There was a flurry of interest last month in a fellow, claiming to be Lamont Dozier -- the man who wrote all those hits for The Supremes, The Four Tops, and the The Temptations -- who was going around San Francisco, hustling people, and fleecing small business owners.
A quick-witted bartender at the Hyde-Out saloon on Nob Hill spotted him, and called police. They carted him off to the hoosegow.
The alleged imposter, identified by the SFPD as Alan Young, was in the Hyde-Out earlier, boasting about his 27 Grammys, and getting people to play "his songs" on the jukebox. That included The Temptations' "Papa Was A Rolling Stone."
I know. He gave me an interview for this newspaper. That takes moxie. I suppose it only bolstered his credibility as people watched. Well, maybe. He later took a few people with him to Yoshi's, where I understand he was treated royally.
"I have to tell you," I said to SFPD Lt. Lyn Tomioka, "this guy was pretty good. He seemed to know everything."
"He's had plenty of practice," said the lieutenant.
By the way, Lamont Dozier did not write "Papa Was A Rolling Stone." ...
Now, onto the real Rolling Stones: The folks at the San Francisco Art Exchange gallery threw a nice party the other night for the famed London rock photographer Gered Mankowitz where he celebrated his new book of his pics of Jimi Hendrix. Gered also traveled with the Rolling Stones on three tours. In one of the backrooms at the gallery, a rather prim, lovely British lady boasted, "Look what we just bought."
It was a photo I've never seen: Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull cooing over a microphone in a recording studio.
"May I ask how much you paid for this?" I asked in my own pedestrian way.
"Oh," the lady said,"just two."
"Two hundred?"
"No, silly," she chortled. "Two thousand."
Business was brisk. Gered had a good night. He sat down with me later, and said he wanted to tell me a story about Brian Jones. Gered was genuinely fond of the Stones' beleaguered blond boy.
"I was with Brian one day," recalled Gered, "when he reached into his pocket, and said, 'I've got two tabs of acid for us.' I told Brian that I did not take LSD. Brian said, 'Fine, I'll take both, and then you can write down everything I say.'"
Ah, those were the days. ...
Why is it that the under-class always seemed to get over-charged? Just wondering. ... Valerie Pinkert went to see "Aida" at the SF Opera, and said of the Egyptian pageantry, "I've never seen so many men in skirts since the Folsom Street Fair." ... Word from employees indicates that Cala Foods on Nob Hill has regained a lease on life. It will remain as is for at least another year. Rumors have abounded about its imminent closing for many months now, demolishing the building, constructing condos, and all that. ...
I will always have a bit of a smile on my face when I think of Tony Curtis, who died on Sept. 29 at the age of 85. It was no exaggeration to call him The Prince Of Hollywood. Born Bernie Schwartz in the Bronx, he fought off anti-Semitism, and fought off the thugs on the street. Whatever they did to him, it certainly had no impact on his enduring good looks. He must have protected his face well during those donnybrooks on the sidewalk.
A child of the Depression, he joined the Navy during World War II. Still Bernie Schwartz, he served on a submarine called the U.S.S. Proteus. That was a foreshadowing of his acting career. Like Proteus, the mythological sea-god who could transform himself into many creatures, Tony Curtis proved to be an astonishingly versatile actor.
He took lessons at the New School of Social Research in New York, where careers are still being launched.
Many of us agree that Curtis' role as the amoral press agent, Sidney Falco, in "The Sweet Smell of Success," is still a riveting, scary performance.
He triumphed in Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot" as the musician partner of Jack Lemmon. On the lam from the mob, the two had to dress as women to avoid being liquidated by the bad guys. With Marilyn Monroe in the mix, it was quite a trinity of talent. As a zany transvestite, Curtis endeared himself to lots of San Franciscans.
Yet this is why I smile.
I met Curtis when he came to San Francisco eight years ago to appear in a stage version of "Some Like It Hot" at the Golden Gate Theatre. The show was a silly pastiche, but it was fun. Then his late 70s, Curtis took the role that Joe E. Brown played in the film. This time, Tony got the punch line: "Nobody's perfect."
After the show, Curtis took me, and my columnist friend, Dave Donnelly, backstage, and regaled us with stories about Hollywood. One thing was apparent: he really loved being Tony Curtis. He had managed to leave Bernie Schwartz behind, and reinvented himself. Yes, he had some bad patches -- married five times or so, struggled with hooch & drugs. Then again, nobody's perfect. ...
####
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Could You Watch My Lobster For A Minute, Please? San Francisco Northside, August, 2010
Perhaps July is the coolest month. Coldest in 40 years, they say. So they say. I felt so bad for the tourists who were freezing while standing in line at Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, I wanted to go across the street to Walgreens, and buy them mittens. Then I saw a man on Polk and Sacto. turn in for the night at 8 o'clock, grip his blanket, and try to sleep on the sidewalk. ...
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
After that rather cryptic dispatch was printed in this paper last month about me, that is, "Bruce went on a vacation that no one would envy" or something like that, I feel I have some explaining to do for the readers.
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street.
"You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street.
"You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
Is It Happy Hour Yet? October 2010
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Drawing Crazy Patterns on Your Sheets, San Francisco Marina Times, Oct. 2010
When I was a youngster, I used to pester my mother, asking her to tell me stories about the Great Depression, and the Second World War.
I was only curious. It didn't mean I actually wanted to experience those horrors.
Funny how life rolls around in a crazy pattern. The New Depression, or quasi-Depression, has a grip on us. As for World War, well, no real World War yet, we just have too many wars going on right now. One is too many.
Even the Marina, with its pretty, placid exterior, seems to hold a quiet sort of anxiety these days. I walked through the Tenderloin late last month. San Francisco has wild contrasts between neighborhoods. The TL is verging on out-and-out anarchy. The tourists, from the nearby big hotels, looked scared out of their wits. So was I. No wonder Gavin Newsom, and Kamala Harris are aspiring to jobs in Sacramento. I don't blame them for wanting to get the hell out of here. Of course, most of us have to stay, and try to figure out what to do.
San Francisco used to enjoy an exquisite form of madness, the kind of madness that stimulated the soul, and fed the intellect. At least it was amusing.
It was a fun sort of lawlessness that created the Beats, the be-boppers, the Hippies, the Diggers, the renegade musicians, the barking, beatified poets, and later, even the high-rolling dot-com people who seemed to have had a great deal of fun. But that was some kind of fallacious fun, built in many ways on a cracked foundation. That's different than the cracked artists, and writers that I loved so much.
"This doesn't feel like a city," said a women from Chicago in the lobby of the Fairmont. "Chicago is a real meat, and potatoes city." One fellow from Los Angeles sniped, "San Francisco is small, and confused."
You mean it's no longer everybody's favorite city?
I now fear the worst. In many ways we've lost our sense of humor. We've lost our sense of fun. There was a sense of mischief, a sense of zaniness here. Caprice was the order of the day. With forty years in San Francisco, I give myself license to reminisce a little.
Nostalgia is affordable. It's hard to be gracious when your pockets are empty, and when so many to try to get their hands into your pockets -- even if they are empty.
In the old days, a tea party involved smoking grass. Now, I hear about so-called Tea Party people who would rather see chaps like me paralyzed -- and then cut off our medical marijuana. Tea Party? As in Boston Tea Party? Aw, c'mon now. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it: "The last refuge of a scoundrel is patriotism."
The Tea Party has scored a few victories by exploiting voter disenchantment, and their many disappointments. But being drawn to them is like marrying someone on the rebound. Marrying Sarah Palin -- literally or metaphorically -- is a chilling thought. That's the same as drawing crazy patterns on your sheets, as Mr. Dylan phrased it.
Speaking of matters medical, I'd like to know who is in the California Department of Insurance. These people are allowing insurance companies to raise their rates by 19 per cent or even more. That includes Aetna, Anthem Blue Cross, Blue Shield, and Health Net Inc. So much for health care reform.
What a sign of the times.
Californians are exposed to a marauding band of reverse-Robin Hoods. They steal from the poor, and give it to the rich.
"To live outside the law, you must be honest," Mr. Dylan warned.
On the topic of music legends, 16 years ago, I ran into Eric Clapton in the Marina. He had brought his blues show to the Fillmore, which had been closed for decades. I had just been separated from my wife, and had my own blues.
"I know how you feel, man," Clapton kindly intoned. "My girlfriend went back to her old boyfriend. I'm kinda tore up about it."
"You mean women actually leave Eric Clapton?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Fortune magazine had reported that Clapton had made $600 million that year.
"At least your work is going well," I said facetiously.
He didn't crack a smile. He said, "You know, Bruce, we can always control our work. We just can't control the people we love."
With that, he offered me two precious tickets to his show -- the hottest tickets in town.
"Maybe this will help things between you, and your wife," he said.
It did -- for awhile. But what has endured is recalling Eric Clapton's kindness. I have to keep in mind there are very decent people on the planet. It helps to remember that in order to get through dark times. I have to trust some people sometimes. Even if someone might always be trying to get into your house, and draw crazy patterns on your sheets.
Bruce Bellingham writes for the Northside San Francisco, and is author of Bellingham by the Bay. Even if he's in the kitchen with the Tombstone Blues, he likes to get e-mail. Send him a note at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
I was only curious. It didn't mean I actually wanted to experience those horrors.
Funny how life rolls around in a crazy pattern. The New Depression, or quasi-Depression, has a grip on us. As for World War, well, no real World War yet, we just have too many wars going on right now. One is too many.
Even the Marina, with its pretty, placid exterior, seems to hold a quiet sort of anxiety these days. I walked through the Tenderloin late last month. San Francisco has wild contrasts between neighborhoods. The TL is verging on out-and-out anarchy. The tourists, from the nearby big hotels, looked scared out of their wits. So was I. No wonder Gavin Newsom, and Kamala Harris are aspiring to jobs in Sacramento. I don't blame them for wanting to get the hell out of here. Of course, most of us have to stay, and try to figure out what to do.
San Francisco used to enjoy an exquisite form of madness, the kind of madness that stimulated the soul, and fed the intellect. At least it was amusing.
It was a fun sort of lawlessness that created the Beats, the be-boppers, the Hippies, the Diggers, the renegade musicians, the barking, beatified poets, and later, even the high-rolling dot-com people who seemed to have had a great deal of fun. But that was some kind of fallacious fun, built in many ways on a cracked foundation. That's different than the cracked artists, and writers that I loved so much.
"This doesn't feel like a city," said a women from Chicago in the lobby of the Fairmont. "Chicago is a real meat, and potatoes city." One fellow from Los Angeles sniped, "San Francisco is small, and confused."
You mean it's no longer everybody's favorite city?
I now fear the worst. In many ways we've lost our sense of humor. We've lost our sense of fun. There was a sense of mischief, a sense of zaniness here. Caprice was the order of the day. With forty years in San Francisco, I give myself license to reminisce a little.
Nostalgia is affordable. It's hard to be gracious when your pockets are empty, and when so many to try to get their hands into your pockets -- even if they are empty.
In the old days, a tea party involved smoking grass. Now, I hear about so-called Tea Party people who would rather see chaps like me paralyzed -- and then cut off our medical marijuana. Tea Party? As in Boston Tea Party? Aw, c'mon now. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it: "The last refuge of a scoundrel is patriotism."
The Tea Party has scored a few victories by exploiting voter disenchantment, and their many disappointments. But being drawn to them is like marrying someone on the rebound. Marrying Sarah Palin -- literally or metaphorically -- is a chilling thought. That's the same as drawing crazy patterns on your sheets, as Mr. Dylan phrased it.
Speaking of matters medical, I'd like to know who is in the California Department of Insurance. These people are allowing insurance companies to raise their rates by 19 per cent or even more. That includes Aetna, Anthem Blue Cross, Blue Shield, and Health Net Inc. So much for health care reform.
What a sign of the times.
Californians are exposed to a marauding band of reverse-Robin Hoods. They steal from the poor, and give it to the rich.
"To live outside the law, you must be honest," Mr. Dylan warned.
On the topic of music legends, 16 years ago, I ran into Eric Clapton in the Marina. He had brought his blues show to the Fillmore, which had been closed for decades. I had just been separated from my wife, and had my own blues.
"I know how you feel, man," Clapton kindly intoned. "My girlfriend went back to her old boyfriend. I'm kinda tore up about it."
"You mean women actually leave Eric Clapton?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Fortune magazine had reported that Clapton had made $600 million that year.
"At least your work is going well," I said facetiously.
He didn't crack a smile. He said, "You know, Bruce, we can always control our work. We just can't control the people we love."
With that, he offered me two precious tickets to his show -- the hottest tickets in town.
"Maybe this will help things between you, and your wife," he said.
It did -- for awhile. But what has endured is recalling Eric Clapton's kindness. I have to keep in mind there are very decent people on the planet. It helps to remember that in order to get through dark times. I have to trust some people sometimes. Even if someone might always be trying to get into your house, and draw crazy patterns on your sheets.
Bruce Bellingham writes for the Northside San Francisco, and is author of Bellingham by the Bay. Even if he's in the kitchen with the Tombstone Blues, he likes to get e-mail. Send him a note at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
Thursday, September 16, 2010
mort sahl's san francisco, northside, oct. 2010
"Life has its hazards," Mort Sahl once said to me.
Mort, who is now 83 years old, was supposed to come to town with Dick Gregory the other day but had to cancel. I miss the friendship we once had -- but life has its hazards. Just a few years back, he told me he wanted to move back to San Francisco, after decades of living in Los Angeles.
"The definition of courage in L.A.," he said, "is going to a restaurant that hasn't been reviewed yet."
Many may not recall what Mort Sahl meant to San Francisco in the old days. That's the 1950's and 1960's. A stand-up comic who, with Lenny Bruce, redefined stand-up comedy. It was topical, social commentary with a bite to it. A deep bite. It was lacerating. And it was brilliant. It was an answer to stock Borscht Belt jokes. Mort would take to the stage in a v-neck sweater, clutching the New York Times.
"Here's a typical New York Times headline," Mort quipped. 'World Comes to an End, Women and Minorities Affected.'"
Mort is an equal-opportunity satirist. Often described as a liberal or a lefty. That's all wrong. One of his best friends was Gen. Alexander Haig.
"Why is that?" I once asked him
"Because Haig is an individual, and I'm an individual."
Mort's one of a kind. That must be a lonely gig.
Mort worked for Jim Garrison for a year. Yes, that Jim Garrison, the New Orleans District Attorney who indicted Clay Shaw in an alleged conspiracy to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. Mort took to all the TV talk shows to promote Garrison's allegations. He stopped telling jokes. The TV people stopped booking him. So did everyone else. You see, America wanted to "move on" after the Kennedy assassination.
"What happened to the funny Mort"? they wondered. He never stopped being funny, of course. But great comedians are serious people.
But Mort came back. He's quite indefatigable.
One day, Mort and I left the Big 4 after lunch. There was a collection of tourists across California Street, on the steps of Grace Cathedral.
"Look," says I to Mort, "they're still waiting for Bishop Pike to come back." I figured he'd like the 1960's reference to the disappearance of the former Episcopalian bishop who vanished in the Sinai Desert, never to be seen again.
"Pike Bishop!" Mort exclaimed.
"What does that mean?"
Mort said, "When Sam Peckinpah wrote 'The Wild Bunch,' he gave William Holden character the name of Pike Bishop."
I'd forgotten that. Goes to show that some of these cats don't take the gig too seriously. Mort worked with the notorious, gifted, lunatic Peckinpah who had a penchant for poetic cinema violence. Mort enjoyed being an actor in his movies.
Starting at the Hungry i and at the Purple Onion, both owned by Enrico Banducci, Mort became a star. That had much to do with Herb Caen. He praised Mort Sahl in his column incessantly. He also contributed to the legend of San Francisco of being a haven for the creative and the obstreperous.
"Some fellows came in the Hungry i one night," Mort recalled, "and I signed a movie contract on a wine barrel."
He appeared on the cover of Time magazine in 1959. That's a pretty big deal.
When Enrico got into financial trouble, which was frequent, Mort came to Enrico's on Broadway to do a month-long stint for him. That was in the 1980s. That's when I first met him. He asked me to record his shows.
China, who Mort married twice -- she was the first Asian centerfold in Playboy -- watched the front door. Someone should have been watching all of us.
Herb Caen attended opening night, but they were never friends after a falling-out years and years before. Probably over a dame, to use the parlance of the day. Mort asked me to interceded to see if Mort and Herb could be reconciled. Herb wouldn't go for it. I'm sure that contributed to Mort's sense that I have failed him.
Stick around long enough, you disappoint everybody.
Later, Mort's son, Mort Jr. died of a drug overdose in an L.A. rehab. Mort called me right away to tell me. His second marriage to China fell apart.
"China couldn't stand to be in L.A. after that," he said.
In 1960 Mort was hired to do a stand-up act at the wrap party for the John Huston film, "The Misfits." That was at a hotel in Reno. The film was written by Arthur Miller for his wife, Marilyn Monroe.
"Clark Gable came downstairs, in a jacket and tie, greeted everyone warmly, and apologized for retiring early," Mort told me. "He wasn't feeling well."
Gable died soon after the shooting from a heart attack.
"Marilyn Monroe summoned me to her table that night," Mort recalled. 'Don't be afraid, Mort,' she said.
"I'm not afraid," Mort replied.
With that, Ms. Monroe took Mort's hand, and placed it on her breast.
"We're all afraid, Mort," murmured Marilyn.
That story still gives me the chills.
It's difficult not to be afraid. It would a shame if I could not talk to Mort again. It makes me fearful to consider that I can easily lose all the the people, and the things that I love.
It's a fragile life. It's treacherous out here. Yes, life has it's hazards.
Bruce Bellingham is also a writer for the Marina Times. Tell him some stories at bruce@northsidesf.com
######
Mort, who is now 83 years old, was supposed to come to town with Dick Gregory the other day but had to cancel. I miss the friendship we once had -- but life has its hazards. Just a few years back, he told me he wanted to move back to San Francisco, after decades of living in Los Angeles.
"The definition of courage in L.A.," he said, "is going to a restaurant that hasn't been reviewed yet."
Many may not recall what Mort Sahl meant to San Francisco in the old days. That's the 1950's and 1960's. A stand-up comic who, with Lenny Bruce, redefined stand-up comedy. It was topical, social commentary with a bite to it. A deep bite. It was lacerating. And it was brilliant. It was an answer to stock Borscht Belt jokes. Mort would take to the stage in a v-neck sweater, clutching the New York Times.
"Here's a typical New York Times headline," Mort quipped. 'World Comes to an End, Women and Minorities Affected.'"
Mort is an equal-opportunity satirist. Often described as a liberal or a lefty. That's all wrong. One of his best friends was Gen. Alexander Haig.
"Why is that?" I once asked him
"Because Haig is an individual, and I'm an individual."
Mort's one of a kind. That must be a lonely gig.
Mort worked for Jim Garrison for a year. Yes, that Jim Garrison, the New Orleans District Attorney who indicted Clay Shaw in an alleged conspiracy to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. Mort took to all the TV talk shows to promote Garrison's allegations. He stopped telling jokes. The TV people stopped booking him. So did everyone else. You see, America wanted to "move on" after the Kennedy assassination.
"What happened to the funny Mort"? they wondered. He never stopped being funny, of course. But great comedians are serious people.
But Mort came back. He's quite indefatigable.
One day, Mort and I left the Big 4 after lunch. There was a collection of tourists across California Street, on the steps of Grace Cathedral.
"Look," says I to Mort, "they're still waiting for Bishop Pike to come back." I figured he'd like the 1960's reference to the disappearance of the former Episcopalian bishop who vanished in the Sinai Desert, never to be seen again.
"Pike Bishop!" Mort exclaimed.
"What does that mean?"
Mort said, "When Sam Peckinpah wrote 'The Wild Bunch,' he gave William Holden character the name of Pike Bishop."
I'd forgotten that. Goes to show that some of these cats don't take the gig too seriously. Mort worked with the notorious, gifted, lunatic Peckinpah who had a penchant for poetic cinema violence. Mort enjoyed being an actor in his movies.
Starting at the Hungry i and at the Purple Onion, both owned by Enrico Banducci, Mort became a star. That had much to do with Herb Caen. He praised Mort Sahl in his column incessantly. He also contributed to the legend of San Francisco of being a haven for the creative and the obstreperous.
"Some fellows came in the Hungry i one night," Mort recalled, "and I signed a movie contract on a wine barrel."
He appeared on the cover of Time magazine in 1959. That's a pretty big deal.
When Enrico got into financial trouble, which was frequent, Mort came to Enrico's on Broadway to do a month-long stint for him. That was in the 1980s. That's when I first met him. He asked me to record his shows.
China, who Mort married twice -- she was the first Asian centerfold in Playboy -- watched the front door. Someone should have been watching all of us.
Herb Caen attended opening night, but they were never friends after a falling-out years and years before. Probably over a dame, to use the parlance of the day. Mort asked me to interceded to see if Mort and Herb could be reconciled. Herb wouldn't go for it. I'm sure that contributed to Mort's sense that I have failed him.
Stick around long enough, you disappoint everybody.
Later, Mort's son, Mort Jr. died of a drug overdose in an L.A. rehab. Mort called me right away to tell me. His second marriage to China fell apart.
"China couldn't stand to be in L.A. after that," he said.
In 1960 Mort was hired to do a stand-up act at the wrap party for the John Huston film, "The Misfits." That was at a hotel in Reno. The film was written by Arthur Miller for his wife, Marilyn Monroe.
"Clark Gable came downstairs, in a jacket and tie, greeted everyone warmly, and apologized for retiring early," Mort told me. "He wasn't feeling well."
Gable died soon after the shooting from a heart attack.
"Marilyn Monroe summoned me to her table that night," Mort recalled. 'Don't be afraid, Mort,' she said.
"I'm not afraid," Mort replied.
With that, Ms. Monroe took Mort's hand, and placed it on her breast.
"We're all afraid, Mort," murmured Marilyn.
That story still gives me the chills.
It's difficult not to be afraid. It would a shame if I could not talk to Mort again. It makes me fearful to consider that I can easily lose all the the people, and the things that I love.
It's a fragile life. It's treacherous out here. Yes, life has it's hazards.
Bruce Bellingham is also a writer for the Marina Times. Tell him some stories at bruce@northsidesf.com
######
connie francis returns to san francisco, northside, oct. 2010
Connie Francis, the top of the pops singer of the 1950s, and 60s, comes to the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16 to sing a whole roster of her many hits. They include "Who's Sorry Now," "Stupid Cupid," "Don't Break the Heart That Loves You," "Everybody's Somebody's Fool," "Mama," and "My Heart Has A Mind Of Its Own."
She played here a couple of years ago, and was a smash hit. This time she celebrates the 50th anniversary of her hit song, "Where the Boys Are," which is the theme from the movie in which she appeared.
"I love playing the Castro," she said in a phone interview from her home in Florida. "I describe 'Where the Boys Are' as the gay national anthem."
Yes, Connie, as she insists on being called, is a very funny woman.
She also brings a 21-piece orchestra with her, something unheard of in this spartan times.
"I bring all those musicians because I need all the help I can get," she quipped. "I like the sound of strings, and I like the big brass sound, too. I was raised on the big bands. These days it's unheard of. I used to make records with a live orchestra, all of us in the studio at the same time, the way that Frank used to record. It's very exciting."
That was before music videos, many of which Ms. Francis finds unacceptably vulgar.
"I've lost all faith in the FCC," she said, "for allowing this stuff to get on the air."
But music videos, in a sense, might have arrived earlier than we know.
"In 1959 or so, I got a call from 'the boys' in Newark (the New Jersey mafia)," Francis recalled. "They had an idea to put films or kinescopes on juke boxes. I thought the idea was brilliant. I warned the boys they weren't going to deal with Bing Crosby or artists like that. They gave up. They couldn't take dealing with blacks. They could not control them."
The mob did infiltrate the smaller record labels, such as Reprise or Roulette.There was a lot of brutality. She remembers when her good friend Jimmy Rodgers, of "Honeycomb" fame, was beaten so badly by mob thugs that his singing career was brought to an end. The assault was actually carried out by an off-duty cop in the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's been a busy summer for Connie Francis, still irrepressible at 71. She held a "Where the Boys Are Concert" in Ft. Lauderdale, where the movie was shot. To her astonishment, 30,000 people showed up. Over the years, her popularity has endured, particularly in Europe -- Germany, specifically, where she is still considered a major star.
She recently has played to sell-out houses in Hong Kong, Manila, and Malaysia, where the queen of the country shouted out requests.
Ms. Francis has also remained very political. In the 60s, she worked on the presidential campaigns of Richard Nixon, and Nelson Rockefeller, But her perspective has changed greatly.
"I call myself an independent progessive now," she said. "Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich, and Mitch McConnell are frightening. To me, the GOP stands for Greed Over Principle."
She still uses her music as a weapon of mass diplomacy.
"The Iraq War was a horrible mistake," she said. "It only empowered Iran to do what its doing. I was the first American to sing in Romania. I performed on Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, and Radio Luxembourg. It was great to promote America in those days, but this is not the America I grew up in. Yet we were born at the right time to see the advent of many great things. Now, the great entertainers are all gone -- Sinatra, Sammy Davis, and all."
And there was Bobby Darin. After being married, and divorced four times, the love her life remains Darin. They met in the 1950s at the famed Brill Building in New York, where the songwriters created hits. Fearing an elopement, Connie's father chased Darin through a theater with a loaded pistol. He later married Sandra Dee, from the "Gidget" movies. Not marrying Darin, she said, was the biggest mistake she ever made.
But he was only 37 when he died of a congenital heart defect.
"I knew he would die young," Ms. Francis said. "He told me the doctors said he would not live past 25."
In 1984, she published an autobiography, "Who's Sorry Now?" Her story is compelling, a tale of overcoming some tough episodes. She has just published a new book, "Among My Souvenirs."
Many of the great entertainers may be gone, but Connie Francis is still here. She performs at the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16. Tickets are $49-$99.
####
She played here a couple of years ago, and was a smash hit. This time she celebrates the 50th anniversary of her hit song, "Where the Boys Are," which is the theme from the movie in which she appeared.
"I love playing the Castro," she said in a phone interview from her home in Florida. "I describe 'Where the Boys Are' as the gay national anthem."
Yes, Connie, as she insists on being called, is a very funny woman.
She also brings a 21-piece orchestra with her, something unheard of in this spartan times.
"I bring all those musicians because I need all the help I can get," she quipped. "I like the sound of strings, and I like the big brass sound, too. I was raised on the big bands. These days it's unheard of. I used to make records with a live orchestra, all of us in the studio at the same time, the way that Frank used to record. It's very exciting."
That was before music videos, many of which Ms. Francis finds unacceptably vulgar.
"I've lost all faith in the FCC," she said, "for allowing this stuff to get on the air."
But music videos, in a sense, might have arrived earlier than we know.
"In 1959 or so, I got a call from 'the boys' in Newark (the New Jersey mafia)," Francis recalled. "They had an idea to put films or kinescopes on juke boxes. I thought the idea was brilliant. I warned the boys they weren't going to deal with Bing Crosby or artists like that. They gave up. They couldn't take dealing with blacks. They could not control them."
The mob did infiltrate the smaller record labels, such as Reprise or Roulette.There was a lot of brutality. She remembers when her good friend Jimmy Rodgers, of "Honeycomb" fame, was beaten so badly by mob thugs that his singing career was brought to an end. The assault was actually carried out by an off-duty cop in the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's been a busy summer for Connie Francis, still irrepressible at 71. She held a "Where the Boys Are Concert" in Ft. Lauderdale, where the movie was shot. To her astonishment, 30,000 people showed up. Over the years, her popularity has endured, particularly in Europe -- Germany, specifically, where she is still considered a major star.
She recently has played to sell-out houses in Hong Kong, Manila, and Malaysia, where the queen of the country shouted out requests.
Ms. Francis has also remained very political. In the 60s, she worked on the presidential campaigns of Richard Nixon, and Nelson Rockefeller, But her perspective has changed greatly.
"I call myself an independent progessive now," she said. "Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich, and Mitch McConnell are frightening. To me, the GOP stands for Greed Over Principle."
She still uses her music as a weapon of mass diplomacy.
"The Iraq War was a horrible mistake," she said. "It only empowered Iran to do what its doing. I was the first American to sing in Romania. I performed on Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, and Radio Luxembourg. It was great to promote America in those days, but this is not the America I grew up in. Yet we were born at the right time to see the advent of many great things. Now, the great entertainers are all gone -- Sinatra, Sammy Davis, and all."
And there was Bobby Darin. After being married, and divorced four times, the love her life remains Darin. They met in the 1950s at the famed Brill Building in New York, where the songwriters created hits. Fearing an elopement, Connie's father chased Darin through a theater with a loaded pistol. He later married Sandra Dee, from the "Gidget" movies. Not marrying Darin, she said, was the biggest mistake she ever made.
But he was only 37 when he died of a congenital heart defect.
"I knew he would die young," Ms. Francis said. "He told me the doctors said he would not live past 25."
In 1984, she published an autobiography, "Who's Sorry Now?" Her story is compelling, a tale of overcoming some tough episodes. She has just published a new book, "Among My Souvenirs."
Many of the great entertainers may be gone, but Connie Francis is still here. She performs at the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16. Tickets are $49-$99.
####
A Man for All Seasons, Northside San Francisco, Oct. 2010
One of the great joys of visiting the Big 4 on Sundays was to hear Don Asher's tender treatment of the piano keyboard. He could switch styles from jazz to blues to the Great American Songbook with sublime sensitivity. He had taste, treating each tune with a singular respect. Not only was Don a terrific musician, he was an astute, and eloquent gentleman who also wrote several books. Herb Gold, the most famous novelist on Russian Hill, called to tell me that Don was in a hospice. Herb loved Don. Who didn't? Don loved music, he loved ladies, he loved literature, and he loved tennis. He thought Roger Federer was the cat's meow. Don Asher had so much vitality, and a love for life, that it amazes me that he would not live forever. It's a shame he didn't. He died on Aug. 24. He was 84 years old. There will be a memorial for him on Oct. 2 at the Century Club, 1355 Franklin Street. ...
Herb Gold went back to Haiti last month. Herb's an expert on Haiti, been there more than a dozen times. He wrote a book called "The Best Nightmare on Earth: A LIfe in Haiti." This already bereft country is in shambles since the Jan. 24 earthquake that killed 220,000 people. Hard to imagine. The place has always been tormented by poverty but Herb says it holds a gripping sort of charm. I'm not sure what Herb was doing there -- obviously he'll write about it -- but I suspect he also might try to break up any fist fights between Wyclef Jean and Sean Penn. Just before he left, Herb said sardonically, "One of my neighbors heard that I was going to Haiti. They said cheerfully. 'Have a great vacation!'"
Some day at the beach. ...
There's a sad irony about the closing of the Washington Square Bar & Grill, and the death of Ed Moose, who founded the place all those years ago with his partner, Sam Dietsch. Ed was 81. He loved being the master of ceremonies at his restaurants, The Square & later at Moose's, across Washington Square. I've never seen anyone work a room like Ed Moose. Former Governor Pat Brown was pretty good, too. Like Don Asher, Ed loved what he did, and would sink his teeth into everything. One of the great parties Ed threw was for the surviving chaps who made the Nixon's Enemies List. NBC News' Sander Vanocur and Mart Nolan of the Boston Globe were among the guests. Yes, they were perceived enemies of the great paranoid president. What an inspired idea for a party. Ed loved the media. After all, in his young days he was a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was the best of friends of Herb Caen. I'm not sure if Herb had any real friends, but he and Ed were certainly closely-held co-conspirators, conjuring up North Beach intrigues. Ed was an exacting employer but Barbara Carberry, who worked for him at Moose's restaurant, says her time there gave her some of the best days she ever had.
"It opened the whole world to me," she says. "Because of Ed, I met some of the most interesting people. I'm very grateful for that. I'm very grateful that I was part of Ed Moose's world for awhile."
Ed sponsored his Penny Pitch and raised thousands and thousands of dollars for St. Anthony Dining Room over the years.
Anothrer one of Ed's contributions to San Francisco culture was hiring all those great musicians over the years. Mike Greensill ... Wesla Whitfield ... Dick Fregulia ... Mike Lipskin ... Tim Hockenberry ... and yes, Don Asher, to name a few. Ed also took care of his friends, who sometimes would get a bit drifty. Glenn Dorenbush was one of them. When Glenn did the public relations for the Washbag, as Herb Caen described it -- Ron Fimrite called it the world's greatest saloon -- someone offered Glenn lunch. He shot back, "I've never been more insulted in my life!" Glenn, you see, preferred a more liquid repast. Kevin Keating was a Washbag regular. He used to work with Chronicle columnist Stan Delaplane, who held a permanent seat at The Square. Kevin also wrote for airline magazines. He once said to me, "I just went down the Baja Peninsula in a Hummer for an article. I learned that everything is Mexico will stab you." All this reveals what a territory for San Francisco characters that Ed Moose cultivated. Bless his heart. The Square was a watering hole for friendly beasts to slake their thirst as the climate changed inexorably around them. As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Oh, my poor dead dears." ...
"God was in a good mood when He made San Francisco," Lana Vy remarked the other day, a notably beautiful September day. She pours drinks at the Hyde-out on Nob Hill. Occasionally she takes out her ukulele, and entertain the customers with one of her songs, such as "If You Marry Your Best Friend." Lana just started a band called The Edibles. We have no comment on that. But her line about God and San Francisco is food for thought. It reminds me of the time when I asked a Roman Catholic priest, Father William Myers, what St. Francis would say if he learned this city was named after him.
He said, "I don't know if he'd laugh or cry." ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He's not sure if he should laugh or cry. Give him direction at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Herb Gold went back to Haiti last month. Herb's an expert on Haiti, been there more than a dozen times. He wrote a book called "The Best Nightmare on Earth: A LIfe in Haiti." This already bereft country is in shambles since the Jan. 24 earthquake that killed 220,000 people. Hard to imagine. The place has always been tormented by poverty but Herb says it holds a gripping sort of charm. I'm not sure what Herb was doing there -- obviously he'll write about it -- but I suspect he also might try to break up any fist fights between Wyclef Jean and Sean Penn. Just before he left, Herb said sardonically, "One of my neighbors heard that I was going to Haiti. They said cheerfully. 'Have a great vacation!'"
Some day at the beach. ...
There's a sad irony about the closing of the Washington Square Bar & Grill, and the death of Ed Moose, who founded the place all those years ago with his partner, Sam Dietsch. Ed was 81. He loved being the master of ceremonies at his restaurants, The Square & later at Moose's, across Washington Square. I've never seen anyone work a room like Ed Moose. Former Governor Pat Brown was pretty good, too. Like Don Asher, Ed loved what he did, and would sink his teeth into everything. One of the great parties Ed threw was for the surviving chaps who made the Nixon's Enemies List. NBC News' Sander Vanocur and Mart Nolan of the Boston Globe were among the guests. Yes, they were perceived enemies of the great paranoid president. What an inspired idea for a party. Ed loved the media. After all, in his young days he was a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was the best of friends of Herb Caen. I'm not sure if Herb had any real friends, but he and Ed were certainly closely-held co-conspirators, conjuring up North Beach intrigues. Ed was an exacting employer but Barbara Carberry, who worked for him at Moose's restaurant, says her time there gave her some of the best days she ever had.
"It opened the whole world to me," she says. "Because of Ed, I met some of the most interesting people. I'm very grateful for that. I'm very grateful that I was part of Ed Moose's world for awhile."
Ed sponsored his Penny Pitch and raised thousands and thousands of dollars for St. Anthony Dining Room over the years.
Anothrer one of Ed's contributions to San Francisco culture was hiring all those great musicians over the years. Mike Greensill ... Wesla Whitfield ... Dick Fregulia ... Mike Lipskin ... Tim Hockenberry ... and yes, Don Asher, to name a few. Ed also took care of his friends, who sometimes would get a bit drifty. Glenn Dorenbush was one of them. When Glenn did the public relations for the Washbag, as Herb Caen described it -- Ron Fimrite called it the world's greatest saloon -- someone offered Glenn lunch. He shot back, "I've never been more insulted in my life!" Glenn, you see, preferred a more liquid repast. Kevin Keating was a Washbag regular. He used to work with Chronicle columnist Stan Delaplane, who held a permanent seat at The Square. Kevin also wrote for airline magazines. He once said to me, "I just went down the Baja Peninsula in a Hummer for an article. I learned that everything is Mexico will stab you." All this reveals what a territory for San Francisco characters that Ed Moose cultivated. Bless his heart. The Square was a watering hole for friendly beasts to slake their thirst as the climate changed inexorably around them. As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Oh, my poor dead dears." ...
"God was in a good mood when He made San Francisco," Lana Vy remarked the other day, a notably beautiful September day. She pours drinks at the Hyde-out on Nob Hill. Occasionally she takes out her ukulele, and entertain the customers with one of her songs, such as "If You Marry Your Best Friend." Lana just started a band called The Edibles. We have no comment on that. But her line about God and San Francisco is food for thought. It reminds me of the time when I asked a Roman Catholic priest, Father William Myers, what St. Francis would say if he learned this city was named after him.
He said, "I don't know if he'd laugh or cry." ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He's not sure if he should laugh or cry. Give him direction at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Friday, July 23, 2010
Is It happy Hour Yet?
for Marina Times, August 2010
by Bruce Bellingham
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
by Bruce Bellingham
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Bellingham by the Bay,Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
Perhaps July is the coolest month. Coldest in 40 years, they say. So they say. I felt so bad for the tourists who were freezing while standing in line at Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, I wanted to go across the street to Walgreens, and buy them mittens. Then I saw a man on Polk and Sacto. turn in for the night at 8 o'clock, grip his blanket, and try to sleep on the sidewalk. ...
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
###
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
###
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
After that rather cryptic dispatch was printed in this paper last month about me, that is, "Bruce went on a vacation that no one would envy" or something like that, I feel I have some explaining to do for the readers.
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street. "You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street. "You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
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Thursday, February 25, 2010
Bellingham by the Bay,Northside San Francisco, March 2010
Myles O’Reilly is putting the wearing of the green back into Green Street this St. Patrick’s Day. After a four-year ban, Myles has been given permission by the S.F.P.D. to close down Green Street in front of his O’Reilly’s Irish Pub & Restaurant to hold a day-long St. Pat’s party again. There’s a new boss at Central Station, Capt. Anna Brown. “She’s much more sympathetic to the concerns of businesspeople in North Beach,” says Chiching Herlihy, who works with Myles. “It’s so encouraging to see someone on our side for a change.” Chiching also says the restaurant has hired a gaggle of wee people, that is, dwarves who can play leprechauns as part of the entertainment. You know the old saying: bad audition, good performance. Something like that.
Chiching held an open call for leprechauns. Some of the "little people" did not like the competition. The exchange of nasty words deteriorated into a physical brawl. There was a donnybrook of dwarves on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The cops had to break up the melee. Lots of biting, and scratching. That’s entertainment. It will be calmer for St. Pat’s, I’m sure. …
Bobby Mulhern, the general manager of the Golden Gate Yacht Club, is flooded with phone calls from around the world these days since word got out that the club will be the new home for the America’s Cup trophy. This is a really big deal for the little yacht club that could, just down the street on the Marina Green waterfront from the bigger, richer, St. Francis Yacht Club. “There’s no definite date for the arrival of the trophy,” says Bobby. “They have to build a special security case for the thing.” One element of security is to have Larry Ellison on board. “Every time he steps through the doors here,” Bobby explains,” Larry is nothing but a gentleman.” Insiders say San Francisco looks pretty good for being the host to the next America’s Cup race when the challenge arrives. That, in great part, is up to the gentleman from Oracle who walks through those doors at the Golden Gate Yacht Club – with the cooperation of the all-knowing authorities at City Hall. …
That report about DNA evidence linking Trailside Killer David Carpenter to the unsolved San Francisco killing in 1979 of Mary Bennett out at Lands End reminds me of Robert Graysmith's excellent book, The Sleeping Lady, the old Ohlone name for Mt. Tamapais, where many of the murders took place. Graysmith, who also wrote the famous Zodiac book, chronicles the murderous activities of Carpenter, and the dedicated homicide cop who finally tracked him down. The book scared me so much, I was afraid to go jogging for about two years. All right, so I wouldn't have gone jogging anyway. The late, great actor Robert Morley once observed, "Jogging is the most dangerous thing to happen to America since Vietnam." But Morley was talking about the general preservation of health, I suppose, not the hazard of encountering predators like Carpenter. One more word about Robert Graysmith. He is one of the great coffee house writers. He wrote in longhand every day at the Owl & Monkey Cafe on 9th Ave. in the Sunset. Sadly, it's long gone. I hope he's made enough money to buy his own cafe by now. My friend Diane Weissmuller was so fond of Robert Morley (two of her fave films are The Grand Bouffe & The Loved One) that she named her cat Morley: "Like the great actor, Morley's very large, very snooty, and very condescending." Since the cat learned how to get on Twitter, he's been quite incorrigible. …
I heard a coyote may have killed a cat on Russian Hill the other day. Coyotes on Russian Hill? Odd. I thought they were hanging at the Balboa Café, checking out the young bartenders. … Warren Hinckle has yet another signature basset hound to take the place of sweet, loyal, lugubrious Melman. He died recently at age12. Melman did not not succumb to the ravages of second-hand smut at the Mitchell Bros. "No," reports Eric Eckert, a keen observer of the tavern circuit, "Melman was killed by all the hot dogs that the locals would buy him at the Route 101 saloon on Van Ness." He died from a surfeit of sausages. Eric also says that Mr. Hinckle's new puppy is named Hunter, in honor of Warren's great, late friend, Hunter S. Thompson. ... Have you heard those stories about hostile toll-takers on the New Jersey Turnpike cursing at the motorists, and throwing the change into their faces? Ah, the Garden State, where they only grow thorns. Not to worry. Surely this sort of incivility can't take place here in California. We won't be seeing any change being returned to us for a long time. ...
Bruce Bellingham’s new book has a working title of I’m Too Old for Me. We’re beginning to suspect that he’s just been writing titles lately, but it would be too much trouble to confront him on this matter, Maybe you’d like to. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
Chiching held an open call for leprechauns. Some of the "little people" did not like the competition. The exchange of nasty words deteriorated into a physical brawl. There was a donnybrook of dwarves on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The cops had to break up the melee. Lots of biting, and scratching. That’s entertainment. It will be calmer for St. Pat’s, I’m sure. …
Bobby Mulhern, the general manager of the Golden Gate Yacht Club, is flooded with phone calls from around the world these days since word got out that the club will be the new home for the America’s Cup trophy. This is a really big deal for the little yacht club that could, just down the street on the Marina Green waterfront from the bigger, richer, St. Francis Yacht Club. “There’s no definite date for the arrival of the trophy,” says Bobby. “They have to build a special security case for the thing.” One element of security is to have Larry Ellison on board. “Every time he steps through the doors here,” Bobby explains,” Larry is nothing but a gentleman.” Insiders say San Francisco looks pretty good for being the host to the next America’s Cup race when the challenge arrives. That, in great part, is up to the gentleman from Oracle who walks through those doors at the Golden Gate Yacht Club – with the cooperation of the all-knowing authorities at City Hall. …
That report about DNA evidence linking Trailside Killer David Carpenter to the unsolved San Francisco killing in 1979 of Mary Bennett out at Lands End reminds me of Robert Graysmith's excellent book, The Sleeping Lady, the old Ohlone name for Mt. Tamapais, where many of the murders took place. Graysmith, who also wrote the famous Zodiac book, chronicles the murderous activities of Carpenter, and the dedicated homicide cop who finally tracked him down. The book scared me so much, I was afraid to go jogging for about two years. All right, so I wouldn't have gone jogging anyway. The late, great actor Robert Morley once observed, "Jogging is the most dangerous thing to happen to America since Vietnam." But Morley was talking about the general preservation of health, I suppose, not the hazard of encountering predators like Carpenter. One more word about Robert Graysmith. He is one of the great coffee house writers. He wrote in longhand every day at the Owl & Monkey Cafe on 9th Ave. in the Sunset. Sadly, it's long gone. I hope he's made enough money to buy his own cafe by now. My friend Diane Weissmuller was so fond of Robert Morley (two of her fave films are The Grand Bouffe & The Loved One) that she named her cat Morley: "Like the great actor, Morley's very large, very snooty, and very condescending." Since the cat learned how to get on Twitter, he's been quite incorrigible. …
I heard a coyote may have killed a cat on Russian Hill the other day. Coyotes on Russian Hill? Odd. I thought they were hanging at the Balboa Café, checking out the young bartenders. … Warren Hinckle has yet another signature basset hound to take the place of sweet, loyal, lugubrious Melman. He died recently at age12. Melman did not not succumb to the ravages of second-hand smut at the Mitchell Bros. "No," reports Eric Eckert, a keen observer of the tavern circuit, "Melman was killed by all the hot dogs that the locals would buy him at the Route 101 saloon on Van Ness." He died from a surfeit of sausages. Eric also says that Mr. Hinckle's new puppy is named Hunter, in honor of Warren's great, late friend, Hunter S. Thompson. ... Have you heard those stories about hostile toll-takers on the New Jersey Turnpike cursing at the motorists, and throwing the change into their faces? Ah, the Garden State, where they only grow thorns. Not to worry. Surely this sort of incivility can't take place here in California. We won't be seeing any change being returned to us for a long time. ...
Bruce Bellingham’s new book has a working title of I’m Too Old for Me. We’re beginning to suspect that he’s just been writing titles lately, but it would be too much trouble to confront him on this matter, Maybe you’d like to. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, March 2010
Herbert Gold, San Francisco's famous novelist, approached me in the rain on Polk Street the other night. With his wet trench coat, and the rain running off the brim of his khaki hat in the shadows, he looked like a character out of The Third Man. Funny that, the author of The Third Man (he also wrote the screenplay for the classic movie) was Graham Greene. Greene was mad about the Caribbean. That's what Herb Gold wanted to talk to me about. Not about Vienna, where The Third Man takes place, but about Haiti, where Herb's been visiting off and on for decades. He's been there about 35 times. Herb loves Haiti. I've never heard anyone say anything less than glowing about Haiti, in terms of her soul, and her spirit. Herb wrote a famous book about Haiti called The Best Nightmare on Earth. That's a revealing title. It's hard to imagine a place on the planet that has had to endure more suffering. Since the earthquake that hit Haiti, the poorest nation in the hemisphere, killed 200,000 people two months ago Herb's heart has been breaking.
"Of course I want to go back," says Herb, "but I'm not sure if I wouldn't just get in the way. I'm a writer, not a doctor. I know people, friends of mine, who were killed. It's very difficult. Newspapers won't send reporters down there like they used to because of the economy. That could help, bringing more attention to this catastrophe."
Herb suggested I get in touch with a friend of his -- Dr. Yen-Len Tang, a pediatrician who works at Kaiser Hospital in Hayward.
I did.
Dr. Tang has been going down to Haiti since 2004, and left again just the other day for a month. His plans? To take care of sick, and injured Haitian children who are hospitalized out in the countryside.
What is so compelling about Haiti? Why does it have such a magical effect on so many who visit?
"Haiti is about chaotic growth, and decay at the same time," says Dr. Tang. "It's really quite magnificent.”
These are such mysterious signals, such contradictions.
"Many more people will die before the recovery happens, but I have to go back. During normal times, Haitians demonstrate incredible patience, show deep friendship, produce wonderful music, and food.”
Dr. Tang is paying his travel expenses, using vacation time he’s accrued at Kaiser. His will be living at Hospital Albert Schweitzer, an American-financed operation which provides health care for 300,000 people in central Haiti.
I wondered if he might be worried about his personal safety. He’s not, mostly because he will not be in the capital, Port-au-Prince, as things get grimmer. They will get grimmer before they get better. He also can speak Creole, the local lingo – a mix of French and the region’s ethnic African dialect. He’s divorced, and his kids are terribly proud of him. Dr. Tang went to Johns Hopkins Medical School, and trained at UCSF.
Will this journey into the post-earthquake darkness make him become a better doctor?
“I think so,” says Dr. Tang. “Obviously I am going to encounter children who are far sicker, far more badly injured that I would see in Hayward. I also see Haiti, a third-world country, showing signs of first-world problems, such as childhood obesity, and diabetes while the poor diseases, such as malnutrition, are rampant, too. They need our help, the help of the NGOs. I certainly get a lot out of being there.”
Herb Gold says there have been a lot of stupid things said about the disaster in Haiti – the vicious, and vile things that Pat Robertson, and Rush Limbaugh have said. Robertson said Haiti asked for the quake by making a pact with the devil all those years ago in order to gain independence from France.
“But,” added Herb, “for all of the putrid blathering from these morons, we still have someone like Dr. Yen-Len Tang, who shows real class, real kindness. That’s important to remember.”
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times, the sister publication. But Bruce doesn’t have any sisters. Perhaps this experience is good for him. Let him know one way or another. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
"Of course I want to go back," says Herb, "but I'm not sure if I wouldn't just get in the way. I'm a writer, not a doctor. I know people, friends of mine, who were killed. It's very difficult. Newspapers won't send reporters down there like they used to because of the economy. That could help, bringing more attention to this catastrophe."
Herb suggested I get in touch with a friend of his -- Dr. Yen-Len Tang, a pediatrician who works at Kaiser Hospital in Hayward.
I did.
Dr. Tang has been going down to Haiti since 2004, and left again just the other day for a month. His plans? To take care of sick, and injured Haitian children who are hospitalized out in the countryside.
What is so compelling about Haiti? Why does it have such a magical effect on so many who visit?
"Haiti is about chaotic growth, and decay at the same time," says Dr. Tang. "It's really quite magnificent.”
These are such mysterious signals, such contradictions.
"Many more people will die before the recovery happens, but I have to go back. During normal times, Haitians demonstrate incredible patience, show deep friendship, produce wonderful music, and food.”
Dr. Tang is paying his travel expenses, using vacation time he’s accrued at Kaiser. His will be living at Hospital Albert Schweitzer, an American-financed operation which provides health care for 300,000 people in central Haiti.
I wondered if he might be worried about his personal safety. He’s not, mostly because he will not be in the capital, Port-au-Prince, as things get grimmer. They will get grimmer before they get better. He also can speak Creole, the local lingo – a mix of French and the region’s ethnic African dialect. He’s divorced, and his kids are terribly proud of him. Dr. Tang went to Johns Hopkins Medical School, and trained at UCSF.
Will this journey into the post-earthquake darkness make him become a better doctor?
“I think so,” says Dr. Tang. “Obviously I am going to encounter children who are far sicker, far more badly injured that I would see in Hayward. I also see Haiti, a third-world country, showing signs of first-world problems, such as childhood obesity, and diabetes while the poor diseases, such as malnutrition, are rampant, too. They need our help, the help of the NGOs. I certainly get a lot out of being there.”
Herb Gold says there have been a lot of stupid things said about the disaster in Haiti – the vicious, and vile things that Pat Robertson, and Rush Limbaugh have said. Robertson said Haiti asked for the quake by making a pact with the devil all those years ago in order to gain independence from France.
“But,” added Herb, “for all of the putrid blathering from these morons, we still have someone like Dr. Yen-Len Tang, who shows real class, real kindness. That’s important to remember.”
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times, the sister publication. But Bruce doesn’t have any sisters. Perhaps this experience is good for him. Let him know one way or another. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
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