About two-thousand revelers came out for a block party on Union Street -- between Laguna and Buchanan -- to celebrate 40 years of Perry's, the legendary saloon and restaurant, on a cool, sunny Sunday, Aug. 23.
Perry Butler, who has transformed his informal dining spot and popular watering hole into a franchise around the Bay, seemed to be enthralled by the turn-out.
The block was closed to traffic. Muni cooperated by running motorized buses on the 45-line to accommodate the celebrants. From a stage, music was provided by the jazz group California Honey Drops and The Sun Kings, a popular Beatles cover band.
"This is really terrific," Butler said to dozens of people as they grabbed his hand to offer congratulations. He seemed a little overwhelmed.
Cow Hollow was a sleepy little village when Butler opened Perry's in 1969, fashioned after P.J. Clarke's, the saloon on New York's East Side. Perry's soon altered the neighborhood, a loose collection of mom & pop groceries, a few drugstores, a hardware store or two, as it burgeoned into a hot single's spot with an urbane clientele. Perry's began to take on a life of its own. It created new life on the street. Much of the word was spread by stewardesses -- now called flight attendants -- who found Perry's to be a great place to unwind after the jets were cooled on the tarmac. Perry's became the place to go when in San Francisco.
"You should have been here in the old days," a seasoned vet of the Perry's 40-year experience said. "The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn't shown up yet. If you went home alone at the end of the night from Perry's, then something had to be really wrong with you."
Aside from the lusty single's scene, Perry's became a media hang-out, particularly for sports figures, and newspaper people. Herb Caen was often there, as was Charles McCabe. So was Ron Fimrite. Kevin Keating and Glenn Dorenbush made it their office. Scott Beach's stentorian voice was often heard booming at the bar. Johnny and Diane Weissmuller were convivial regulars.
"I first met Charles McCabe on a rainy night at Perry's," recalled Carole Vernier, Herb Caen's longtime assistant. "McCabe inadvertently stomped on my toes as he shambled out the front door. He broke my foot. It hurt like hell, but I was thrilled to meet him."
Ball players of every stripe would roll in. Chub Feeney, former president of baseball's National League, was a regular (his picture is still on the wall, along with a that of another regular, Hank Greenwald, who was a celebrity bartender on the two nights that led up to the street party). Other celebs behind the bar were Joe Montana, the Chronicle's Bruce Jenkins, Channel 2's Tom Vacar, former 49ers President Carmen Policy, and the unsinkable Willie Brown. Thing is, all bartenders at Perry's, whether former or current, are celebrities. Michael McCourt, Michael English, Paul McManus, Howie Mayser, Bob Tobias, Joe Nazzaro, Mike and Chris Fogarty, Billy and Tony Masarweh, and Kevin Young were among those in attendance.
"The party was an incredible success," said host Iain MacKinlay on Monday morning. "It was beyond our best expectations. And we're really feeling it today." It's hard to access just how many hamburgers were served in the restaurant. The dishwasher could not keep up, plastic cups of all sorts were soon brought out from the storeroom.
"There are people here today I haven't seen in years and years," said Ed Guelld, longtime San Francisco resident.
Indeed. Steve McPartlin, who used to be a Bay Area TV personality, winged in from Palm Beach, Fla. for the occasion.
"It's great to be here," he said, "but it saddens me to see so many businesses on Union Street shuttered. All the same, the turn-out of all these people today is really amazing."
There was a large coterie of old-timers in front of Perry's and inside the place, too, but the overwhelming numbers were comprised of younger people.
"This is a lot of fun," exclaimed Katie Johnson, a Cow Hollow resident in her 30s. "I feel like I'm part of the neighborhood. After all, everybody knows Perry's."
"Perry's means having a good time," gushed Dustin Moore. "I'll be coming here for the next forty years."
Why did Melissa Mahony go to the block party? "Why not?" she shrugged.
"I saw so many old-timers today, many of my old friends who opened Perry's," mused Elaine Robinson. "I saw a guy from way back who we used to call Buffalo. He told me he was in town for five days only. He said his liver wouldn't be able to take more than that." Buffalo? "Yes, in the old days, everyone had a nickname."
Ms. Robinson's nickname from the old days?
"I don't have to reveal everything," she said mysteriously. "Not even for old-times' sake."
###
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Bellingham by the Bay, for Northside San Francisco, September 2009
A couple of days before the "full-blown Irish wake" at the Washington Square Bar & Grill for the great writer Frank McCourt on Aug. 29, Frank's kid brother, Michael, who pours drinks at The Square, revealed a great accolade for his late brother. Frank died in N.Y. on July 19. "I'm not talking about the Pulitzer Prize or those other awards that Frank got," Mike said. "Get this. He was mentioned on The Simpsons. I really wish Frank had been able to see that. He would have been thrilled." That's the big one. On the show, Homer & his dad drink up a storm in a pub in Dublin then buy the tavern while awash in all sorts of liquid & Irish literary references. Getting a mention on The Simpsons? That's cool. It's really arriving while you're going. Frank always had style, coming or going. ... Also in the realm of immortality, someone exclaimed on Showtime's hit show, Weeds, "You're hotter than Gavin Newsom!" That's bound to garner a few more votes for the Gav. Yes, but remember: smoking is not permitted at the polling places. ...
At the Balboa Cafe, Judge Bill Newsom, the father of the next governor of California (yes, I think Gavin will pull it off) sat down with Carole Vernier & Diane Weissmuller to show pics of his trip to the nether regions of British Columbia. "We stopped off in Juneau to buy nine cases of wine, then flew 480 miles to the interior of B.C., one of the most beautiful places on the planet," said Bill. If you're 500 miles from civilization -- that is, away from a liquor store -- you have to be prepared. "There we were, several of us in the wilderness, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman comes out of nowhere, and demands to know if we paid a tariff on the wine. I said we had not. He then announced, and was pretty stern about it, that he had to confiscate the wine. I was speechless, and a little unnerved. Then I heard giggling from beyond the trees. The Mountie broke down, laughing, saying it was just a joke that he and his pals were playing. I still don't know where they came from, but we certainly were happy to share the wine with them." Yes, Judge Newsom had been punked by the Canadians. You know the old expression: a Mountie always gets his wine. ... Diane Weissmuller, the widow of Johnny, the son of Tarzan, also collects old sayings: "Johnny used to tell me that he was born with a silver knife in his back." Ah. Hooray for Hollywood. Speaking of Johnny Mercer, Turner Classic Movies will air what appears to be a great doc about Mercer, The Dream’s On Me, directed by Clint Eastwood, on Wed., Nov. 4, at 8 p.m. It features a few of my friends, Rod McKuen, Gene Lees, and Jonathan Schwartz. This is almost enough to move me to get cable, though my cardiologist ordered me never to watch Glenn Beck. Beck's Fox News on-air companion is often Kimberly Guilfoyle, who apparently took a sharp right turn in order to get to New York ... On the passing of the vituperative cable TV star/newspaper columnist Robert Novak, Charlie Mandel deadpanned, "Everything he ever said went under my head." ... They say Carly Fiorina doesn't bother to vote on Election Day. What's the big deal? Only the little people vote. ... How long will it be before the Board of Supes declare it "Squeaky Fromme Day" in S.F? ... The riveting Chiching Herlihy, longtime girlfriend of the brilliant Myles O’Reilly of North Beach pub fame, was in high dudgeon the other day. “Whatever happened to chop suey?” she demanded. Good question. It was invented in S.F. but seems to have gone the way of the Hangtown Fry, hang it all. The Hangtown Fry, invented during the Gold Rush is an omelette with oysters & bacon can be found only at three places on the planet: the Tadich Grill, Sam’s Grill on Belden Place & Brenda’s on Polk Street. Most of the gold can be found now in the pawn shops. “There are mysteries in the universe,” contends Deirdre Black, the Goddess of Galway, “such as why there seems to be an Irish pub near every funeral parlor.” …
You have to give Bill Maher credit for talking to Obama through The Huffington Post about the President's sudden interest in golf: "The only sand trap I want to see you get out of is Afghanistan."… Yes, our engagement there is a calamity in the works, doomed from the start. It's not quite like taking Kandahar from a baby. ...
Good on Perry Butler for the 40th anniversary of Perry’s on Union Street. “You shoulda been here in the 1960s,” an old-timer said to me at the bar. “The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn’t shown up yet.” Perry’s was a great gathering-place for “stews” in the old days, now known as flight attendants. Many of them lived downtown. That’s why, explains Carole Vernier, the catch-phrase of the 60s and early 70s was, “Are you married or do you live on Bush Street?” … Next door to Perry’s is the office of Sal Salma & Co., also celebrating 40 years in the Marina. Sal, a genial, safe-made man, owned the Marina Café on Lombard. He once held a “Calamari Festival.” I wrote a poem in honor of the occasion: “Would I be a quisling to a brisling if I professed a preference for squid?/Would I be a bounder to a finnan haddie or flounder, a rat to the sprat if I did?/Would I be forsaken by cod if I pledge my palate to calamari?/Rebuffed by beluga, the tuna, the tortuga, a heel to the sole? OK, OK, so I’m sorry.” … And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s currently working on a new book with the unworkable title of In the Realm of the Senseless. Please torment him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
At the Balboa Cafe, Judge Bill Newsom, the father of the next governor of California (yes, I think Gavin will pull it off) sat down with Carole Vernier & Diane Weissmuller to show pics of his trip to the nether regions of British Columbia. "We stopped off in Juneau to buy nine cases of wine, then flew 480 miles to the interior of B.C., one of the most beautiful places on the planet," said Bill. If you're 500 miles from civilization -- that is, away from a liquor store -- you have to be prepared. "There we were, several of us in the wilderness, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman comes out of nowhere, and demands to know if we paid a tariff on the wine. I said we had not. He then announced, and was pretty stern about it, that he had to confiscate the wine. I was speechless, and a little unnerved. Then I heard giggling from beyond the trees. The Mountie broke down, laughing, saying it was just a joke that he and his pals were playing. I still don't know where they came from, but we certainly were happy to share the wine with them." Yes, Judge Newsom had been punked by the Canadians. You know the old expression: a Mountie always gets his wine. ... Diane Weissmuller, the widow of Johnny, the son of Tarzan, also collects old sayings: "Johnny used to tell me that he was born with a silver knife in his back." Ah. Hooray for Hollywood. Speaking of Johnny Mercer, Turner Classic Movies will air what appears to be a great doc about Mercer, The Dream’s On Me, directed by Clint Eastwood, on Wed., Nov. 4, at 8 p.m. It features a few of my friends, Rod McKuen, Gene Lees, and Jonathan Schwartz. This is almost enough to move me to get cable, though my cardiologist ordered me never to watch Glenn Beck. Beck's Fox News on-air companion is often Kimberly Guilfoyle, who apparently took a sharp right turn in order to get to New York ... On the passing of the vituperative cable TV star/newspaper columnist Robert Novak, Charlie Mandel deadpanned, "Everything he ever said went under my head." ... They say Carly Fiorina doesn't bother to vote on Election Day. What's the big deal? Only the little people vote. ... How long will it be before the Board of Supes declare it "Squeaky Fromme Day" in S.F? ... The riveting Chiching Herlihy, longtime girlfriend of the brilliant Myles O’Reilly of North Beach pub fame, was in high dudgeon the other day. “Whatever happened to chop suey?” she demanded. Good question. It was invented in S.F. but seems to have gone the way of the Hangtown Fry, hang it all. The Hangtown Fry, invented during the Gold Rush is an omelette with oysters & bacon can be found only at three places on the planet: the Tadich Grill, Sam’s Grill on Belden Place & Brenda’s on Polk Street. Most of the gold can be found now in the pawn shops. “There are mysteries in the universe,” contends Deirdre Black, the Goddess of Galway, “such as why there seems to be an Irish pub near every funeral parlor.” …
You have to give Bill Maher credit for talking to Obama through The Huffington Post about the President's sudden interest in golf: "The only sand trap I want to see you get out of is Afghanistan."… Yes, our engagement there is a calamity in the works, doomed from the start. It's not quite like taking Kandahar from a baby. ...
Good on Perry Butler for the 40th anniversary of Perry’s on Union Street. “You shoulda been here in the 1960s,” an old-timer said to me at the bar. “The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn’t shown up yet.” Perry’s was a great gathering-place for “stews” in the old days, now known as flight attendants. Many of them lived downtown. That’s why, explains Carole Vernier, the catch-phrase of the 60s and early 70s was, “Are you married or do you live on Bush Street?” … Next door to Perry’s is the office of Sal Salma & Co., also celebrating 40 years in the Marina. Sal, a genial, safe-made man, owned the Marina Café on Lombard. He once held a “Calamari Festival.” I wrote a poem in honor of the occasion: “Would I be a quisling to a brisling if I professed a preference for squid?/Would I be a bounder to a finnan haddie or flounder, a rat to the sprat if I did?/Would I be forsaken by cod if I pledge my palate to calamari?/Rebuffed by beluga, the tuna, the tortuga, a heel to the sole? OK, OK, so I’m sorry.” … And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s currently working on a new book with the unworkable title of In the Realm of the Senseless. Please torment him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
The Final Word for San Francisco Northside, Sept. 2009
The other day Tom Ridge, former head of Homeland Security, admitted that he was under pressure by Republicans to manipulate the color-coded Terror Alerts in order to play politics with the 2004 presidential election. He says he did not acquiesce. Maybe he just stuck to his favorite colors. Or maybe his true colors. I go to San Francisco International Airport every month. I can tell you that the Terror Alerts have been at Level Orange for years. That means "high," a condition that limits coffee breaks for the legions of TSA workers at the airport when they're not taking away your might-have-been-explosive Ralph Lauren body lotion. I wonder what happens to all of that pricey cosmetic stuff that they seize at the airport. It must account for that sweet smell of security that lingers in the air.
Lots of things are arbitrary these days. How about the overworked term in broadcasting -- "breaking news"? When breaking stories break, what do they break? Hearts? Furniture? Fine china? New ground? Or just break wind? Just as capricious as the breeze. It seems breaking news can describe anything, from a back-up on the Bay Bridge to a catastrophe at the airport. That's when the media rush to find a grief counselor to put on the air. That's the heart-breaking news.
Curious career, grief counseling, no? Imagine the little tyke suddenly uttering at the kitchen table, "You know, Mom, Dad, I've been thinking about it. I really don't think I'm cut out to be an astronaut or a fireman or a surgeon or a hacker or even the President of the United States. I want to be a grief counselor! I'd get to be on TV a lot, too.”
Being a Sherpa guide in this treacherous world seems to be big business. Half of the people I see on Twitter are offering their service as "life coaches."Look at Jayson Blair, the most famous plagiarist at The New York Times. He's now a life coach in Virginia. And I thought they were all in Southern California. Maybe Jayson's trying to do something original for a change. No, being a life coach is not all that original, no matter where you are. Not so long ago, I encountered a woman who called herself a life coach. Surely she's on the Greyhound to Inner Growth. I’ll be in the back of the bus until I get off in Paso Robles. Inner Growth is on the itinerary for next year.
She explained to me, with all dead seriousness, "My work involves a muscular training of the mind and heart to get one in better shape for a direction in life."
There's nothing too original about that, either. The Jesuits have been doing that for centuries. Jesuits do it, even over-educated fleas do it. Speaking of Cole Porter, do you think he could find a rhyme for "Jesuit"? Something other than, "A Jesuit. No matter how you measu-it."
Now that Norm Howard has been retired from KQED-FM, he's looking for a new career. Life coaching is not out of the question. Norm’s starting with an advice column that might fit in well in Parade magazine called, “Too Much Self-Esteem? Try This Quiz.”
I always thought that there’s nothing really intrinsically bad about having self-esteem. I just tends to fall into the wrong hands.
I’m sure my life coach would object to a negative affirmation like that.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He loves hanging out at the airport. He doesn’t really go anywhere. He accompanies his girlfriend as she get on the plane to Los Angeles. Bellingham likes the transitory nature of the air terminal. Later, when he gets off the BART train at Powell Street in San Francisco, he invariably sighs, “Ah, it’s so good to be home again.” E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Lots of things are arbitrary these days. How about the overworked term in broadcasting -- "breaking news"? When breaking stories break, what do they break? Hearts? Furniture? Fine china? New ground? Or just break wind? Just as capricious as the breeze. It seems breaking news can describe anything, from a back-up on the Bay Bridge to a catastrophe at the airport. That's when the media rush to find a grief counselor to put on the air. That's the heart-breaking news.
Curious career, grief counseling, no? Imagine the little tyke suddenly uttering at the kitchen table, "You know, Mom, Dad, I've been thinking about it. I really don't think I'm cut out to be an astronaut or a fireman or a surgeon or a hacker or even the President of the United States. I want to be a grief counselor! I'd get to be on TV a lot, too.”
Being a Sherpa guide in this treacherous world seems to be big business. Half of the people I see on Twitter are offering their service as "life coaches."Look at Jayson Blair, the most famous plagiarist at The New York Times. He's now a life coach in Virginia. And I thought they were all in Southern California. Maybe Jayson's trying to do something original for a change. No, being a life coach is not all that original, no matter where you are. Not so long ago, I encountered a woman who called herself a life coach. Surely she's on the Greyhound to Inner Growth. I’ll be in the back of the bus until I get off in Paso Robles. Inner Growth is on the itinerary for next year.
She explained to me, with all dead seriousness, "My work involves a muscular training of the mind and heart to get one in better shape for a direction in life."
There's nothing too original about that, either. The Jesuits have been doing that for centuries. Jesuits do it, even over-educated fleas do it. Speaking of Cole Porter, do you think he could find a rhyme for "Jesuit"? Something other than, "A Jesuit. No matter how you measu-it."
Now that Norm Howard has been retired from KQED-FM, he's looking for a new career. Life coaching is not out of the question. Norm’s starting with an advice column that might fit in well in Parade magazine called, “Too Much Self-Esteem? Try This Quiz.”
I always thought that there’s nothing really intrinsically bad about having self-esteem. I just tends to fall into the wrong hands.
I’m sure my life coach would object to a negative affirmation like that.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He loves hanging out at the airport. He doesn’t really go anywhere. He accompanies his girlfriend as she get on the plane to Los Angeles. Bellingham likes the transitory nature of the air terminal. Later, when he gets off the BART train at Powell Street in San Francisco, he invariably sighs, “Ah, it’s so good to be home again.” E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August 2009
During the long, cold summer that San Francisco experiences, I'm reminded how this city is not like others. Though we're connected by peninsula to sunny San Mateo County, the disconnect to the rest of California is often evident. It's not the just the drizzle, and the fog of the summer months -- it's the culture, the politics, and the attitudes here. I sometimes wish we could disconnect ourselves from the attitudes here.
Years ago the BBC aired a documentary called San Francisco: The City That Waits To Die. It was about how San Franciscans oddly, perhaps thoughtlessly, continue to live atop the San Andreas Fault.
Every April 18, at 5:12 a.m., the time of the Great Quake, locals gather downtown at a fountain where an opera singer took money out of her pocket in the aftermath of the disaster to help the displaced.
The San Andreas, just off the coast, is under water, beyond the Golden Gate. I've looked for traces of that fault line many times. All I see are waves. I've been fishing for Pacific salmon off the coast; I've attended ceremonies on boats where people's ashes are cast to the wind. I've stood on the walkway of the Golden Gate Bride Bridge, and looked westward into the Pacific. The bridge itself, rusty red, is magnificent, holding mightily in the relentless gusts, like a great dance partner to hold onto when one feels unsteady after too much vin ordinaire.
I never liked dancing.
Silly me. I live in California -- land of faults, and no-fault divorces. Truth is, most of the rest of California despises us. Mostly because of politics. I gather the outsiders have a sense of moral indignation. Oh, right, that gay marriage thing. Isn't that ridiculous? Can you imagine how medieval it is to assess who may marry, and who may not? Let everyone marry: let God decide.
Many Americans are angry because it appears that we're having a better time than they have.
I once asked a priest what St. Francis of Assisi might say if he learned that San Francisco had been named in his honor.
"I don't know," the good father said sincerely, "whether St. Francis would laugh or cry."
Cities here, as well as the fault lines, are named after saints. I guess Saint Andreas is the patron saint of broken dishes. Fortunately, the San Andreas Fault sleeps a lot. I have to tell you, though. San Franciscans don't lose a lot of sleep over it.
George Will once asked me how I could live here, knowing an earthquake "could throw you and me out the window at any time." We were on the 32nd floor of a high-rise in San Francisco.
I responded, "Gee, George, I could move to Kansas, and die of boredom. That's just as inevitable."
He nodded knowingly, then quickly winged back to Washington, where a shake-up might be a good thing.
Mr. Will, strangely, did not ask me how I could live in a town infamous for the deification of Harvey Milk, for the protection of illegal immigrants, for the legalization of marijuana, support nuclear-free ice cubes, -- or for forgiving Karl Marx, Hugo Chavez, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro or any their perceived crimes in their past or in their future, specious as the prognosis may be.
Many of us came here to get away. The Puritans tried to get away from their European oppressors during the 17th They found their way to the eastern shores of America, no good restaurant in sight. Would Puritans like good cuisine anyway? Forget the vin ordinaire.
Centuries later, many young Americans, and Europeans, trundled themselves here to San Francisco by any method to get away from the Puritans.
Janis Joplin was one of them.
She found that not only was San Francisco was a great town, it was a community. Small enough to be a city, but not so small you couldn't call anyone a village idiot. As the Summer of Love burgeoned in 1967, village idiots were no longer a rare commodity. People still talk about how sweet Janis was. Careful. There are hazards here. One can be swallowed up in all the swallowing.
"I love this city," announced a young woman bartender in the Tenderloin. "It's a real city. I can walk around, I don't have to rent a car like L.A. I know where I'm going here, I don't need any GPS."
I have a feeling that people in San Francisco figure out why they're here. The earthquake twenty years ago was not a lot of fun, but most of us stayed to pick up the pieces.
I wandered up California Street this afternoon, top of Nob Hill. The hills are as high as the rents. I thought that it could be the windiest street in the world. Just a few blocks away, on Russian Hill, is Lombard Street. It's known at "the crookedest street in the world." And I thought that was Wall Street.
I get a certain glee on the faces of the tourists who are freezing in their seersucker suits in the July chill.
Is this a city that waits to die? Hardly. Why wait for anything? We can go for a walk, have breakfast, gaze at the water all around us. It's more like a city that's dying to live.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist, and arts editor for this paper, and a writer for the Marina Times.
###
Years ago the BBC aired a documentary called San Francisco: The City That Waits To Die. It was about how San Franciscans oddly, perhaps thoughtlessly, continue to live atop the San Andreas Fault.
Every April 18, at 5:12 a.m., the time of the Great Quake, locals gather downtown at a fountain where an opera singer took money out of her pocket in the aftermath of the disaster to help the displaced.
The San Andreas, just off the coast, is under water, beyond the Golden Gate. I've looked for traces of that fault line many times. All I see are waves. I've been fishing for Pacific salmon off the coast; I've attended ceremonies on boats where people's ashes are cast to the wind. I've stood on the walkway of the Golden Gate Bride Bridge, and looked westward into the Pacific. The bridge itself, rusty red, is magnificent, holding mightily in the relentless gusts, like a great dance partner to hold onto when one feels unsteady after too much vin ordinaire.
I never liked dancing.
Silly me. I live in California -- land of faults, and no-fault divorces. Truth is, most of the rest of California despises us. Mostly because of politics. I gather the outsiders have a sense of moral indignation. Oh, right, that gay marriage thing. Isn't that ridiculous? Can you imagine how medieval it is to assess who may marry, and who may not? Let everyone marry: let God decide.
Many Americans are angry because it appears that we're having a better time than they have.
I once asked a priest what St. Francis of Assisi might say if he learned that San Francisco had been named in his honor.
"I don't know," the good father said sincerely, "whether St. Francis would laugh or cry."
Cities here, as well as the fault lines, are named after saints. I guess Saint Andreas is the patron saint of broken dishes. Fortunately, the San Andreas Fault sleeps a lot. I have to tell you, though. San Franciscans don't lose a lot of sleep over it.
George Will once asked me how I could live here, knowing an earthquake "could throw you and me out the window at any time." We were on the 32nd floor of a high-rise in San Francisco.
I responded, "Gee, George, I could move to Kansas, and die of boredom. That's just as inevitable."
He nodded knowingly, then quickly winged back to Washington, where a shake-up might be a good thing.
Mr. Will, strangely, did not ask me how I could live in a town infamous for the deification of Harvey Milk, for the protection of illegal immigrants, for the legalization of marijuana, support nuclear-free ice cubes, -- or for forgiving Karl Marx, Hugo Chavez, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro or any their perceived crimes in their past or in their future, specious as the prognosis may be.
Many of us came here to get away. The Puritans tried to get away from their European oppressors during the 17th They found their way to the eastern shores of America, no good restaurant in sight. Would Puritans like good cuisine anyway? Forget the vin ordinaire.
Centuries later, many young Americans, and Europeans, trundled themselves here to San Francisco by any method to get away from the Puritans.
Janis Joplin was one of them.
She found that not only was San Francisco was a great town, it was a community. Small enough to be a city, but not so small you couldn't call anyone a village idiot. As the Summer of Love burgeoned in 1967, village idiots were no longer a rare commodity. People still talk about how sweet Janis was. Careful. There are hazards here. One can be swallowed up in all the swallowing.
"I love this city," announced a young woman bartender in the Tenderloin. "It's a real city. I can walk around, I don't have to rent a car like L.A. I know where I'm going here, I don't need any GPS."
I have a feeling that people in San Francisco figure out why they're here. The earthquake twenty years ago was not a lot of fun, but most of us stayed to pick up the pieces.
I wandered up California Street this afternoon, top of Nob Hill. The hills are as high as the rents. I thought that it could be the windiest street in the world. Just a few blocks away, on Russian Hill, is Lombard Street. It's known at "the crookedest street in the world." And I thought that was Wall Street.
I get a certain glee on the faces of the tourists who are freezing in their seersucker suits in the July chill.
Is this a city that waits to die? Hardly. Why wait for anything? We can go for a walk, have breakfast, gaze at the water all around us. It's more like a city that's dying to live.
Bruce Bellingham is a columnist, and arts editor for this paper, and a writer for the Marina Times.
###
Bellingham by the Bay, Northside San Francisco, August 2009
There were some muted conversations on a Monday late last month as Washington Square Bar & Grill regulars sauntered to the bar to express their condolences to Michael McCourt for the death of his brother, famed author Frank McCourt, who wrote his first book, Angela's Ashes, at the age of 65, and quickly won a Pulitzer Prize. Frank died in New York on July 19. He was 78. Frank often visited the Washington Square where denizens always express their admiration and affection for him. He was the sweetest guy. Angela's Ashes (named for the McCourt's mum) is about growing up in gruesome poverty in Limerick, Ireland. "It was Calcutta with rain," Frank once said. "At least Calcutta is warm." The story is heartbreaking yet sometimes achingly funny.
Mike was at his post pouring drinks on Monday. He was at work partly because he wanted to talk about Frank. Mike recalled the time 60 Minutes sent all four McCourt Brothers to Limerick to revisit their hometown. "We had a great time frollicking in an old cemetery, so old that the bones rise to the surface of the ground." Some in Limerick still have a bone to pick with the McCourts, there’s resentment about Angela's Ashes, how it exposed some shameful cruelty from the natives. In New York one time, a Limerickian cursed at me for speaking highly of Frank. Not everyone likes to be reminded of their humble beginnings, nor hear jokes about it. "Never try to be subtle in a developing nation," Pete Hamill once said.
Valerie Pinkert was always charmed by the McCourt humor. Years ago, she told MIke she was going to New York. "Be sure to go to Angus McIndoe's restaurant on W. 42nd Street," Michael said. "Frank's often there." Mike gave her a note an envelope to hand to Frank when she got there. She did. Frank opened the envelope, and burst out laughing. It read: "This is one fine lady, but count the silverware before she leaves." ...
I picked up an old video copy of Hitchcock's The Birds at a sidewalk sale on Nob Hill. It's always fun to see movies that were shot in San Francisco. The Birds also made Bodega Bay famous. Stefano Cassolato, the energetic North Beach publicist, was visiting Bodega Bay not so long ago. To his surprise Tippi Hedren was in a book store signing some photos from The Birds (that was her first film). "It was amazing to see how people just flocked to her," Stefano quipped.
Tippi played Melanie Daniels in the Hitchcock classic, and yes, she's the mother of Melanie Griffith. The birds may have been pretty tough on Melanie Daniels, but Tippi found it in her heart to found the Shambala Preserve in SoCal in 1983. She still keeps about 70 beasts there, mostly too big, and way dangerous to keep around anybody's house. Tippi took in Anton LaVey's lion Togar after the SFPD told the founder of the Church of Satan that the cat had to go. The neighbors were nervous. Tippi also provides a home for two of Michael Jackson's tigers. ... Years ago I was told by someone in Hollywood who worked for producer/director Roland Emmerich that Michael Jackson constantly pestered Emmerich to cast him in a movie about King Tut, the Boy King. It seems Michael was already living the part. ...
Hitchcock was King of the Blondes – Tippi … Kim Novak … Eva Marie Saint … Grace Kelly. But Jenevieve Randall reports that there’s another King of the Blondes on Geary Street. He’s stylist Keith James. “We blondes who like to stay blonde swear by him,” says Jenevieve. … Hitchcock loved San Francisco. Carole Vernier recalls the time in the 1940s when Hitch and Louis Lurie sat in Jack's restaurant on Sacto St., trying to concoct a cure for a hangover. They came up with the mimosa -- champagne & orange juice. I know what you’re thinking: why ruin perfectly good champagne with orange juice? S.F. seems to be a nursery for original drinks. For the past seven years, Jack's has been Jeanty at Jack's. But sadly, Phillipe Jeanty has closed the place. ... The Post Street Theatre is also dark now. ... You may want to know that the mimosas are good at The Crepe House on Polk & Washington. Saad Natsheh will take care of you. They're also good at the Big 4 in the Huntington Hotel, too. What isn't? Might be nice to have a mimosa in their newly-restored Mulholland Suite which costs $1,200 per night. Yes, it's appointed with lots of leather by those legendary leather boys, the Mulholland Brothers ... More family matters: Morgan Hamm, who runs the deli at Nob Hill’s Le Beau market with partner Drew Stephenson, doesn’t look so worse for the wear. His business is in its infancy. So is his new daughter, born to Morgan & Jennifer on June 29. … David Kidd, who runs the You Say Tomato British food import shop on Calif. St., says the recession is having no real impact on him. “People need to buy food,” says David. “It’s necessary. This is not a wine bar.” You mean a wine bar is not necessary? … Peach & whisky chutney must be necessary. That’s what Alison McQuade has been making lately, working with volunteers to end world hunger. Check out feelgoodworld.org …
Father Floyd Lotito, the guiding force of St. Anthony Dining Room, died the other day. Not only was he renowned for his humanity, but he was very funny, too. Some people would be shocked by the priest’s gangsterisms, sounding more like The Sopranos than the sacristy. “I’m an Italian first,” Father Floyd would deadpan, “and a Catholic second.” …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of “Bellingham by the Bay,” and also writes for the Marina Times.
Mike was at his post pouring drinks on Monday. He was at work partly because he wanted to talk about Frank. Mike recalled the time 60 Minutes sent all four McCourt Brothers to Limerick to revisit their hometown. "We had a great time frollicking in an old cemetery, so old that the bones rise to the surface of the ground." Some in Limerick still have a bone to pick with the McCourts, there’s resentment about Angela's Ashes, how it exposed some shameful cruelty from the natives. In New York one time, a Limerickian cursed at me for speaking highly of Frank. Not everyone likes to be reminded of their humble beginnings, nor hear jokes about it. "Never try to be subtle in a developing nation," Pete Hamill once said.
Valerie Pinkert was always charmed by the McCourt humor. Years ago, she told MIke she was going to New York. "Be sure to go to Angus McIndoe's restaurant on W. 42nd Street," Michael said. "Frank's often there." Mike gave her a note an envelope to hand to Frank when she got there. She did. Frank opened the envelope, and burst out laughing. It read: "This is one fine lady, but count the silverware before she leaves." ...
I picked up an old video copy of Hitchcock's The Birds at a sidewalk sale on Nob Hill. It's always fun to see movies that were shot in San Francisco. The Birds also made Bodega Bay famous. Stefano Cassolato, the energetic North Beach publicist, was visiting Bodega Bay not so long ago. To his surprise Tippi Hedren was in a book store signing some photos from The Birds (that was her first film). "It was amazing to see how people just flocked to her," Stefano quipped.
Tippi played Melanie Daniels in the Hitchcock classic, and yes, she's the mother of Melanie Griffith. The birds may have been pretty tough on Melanie Daniels, but Tippi found it in her heart to found the Shambala Preserve in SoCal in 1983. She still keeps about 70 beasts there, mostly too big, and way dangerous to keep around anybody's house. Tippi took in Anton LaVey's lion Togar after the SFPD told the founder of the Church of Satan that the cat had to go. The neighbors were nervous. Tippi also provides a home for two of Michael Jackson's tigers. ... Years ago I was told by someone in Hollywood who worked for producer/director Roland Emmerich that Michael Jackson constantly pestered Emmerich to cast him in a movie about King Tut, the Boy King. It seems Michael was already living the part. ...
Hitchcock was King of the Blondes – Tippi … Kim Novak … Eva Marie Saint … Grace Kelly. But Jenevieve Randall reports that there’s another King of the Blondes on Geary Street. He’s stylist Keith James. “We blondes who like to stay blonde swear by him,” says Jenevieve. … Hitchcock loved San Francisco. Carole Vernier recalls the time in the 1940s when Hitch and Louis Lurie sat in Jack's restaurant on Sacto St., trying to concoct a cure for a hangover. They came up with the mimosa -- champagne & orange juice. I know what you’re thinking: why ruin perfectly good champagne with orange juice? S.F. seems to be a nursery for original drinks. For the past seven years, Jack's has been Jeanty at Jack's. But sadly, Phillipe Jeanty has closed the place. ... The Post Street Theatre is also dark now. ... You may want to know that the mimosas are good at The Crepe House on Polk & Washington. Saad Natsheh will take care of you. They're also good at the Big 4 in the Huntington Hotel, too. What isn't? Might be nice to have a mimosa in their newly-restored Mulholland Suite which costs $1,200 per night. Yes, it's appointed with lots of leather by those legendary leather boys, the Mulholland Brothers ... More family matters: Morgan Hamm, who runs the deli at Nob Hill’s Le Beau market with partner Drew Stephenson, doesn’t look so worse for the wear. His business is in its infancy. So is his new daughter, born to Morgan & Jennifer on June 29. … David Kidd, who runs the You Say Tomato British food import shop on Calif. St., says the recession is having no real impact on him. “People need to buy food,” says David. “It’s necessary. This is not a wine bar.” You mean a wine bar is not necessary? … Peach & whisky chutney must be necessary. That’s what Alison McQuade has been making lately, working with volunteers to end world hunger. Check out feelgoodworld.org …
Father Floyd Lotito, the guiding force of St. Anthony Dining Room, died the other day. Not only was he renowned for his humanity, but he was very funny, too. Some people would be shocked by the priest’s gangsterisms, sounding more like The Sopranos than the sacristy. “I’m an Italian first,” Father Floyd would deadpan, “and a Catholic second.” …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of “Bellingham by the Bay,” and also writes for the Marina Times.
Room for Improvement -- San Francisco Marina Times, Sept. 2009
"When are you gonna start writing something good?" the blustery Irishman bellowed as he lumbered out of a Marina District saloon.
Yes, his remark was directed at me.
Thinking maybe he was kidding -- perhaps he was -- I simply smiled weakly, and said, "There's always room for improvement."
I say that in contrast to my nature. You see, underneath this all-too-sensitive skin, deep down, I think I'm just great. Deeper down, I don't believe that at all.
"If I had the kind of nerve that most people have," I once said to Dr. Dean Ornish, "I'd be somebody."
Predictably, he shot back, "Knock it off, Bruce. You ARE somebody."
I knew he'd say that. I was spearfishing for compliments.
What's a somebody, anyway?
In the magnificent 1936 movie, My Man Godfrey" -- written by Morrie Riskind & Eric Hatch -- Godfrey, the Harvard-educated butler played by William Powell, is accosted by the master of the house, Alexander Bullock, played by Eugene Pallette.
"Say," Bullock growls to Godfrey, "who are you, anyway?"
"I'm just a nobody," murmurs Godfrey.
We know better. Godfrey's not a nobody. The future of many people will hinge on his success. He may have once been a "Forgotten Man," down-and-out in the Depression, but we know, deep down, that nobody has to be a nobody. Not until they're willing to accept the role.
Nobodies are often somebodies, even if they no longer believe it. Whether I'm a nobody or a somebody, I rarely took criticism well. I'm better about it now, almost amused to hear people try to rattle me with snarky comments. You see, I'm a bit claustrophobic. If I can kick my ego out of the way on occasion, I can find some room for improvement in these close quarters.
In times like these, it easy to believe that we’re not as valuable as we thought we once were. With staggering job losses, terrifying uncertainties, and with the hemorrhaging of hope, anger has replaced what was once construed as confidence.
A friend of mine runs an office at a big company. She had to give an employee a performance review recently. In the course of the ordeal, my friend suggested that the employee work harder, try to make improvements to her lackluster efforts.
Shocked and defensive, the woman said, "No one has ever told me that I have to improve. I've never heard anything like that in my life."
That's funny. I hear it all the time. That's all right. To me, it means that perhaps I should try harder, should write better, should pay attention to the world a little more carefully. And not get upset about the cascade of critics that the world graciously provides. It means there still might be time to make things better. It's like getting another chance.
I mean, if I thought there was no more room in my life for improvement, then I would really be a nobody. And nobody really wants to be a nobody.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. If he can't be found at the No Name Bar in Sausalito, accompanied by nobody, you may reach him at his e-mail: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Yes, his remark was directed at me.
Thinking maybe he was kidding -- perhaps he was -- I simply smiled weakly, and said, "There's always room for improvement."
I say that in contrast to my nature. You see, underneath this all-too-sensitive skin, deep down, I think I'm just great. Deeper down, I don't believe that at all.
"If I had the kind of nerve that most people have," I once said to Dr. Dean Ornish, "I'd be somebody."
Predictably, he shot back, "Knock it off, Bruce. You ARE somebody."
I knew he'd say that. I was spearfishing for compliments.
What's a somebody, anyway?
In the magnificent 1936 movie, My Man Godfrey" -- written by Morrie Riskind & Eric Hatch -- Godfrey, the Harvard-educated butler played by William Powell, is accosted by the master of the house, Alexander Bullock, played by Eugene Pallette.
"Say," Bullock growls to Godfrey, "who are you, anyway?"
"I'm just a nobody," murmurs Godfrey.
We know better. Godfrey's not a nobody. The future of many people will hinge on his success. He may have once been a "Forgotten Man," down-and-out in the Depression, but we know, deep down, that nobody has to be a nobody. Not until they're willing to accept the role.
Nobodies are often somebodies, even if they no longer believe it. Whether I'm a nobody or a somebody, I rarely took criticism well. I'm better about it now, almost amused to hear people try to rattle me with snarky comments. You see, I'm a bit claustrophobic. If I can kick my ego out of the way on occasion, I can find some room for improvement in these close quarters.
In times like these, it easy to believe that we’re not as valuable as we thought we once were. With staggering job losses, terrifying uncertainties, and with the hemorrhaging of hope, anger has replaced what was once construed as confidence.
A friend of mine runs an office at a big company. She had to give an employee a performance review recently. In the course of the ordeal, my friend suggested that the employee work harder, try to make improvements to her lackluster efforts.
Shocked and defensive, the woman said, "No one has ever told me that I have to improve. I've never heard anything like that in my life."
That's funny. I hear it all the time. That's all right. To me, it means that perhaps I should try harder, should write better, should pay attention to the world a little more carefully. And not get upset about the cascade of critics that the world graciously provides. It means there still might be time to make things better. It's like getting another chance.
I mean, if I thought there was no more room in my life for improvement, then I would really be a nobody. And nobody really wants to be a nobody.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. If he can't be found at the No Name Bar in Sausalito, accompanied by nobody, you may reach him at his e-mail: bruce@northsidesf.com
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