Twenty Years On, Loma Prieta Quake Is Recalled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Imagination is memory," said James Joyce.

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

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

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

###

Bellingham by the Bay, October 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



####