The kindness poured out of people of the Marina like Chianti.
Pete Pallari said the other day, “Maggie saved my bacon.”
What does Pete mean by that? Stacy confirmed it.
“Lots of people had ads in the Marina Times, and had no idea how they got there,” says Stacy. “Well, they did not get there by accident. My mom placed them there free of charge. My mom believed in healing.”
Pete Pallari reaffirms, “After the earthquake, when I ran that soup kitchen out of the alley, I did not know what to do. We were about broke. Maggie ran item after item in the paper and people came back, and actually got to know us for the first time. Maggie and I stayed friends after that – right up until the day she got sick. I owe her a lot.”
No question many of us owe Maggie McCall a lot. I’m one. She was always after me for precision of language. I thought I could handle that one. Maggie tried to impart to me there was a precision of soul in writing. She also made me realize the whole world was her community, and that the world could be mine, and anyone’s who cared to seek it. No world was more profoundly close to her heart as this one --- the Marina.
The Marina was Maggie’s.
As you see, the Marina Times lives, thanks to the late David Ish, the present owner, Susan Reynolds, and the publisher, John Gollin. Remember: Maggie started all this trouble. I don’t know about you, but I thank my lucky stars for it. Oh, if you have any complaints, address them to the names mentioned above.
Mags might get a kick out of that.
Memorial services for Maggie McCall, according to Stacy, are pending.
#####
Maggie's influence, and her drive were unquestioned. Her dedication to the Marina was fierce, relentless. After traveling the world, she came home to her turf, and dammit, she protected it to her level best.
Maggie McCall died on March 16 at Kaiser Hospital in San Francisco from complications of pneumonia and Alzheimer's Disease. She was 77.
She must have hated the slow deterioration that led to her death. Her daughter, Stacy Bobu, who ran the Marina Times for 13 years with Maggie, said her mom could not speak for the last two years of her life as she was remanded to convalescence in Marin County, and San Francisco. That's a terrible notion. Maggie, silent? Maggie loved to talk -- and was very good at it. She would engage people through her storytelling. She did not simply speak. She held forth. Maggie also never held back. Sometimes that would infuriate people.
When she wasn't expostulating or opining (some of her favorite words), she’d let the Marina Times do the talking.
She'd shout out in her own terms or let someone else vent, sometimes with a little less than reasonable restraint.
Maggie gave a loud voice to this small, contentious creature that's called a neighborhood newspaper. She believed neighborhood newspapers were as essential to The City as the 30-Stockton line; as vital as the power that illuminates the street lights; as important as the firefighters at Truck 16 -- even if she were occasionally setting the fire, in a figurative sense. All things of this nature worked in concert in the world of Maggie McCall. It's part of the design of a community. The Marina was Maggie's.
Maggie loved running her newspaper. Her passion was infectious.
She reminded me of those pictures of pioneers of publishing in the Wild West. That is, a green visor pulled down over the eyes, cuff protectors that keep shirtsleeves from being drenched in ink. You know, those old westerns where someone like Edmund O'Brien, playing the newspaper editor, recklessly defied the bad guys at his own peril.
Maggie, like the beleaguered defender of the free press, short of stature, would stand tall, stand up to anyone. Brave as the night, tough as nails.
Naturally this could cause friction. But most of the causes were right.
I would marvel at her indignation.
Let's see. It was 1988. I was a radio reporter at KQED-FM. I lived at Chestnut & Fillmore, above the Horseshoe Saloon, across the street from O Sole Mio restaurant & the wonderful House of Magic – that domain of tricks, the emporium owned by the inimitably crusty Mark Burger. He wanted all to believe that he he didn't believe in anything. But, you know, folks, he's a trickster. He was chronically disappointed because he believed in too much. Maggie loved him -- though Mark resists such supplications. Don't tell him I said all this, by the way. He might put a Santerîa curse on me. Santerîa? That only comes at Christmas, right? I guess I still believe in Santerîa, even if I still get coal in my stocking.
OK, Bruce, knock it off. Maggie would say that to me sometimes.
There were so many characters in the Marina in those days. It was fun to be here.
As I mentioned, as a radio reporter & local resident, I noticed that there was a neighborhood paper called The Marina. Then there was another paper, called the Marina Times. I sensed “newspaper wars” in the Marina District. So I made up a radio story about it. I talked to David Ish, who published a breezy paper, mostly about the outdoors. Then I found this woman, Maggie McCall, who had broken away from David, to start this paper, the Marina Times, that had a bit more of an edge to it. They fought like cats & dogs but became friends. I became their friends, too. But Maggie hired me to write a column. It’s a little disarming to interview someone & realize you are the one being interviewed. It happens.
Maggie gave me an introduction to what a neighborhood is all about. I thought the Marina was that “bigoted little village,” as Herb Caen described it. It’s that, for sure – but it is so much more.
Maggie told me about her times writing for Stars & Stripes in Germany, how she and her lovely & loving husband, Sam, a true hero of World War II, decided to travel around the world with their two young children, Ken & Stacy. That’s why they’re so oddly multi-lingual. Maggie also reveled in her time writing for Broadcast magazine in New York City. Broadcasting: another love we shared. When Mags, as I called her sometime, asked me to write a column, I could scarcely say no.
Then came the 1989 earthquake. A defining moment for the Marina. The neighborhood was plunged into darkness, and in many cases, despair. Some were hurt irreparably. Some died. For all of it, I never saw such compassion and generosity in my life. Pete Pallari, at O Sole Mio created a backdoor barbeque for a week or two. All the restaurants that lost power (we all did) simply brought their food to Pete and his friendly staffers and supporters, including Mario Macias. John Hizy was there. Johnny Brattesani (Steven, the dentists’s dad, and Steven’s wonderful mom, Mirella,) from Caesar’s Restaurant over in the Wharf, brought crates of food. Yes, they were all Marina heroes. Many more names come to mind – Gloria Fontanella, Maya Brouwer, the great people at La Pergola restaurant, the Wine Shop. Gee, it seems like it was only twenty years ago.
Yes, well, it was. The kindness poured out of people of the Marina like Chianti.
Pete Pallari said the other day, “Maggie saved my bacon.”
What does Pete mean by that? Stacy confirmed it.
“Lots of people had ads in the Marina Times, and had no idea how they got there,” says Stacy. “Well, they did not get there by accident. My mom placed them there free of charge. My mom believed in healing.”
Pete Pallari reaffirms, “After the earthquake, when I ran that soup kitchen out of the alley, I did not know what to do. We were about broke. Maggie ran item after item in the paper and people came back, and actually got to know us for the first time. Maggie and I stayed friends after that – right up until the day she got sick. I owe her a lot.”
No question many of us owe Maggie McCall a lot. I’m one. She was always after me for precision of language. I thought I could handle that one. Maggie tried to impart to me there was a precision of soul in writing. She also made me realize the whole world was her community, and that the world could be mine, and anyone’s who cared to seek it. No world was more profoundly close to her heart as this one --- the Marina.
The Marina was Maggie’s.
As you see, the Marina Times lives, thanks to the late David Ish, the present owner, Susan Reynolds, and the publisher, John Gollin. Remember: Maggie started all this trouble. I don’t know about you, but I thank my lucky stars for it. Oh, if you have any complaints, address them to the names mentioned above.
Mags might get a kick out of that.
Memorial services for Maggie McCall, according to Stacy, are pending.
#####
Bellingham by the Bay, April 2009, Northside San Francisco
The Washington Square Bar & Grill finally reopened the other day, and it is a smash hit. There were more than a smashing coterie of North Beach locals, who appeared to be relieved that The Square (as the purists call it) had been given back to them. That's thanks to Liam & Susan Tiernan, the new owners. They poured a fortune into the new place to make it look authentically old. And it looks grand. Ernie Beyl even contributed a manual typewriter that belonged to Stan Delaplane to hang on the wall with the other old-time artifacts. Delaplane, the famed Chronicle columnist, used to hang out at the The Square in the old days with his pal & colleague Kevin Keating. Stanton the Great would surely love the restoration. To give his inimitable impramatur, Ed Moose dropped in at the re-opening day party. Ed started the Washington Square all those years ago. His approval was noted by all. Ron Fimrite -- one of the best sports writers in the whole wide world, and the author of The Square, the definitive authoritative bio of the tavern, came by that first week of revelry last month. Chris Barnett, one of the best travel writers in the whole wide world, said all seemed right again with the world. In an unrighted, uptight world, that says plenty.
Making things right behind the bar were the bar stars -- Michael McCourt, Michael Fraser, brought out of retirement, and Mitch Galbreath -- such a solid crew of salooners.
"It's so great to see them restored to their place behind the bar," observed Jerry Gibbons, one of the greatest ad men in the whole wide world.
"Like City Lights Books," said Neil Mortensen, "this is a cornerstone of culture." LIve music is back at The Square with Terry Disley & the dashingly talented Tim Hockenberry.
It made a few us wistful to note some of the characters who are missing these days. Of course, the eternal mentoring spirit of the Washbag is Herb Caen.
"I've got to tell you, Bruce," murmured Susan Tiernan, "the Chronicle called us. They want to celebrate 144 years of the Chronicle's existence -- that's cause of celebration any day -- and Herb Caen's birthday." On April 2, The Square will throw a party for Herb, now gone all of 12 years, by serving his beloved Vitamin V -- that's Stoli vodka. They will also proffer etched martini glasses at three-bucks a throw. A steal. There will also be Herb's books available. It's between 2 p.m & 6 p.m. I wouldn't miss it for the world -- the whole wide world. ...
It just hit me like a ton of bricks: how much I miss Herb Caen. One day, while we walked around the Marina with him, “Hey, Bellingham,” asked Herb, “what is your university experience?”
“Gee, Herb, you know I went to NYU for ten minutes. I’m really an autodidact.”
“I know what that is,” Herb shot back. “That’s when you drive yourself crazy.”
Quick he was. He didn’t like driving all that much, but he came from the generation that loved elegant cars. He had a Jaguar that he called The White Rat. It was useful for trips to the Wine Country. But Herb Caen really liked to walk around San Francisco. He knew back in 1939 that no one gets good items by driving down a highway. They call them freeways – though we’re still paying for them. Nothing is free in California.
Perhaps breathing is still available at a discount. That’s what I love about North Beach. You can walk down Columbus & smell the Bolognese sauce. It’s as natural as the scent of the sea breeze off the Mediterranean. Yes, Bolognese means tomato sauce with meat in it. Honest, I’ve been considering going back to being a vegetarian. Fat chance. I consider the lamb stew at the Big 4, and all bets are off. Let me set the record straight. Lips that have touched snouts and foreskins shall never touch mine, OK? We’re clear on that, right? … This I gutted from the New York Post: “Radical vegans — who avoid any product that comes from animals — are now buzzing about the evils of honey. They claim its production uses the labor of oppressed worker bees, according to a Time magazine report on the growing numbers of American vegetarians. And kiss a carnivore? Never. The survey revealed that 29 percent of committed vegetarians would refuse to kiss someone who just wolfed down a meal containing meat. The poll showed that 10 million Americans consider themselves vegetarians, while an additional 20-million people have flirted with a meatless diet.
But is it healthier? The jury is still out.
‘Vegetarians don't live longer, they just look older,’ said South Dakota cattle rancher Jody Brown. ‘If animals weren't meant to be eaten, then why are they made out of meat?’” … Herb Caen used to say gossip is the mother’s milk of journalism. So here’s more. Bruce Willis, truly a good guy, just got married again. His bride is a lingerie model. Does that sound familiar? That’s the height of maturity: to marry a lingerie model. The rest of us usually are reduced to just marrying the lingerie.
You know what Dorothy Parker said: "Brevity is the soul of lingerie."
Brevity often escapes me, but one has spaces to fill, as you know. I think I once wrote something about Tennessee Williams, and his lament about "the terrah of the blank white page."
Mad specter of the writer, the indefatigable scourge. Of course, I never really suffered from writer's block, as someone once asked me.
"What do you do about writer's block?" she asked.
"I think about the rent."
Not deterred by my flippancy, she persisted.
"You're a writer. How many words a minute can you type?"
She was a little on the hostile side.
I am serious, she actually asked me this.
I pretended to ponder it a bit, then said, "Oh, I think I can type about nine words a minute."
"Nine words a minute!?" she shot back with disgust. "You're kidding! That's all?"
"Yes, but they're very good words."
I hope they are. Otherwise, Herb would be, as he used to say, “pissed as hell.” Here’s to Herb Caen Day. He almost always picked his words carefully. Gawd, he loved this town. He really was the best in this whole wide world. San Francisco is the whole world to some of us. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of the book called Bellingham by the Bay. He also writes for the Marina Times & Media People. He’s working on a book, The Angina Dialogues. Go ahead, torture him at bruce@northsidesf.com.
Making things right behind the bar were the bar stars -- Michael McCourt, Michael Fraser, brought out of retirement, and Mitch Galbreath -- such a solid crew of salooners.
"It's so great to see them restored to their place behind the bar," observed Jerry Gibbons, one of the greatest ad men in the whole wide world.
"Like City Lights Books," said Neil Mortensen, "this is a cornerstone of culture." LIve music is back at The Square with Terry Disley & the dashingly talented Tim Hockenberry.
It made a few us wistful to note some of the characters who are missing these days. Of course, the eternal mentoring spirit of the Washbag is Herb Caen.
"I've got to tell you, Bruce," murmured Susan Tiernan, "the Chronicle called us. They want to celebrate 144 years of the Chronicle's existence -- that's cause of celebration any day -- and Herb Caen's birthday." On April 2, The Square will throw a party for Herb, now gone all of 12 years, by serving his beloved Vitamin V -- that's Stoli vodka. They will also proffer etched martini glasses at three-bucks a throw. A steal. There will also be Herb's books available. It's between 2 p.m & 6 p.m. I wouldn't miss it for the world -- the whole wide world. ...
It just hit me like a ton of bricks: how much I miss Herb Caen. One day, while we walked around the Marina with him, “Hey, Bellingham,” asked Herb, “what is your university experience?”
“Gee, Herb, you know I went to NYU for ten minutes. I’m really an autodidact.”
“I know what that is,” Herb shot back. “That’s when you drive yourself crazy.”
Quick he was. He didn’t like driving all that much, but he came from the generation that loved elegant cars. He had a Jaguar that he called The White Rat. It was useful for trips to the Wine Country. But Herb Caen really liked to walk around San Francisco. He knew back in 1939 that no one gets good items by driving down a highway. They call them freeways – though we’re still paying for them. Nothing is free in California.
Perhaps breathing is still available at a discount. That’s what I love about North Beach. You can walk down Columbus & smell the Bolognese sauce. It’s as natural as the scent of the sea breeze off the Mediterranean. Yes, Bolognese means tomato sauce with meat in it. Honest, I’ve been considering going back to being a vegetarian. Fat chance. I consider the lamb stew at the Big 4, and all bets are off. Let me set the record straight. Lips that have touched snouts and foreskins shall never touch mine, OK? We’re clear on that, right? … This I gutted from the New York Post: “Radical vegans — who avoid any product that comes from animals — are now buzzing about the evils of honey. They claim its production uses the labor of oppressed worker bees, according to a Time magazine report on the growing numbers of American vegetarians. And kiss a carnivore? Never. The survey revealed that 29 percent of committed vegetarians would refuse to kiss someone who just wolfed down a meal containing meat. The poll showed that 10 million Americans consider themselves vegetarians, while an additional 20-million people have flirted with a meatless diet.
But is it healthier? The jury is still out.
‘Vegetarians don't live longer, they just look older,’ said South Dakota cattle rancher Jody Brown. ‘If animals weren't meant to be eaten, then why are they made out of meat?’” … Herb Caen used to say gossip is the mother’s milk of journalism. So here’s more. Bruce Willis, truly a good guy, just got married again. His bride is a lingerie model. Does that sound familiar? That’s the height of maturity: to marry a lingerie model. The rest of us usually are reduced to just marrying the lingerie.
You know what Dorothy Parker said: "Brevity is the soul of lingerie."
Brevity often escapes me, but one has spaces to fill, as you know. I think I once wrote something about Tennessee Williams, and his lament about "the terrah of the blank white page."
Mad specter of the writer, the indefatigable scourge. Of course, I never really suffered from writer's block, as someone once asked me.
"What do you do about writer's block?" she asked.
"I think about the rent."
Not deterred by my flippancy, she persisted.
"You're a writer. How many words a minute can you type?"
She was a little on the hostile side.
I am serious, she actually asked me this.
I pretended to ponder it a bit, then said, "Oh, I think I can type about nine words a minute."
"Nine words a minute!?" she shot back with disgust. "You're kidding! That's all?"
"Yes, but they're very good words."
I hope they are. Otherwise, Herb would be, as he used to say, “pissed as hell.” Here’s to Herb Caen Day. He almost always picked his words carefully. Gawd, he loved this town. He really was the best in this whole wide world. San Francisco is the whole world to some of us. ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of the book called Bellingham by the Bay. He also writes for the Marina Times & Media People. He’s working on a book, The Angina Dialogues. Go ahead, torture him at bruce@northsidesf.com.
When March Madness Becomes April Madness
It's becoming increasingly challenging to produce an essay that does not portend disaster nor the imminent extinction of our species. Predicting doom seems to be the national pastime. It's a small consolation that no one can read the future. That would lead most of us to quit the game altogether. Now, now, I don't want to be a pundit. Nor a crepe-hanger. Nor a fortuneteller. There but for fortune go you and I. And fortunes seem to have eluded a lot of people lately.
I'll leave the punditry, and the acrimony to George Will, who thinks the new president is an outlaw. Mr. Will must be a lot of fun at cocktail parties. Anyone who wears a bow tie can't be all that much fun at cocktail parties.
I like the new president. Mr. Obama says we need a little gallows humor to get through the crises. There are more than enough persons willing to provide the rope for the hanging, but are a little slow in the joke-writing department. There are plenty of gallows, we're just short on the humor.
I'm willing to cast my lot with Barbara Azizo, who sent me a CD of the music that was performed at the Obama inaugural. It has a hopeful sound to it.
My favorite cut is the old Ray Charles version of "America the Beautiful." There's that line, "Love mercy more than life."
Obama seems to understand that the American Dream is more about giving than taking. Lord have mercy on us. God shed his grace on thee. If I keep up this faith-based rhetoric, I might even start to believe in God again. The United States is in a lot of trouble but we're not finished. We're only human. Well, at least part of the time. It's only human for Americans to want to be loved again. It's a good time to be in love. Even with ourselves.
"Yes, the night is like a lovely tune, take care, my foolish heart."
There's a solace in the quiet night in San Francisco. Oddly, it's a city that grows quiet in the late evening hours, when it has tired itself out through effort, exercise, and extravagance. Or even ennui.
Dr. Samuel Johnson said, "When you're tired of London, you're tired of life."
I feel that way about San Francisco.
But San Francisco's been looking a bit seedy lately, maybe a little tired, too. It's still a great town, but a little expensive. There but for fortune.
Yes, even the poor can be provocative and carefree. Sure, dance under the moon over Nob Hill, joust with the locals, jest with the tourists. Hustle this, hustle that.
What is poor? When you're out of dough? Out of resources? Out of choices?
You bet. All of it.
Slipping into poverty is a new, terrible thing for many. Yes, right here in San Francisco, this pretty outpost on The Coast.
The poor are not carefree. Not being able to pay the rent is a shackle around the ankles, like a suspect in cuffs.
It shortens the breath, it stifles the imagination, it crushes the ability to hope. It makes one avert the eyes from another, it makes one ashamed.
Shame is a powerful thing. It's an element that can control many of us. It's a built-in family foundation. It's more formidable than concrete. That can buckle, like the crumbling Doyle Drive. Not so a sense of shame. That's the the infrastructure of guilt that needs no repair. What it really needs is its own erosion. Why do we call them "guilty pleasures"? Why be guilty about feeling pleasure? I can't blame that notion on the Calvinists. All religions want to spoil our fun.
You see, the poor can afford dry wit. They cannot afford dry cleaning.
Now, these are abstracts. But there's nothing abstract about the sadness I see in San Francisco right now.
What is hope? It's a spark of energy. It's an inexplicable drive to move forward -- or at least get out of bed. It's a reason to have a reason to look up how to spell the word "inexplicable." That's inexplicable enough.
Some of us have this drive to explain things. John Gollin, the publisher of this paper, says business has never been better at the veterinarian's office. People hold their pets a little closer in bad times. Nervous people take comfort in other areas, too. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, and Campbell's soup.
Speaking of animals, I found this old P.J Corkey column from the S.F. Examiner. Here's a portion: "Regarding the trial in San Jose of Mark Gebel, the circus animal trainer accused of tormenting an elephant. Here's a report from Bruce Bellingham. 'Immediately after the jury returned its not-guilty verdict, the defendant Gebel jumped from his seat, rushed over to the jury box, and gave each member of the jury a treat, and patted them all on the head.'" I mention this silliness for no apparent purpose.
My friend, J. Bernard Kapok, could use a laugh right now. He's living in a bleak residence club since he hit hard times. Bernie Madoff talked him into a limited partnership, and it all went to hell. Madoff is a new sort of Robin Hood. He stole from the rich, and kept the money. Kapok says the house he's in was in disarray because no one could watch March Madness on TV. The telly's on the blink. Between you and me, I think they were using their converter boxes for religious purposes.
"We've taken to feeding the fish in the lobby tank as entertainment," reports the forlorn Kapok. "Last night some poor schmuck stood in front of the fish tank for 45 minutes, trying to change the channel."
Did you ever notice that the 30-Stockton bus always smells like mothballs? What does that mean? There are lots of strange odors on the bus. When I see passengers carrying canaries in cages, then I'll really get worried. The only thing missing on the 27-Bryant bus are the live chickens running up and down the aisle. Pilgrims cooking in the back of the bus. Mercenaries cleaning their carbines. ... Nothing outstanding -- except the warrants -- on the parole violator's express, the 27-Bryant, the bus that passes the Hall of Justice, and drops off the beleaguered folks who are headed to court -- or jail. This is the underclass coach. Further along the route, in the pre-dawn darkness, it stops at 5th and Harrison to pick up the dreary denizens of the shelter nearby. When the shelter is cleared at 7 in the morning, the souls spill out into the streets like unwanted pennies. Men, bearded, busted, worried; hollow women, tired beyond tired, faces creased with disappointment -- all carrying black plastic garbage bags like broken hearts.
Ah, but wait a minute, this was supposed to be a funny column. Something clearly has gone a awry. So wry it is.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Northside San Francisco, and has been making an effort to write a book called The Angina Dialogues. Authorship is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Give Bellingham a piece of your mind at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
I'll leave the punditry, and the acrimony to George Will, who thinks the new president is an outlaw. Mr. Will must be a lot of fun at cocktail parties. Anyone who wears a bow tie can't be all that much fun at cocktail parties.
I like the new president. Mr. Obama says we need a little gallows humor to get through the crises. There are more than enough persons willing to provide the rope for the hanging, but are a little slow in the joke-writing department. There are plenty of gallows, we're just short on the humor.
I'm willing to cast my lot with Barbara Azizo, who sent me a CD of the music that was performed at the Obama inaugural. It has a hopeful sound to it.
My favorite cut is the old Ray Charles version of "America the Beautiful." There's that line, "Love mercy more than life."
Obama seems to understand that the American Dream is more about giving than taking. Lord have mercy on us. God shed his grace on thee. If I keep up this faith-based rhetoric, I might even start to believe in God again. The United States is in a lot of trouble but we're not finished. We're only human. Well, at least part of the time. It's only human for Americans to want to be loved again. It's a good time to be in love. Even with ourselves.
"Yes, the night is like a lovely tune, take care, my foolish heart."
There's a solace in the quiet night in San Francisco. Oddly, it's a city that grows quiet in the late evening hours, when it has tired itself out through effort, exercise, and extravagance. Or even ennui.
Dr. Samuel Johnson said, "When you're tired of London, you're tired of life."
I feel that way about San Francisco.
But San Francisco's been looking a bit seedy lately, maybe a little tired, too. It's still a great town, but a little expensive. There but for fortune.
Yes, even the poor can be provocative and carefree. Sure, dance under the moon over Nob Hill, joust with the locals, jest with the tourists. Hustle this, hustle that.
What is poor? When you're out of dough? Out of resources? Out of choices?
You bet. All of it.
Slipping into poverty is a new, terrible thing for many. Yes, right here in San Francisco, this pretty outpost on The Coast.
The poor are not carefree. Not being able to pay the rent is a shackle around the ankles, like a suspect in cuffs.
It shortens the breath, it stifles the imagination, it crushes the ability to hope. It makes one avert the eyes from another, it makes one ashamed.
Shame is a powerful thing. It's an element that can control many of us. It's a built-in family foundation. It's more formidable than concrete. That can buckle, like the crumbling Doyle Drive. Not so a sense of shame. That's the the infrastructure of guilt that needs no repair. What it really needs is its own erosion. Why do we call them "guilty pleasures"? Why be guilty about feeling pleasure? I can't blame that notion on the Calvinists. All religions want to spoil our fun.
You see, the poor can afford dry wit. They cannot afford dry cleaning.
Now, these are abstracts. But there's nothing abstract about the sadness I see in San Francisco right now.
What is hope? It's a spark of energy. It's an inexplicable drive to move forward -- or at least get out of bed. It's a reason to have a reason to look up how to spell the word "inexplicable." That's inexplicable enough.
Some of us have this drive to explain things. John Gollin, the publisher of this paper, says business has never been better at the veterinarian's office. People hold their pets a little closer in bad times. Nervous people take comfort in other areas, too. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, and Campbell's soup.
Speaking of animals, I found this old P.J Corkey column from the S.F. Examiner. Here's a portion: "Regarding the trial in San Jose of Mark Gebel, the circus animal trainer accused of tormenting an elephant. Here's a report from Bruce Bellingham. 'Immediately after the jury returned its not-guilty verdict, the defendant Gebel jumped from his seat, rushed over to the jury box, and gave each member of the jury a treat, and patted them all on the head.'" I mention this silliness for no apparent purpose.
My friend, J. Bernard Kapok, could use a laugh right now. He's living in a bleak residence club since he hit hard times. Bernie Madoff talked him into a limited partnership, and it all went to hell. Madoff is a new sort of Robin Hood. He stole from the rich, and kept the money. Kapok says the house he's in was in disarray because no one could watch March Madness on TV. The telly's on the blink. Between you and me, I think they were using their converter boxes for religious purposes.
"We've taken to feeding the fish in the lobby tank as entertainment," reports the forlorn Kapok. "Last night some poor schmuck stood in front of the fish tank for 45 minutes, trying to change the channel."
Did you ever notice that the 30-Stockton bus always smells like mothballs? What does that mean? There are lots of strange odors on the bus. When I see passengers carrying canaries in cages, then I'll really get worried. The only thing missing on the 27-Bryant bus are the live chickens running up and down the aisle. Pilgrims cooking in the back of the bus. Mercenaries cleaning their carbines. ... Nothing outstanding -- except the warrants -- on the parole violator's express, the 27-Bryant, the bus that passes the Hall of Justice, and drops off the beleaguered folks who are headed to court -- or jail. This is the underclass coach. Further along the route, in the pre-dawn darkness, it stops at 5th and Harrison to pick up the dreary denizens of the shelter nearby. When the shelter is cleared at 7 in the morning, the souls spill out into the streets like unwanted pennies. Men, bearded, busted, worried; hollow women, tired beyond tired, faces creased with disappointment -- all carrying black plastic garbage bags like broken hearts.
Ah, but wait a minute, this was supposed to be a funny column. Something clearly has gone a awry. So wry it is.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Northside San Francisco, and has been making an effort to write a book called The Angina Dialogues. Authorship is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Give Bellingham a piece of your mind at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Daisies On Cotton
This column is called "Daisies on Cotton." Why? Because my girlfriend, Sharon, told me that she bought a spring dress from Betsey Johnson. It's called "Daisies on Cotton."
She sent me a pic on the Internet.
Very nice, too.
All dresses should have titles like that. I mean "Daisies on Cotton." Men do not have that luxury, if you will. Not so much a luxury but a temptation of dreary fate. That is, if I put on a suit, no one cares. They may call it "Sullen Man in Wool." Or worsted but wiser. Or "Sullen Yet Woolen." No, men, to me, are dull by nature. Too serious, too self-absorbed. I ought to know. I have three older brothers. Don't get me wrong. I love them. I just do not think I'll be discussing spring dresses with them anytime soon. They simply don't embrace that sense of fun. They have other ideas of fun. You know, boy things. Glasses of bourbon, plates piled high with rigatoni.
No, no, girls have the advantage. They certainly deserve it. They pressure's on them. That's why they get to play splashy in spring dresses that the catalogs describe as "Daisies on Cotton." Sounds like a Rembrandt, doesn't? And why not? When beautiful Sharon wears it, then it really is a masterpiece. The hem swirls around the the lovely legs when she kicks up her heels --- white go-go boots, by the way. Just for fun. It's a symphonic mania.
In that fun movement, I know that spring is finally here. Yes, I know when spring is here when my heart really goes dancing.
That's when girls and boys start to notice each other. The lungs fill with the breeze that tears up the hill here on Clay Street. The eyes of the kids are filled with wonder -- and with real lust for the first time. It softens the soul, it sweetens the vision. It also makes one truly interested -- not matter our age -- in "Daisies on Cotton."
Ah, there we cultivate our garden. I want to take care of this garden, but time is racing by. When your heart is dancing with spring, it seems to be the first time all over again. Remarkable, no?
Oh, yes, I call them girls -- without remorse nor apology. Girls will always be girls, regardless of age.
My grandmother was a girl to the end of her days. I miss her, and I was too stupid, too young to appreciate how much fun she wanted to have. I thought she was an old lady. She was a kid who played the piano at Carnegie Hall. She was funny. Nana gave me a harmonica. You want to to be my best friend? OK. Never call me "Nana." Well, not yet, anyway. Only on a spring day like today can I picture her in a cotton dress with daisies all over it. Yes, Nana was a girl.
Here's to all the great girls that we love. When they wear "Daisies on Cotton," they make everything grow more beautifully around us. When Sharon kicks up her heels, this moment in time is a spring forever.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He also writes for the Marina Times and Media People. His new book is called The Angina Dialogues.
Tempt him at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
She sent me a pic on the Internet.
Very nice, too.
All dresses should have titles like that. I mean "Daisies on Cotton." Men do not have that luxury, if you will. Not so much a luxury but a temptation of dreary fate. That is, if I put on a suit, no one cares. They may call it "Sullen Man in Wool." Or worsted but wiser. Or "Sullen Yet Woolen." No, men, to me, are dull by nature. Too serious, too self-absorbed. I ought to know. I have three older brothers. Don't get me wrong. I love them. I just do not think I'll be discussing spring dresses with them anytime soon. They simply don't embrace that sense of fun. They have other ideas of fun. You know, boy things. Glasses of bourbon, plates piled high with rigatoni.
No, no, girls have the advantage. They certainly deserve it. They pressure's on them. That's why they get to play splashy in spring dresses that the catalogs describe as "Daisies on Cotton." Sounds like a Rembrandt, doesn't? And why not? When beautiful Sharon wears it, then it really is a masterpiece. The hem swirls around the the lovely legs when she kicks up her heels --- white go-go boots, by the way. Just for fun. It's a symphonic mania.
In that fun movement, I know that spring is finally here. Yes, I know when spring is here when my heart really goes dancing.
That's when girls and boys start to notice each other. The lungs fill with the breeze that tears up the hill here on Clay Street. The eyes of the kids are filled with wonder -- and with real lust for the first time. It softens the soul, it sweetens the vision. It also makes one truly interested -- not matter our age -- in "Daisies on Cotton."
Ah, there we cultivate our garden. I want to take care of this garden, but time is racing by. When your heart is dancing with spring, it seems to be the first time all over again. Remarkable, no?
Oh, yes, I call them girls -- without remorse nor apology. Girls will always be girls, regardless of age.
My grandmother was a girl to the end of her days. I miss her, and I was too stupid, too young to appreciate how much fun she wanted to have. I thought she was an old lady. She was a kid who played the piano at Carnegie Hall. She was funny. Nana gave me a harmonica. You want to to be my best friend? OK. Never call me "Nana." Well, not yet, anyway. Only on a spring day like today can I picture her in a cotton dress with daisies all over it. Yes, Nana was a girl.
Here's to all the great girls that we love. When they wear "Daisies on Cotton," they make everything grow more beautifully around us. When Sharon kicks up her heels, this moment in time is a spring forever.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He also writes for the Marina Times and Media People. His new book is called The Angina Dialogues.
Tempt him at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
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