Christmas on Nob Hill

Even a Christmas curmudgeon's heart quietly melts when the holiday lights that adorn the trees in San Francisco's Huntington Park are illuminated atop Nob Hill in early December.

In the shadow of the Gothic grandness of Grace Cathedral, the lights match the reassuring elegance of all those white bulbs on the lawn of the Fairmont, a block away on Mason, yes, with those famous cable cars rattling by, all wreathed in evergreen. Gazing down California Street, toward downtown, we see the smart, sharp outlines of white lights that tightly frame the Embarcadero Centers. This is when San Francisco, all dressed up, looks courtly, and graceful. This is how I like to see The City. The town stands tall in the crisp, cool night. I feel like a grown-up on nights like this.

I love to be in the Big 4, the classy bar & restaurant in the Huntington Hotel during the holiday season -- and every other season. "This is the best saloon in San Francisco," David McCullough told me one night earlier this year.McCullough, you might know is a historian. (Oh, THAT David McCullough!) He wrote famous biographies of Truman, John Adams, and 1776. He told me that he's excited about a new project: a book about the grand old, and great hotels of the United States. He's the man to write it. A lot of history came out of these places.

That's why I love hotel bars, and hotel lobbies (my favorite hotel lobby in S.F. is the Fairmont, we can endure the ghastly gingerbread house for the kids' sake). Like airports, hotel bars provide a mix of anonymity, and gemütlichkeit. That just means friendly but I get a childish kick out of knowing how to type ümlauts. You could say that I'm an ümlaut lout. But I digress.

McCullough is the perfect fellow with whom one should be sequestered in a bar or an airport. He can talk about everything, and anything, and make it all exciting. We went from Pittsburgh, his hometown, to Oscar Levant (also from Pittsburgh) to Cole Porter to his first job (at Sports Illustrated), and just how talented the Big 4 house pianist, Michael Parsons, really is. Not only will Michael always play "Two for the Road" for me every time I drop in, he has a splendidly vast repertory, and an uncanny ability to never play the same song in the same way, even after all these years.

"Two for the Road" is a tune by Henry Mancini, and it's got to be one of the saddest songs in the world from one of the saddest movies (in which Audrey Hepburn's marriage to Albert Finney suffers a painful demise). I'd love to start a radio station that plays only sad songs -- K-GLOOM -- or something like that. Oh, my. I fear I've been digressing again, and I started out to write a cheery piece this month. Parsons was playing Kurt Weill's "Speak Low When You Speak Love." Most people don't know the lyrics were written by Ogden Nash. Even McCullough didn't know that. That's one time I could tell David McCullough something. And certainly the only time I could tell David McCullough something. Forgive me for savoring the moment. I wish Mr. McCullough were around for this holiday season. I would be great to see him again and exchange arcane stories -- well, I could listen, anyway. But I hope he's home on Martha's Vineyard with his family. I often find disparate, dispirited people wandering around the hotels this time of year. I live a few blocks away from the cluster of Nob Hill hotels, one of the most elegant pieces of real estate in the world. So the Big 4 is really my local watering hole. There I mingle with the travelers, one for the road. I am indebted to San Francisco because I can stay at home, and still feel like I'm visiting a strange city. I like it best this time of year, with the lights, the chill in the air, and the restless, homesick out-of-towners.

One chap sipped his Scotch the other night, and looked pensive. He said it had been a hard year, a turbulent year for a lot of people.

"I'm here on business from New York," the man muttered. "I miss my kids but I'm glad none of them is in Iraq."

Another Christmas, another war. I thought of the lights across the street in Huntington Park, and that old World War II song that Andrea Marcovicci likes to sing, "When The Lights Go On Again All Over the World."

I suggested to the New Yorker that he take a walk in Huntington Park across the street. That might cheer him up. Every year I look for that elusive couple who meet there secretly. Or so I imagine they meet secretly. Sometime you just have to invent people's stories for them. Over the years, I've come to recognize them. I imagine their double life, and marvel at its illicit longevity. As the California Street cable car rattled by, there they stood again, as they had last year. They never notice me as they embrace near the Huntington Park fountain, that dear, ridiculous, rococo thing with the turtles and dolphins that I've come to admire. In the frigid western breeze, you can hear the flag flapping atop the Mark Hopkins. The half-moon, showing itself through the clouds, hovers in the black sky.

I overhear her whisper hopefully, anxiously, to him, "This is going to be a wonderful Christmas this year, isn't it?"

He murmurs to her with all the courage he can muster, holding her with all his might, "Yes, my darling, it will be the best."

"Moving Right Along": New Works From Stage, Film Legend Elaine May & Marlo Thomas at San Francisco's Waterfront Magic Theatre

The most endearing part of the Magic Theatre's new production of Moving Right Along, a trilogy of short plays, occurred at the first preview performance when Elaine May stepped in
front of the audience, and apologized in a sweet way for what might happen during the performances. "We didn't really have a dress rehearsal," she announced sheepishly, "so the set changes might be a little disorganized. You might be asked to come up on the stage, and help us sweep up the stage or something."

That wasn't necessary. The crew did a grand job. The set changes were painless. But not so for all the performances.

Mark Rydell, who's also an Academy Award-nominated director On Golden Pond and The Rose was terrific in the first two plays -- Killing Trotsky, a black comedy set in the Velvet Revolution in the Czech republic in 1993, written by Jan Mirochek, and directed by Elaine May--and On The Way, which was written by May, and directed by her daughter, Jeannie Berlin, who was nominated for an Oscar for her performance in The Heartbreak Kid when Berlin was a kid herself.

The ensemble of actors in Trotsky with Rydell -- Reed Martin, Julia Brothers, and Wanda McCaddon -- were first rate. The play is funny in a murky way, and drips with a cascade of irony and absurdity. Nice stuff for a sunny Sunday afternoon. It's a play about a playwright
who's fought Communist oppression only to find himself teetering on the verge of becoming irrelevant, a condition that's brought on by social liberation, and the collapse of the Soviet system. In all the angst, there is laughter.

Not so in the middle play, On The Way, which is Rydell playing a very different part -- George, an American tycoon in the back of a limo -- who engages the driver, Freddie (Daveed Diggs), in a conversation about fascism, David Rockefeller, the traffic to Teterboro Airport, class struggle, fatherhood, and salsa.

Freddie and George may have arrived at the airport, but I think the audience simply got taken for a ride. I thought the exchange between the two men was rather pointless, and dull.

But the third play,<italic> George Is Dead (yes, our tycoon extends his journey), was delightful, and that was attributed to the wonderful electricity between Doreen (Marlo Thomas -- yes, THAT Marlo Thomas, the Emmy and Golden Globe winner) and Carla, played by the wonderful Julia Brothers. Reed Martin, as Carla's angry, inconsolable husband is a little too blustery. Wanda McCaddon, as Carla's mother, is very powerful. This piece was written and directed by Elaine May, and it's May in top form -- funny, acerbic, snappy, touching, and
insightful. Marlo Thomas still has that girlish break in her voiced as she had when she played That Girl on TV (flipping on Nick At Nite at a tense moment is a nice homage to Marlo's TV days).

Let's face it: seeing Marlo Thomas, who has retained her comic chops, is a real treat, as is having Elaine May in the neighborhood. The second play is a bit stagnant but maybe that can be Killing Trotsky has its existential puzzlements but it's funny. The concluding play George Is Dead is a winner, and worth the trip to the water.

Moving Right Along: Three Short Plays About Life and Death by Elaine May, Jan Mirochek, and directed by Jeannie Berlin & Elaine May is playing at the Magic Theatre, Landmark Building D, Ft. Mason Center, Oct. 28 through Nov. 19. Call (415) 441-8822 or click on www.MagicTheatre.org

Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

Is There Life After Tower Records?

I know it's not like a near-native San Franciscan to go shambling around Fisherman's Wharf but that's exactly what I was doing the other day. It's fascinating to see the tourists going about all gaping, and gobsmacked at the sights, sounds and smells. But stunned I was to see a few fellows wandering about, carrying sandwich boards bearing the message: "Out of Business Sale at Tower Records!"

A wave of sadness washed over me.

Tower Records, a symbol of my not-so-innocent youth, and tabernacle of joy for me in the early days of my San Francisco life, was really closing -- and for good. It was death by Internet online marketing, and bludgeoning by discount store juggernauts. Tower founder, 81-year-old Russ Solomon, boasted just a few years ago, "The Web will never take the place of stores." Brave words but it was also a reckless invitation to hubris.

Solomon entered bankruptcy in 2004 but still did not tread carefully enough. He opened his first store in Sacramento 46 years ago. In 1968, that watershed year, he saw the lot at Columbus & Bay, and decided that was the spot for a big Tower Records store. San Francisco cultural history was born. Poet Rod McKuen used to make appearances there. The fans would line up for miles all around Fisherman's Wharf. In Los Angeles, Rod immortalized the store on the Sunset Strip with his poem, Is There Life After Tower Records? Rod described music fans driving from all over the Southland to "browse, meditate, and worship at the L.A. shrine."

When I arrived here in 1970, Tower was the place to go. It was a destination, a place to explore, and at which to marvel. Miles of aisles of all sorts of music -- a massive inventory. I recall being so impressed that a record shop was open 24 hours a day -- which it was. Of course it was. After a night of sodden partying, and debauchery, of wine, women, and herbs, it might be absolutely necessary to find an album by Dave Mason or Steve Miller or Ravi Shankar to cap the evening, to accompany the rising sun. I guess you had to be there to understand such a craving. You could always count on Tower being open. It was the connection for the music junkie. Just last November, Donovan made an appearance at Tower. He had his beautiful Gibson Hummingbird guitar with him, and serenaded a long string of hits to about 40 fans, who sang along on Mellow Yellow at the top of their aging counterculture voices. For a half-hour or so, all was right with the world.

At one time, there were 200 Tower stores worldwide -- and not all that long ago. In the mid-1990s, sales had exceeded a billion dollars. But as fast as you can say "download," the assets spiraled downward, as the online music biz skyrocketed. Not only that, chain bookstores started selling music, and monstrous retailers such as Wal-Mart began to sell CDs for a song. Music specialty stores got buried. Russ Solomon wasn't the kind of fellow to change his style. He simply continued to open new stores, bless 'em. Tower opened a classical music outlet here, across Columbus Avenue. I found it a refuge when I was in trouble. There were in-store listening posts where you could don headphones, and tune in privately, unmolested. One day I found a CD with Renée Fleming singing Purcell's "When I Am Laid In Earth" from Dido and Aeneas. Between the sadly exquisite phrases, I silently thanked Tower Records for restoring some peace in my heart, and I'm grateful to Mr. Solomon for providing all the fun over the years in that great supermarket for the senses at Columbus & Bay.

Bruce Bellingham, the Arts & Entertainment Editor of the Marina Times & Northside, is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is no longer available at Tower Records.

A Young Singer, Hilary Hogan, Celebrates Her Father's Life and Music at a Grace Cathedral Recital in San Francisco

It's been 10 years since Bay Area composer David Hogan, and 229 others were killed when Paris-bound TWA Flight 800 exploded off the coast of Long Island. David's daughter, Hilary Hogan, will celebrate her father's life, and her father's work at a special concert at San Francisco's Grace Cathedral on Nov. 19.

Mr. Hogan divided his time between San Francisco and Paris, where, Hilary says, her father's musical life was based. he worked with choruses in Europe. In 1995, he accepted the post as director of the Gay Men's Choir of Paris. he taught at Fountainbleu, where he had studied with the famous Nadia Boulanger. Mr. Hogan was also the co-founder of the Walden School in New Hampshire, where talented kids spent their summers. He was a gifted tenor, and his compositions were widely performed, including his Magnificat, for the consecration of the
National Cathedral in Washington D.C. in 1989.

"My father took me to Europe, and showed me all the great cathedrals," Hilary said on the phone from Washington. "Perhaps for that reason, I began to study design, and architecture. But, by mid-college, I switched my major to music."

It will be Hilary's San Francisco debut as a singer. The occasion also celebrates Hilary's achievement of getting her Master's Degree in music from the prestigious Peabody Institute. The concert will include family, friends, and former students of her father, as well as members
of the Consortium of the Arts, the chorale that her father founded, and members of the Children's Chorus of the Meher Schools, in Lafayette.

The concert will be conducted by Hilary's mother, terry Hogan Johnson, the musical director of the Consortium. This is also a benefit to raise money for the chorus.

The concert marks a tragic event, but it also represents how David Hogan touched so many people's lives through teaching, and through his prolific creation of music.

"I feel so thankful," said Hilary, "for all the people who taught me about my father over the years, and showed me how interesting his world was. I am happily spoiled."

Hilary's parents divorced when she was nine years old. But, she said, they were the best of friends: "He went off to do his music, and she directed choruses. I think they separated because of the geographical dislocation."

Not only will Hilary and friends perform the music of her father, she's including art songs by Leonard Bernstein (Glitter and Be Gay from Candide), Hugo Wolf, Richard Strauss, and Gabriel Fauré. Hilary is versatile. She also singing a little Marvin Hamlisch, and a song that Michael Friedman wrote for the late, great canary, Nancy LaMott. There will also be a few of her dad's Debussy favorites. Yes, it will be an occasion at Grace Cathedral for Thanksgiving.

"We put the concert together in thankfulness," Hilary explained. "It's for all the things that happened since my father's passing. It was traumatic, but all these people came together as a support system for me. It's overwhelming for me to think that someone can have such
influence. It's such a gift they I've been given. I hope to give back a little in a loving way."

Hilary Hogan's Celebration of Friends, Family, and Love, called Love's Perfect Design, will take place at Grace Cathedral, 1100 California Street at Taylor, atop Nob Hill, on Sunday, Nov. 19, at 3 p.m. For details, go to http://www.thanksgivingconcert.org/

Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

Local Chanteuse Shows Her Undying Devotion to the Late, Great Oscar Brown Jr.

As long as she's living, Mill Valley jazz singer Linda Kosut will show her affection, and loyalty to Oscar Brown Jr., the great singer/songwriter who composed Brother, Where Are You?, The Snake, and Dat Dere. She's paying homage to her hero with a show, "Long As You're Living: the Songs of Oscar Brown Jr." at Jazz at Pearl's in North Beach, on Nov. 16. She's backed by the Max Perkoff Jazz Ensemble. San Francisco is the launching pad for her tour with the show. Last month, Linda and Oscar Brown's beautiful songs appeared at the Piedmont Piano Company on Third Street and Townsend in S.F., and at Anna's Jazz Island in Berkeley.

But the Jazz at Pearl's show will be a bit different. Maggie Brown, Oscar Brown Jr.'s daughter, will appear with Linda Kosut, and sit in on a few numbers. How cool is that?

"I was about fifteen years old when my brother brought home Oscar Brown Jr.'s two albums, Sin & Soul, and Between Heaven & Hell," Linda says.

"I played them over, and over, and over."

Linda, a smooth contralto, was always singing. "I've been performing Mr Kicks, and Dat Dere for years," Kosut recalls. "I was in New York not long ago when my fiancé told me to start a new project because I was impossible to live with. I wanted to do a new cabaret show that featured some Oscar Brown Jr. songs. Then the idea of doing a whole show of his songs hit me."

Oscar Brown Jr. died in his hometown of Chicago in May of last year after a long illness. He would have been 80 years old last month. He wrote more than 1,000 songs.

Kosut contacted Brown's publisher, Carlin America, to see if she could obtain the sheet music for Brown's songs. The marketing director, named Bob Golden, asked her what her address was, and said, "You owe me nothing." This was beginning to look like a providential adventure for
Kosut. She reached Brown's family in Chicago, and told family members that she was dedicated to getting Oscar Brown Jr.'s music "out there."

Linda asked, "What would you think of a nice, white Jewish girl from New York doing an Oscar brown Jr. show?"

Their response: "He would have loved it."

Kosut went to Chicago to spend time with the Brown family, including his daughter, Maggie, and Oscar's grandchildren. Somewhere along the way, Maggie agreed to sing with Linda at the Nov. 16 show at Jazz at Pearl's.

Paula West, the San Francisco jazz singer, has also been a big devotée of Oscar Brown Jr.s' music, and performed with him a couple of years back at the Herbst Theatre. Another well-known interpreter of his songs is New York-based Karrin Allyson, who collaborates with
keyboardist/lyricist Chris Caswell. Chris is also Paul Williams' music director. Paul, the legendary, Hall of Famer songwriter, had a successful run last month at The Plush Room. Chris, at the piano, dazzled the audience.

Linda Kosut says Oscar Brown Jr., who was also an actor and playwright, was the original rap singer, who did not play the game. "He did not want to be handled," says Kosut. "He did not want to be manipulated. Maybe that's why he did not achieve super-stardom. He was very
committed to his mission, which was equality. He wanted the kids in the projects to wake up, and get a good life."

His contentiousness goes back to the biting satire of songs like Forty Acres and A Mule.

"What appeals to me," Linda says, "is that he was a keen observer. He was wry, whimsical yet serious. As a white girl, I think it's important for me to perform Bid 'Em In, Brown's lacerating song about the slave market."

Linda includes some 18 songs in her Oscar Brown Jr. show, such as Brother, Where Are You? ... Column of Birds ... Opportunity, Please Knock ... Tree and Me ... Call of the City ... Summer in the City ... Hazel's Hips ... The Snake ... and Love Is Like A Newborn Child.

Long As You're Living: Songs of Oscar Brown Jr., featuring singer Linda Kosut, with the Max Perkoff Jazz Ensemble with Max Perkoff on piano & trombone, Tom Shader, bass, David Rokeach, drums, & Randy Vincent on guitar -- Thurs. Nov. 16, at Jazz at Pearl's, 256 Columbus in North Beach, San Francisco ... 8 p.m. & 10 p.m. Two drinks, reservations are a must. For more, www.jazzatpearls.com.

Popular Laundromat's Sudden Disappearance Leaves Locals Awash With Puzzlement

The sudden demolition of the long-serving laundromat on Fillmore near Lombard, that was once a famous "pick-up palace," has caught San Francisco Marina District residents off-guard and more than a few are unhappy about it.

"One day it was there, and then one day it wasn't," lamented Abigail Moscowitz, a 12-year Marina resident. "Not only are there too few laundromats around the neighborhood. This is the only one that actually had parking -- that was a great feature."

Parking is always a great feature in the Marina, as it is in most of the rest of San Francisco.

"This is the way of The City," observed Dr. Steven Brattesani, whose Fillmore Street dental practice is located right across the street from the site of the former popular laundromat. "Change is the way of the world, and that's certainly part of life in San Francisco," said
Brattesani, who has aspired to political office in the past. "I would have liked to have seen new housing be constructed, but I understand the property will be divided into two retail businesses -- most likely a bank, and a new coffee shop." Although that sounds like carrying coals to Newcastle around here, Steve was not joking."

A construction worker on the site, who watched the asphalt that was once part of the laundromat's parking lot, was joking when he said, "I think it's going to be a McDonald's."

The building that once housed all those coin-operated washing machines actually has taken its place in San Francisco cultural history. Over thirty years ago, the laundromat was called, believe it or not, the Come Clean Center, and it played a role as a backdrop in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, a best-seller that began in serialized version -- as did the novels of Charles Dickens -- in the San Francisco Chronicle. In his stories, Maupin described the Come Clean Center as
the hottest pick-up locale in The City, along with the Marina Safeway.

As life often imitates art, the suds-'n-studs emporium suddenly became a real mecca for assignations -- all part of the sexually-charged seventies that characterized Baghdad-by-the-Bay.

Over the years, the washing machines, and the dryers were turned down to an increasingly tepid temperature, as was the atmosphere of the culture. The Come Clean Center name was changed to a more benign, and robotic-sounding LaundroLand, and the place took on a new persona, that of an ordinary laundromat that happen to have parking.

"I don't know where I'm going to go now to do my laundry," said a somber Abigail. "The parking was the big thing."

Steve Brattesani observed that this might be a good opportunity for an enterprising business person who might want to pick up the slack, and fill the needs of the locals. But the sorts of needs that were satisfied all those decades ago at the Come Clean Center will be not
likely be part of the landscape. As the song goes, "Once upon a time never comes again." Or comes clean again.

A Remembrance of Repasts Past

I took a walking tour of San Francisco the other day. Although I've lived here for more than three decades, I can still blend in easily as a tourist. Of course, having 40-thousand conventioneers from Oracle in town lent me an easier sense of anonymity. I still feel like a visitor most of the time. When I think about it, I'm just a guest on the planet anyway. On the bright side, guests usually get to eat well. As I wander, I consider all the great San Francisco restaurants that have come, and gone over the years. This is a remembrance of repasts past.

What happened to all of those sweet, little French bistros that permeated the Sunset, and Richmond Districts? La Maisonette, on 6th Avenue, I think, could not have had more than a ten tables. Like so many places, it was family-owned and operated. It was a charming place.
You'd quickly become friends of the family. There was Le Cyrano on Geary Blvd. ... La Boucane ... the Place Pigalle, near what is now the Marina Safeway. That's where they filmed a scene for "The Days of Wine and Roses."

San Francisco was the perfect location for such a wistful story about being wasted. There was a great French joint on Lombard & Fillmore that specialized in quenelles -- fish dumplings served with lobster (Americaine, which is not American at all) sauce, and fish velouté. The food in these places was incredibly rich, French classic cuisine. The days of wine and roses included butter sauces, glace de viande (reduced veal stock), foie gras, sweetbreads, steak pommes frite, Tripe a la mode de Caen, Beef Bourguignon, Vol au Vent (that was chicken and mushrooms in a puff pastry shell), Coq au Vin (that's chicken that was slightly drunker than I was), Blanquette de Veau, Canard a la Orange. And lots and lots of wine. This was all before the invasion of nouveau cuisine, and the zealous nutritionists who followed.

I recall those old times, as a non-drinking vegan today, and I want to burst into tears. Not out of remorse, but from longing for one little taste of Jacqueline's magnificent soufflés at her place on Grant Avenue. So, there. Let's face it: you can eat anything when you're twenty. Now I can put on weight from breathing.

I rarely talk about this but I was a chef at the Squire Room of the Fairmont Hotel in the 1970s. How did I get a gig like that without being an apprentice from the age of 12 in France? I was introduced to the head chef, Jean Barlerin, and he asked me how much I knew about cuisine. I told him I knew just about enough to read a menu. "For an American," Jean snorted, "you are very honest. Do you want to learn?"

He gave me a chance. I stayed at the Squire Room, dressed in a white cook's jacket, and toque blanche, for seven years. In those days, there were about nine restaurants in the Fairmont, if you can believe that.

There was the Squire, the Brasserie, the Tonga Room, Mason's, Canlis, the Crown Room, the New Orleans Room, and there was room service, and the banquets, too. But my favorite was the legendary Venetian Room, where I'd go upstairs, and sneak into the Venetian on Tuesday
afternoons to watch the musicians run through their sound-checks. The Mills Brothers were the best. There was never an act like them. Do you remember "Across the Alley from the Alamo"? Sure, you do.

One time, Harry Mills called out to me, "Does it sound all right, Bruce?" It sounded all right. Quite all right.

Later I cooked at the St. Tropez on Clement Street, and at a French Basque restaurant on Polk Street. Now don't get any ideas about me coming over to your place, and preparing a knockout meal for you. I don't recall anything about cooking. It was another life. Today I wouldn't know a stockpot from a Birkenstock.

I do miss those great Basque family-style restaurants that were all over North Beach: Elu's ... The Basque Hotel ... the Café des Alpes ... and my favorite, The Obrero Hotel on Stockton. The Goyenetche family used to offer a four-course meal with all the red table wine your could
drink -- for $3.25. When they raised the price to $3.50, there was a near riot. We'd eat at long tables, and shared our meals (one serving, at 6:30 p.m.) with the Basque men who lived in the hotel. They loved to drink, and they loved to sing. Eventually, I'd bring my guitar, then
have a few musicians in tow, shlepping a fiddle, an accordion, harmonicas, maracas, tambourines, Everyone would sing, stomp their feet, slam their palms on the tables in time to the tunes. I swear, the old building would actually shake.

I miss Vlasta's, the Czech restaurant on Lombard in the Marina. Vlasta Kucera made the most wonderful Moravian duck with red cabbage and dumplings. Vlasta's son, John, would command the little bar. He and I would habitually consume far too many shots of Slivovitz, that fiery
Yugoslav plum brandy. It tasted like kerosene but that never discouraged us from toasting one nebulous thing after another.

San Francisco has always been a great food town, going back to the Gold Rush days with the invention of the Hangtown Fry -- a scramble of eggs, oysters, and fried bacon -- and an array of concoctions, such as the Pisco Punch, the Black Russian, the White Russian, and the Green
Goddess. All nostalgia aside, it's still a great food town, and whatever is in vogue these days, we can be sure that the next meal will be all right. Quite all right.

Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

"Infamous" Is Another Film About Truman Capote; "Factotum" Is Another Barroom Saga from Charles Bukowski

At the press screening of Infamous, a letter from the film's director, Douglas McGrath (Nicholas Nickelby) was distributed. In it, he explains why he and Warner Bros. came out with another movie about how Truman Capote came to write In Cold Blood. It's one of those coincidences that give movie directors and producers nightmares. "Who knew that Dan Futterman (who wrote the screenplay for Capote) and I would be in the same predicament as those people who made the competing asteroid-hitting-the-earth movie?" wrote McGrath.

"Futterman had a Truman -- his pal Philip Seymour Hoffman -- and no money," McGrath explained. "And we had no Truman but we had the money." In a couple of years, both productions had what they needed. Toby Jones was cast as Truman Capote in Infamous. He's not a Philip Seymour Hoffman but who is? Infamous' release was delayed as Capote went to the Oscars. But both films are very different. Infamous is based on George Plimpton's book about Truman Capote. In this film, you'll find a different Capote than the one Hoffman portrayed. Jones’ Truman Capote looks older but acts less assured, less arrogant, and less cunning than Hoffman's Capote, who, frankly, wore me out. There are more high society characters to distract us in Infamous. A string of talented actors play the "Swans," Truman's well-heeled Park Avenue power gals. Plimpton recalled that Capote "called them his 'Swans' -- for their beauty, their elegance, their charm, and not unsurprisingly because they all seemed to be endowed with long necks." They also ended up being a bit unforgiving, particularly when Truman betrayed their confidences to him. But that's another story.

And at least one more movie. Sigourney Weaver is a convincing Babe Paley ... Juliet Stevenson as Diana Vreeland ... Hope Davis as Slim Keith ... Isabella Rossellini as Marella Agnelli. Peter Bogdanovich plays Bennett Cerf in a far too dour manner. But Sandra Bullock really shines as Harper Lee, Capote's emissary to the real world, and herself on the cusp of literary fame. She really nails the Alabama accent. Jeff Daniels is terrific as Alvin Dewey, the cop who is reluctant to talk to Capote, who most of Holcomb, Kansas, consider an extraterrestrial -- an outrageously swishy one at that. There is one very funny scene where Truman, out to do some food shopping so he and Harper can have a Christmas dinner by themselves in their hotel, stands dumfounded in the supermarket before a tower of Velveeta boxes. A woman comes by with her shopping cart, and a bewildered Truman says to her, "Do you think this is all the cheese they have?" She replies incredulously, "How much do you need?"

Daniel Craig gives a powerful performance as Perry Smith, one of the pair of the killers of the Clutter family in Kansas. His role supports the gay love angle between Truman and Smith. Craig reminds me of a young Richard Kiley. The movie, of course, turns out quite the same way as Capote did.The two killers hang, Capote finally completes his book, and he becomes the most famous writer in America -- and at what cost?

"Three men died on the gallows that night," observes Bullock's Harper Lee. "Sinatra said that Judy Garland died a little when she sang her songs. The same is true about the writer." But In Cold Blood is one long, sad song for everyone involved. It was fatal for Capote’s talent and his soul – what was left of it.

Infamous is very entertaining, not as ponderous as Capote, not so fixated on the megalomaniacal writer, and there are other people to consider as players in McGrath's treatment of the story behind In Cold Blood.

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It pleases me to say that there's another new movie out about an alcoholic writer, this one is the ramshackle poet of the swampy dive bar, Charles Bukowski. "We call bars like these, these Skid Row dumps, 'leper colonies,'" says John Harris, who has served drinks in the best places -- and other places, too. Bukowski would probably like that term, "leper colonies," because he has so much affection for the denizens within -- social lepers like himself. In Factotum, directed by Bent Hamer, Matt Dillon, as Henry Chinaski (Bukowski's alias), explains why it's important to be different than the ordinary person: If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods. And the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

There's some fighting in the movie. There's lots of poetry, too, in Dillon's irrepressible and often funny Chinaski. And drinking. The first scene shows Chinaski on the job, taking a chain saw to a huge block of ice. I can't imagine being required to do such a thing -- even without a hangover. I can imagine doing what happens next: he delivers a bag of ice to a bar, and stays to drink at the bar, only to be tracked down by the boss and fired. There's lots of drinking, of course. And there are women -- and women found Bukowski fascinating.

In turn, Bukowski's women mesmerize us in their degradation. And there's more drinking. And gambling. And drinking. Lili Taylor and Marisa Tomei give brave, gutsy, and very indelicate boozy performances. Factotum is funnier than its desperate predecessor, Barfly. Chinaski takes all of the ridiculous turns that his alcohol-drenched life provides with pretty much good humor while showing us how preposterous, and petty the world can be. He holds on to jobs here and there -- the surreal gig at the pickle factory was doomed at the outset -- until the hooch takes over and it all crashes. Dillon plays Chinaski with surprising dignity. The actor says he's been a Bukowski fan since he was in his 20s. Our hero bobs and weaves through an obstacle course of mediocre martinets in the low-rent marketplace of misery.

For all of the alcoholic foibles, his Chinaski is true to his code, and maintains a considerable diligence about his writing, no matter how things spin out of control. Bukowski did write 50 books. It's the one element in his life that keeps him, well, for want of a better word, sane.
The powerful songs on the Factotum soundtrack are written by Norwegian composer Kristin Asbjornsen with lyrics from Bukowski's poetry. Much of the material for the movie was provided by Bukowski's editor at Black Sparrow Press, John Martin, and Linda Lee Bukowski, the writer's widow. "Whatever money she makes from this movie and anything else," someone observed after the screening, "she certainly earned it."

Factotum is an engaging movie -- at times, very funny. Believe it or not, it's quite hopeful. Like a character in a novel by Knut Hamsun, one of Bukowski's literary heroes, the protagonist will not be defeated by a world that's eager to discard him. Even more astonishing, Chinaski will not be defeated by himself.

*****************

I wish the characters -- there are really only two – in Conversations With Other Women would have had more to drink during the movie. They might have turned out to be nicer -- or at least more interesting. A beautiful British woman (Helena Bonham Carter) is a reluctant, painfully bored bridesmaid at a wedding in New York. By chance -- so we think at first – she meets a good-looking fellow. He's played by Aaron Eckhart. Not a chance meeting at all, we discover. If you can stick with the split-screen technique for the whole movie, you'll note that more and more is revealed about this affair that's about to happen. I guess the premise is that first love is a powerful thing but most of us let a sexual reunion remain a fantasy if we have married or attached ourselves to others after all these years. But maybe not.

The other premise is that people really don't change all that much, and all the dishonesty, deceptions, and selfishness stick with us. This is not hopeful. And it's not interesting. But I'm glad this morose, ungracious couple rediscovered each other. Who else would want them? But what about these “conversations with other women”? Oh, yes,. There were two – very brief, but quite significant, if you care to think a bit about them. They bear witness to how the world views this couple. They’re not fooling anyone – just fooling around. I caught a glimpse of an online review of this film that's posted outside the Lumiere Theatre. The tag line reads something like: "This is the perfect movie for those who have ever been in love, and are over thirty. In fact, see it twice."

I have an idea. If you saw it once, wait until you're sixty to see it again. But I sure hope you found something better to do by then. And if you are sixty, just raise a glass for Bukowski, and skip the whole damn thing.
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Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

Billy Philadelphia and Meg Mackay Are Right As Rain in Their Harold Arlen Show at San Francisco's New Conservatory Theatre

It sounds ridiculous at first but when Billy Philadelphia and his equally talented wife, Meg Mackay, explain to the audience at one of those cozy niches at the New Conservatory Theatre at 25 Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco that they thought of calling their tribute to composer to Harold Arlen "Harold Who?" it began to make sense. It made sense when they ran through a list of songs that Arlen wrote with about 30 collaborating lyricists and you think, "Oh, he wrote THAT? Is it humanly possible for one man to write all these great songs?"

Well, I don't know where the human departs from the divine in this case but Arlen did write over 400 songs -- more than any popular composer. All the same, he's not the household name that he ought to be. That's not the only disparate, paradoxical thing in Arlen's life.

How could a man who once concluded "So many sorrows, so little time," about his private life, also created songs like Get Happy? "Unlike Gershwin or Cole Porter," someone once observed, "you don’t say 'Oh, that's a Harold Arlen song.'" One reason for that is that Arlen tended to make the singers who sang his songs famous -- so famous that they owned them. That's why singers always clamored for a new Harold Arlen song. Can anyone but Lena Horne call Stormy Weather her own? Is anyone but Judy Garland associated with The Man That Got Away or Over the Rainbow, for that matter? Or Sinatra singing what he called "the greatest saloon song ever written" -- One For My Baby (And One More For the Road).

And furthermore, how could a Jewish kid from Buffalo, New York, named Chaim Arleck, know so much about the blues? I dunno. Ask Cab Calloway. After all, Arlen and Ted Koehler wrote Minnie the Moocher's Wedding Day for him.

I remember getting caught up in Arlen's work by hearing Rosemary Clooney's tribute album to him on the Concord Jazz label, recorded in S.F. about twenty years ago or so. Yeah, or so. Just this handful of songs might make you want to get up and go out and see Billy Philadelphia and Meg Mackay's terrific show, From Blues to Ballads: The Songs of Harold Arlen at the New Conservatory Theatre, now playing through September 17.

Billy and Meg are the perfect hosts in this intimate setting -- and they both provide the right amount of biographical sketches about the composer.

"The biggest challenge, of course, was selecting the songs from the vast repertory," Billy said after the show.

My favorites are the ballads -- the sadder, the better. And Arlen could write ballads. Perhaps it was the tragic quality to his life. His wife, Anya, once a Breck Girl, if you recall the shampoo ads, suffered from mental illness and Arlen was forced to have her institutionalized. He did not do this until Anya had become quite dangerous. Their Beverly Hills house burned to the ground suspiciously. She tried to poison him, and he still resisted her incarceration. Perhaps this is why he worked so hard -- he did try to stay away from her in later years, sneaking away to the golf course at 6:30 in the morning to meet his show biz pals. Including Groucho and Harpo Marx, George Burns, Ira Gershwin, and Danny Kaye.

“Music doesn't argue, discuss, or quarrel ” Arlen said. “It just breathes the air of freedom ”
Billy Philadelphia -- who just got a regular gig at Joe DiMaggio's Italian Chophouse in North Beach -- is a keyboard wizard and a good singer who understand what a song is all about. His Hoagy Carmichael show is evidence of his respect and instinct for a good song. Meg has gotten quite marvelous over the years. Arlen would have liked her, I think. When she takes a song, she owns it. Some of the highlights of the show include her rendition of Come Rain or Come Shine. Right As Rain and her feisty Legalize My Name. You can really hear Judy Garland in her version of The Man That Got Away. It's spooky.

Meg later confessed that she'd been virtually channeling Judy Garland. "When I was a little girl I wanted to be Judy Garland," confesses Meg. "There are times when I can't get her voice out of my head."

Then there's the famous A Sleepin' Bee (with lyrics by Truman Capote), which was written for a show called House of Flowers. John Lahr wrote in the The New Yorker, "The scores proved more memorable than the shows; in the case of House of Flowers which ran for only a hundred and thirty-seven performances, Alec Wilder wrote, the score “was simply too elegant, too subtle, too far beyond the deteriorating taste for an expense-account clientèle."

What an elegant team Philadelphia and McKay are. Their duets are delightful. Their taste in tunes impeccable. This is great stuff. By the time they close the show with Hit The Road To Dreamland, we are already thinking that they "could have done that song, they could have done this song" and so on. They know, they know. Just hit the road before the 17th and go see Billy Philadelphia and Meg McKay in From Ballads to Blues: The Songs of Harold Arlen at the New Conservatory Theatre, 25 Van Ness Avenue at Market Street, the box office number is (415) 861-8972 or check the website: www.nctcsf.org

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Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of Northside and the author of Bellingham by the Bay, a collection of stories about San Francisco and some of her memorable characters.

The Mean Season

I was making my usual visit to San Francisco General Hospital this week when my friendly pharmacist gleefully rushed into the room, interrupting his student, who was about place leeches at strategic places on my person, to say, "Hey, Bellingham, I saw Bill Clinton really give them hell on Fox TV this weekend, and I thought about you! It was terrific!"

Maybe the doctor means I've been complaining too much about how the Democrats haven't been complaining enough about this disastrous, ill-conceived war in Iraq. Mort Sahl reminds me that Eugene McCarthy said, "When the Democrats put together a firing squad, they form a
circle." But I really think my doctor has been heartened by the episode with Clinton showing some bluster, some moxie, some righteous anger, some street fighting fervor, and giving Chris Wallace a good drubbing for his famous self-satisfied smirk. It seems to have cheered my doctor up. Believe me, when my doctor's in a good mood, I'm in a good mood. Only good comes of it.

The doctor may even recommend a splashy tirade and explosion of umbrage to me as a regimen of recovery. Yes, I'd like to start pushing my detractors around for a change. But it's not likely to happen. I'm not cut out for the sort of game that thrives during The Mean Season.

There's something to be said about that old adage, "Physician, heal thyself." And the right treatment can appear in the most unusual places. Fox News, for example, is traditionally not good for me. To tell you the truth, I just came away from the physician with a prescription for Wellbutrin, an anti-depressant. And you don't miss your stream of consciousness until your Wellbutrin gone dry (a lesser-known blues song). I also overheard a group of young ladies in
the waiting room having a chat about men: "I'm so over guys on anti-depressants who just can't get it up anymore."

Well it really comes down to that, doesn't it? Fox News could be bad for both your frame of mind, and your blood pressure. And, most importantly, your libido.

But then there's a formidable opponent such as Bill Clinton -- top student at School for Scoundrels -- who can take on the Fox News hooligans with alacrity. As for me, I've discovered that pouting in the worst aphrodisiac.

Physicians, I'm told, are still administered the Oath Of Hippocrates. That includes the best-known phrase, "First, do no harm." There is a similar expression about codes of conduct in journalism. It comes from H.L. Mencken. It demands that a reporter keep in mind that he or she must always, "Afflict the comfortable, and comfort the afflicted."

So what about politicians, as this mean season of politics, once again, descends over the uneasy landscape? I suggest a "First Do No Harm Party." This would be a collection of interested citizens, dedicated to change, as long as it doesn't cause anyone pain or injury. Perhaps it slogan should be, "Do as little as possible," as the line from "Chinatown" goes. There has been a Know-Nothing Party in American history, back in the 1850s. They said little, but did far too much -- and a lot of it was harmful. They were formed to subjugate Irish-Catholics, and assorted other immigrants. Not surprisingly, they were eventually absorbed in the Republican Party.

I'd offer myself up as a candidate for the First Do No Harm Party but I can assure, I would not take my place in government if elected, would never even set foot in the office of My Office. I've always admired the legislator who has a bad attendance record in Congress. Think of all that harm that's avoided on those days of absences. Maybe I'd just help out a little bit at the office of My Office when I take My Office; make decaf-coffee, answer the phone, loan money to needy
people, tell jokes, and try to persuade everyone they should work to find a way back to the happy track of wellness -- with or without Wellbutrin, the well-born Dr. Welby, and away from the terrors of politics during this very mean season.

Bruce Bellingham, is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is now featured for sale ay Naomi's Art Pottery shop, 1817 Polk Street, at Washington, 415-775-1207. This gives a lot of “bull in a china shop” new meaning.

Making the Right Change

San Francisco's Marina District is about to undergo another transformation. All those nail salons are being converted to nail-biting salons. It is a sign of these edgy times. But the apprehension might be lessened by the legion of available workers who are willing to chew on the nails of the privileged. The more comfortable citizenry may now have their lips free to complain about
who the enemies of our country really are.

It's not the Taliban anymore. It's the Dixie Chicks. And Marin's own Sean Penn. I'm sure they'll be distressed to know their security clearance is in jeopardy. No USO shows for them this time.

Come to think of it, the only good thing about the Viet Nam War was Joey Heatherton jiggling and giggling at Bob Hope's USO shows on TV. A Viet Nam vet said to me the other day, "It's always the poor who get the shaft in these wars. That'll never change." But who really wants
to hear from anyone who has actually been through a war? And, besides, we have no Joey Heatherton to console us today.

"Do you really think the members of the The Petroleum Club get together and discuss the liberation of the Iraqi people?" asks Rick Kerr. "I was just wondering." I don't know. I wouldn't know anyone in The Petroleum Club. Nor the Petroleum Jelly Club, I'm happy to say.

Let's be grateful for these little things. I am erring on the side of optimism. Just to be different. I don't believe we are so thirsty for oil, that we would sacrifice all these people for it. But Italy had better look out if we suddenly encounter a shortage of olive oil. The leader of North Korea is learly a very bad man. In the rapidly rising field of nasty despots. But he is also very lucky. The administration has yet to find anything profitable in kim chee. Of cabbages and kings.

If there was royalty in the Marina, it was Vic Ramus. He was the wiry and wise former owner of the Horseshoe Saloon on Chestnut. Vic was a Marine captain who fought at Iwo Jima -- in a war so long ago. But another war in another time, in another world. A good war, some say. The meaning, is, I guess, that it was a justified war where the issues were clear and the stakes were as high as the come -- survival. The clear and present danger that isn't so clear today. And the nobility of it all is hard to grasp as it's proffered on CNN between commercials.

Vic died Feb. 26 at the Veteran's Hospital in Palo Alto. He was 81. He was even fearless in his battle against cancer. "He wouldn't give up," said his wife, Loree. "I told him it was all right to just let go." That must have been difficult for such a tenacious man.

Tom Sinkovitz, a longtime pal and golf partner, remembers Vic in the Horseshoe: "If the bar was full of men, you could swear like a sailor if you wanted to. But if a lady walked through the door, you'd better mind your manners." A short man, Vic was notorious for leaping over the bar to vanquish any lout who was out of order.

Vic was all about order -- and all about honor.

I wonder what he'd have to say about this mess we are in today. He was a darling guy but tough as nails. There was wisdom in his sweet, sinewy spirit. By the time I knew him -- I lived upstairs from the saloon -- his command was the bar. His troops were the local denizens. Like all good bar habitues, I brought him my troubles. He gave me advice. And told me very funny stories.

"The tavern business is not about mixing drinks," he told Sinkovitz. "It's about making sure you know who is in the place, whose money is whose and who gets the right change." Think how wonderful it would be to have him running the government.

I hadn't realized how much I missed him. But it seems when someone with integrity and decency leaves us these days, the loss is conspicuous. It was a better neighborhood for Vic Ramus. It would be even better if he were still here to convince me that all this fighting might have a good ending.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." His e-mail is bellsf@mac.com

When October Comes

These days I keep hearing about an "October Surprise." I don't think that's a special dessert addition to a Halloween Party, is it? No, its supposed to be political, and it's supposed to be bad.

I never liked surprises. They tend to be an insidious form of conspiracy that's pulled like wool over the wide-eyed, innocently oblivious folks like us who have trouble dealing with the tenuous
matters of everyday life. Gee, we'd be pretty easy to fool if we were really like that. Here's the news. We are.

"I never liked Mondays," observes my friend, Tayo. "It's not that Mondays mean that you have to go to work -- although for so many, it means just that. It also often means that's the day that you have selected to quit something." Quit smoking. Quit the hooch. Quit pouring Ouzo over your corn flakes, and quit dropping Nembutal into your blender drink. Or quit the husband. Or quit the mistress. Or quit yelling at the mistress, and quit yelling about the wife, and the dog,
and Katie Couric, and that damned "October Surprise," whatever it's supposed to be,

I can't say I quit the hooch because it was on a Monday. Actually, it was a Friday. But that thought isn't all that revolutionary or iconoclastic. Or brave. I simply did not know what day it was -- except that I knew that it was time to quit. No surprise for me. Actually, I was going to quit town so I wouldn't have to make a big deal about how I'm going to change my life -- but I had to stick around here so the medical experts could check up on me, and make sure I stayed quit for awhile. You see, quitting is one thing. Staying quit is another. They wanted me to be in top shape when the "October Surprise" comes. We'd better be ready for it, whatever it is.

Nixon used to mutter, "I've never been a quitter." He mumbled that just before he quit the Presidency. He was a duplicitous quitter -- not my favorite kind. I always been quitter, and I hope I stay that way. Particularly when things get real dicey. I'll be ready to ship out -- so I can lend a hand to the other quitters who got there ahead of me.

I used to love October. That's when I'd kick up piles of leaves, and catch the scent of the wood burning in the chimneys all along the wooded lane, the twilight splashed in October's rich, shameless colors. A naughty exuberance would come over me.

There are no real surprises this year. None that I can see. Just the laughter of kids who are bundled, who are safe, who are in love.

"When October Goes" is a Johnny Mercer lyric that Barry Manilow came across a few years ago, and set it to a tune. I wanted to include it here.

"And when October goes, the snows begins to fly above the smoky roofs/I watch the planes go by/The Children running home/Beneath a twilight sky?Oh for the fun of them/When I was one of them./And when October goes/The same old dream appears/And you are in my arms/To share the happy years./I turn my head away/To hide the helpless tears/Oh how I hate to see October go.I should be over it now I know/It doesn't matter much/How old I grow/I hate to see October go."

So I don't want to know about an "October Surprise" unless it means that it will bring a few of those we loved back here again so we can say we never quit them, never would -- whether October and its surprise comes or whether it goes.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which is currently, and ostentatiously on sale at Naomi's shoppe for dinnerware, and domestic treasures. "Naomi is the second biggest pot dealer in San Francisco," says the ever-attentive Armistead Maupin. His store is located at 1817 Polk Street, S.F. (415) 775-1207.

In San Francisco, The Bartenders Are Still Stars

This is the story of how John Harris got his SAG card. And he owes it all to the Zodiac killer.

Most of us may know that all non-union actors -- usually without exception -- would kill, if you will, to become a member of the Screen Actors Guild. A SAG card is tough to obtain. It's one of those conundrums of real life, that is, you can't get a SAG card without nailing a speaking part, and you almost never get a speaking part without a SAG card.

But John Harris, who's been the convivial, adept, and astute daytime barman at Original Joe's for 19 years, has always had a knack for being at the right place at the right time. Original Joe's, at 144 Taylor Street, is still the jewel of the Tenderloin. It still drips with history, and flows with rivers of marinara sauce. The waiters, some of whom are old enough to have placed bets on seabiscuit, still serve copious plates of stratospherically-caloric Italian fare. The menu, under the watchful eye of owner Marie Duggan, continues to defy all the vagaries of food fashions that come and go over the years. It's truly a fixed point in an ever-changing world.

"My God," said actor Joe Bologna, when I took him there for lunch one day, "the waiters are wearing tuxedos! This is like The Godfather." Jim Belushi always takes the same red leather booth when he's in town.

Joe's still draws cops, and lawyers, reporters, and local characters -- the few that are left in San Francisco. Jack Beamis turned to Bob Mulcrevy at the bar the other day. "Why is it they never tell us that an era is ending?" Jack mused aloud. "That's what I want to know." I figure if we're still around to ask, the era hasn't quite ended yet.

And that brings us to the era of the Zodiac killer who terrorized San Francisco and the whole Bay are in the late 1960s. He was named for the letters that he brazenly mailed to the police and to the Chronicle that included coded messages and astrological signs. It's unclear just how many victims the Zodiac had murdered -- many in lover's lanes -- and with no apparent pattern. He was never caught. But author Robert Graysmith named a suspect, who is now thought to be dead. Graysmith's book, <italic>Zodiac, </italic>has now been made into a movie,
directed by David Fincher, and set for release early next year. A crucial scene takes place in Original Joe's.

"Joe's is really a character in the movie -- and rightly so," Harris says. This place was always a hangout for the homicide cops who were working the case -- Dave Toschi, Carl Klotz, and Frankie Falzon. This was like headquarters." Weirdly, there were stories circulating that the Zodiac himself would come to the restaurant, just to observe the cops close-up. In a scene with Jake Gyllenhaal as Graysmith and Chloe Sevigny as his girlfriend, Melanie, John was fitted for a waiter's uniform, and given a few lines to say in the movie.

Experienced actors immediately complained. You see, they were only extras -- background, as they say these days. -- and as silent as pepper shakers. Afterwards, on the advice of a friend, John decided to go for his SAG card -- and got it. John Harris suddenly had more enemies than the Zodiac. "All these actors are really mad at me," he says, "I mean really mad."

But John Harris cannot be John Harris in the movies. There's already a
SAG member named John Harris. And there's a Jack Harris. So John decided to use his nickname that, believe it or not, he picked up while working for U.S. Army intelligence in his youth. It's McShadow. Meet Jack McShadow.

"I never really wanted to be an actor," Harris aka McShadow explains, "but you never know. In my retirement I could play the guy lying in a coffin or drunk number three at the bar." Oddly, John was in a bar in the Richmond District in 1969 where a real life Zodiac suspect was arrested by what looked like a whole division of police officers. He was the wrong man. After all these years, the Zodiac is still playing a role in the life of actor John Harris.

Jack Beamis, who's fond of asking philosophical questions, might wonder, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" McShadow
knows.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay" and is the Arts & Entertainment editor of Northside. His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com

100 Years Since Great San Francisco Earthquake

The City will be all aflutter this month while celebrating its greatest natural disaster, the 1906 Earthquake and Fire. This was the Big One, it even garnered the name, The Great San Francisco Earthquake, a world-famous event. That's because the epicenter of the temblor was so close to the City itself, though it also caused massive damage to places as far away as Santa Rosa and Palo Alto.

In London, many years ago, I even encountered a pub called The Great San Francisco Earthquake. The tavern was bedecked with photos and memorabilia of the catastrophe that still holds a universal fascination. Those in San Francisco who survived the initial 48-second drubbing while the ground shifted so violently -- the collapsing buildings, the raining shards of glass, the chandeliers crashing to the floors -- later witnessed their City be consumed by a fire of biblical proportion. It devoured the town, neighborhood by neighborhood, like a demonic behemoth. There was little water to fight the huge fire. The Army began to blow up buildings with dynamite in hopes of starving the flames.

Today, there is no 6th Army at The Presidio to help restore order, and most of the National Guard is probably in Iraq. We might want to stock up on water pistols in the event the Big One hits. I don't recommend stockpiling dynamite. Homeland Security will give you a hard time for
that. Oh, did I say "in the event"? Silly me. Yes, another Big One is inevitable.

Back in the 1970s, the BBC produced a documentary about San Francisco called "The City That Waits To Die." I'm sure the Chamber of Commerce did not like that title and would have preferred "The City That Will Survive Again," though it does quite have the same ring to it.
Years ago, I interviewed George Will for a radio show. After the program, he got up and looked down at the sidewalk, 32 stories below Embarcadero One. Looking a little pale, he said, "I heard that if a big quake hit, this conference table could slide across the floor and pitch me right through these windows. Is that true?"

"Yes, I suppose that could happen, yes."

"Well," Mr. Will cried, "how could you possibly live here, knowing that?"

I replied, " I guess it's still better than living in Kansas and dying from ennui."

He mulled over this smart-ass remark for a moment and finally said, "You have a point there."

Living with nonchalance in an earthquake zone is part of the what gives San Francisco its reckless and wanton reputation for flaunting our lives with impunity before the Almighty. Some liken it to gambling.

Some consider it a test of faith. Many more probably don't think about it at all. It fades from the memory until the next shaker shakes.

When the Great San Francisco Earthquake hit, Ambrose Bierce, the great cynical writer had already quit this City and had moved to New York.

True to his unforgiving self, he snarled when he was asked about San Francisco's future following the catastrophe, "What San Francisco needs in another quake, another whiff of fire, a steady tradewind of grapeshot."

I have moved to higher ground during the past few years. But even on Nob Hill, I'll not be immune from a steady tradewind of grapeshot, nor the blustery gusts along Clay Street, nor the rising rent that presses against the front door. But the house is built on bedrock, probably
high enough to escape the tsunami, and close enough to set up a temporary shelter at the bar of the Big 4.

Of course, if we're hit with another Big One, an 8.1 on the Richter Scale for example, all bets are off. The widening gap between rich and poor will be reduced to a more level playing field in a matter of seconds. For those of us who have come to San Francisco in order to reinvent ourselves, an earthquake as powerful as the one that struck 100 years ago will teach us what that really means.

Good night and good luck.

San Francisco's Marina District Ignores Its Seismic Plight

A few months ago S.F. location manager Cathryn "Catbird" Blum called and asked if I'd like to be interviewed for a BBC "programmme" about geology called "Journeys From The Centre of the Earth." I was a little surprised. Why would a show about geology be interested in talking to me? For what do I know about rocks? The only real qualification I might have is a long, yet ancient, history of getting stoned in Marina saloons.

Though that might have been a side effect of being in a major earthquake, the more salient point was that I, as a radio reporter, extensively covered the Loma Prieta Earthquake in 1989 for KQED-FM. Yes, I lived on Chestnut Street at that time. I saw the fire at Beach and Divisadero, the collapsed homes, the terrified residents, the dazed, empty gaze of the helpless locals as they watched their homes being "red-tagged," that is, condemned. Some were lucky enough to have a couple of minutes to run upstairs and gather what possessions they could. I also knew the woman whose baby was crushed to death in her arms when the building came down at Fillmore
and Cervantes.

The BBC will be airing their show on earthquakes to coincide with the 100th anniversary of the Big Quake of 1906 this month. The thrust of their interest lies in how well Marina residents are prepared for another quake and why would they live here in the first place, given the dodgy geologic track record the Marina has for seismic calamity.

I met the film crew under the rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts on a cold, rainy blustery day. Iain Stewart, the convivial Glasgow-born "presenter" of the show, said the weather reminded him of the Highlands. I kept thinking about what would happen if a quake struck while we were standing there, would the rotunda come tumbling down around our ears? The Marina is ground zero for another major quake. As a geologist, Stewart knows where the action is -- or could be.

The Brits, who live on the seismically-settled island of Albion, seem puzzled that we would live here with the Sword of Damocles hovering over us, with an inevitable catastrophe waiting to destroy the City, as it did a mere 100 years ago -- a snap of the fingers in geological terms.

"Don't people here in this Marina District worry about a quake recurring?" Stewart asked. "Why would they buy homes here, knowing what happened in 1989?"

Some may or may not recall that the Marina took a big hit in the Loma Prieta. Many homes, particularly those with garages on the first floor, collapsed. Edifices on the street corners were also vulnerable. But weirdly, much of the damage was seemingly random. One house was battered and twisted, another next door seemed untouched. We now know this had much to do with the quality of the landfill underneath the homes. The lagoons used to run through the what is now the Marina.

There was no Marina, as we know it, before the land was created with debris, much of it from the detritus left by the destruction from the Great Quake of 1906. Broken sinks, toilets, burnt lumber, and so on. A great irony. The man-made landscape set the scene for the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition, a spectacle that was designed to show the world that San Francisco had literally risen from the ashes. Yet another irony. When the fair was dismantled a year or so later, a very nice new piece of real estate had emerged. Pretty but precarious.

That's what's so fascinating to Iain Stewart and his BBC clan.

"Don't people know about the quake that hit here in '89?" Stewart
wanted to know.

"I don't know. It seems many younger Marina residents don't seem to know about it or just don't think about it. There's a great denial in this town."

Stewart, a little amazed, pressed on. "What about precautions? Are San Franciscans prepared for the inevitable?"

Mostly, no. It's no secret that a major quake--one that exceeds 6.5 on the Richter Scale and is centered anywhere around here--will leave The City helpless for time, without outside resources. That could be for days. We saw what happened with FEMA in the Katrina. But the people who suffered from damage from Loma Prieta have already learned how impotent and useless FEMA can be. FEMA became a four-letter word.

The bridges to San Francisco will likely be down. We'll have to fend for ourselves. What I did see in the Marina during the days that followed the Loma Prieta quake was a fervent, kind cooperation between neighbors -- with many gestures of cooperation and generosity. It seemed to bring the best out of San Franciscans--for a while. Let's hope we'll at least have that going for us when the next Big One hits. We might lose our City again, but God help us if we lose our humanity.

San Francisco Looks Back at 1906 Great Quake and Fire

The City will be all aflutter this month while celebrating its greatest natural disaster, the 1906 Earthquake and Fire. This was the Big One, it even garnered the name, The Great San Francisco Earthquake, a world-famous event. That's because the epicenter of the temblor was so close to the City itself, though it also caused massive damage to places as far away as Santa Rosa and Palo Alto.

In London, many years ago, I even encountered a pub called The Great San Francisco Earthquake. The tavern was bedecked with photos and memorabilia of the catastrophe that still holds a universal fascination. Those in San Francisco who survived the initial 48-second drubbing while the ground shifted so violently -- the collapsing buildings, the raining shards of glass, the chandeliers crashing to the floors -- later witnessed their City be consumed by a fire of biblical proportion. It devoured the town, neighborhood by neighborhood, like a demonic behemoth. There was little water to fight the huge fire. The Army began to blow up buildings with dynamite in hopes of starving the flames.

Today, there is no 6th Army at The Presidio to help restore order, and most of the National Guard is probably in Iraq. We might want to stock up on water pistols in the event the Big One hits. I don't recommend stockpiling dynamite. Homeland Security will give you a hard time for
that. Oh, did I say "in the event"? Silly me. Yes, another Big One is inevitable.

Back in the 1970s, the BBC produced a documentary about San Francisco called "The City That Waits To Die." I'm sure the Chamber of Commerce did not like that title and would have preferred "The City That Will Survive Again," though it does quite have the same ring to it.

Years ago, I interviewed George Will for a radio show. After the program, he got up and looked down at the sidewalk, 32 stories below Embarcadero One. Looking a little pale, he said, "I heard that if a big quake hit, this conference table could slide across the floor and pitch me right through these windows. Is that true?"

"Yes, I suppose that could happen, yes."

"Well," Mr. Will cried, "how could you possibly live here, knowing that?"

I replied, " I guess it's still better than living in Kansas and dying from ennui."

He mulled over this smart-ass remark for a moment and finally said, "You have a point there."

Living with nonchalance in an earthquake zone is part of the what gives San Francisco its reckless and wanton reputation for flaunting our lives with impunity before the Almighty. Some liken it to gambling.

Some consider it a test of faith. Many more probably don't think about it at all. It fades from the memory until the next shaker shakes.

When the Great San Francisco Earthquake hit, Ambrose Bierce, the great cynical writer had already quit this City and had moved to New York. True to his unforgiving self, he snarled when he was asked about San Francisco's future following the catastrophe, "What San Francisco needs is another quake, another whiff of fire, a steady tradewind of grapeshot."

I have moved to higher ground during the past few years. But even on Nob Hill, I'll not be immune from a steady tradewind of grapeshot, nor the blustery gusts along Clay Street, nor the rising rent that presses against the front door. But the house is built on bedrock, probably high enough to escape the tsunami, and close enough to set up a temporary shelter at the bar of the Big 4.

Of course, if we're hit with another Big One, an 8.1 on the Richter Scale for example, all bets are off. The widening gap between rich and poor will be reduced to a more level playing field in a matter of seconds. For those of us who have come to San Francisco in order to reinvent ourselves, an earthquake as powerful as the one that struck 100 years ago will teach us what that really means.

Good night and good luck.

Our Man, Sir Godfrey

Several years ago, Herb Caen, the late, great San Francisco columnist, asked me, "Bellingham, what is your university experience?"

I was eager to tell him the truth: I went to music school but that was hardly an ardent excursion into scholarship. Between classes, I had to go on my own to San Francisco's City College to get a decent encounter with the German language. I went to New York University's Film School -- for about ten minutes. Not even long enough to complete a short subject. I dropped out to work at a movie house, the Bleecker Street Cinema. At least I could watch movies that way.

"Gee, Herb," I told Caen, "I guess you might say I'm an autodidact."

"Oh, I know what that means, " Caen shot back instantly. "That's when you drive yourself crazy."

Herb was always very quick. When I spent time with him, I often felt like George Fenneman trying to keep up with Groucho Marx. But I did all right.

I always take an interest when I hear successful stories about people who are largely self-taught. But few are as vivid as the biography of Britain's Sir Godfrey Hounsfield who never went to university but was the preeminent leader in computer technology and later developed the CAT scan. He claimed a Nobel Prize for the latter. It goes to show: who needs to do homework? There is more than one way to scan a CAT.

Perhaps a formal education might have gotten in the way of his genius. And just imagine the lives he saved along the way. He just had an understand of mathematics and physiology that defies explanation. He got most of his inspiration while taking long, country walks. This is one part of the Hounsfield psyche that I can understand. If the world took more long walks, we would have a much more serene planet.

Like most great inventors, Hounsfield had unlimited courage. When it was time to put the kosher cow brains aside in the laboratory and turn to human trials, he placed his own head in the device that would later be known as the CAT scan. God knows he risked having his own brains reduced to the intellect of a kosher bovine. Mezuzah done told me.

And he was modest. Hounsfield was uncomfortable with the awards and accolades that he received over the years. He was even invited to join the Royal Society. It was unheard for this long-entrenched scientific community to accept a chap who did not accrue a panoply of academic credentials. But his genius was undeniable. It's unfortunate to note, however, that from time to time his fellow Royal Society members would gleefully and cruelly lock him in the bathroom as a lark. (Yes, I made that up for the hell of it.)

Further proof of his humanity was found in his piano playing. Yes, he taught himself that, too. It's stunning to note what a human being can accomplish with drive and celestially-endowed talent.

One subject, though, seemed to have escaped him: marriage. Perhaps it was too complex for the fellow. It defies formulas, equations and exact dimensions. Not to worry, Sir Godfrey. No one seems to be able to figure that one out. All the same, Sir Godfrey Hounsfield apparently did not need a life partner in order to share a life well-lived with the world.

Bruce Bellingham, San Francisco

From the London Telegraph
Sir Godfrey Hounsfield
(Filed: 17/08/2004)

Sir Godfrey Hounsfield, who died on August 12 aged 84, led the team which developed Britain's first big solid-state computer before inventing the computerised axial tomography (CAT) scanner for use in clinical diagnosis; in recognition of this latter achievement he was awarded the 1979 Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine.

Hounsfield conceived the idea for a CAT scanner in 1967 during a weekend ramble in the country. Initially it had nothing to do with medicine, but was simply "a realisation that you could determine what was in a box by taking readings at all angles through it".

On his return to EMI's research laboratories at Hayes, in Middlesex, he began working on a device that could process hundreds of X-ray beams to obtain a three-dimensional display of the inside of a living organism.

Combining computer and X-ray technology, and practising "on a brain of a cow my colleague got from a kosher house on the other side of London" (he submitted his own head for the first human trials), by 1972 Hounsfield had evolved a machine that could produce detailed images of cross-sections of the brain in four and a half minutes.

Introduced in 1973, early CAT scanners were used to overcome obstacles in the diagnosis of diseases of the brain, and Hounsfield subsequently modified his machine to enable it to scan the whole body.

Unknown to Hounsfield, a South African nuclear physicist, Allan Cormack, had worked on essentially the same problems of CAT, and in a paper published in 1957 had suggested a reconstruction technique called the Radon transform. Although Cormack's work was not widely
circulated, and he and Hounsfield did not collaborate or even meet, in 1979 both men shared the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for the development of computerised tomography.

The invention of the CAT scanner was a remarkable achievement, not least because of the complex algebraic calculations involved in the computer programming. Other research teams with larger resources than EMI had already dismissed such a device as impossible to develop, and one prominent British scientist remarked that Hounsfield's machine used "mathematics I wouldn't pretend to understand now or at any stage of my career".

Yet Hounsfield had never been to university and was largely self-taught.

Godfrey Newbold Hounsfield, the youngest of five children of a farmer near Newark in Nottinghamshire, was born on August 28 1919. At an early age he became intrigued by the farm's mechanical and electrical machinery, and by the age of 11 he had begun to experiment, constructing electrical recording machines and launching himself off the top of haystacks with a home-made glider.

At Magnus Grammar School in Newark, he confessed to responding "only to physics and mathematics with any ease and moderate enthusiasm". But as with so many of Britain's great post-war scientists, his opportunity came with the outbreak of the Second World War.

Hounsfield joined the RAF as a volunteer reservist, hoping to become involved in radio. Having perused some RAF books on radio mechanics, he sat a test and was amazed when he was then taken on as a radar-mechanic instructor and moved to the then RAF-occupied Royal College of Science in South Kensington, and later to Cranwell Radar School.

There, in his spare time, he passed the City and Guilds examination in Radio Communications. In 1945 he was awarded the RAF's Certificate of Merit. His work impressed Air Vice-Marshal J R Cassidy, who was responsible for obtaining a grant for Hounsfield after the war which enabled him to attend Faraday House Electrical Engineering College in London, where he received a diploma.

In 1951 Hounsfield joined the research staff of EMI at Hayes. For a awhile he worked on radar and guided weapons, then ran a small design laboratory, where he soon became fascinated by the emerging field of computers. Starting in about 1958, he led a design team which built the first all-transistor computer to be constructed in Britain, the EMIDEC 1100.

In those days the transistor was a relatively slow device - much slower than valves, which were then used in most computers. However, Hounsfield was able to overcome this problem by driving the transistor with a magnetic core. This increased the speed of the machine so that it compared with that of valve computers and brought about the use of transistors in computing earlier than had been anticipated.

When this work finished, Hounsfield transferred to EMI Central Research Laboratories, also at Hayes, where he began his work on CAT scanners. This work, and the development of progressively more sophisticated prototypes of brain and whole body scanners, kept him occupied until 1976.

He remained responsible for long-term thinking about medical systems at EMI's research laboratories while others managed the Research and Development effort supporting his scanners. In his later years with EMI, he broadened his interests into related fields of diagnostic
imaging, such as nuclear magnetic resonance.

After his official retirement in 1986, Hounsfield continued to work as a consultant for EMI, and also to various hospitals, including the National Heart and Chest Hospitals, Chelsea, the National Heart Hospital and the Brompton Hospital.

True to the archetype of the shy, retiring bachelor boffin, Hounsfield found the public interest in his invention "most embarrassing". He won numerous awards and honours (35 in the 1970s alone), among them election to the Royal Society, a rare accolade for someone who did not possess a university degree.

A frugal man, Hounsfield spent very little on himself and always refused EMI's offer to let him take a sabbatical. When presented with the 1972 MacRobert award from the Council of Engineering Institutions, he said he would keep his £25,000 prize in reserve "in case some new
research idea turns up, in which case I can plough it back". He did, however, spend a little of his Nobel prize money on fitting out the living-room of his small semi-detached house in Middlesex with scientific equipment.

Apart from his work, Hounsfield's greatest pleasures were walking in the mountains and leading country rambles. He enjoyed music and played the piano "in a self-taught way". In company, he confessed to enjoying "lively, way-out discussions".

On the day he won the Nobel prize in 1979, Hounsfield had some home-spun words of advice for all would-be Nobel prizewinners: "Don't worry too much if you don't pass exams, so long as you feel you have understood the subject. It's amazing what you can get by the ability to reason things out by conventional methods, getting down to the basics of what is happening."

Godfrey Hounsfield was appointed CBE in 1976 and knighted in 1981. He was elected to a fellowship of the Royal Society in 1975.

He was unmarried.

Phyllis Diller Has Her Day In San Francisco

As her 89th birthday approaches this July, Phyllis Diller is still one of the funniest people on the planet.

She was honored last month in The City where it all began for her back in 1955. Mayor Gavin Newsom proclaimed February 5, 2006 "Phyllis Diller Day in San Francisco." It was marked by a gathering at the Pier 39 Theater where a Phyllis Diller look-alike contest, sort of, was held, and a new documentary film about her life, revolving around her farewell performance in Las Vegas in 2002, was screened. Ms. Diller, who doesn't travel much anymore, checked in from her home in L.A. by way of a conference call. The proclamation was read to her in the lobby and giddy fans shouted out their praises for the legendary comedienne.

"Ah, San Francisco," she growled into the phone. "That's where a mixed marriage means a man and a woman." She punctuated the line with her trademark cackle.

Afterwards, a dozen people took turns on the stage doing impersonations of Ms. Diller. Each got a gag to read, provided by host Lucien Stern, who described Ms. Diller as "the mother of stand-up comedy." The winner got a genuine Phyllis Diller purple boa to take home. The participants took turns vamping with the boa. It was all very silly and fun. Campy, as they used to say.

Fifty-one years ago, Ms. Diller, who was working at radio station KSFO, when the studios were located in the Fairmont Hotel, took a brave step and mounted the stage at the Purple Onion to take a stab at stand-up comedy. The club was a launching pad for many famous acts – including the Smothers Brothers, Johnny Mathis, the Kingston Trio and Barbra Streisand. Ms. Diller was booked at the Purple Onion for three weekends. She stayed for 89 weeks. After an appearance on the Jack Paar Show, her career took off like a shot. "I miss Paar," said Ms. Diller.

"He was artful, highbrow, a touch of class." She became a household name when Bob Hope made her a regular on his TV comedy specials. She made a few films with him, too. She had her own TV show, The Phyllis Diller Show, during the 1966-67 season. Recently, she appeared on 7th Heaven and the controversial, quickly canceled The Book of Daniel.

She managed to maintain her dignity in the foul-mouthed epic, The Aristocrats. Her autobiography is called Lampshade in a Whorehouse, a phrase she uses to describe her stage persona. She's still proud of her 1961 role as Texas Guinan, the speakeasy queen in Splendor in the Grass.

"I read in the L.A. Times that Phyllis Diller was retiring," filmmaker Gregg Barson said at the theater. "I thought that perhaps she might agree to be a subject of a documentary. My wife Julie Ashton, a casting agent) and I met Phyllis at The Palm. She was dressed all in powder blue, matching dress, hat and purse. There were a lot of martinis."

Barson said he was struck by Diller's natural intelligence. "She's never ‘on,' she's naturally funny." A tour of her sprawling Brentwood mansion revealed a myriad collection of prizes and awards; a Picasso hangs next to her treasured photo of herself with Charlie Chaplin, and there's a file cabinet containing thousands of cross-referenced gags that she's written.

Barson's movie reveals an artist who approaches her craft with impeccable care and precision. Nothing is left to chance. She discusses everything with the stage crew first – sometimes in a very firm tone.

It explains the perfect timing that she's cultivated with decades of experience. It gets the audience into a crescendo of uncontrollable laughter. She fires off jokes in a volley, many of them self-directed: "When I was born, I was so ugly, the doctor slapped everyone in the room."

"If I have one more facelift, it'll be a caesarian."

About retirement: "I have outlived most of my body."

San Francisco is always good for material: "I went to my first gay wedding. What upset me was I caught the jockstrap."

In a phone interview, Ms. Diller told Northside that she now spends most of her days painting; she's had many shows. She also takes great pride in the fact that she finally got to use that music degree from the Chicago Conservatory.

"Just by chance, I was booked by the Boston Pops," she said. "‘Oh, good,' I said, ‘I'll play the piano.' There was a silence at the end then finally, they said, ‘That's fine.'" They really wanted me to do my stand-up act. This fluke led to my performing for 10 years with 100 symphony orchestras around the world. Not bad, not bad at all.

"I have to tell you this about my life. I made every minute count."

Northside Arts & Entertainment editor Bruce Bellingham is one of San Francisco's best loved scribes and the author of Bellingham by the Bay: Bits, Bites, Adventures in Radio and Real Life.”

Pat Kelley: The Face of the PlumpJack Dream

The Balboa's Hostess Is More Than Meets The Eye

When it comes to telling stories, few can beat the vivacious Pat Kelley, who knows just about everyone in San Francisco.

"She's the exquisite Rolodex," says the legendary statesman Hadley Roff, who has worked for six San Francisco mayors and now consults for the Political Science and Urban Affairs departments at San Francisco State University. "Without Pat Kelley, the character of the Balboa
Café would be lost."

Over the years, columnists have quietly called Pat to ask her the "what's what" and the "who's who." It's a rare day when she doesn't have an answer. If she doesn't have an immediate answer, she'll graciously call back and rattle off a list of names and a constellation of characters that require a scorecard to follow. Fact is, Pat is one of the most fascinating of all San Franciscans on her own merits. Splashy and dazzling in her ingenue days, she takes her place among the local legends over the epochs, such as Alma Spreckels, Lillian Hitchcock Coit and Lola Montez.

She's played the part of courtesan and eminence grise. She gives the term "working girl" new meaning.

Yes, Pat was known to dance on the bar, martini glass in hand, until the cows came home. Her old friend, Herb Caen, would describe her as "the blond bombshell" or simply, "La Kelley." Sure, she could put away the martinis. But now, she's put them aside.

Today most people know Pat as the poised, graceful woman with the twinkling eyes and the elegant scarves who seats people for lunch at the Marina's storied Balboa Café -- a nexus for politicos, socialites, the shamelessly successful, and the rest of us. The current incarnation of the Balboa is part of the PlumpJack Group that was founded by Gavin Newsom. Among the investors are Gavin's childhood chum, Billy Getty, and various members of the Getty family. Gordon Getty is the patriach. At first glance, Pat appears to be a highborn lady who has a hostess gig in order to occupy her days and mingle with her well-heeled Pacific Heights friends.

That's not the case. Pat has made and lost fortunes without benefit of inheritance or husbands. She has always worked hard; was a "single mom" and a "career woman" -- before the terms were invented. In fact, she was the first female stockbroker in San Francisco and was one of the most successful real estate people in town. She achieved that through a combination of smarts, charm, and absolute fearlessness. She modestly calls it "naivete."

"I never really knew about the big picture," says Pat. "that I might have been ahead of the pack."

It was 1962. Tired of her meager wage at Allstate on the Peninsula and with a child, she went to the personnel manager to ask for more money. Pat was told she would not be able to go any higher in the company because she was a woman.

"When I asked about being a manager, a higher level, I was told that women weren't managers," Pat recalled. "The woman in personnel was stunned when I quit. I had no child support, and now, no job."

In Menlo Park, Pat approached a small investment firm run by Sheldon Luce, of the famous family. Again, she encountered a woman in personnel.

"Any college?" she asked.

"No."

"Can't use you."

Pat came back the next day.

"How much typing?"

"Not much."

"Can't use you."

Determined, Pat returned on Monday and asked to talk to Mr. Luce. "He hired me," Pat says, "for my persistence."

That persistence rarely left her. Luce gave her advice, such as, "Don't read other people's theories and never tell anyone what you do for a living."

Then one day, she said, "Mr. Luce, I was thinking over the weekend ..."

"Don't ever think," he shot back. "If I wanted someone to think, I would've hired a man. Maybe you should be a stockbroker." He gave her a list of names.

She landed a job at E.F. Hutton. They sent her to New York for training. There were 100 men and Pat Kelley in the room. Pat became the first female registered stock representative in San Francisco. In the first year, she was third best producer in the San Francisco office.

"All the other stockbrokers wanted to get through the day and go home," Pat recalled. "But I'd stay in the office until eight o'clock at night, picking up all the walk-in business."

These days, Pat gets to the PlumpJack Management office on Fillmore Street at six in the morning. There she handles all sorts of paperwork for the company. At 11:30, she crosses the street to the Balboa and begins her "mayter-dee" (as Herb Caen would say) duties until late afternoon.

"Pat was really the backbone of PlumpJack at its birth," Judge Bill Newsom, Gavin's dad, said the other day. "She had the breadth of experience that Gavin and Billy lacked -- in retail, in wine, and in food. She still is the public face of the PlumpJack enterprise."

Since her E.F Hutton days -- she was a broker for 12 years -- Pat says it has all been "a kaleidoscope." She made lots of friends, went to lots of places.

"In 1970, I met Herb Caen and Billy Gaylord (crown prince of interior design), " Pat says, "I always had interesting friends who are interested in people, people who are doers. Harry de Wildt (Caen dubbed him "Sir Lunch-a-lot") would give parties two nights in a row and sometimes not even show up."

She went along when real estate mogul Vincent Friia would take 25 people to Paris to celebrate New Year's with a midnight supper at Maxim's several years in a row.

There were the best of times and it seems they couldn't be better. She took her stock money and bought real estate, was at the vanguard of condo-conversion, went into the wine store business -- she called the shops Crane & Kelley --and a hardware store at Polk & Pacific.

"I always wanted to own something that was somewhere between the Crystal Palace and Harrod's," she says. "So I created the Oakville Grocery with Joe Phelps (of winery fame). With that, another Crane & Kelley, and La Cuisine, a cooking school that included instructors such as Marion Cunningham, Carlo Middione, Marcella Hazan, Giancarlo Bugialli, Flo Braker, and Jeremiah Tower.

Pat and Jeremiah became an item. On a trip to Honolulu, they actually discussed marriage. Kelley recalls those days: "Jeremiah was going through -- how shall I say? -- an ambivalent stage. Back at the Balboa, I finally said, 'Jeremiah, I've been thinking. I really don't think we should get married.' He sighed and blurted out, 'Thank God!' in relief."

Tower, who lives in Merîda, Mexico, in the Yucatan, is now writing and consulting. He recalls cooking for Pat's dinner parties on Russian Hill and in Napa in the old days:

Pat was the first high-flying member of some part of San Francisco's society to invite me to sit down to dinner at her table afer I had cooked the dinner, even when other people at the table, some of those flying in that town's highest circles were appalled to sit next to a cook. Later, of course, with my local fame as a superstar and chef, some from society wanted to sit next to me."

Pat says the Oakville Grocery was her dream come true.

"And it didn't even have parking." Her eyes sparkle as she speaks. "We had the best produce in town. We sold 100 kinds of mustard. Cyril Magnin came in every day. Then the union struck us over a dispute that was about our using novices. Genteel ladies did not like crossing a picket line and being called names like 'scumbag' by nasty people. It took them 18 months to put us out of business."

The real estate business also went south.

"I'm still not sure what happened, but I spent five years as a defendant, and wound up without a dime."

She went to work for Cliff Abbey, the St. Helena vintner, who then owned the Trattoria Contadina in North Beach.

Says Pat, "This was my college experience when it came to the restaurant business, from washing pots and pans to all the rest." Pat confesses she actually switched the place cards at a dinner so Cliff could sit next to her friend, Clare Boothe Luce, granddaughter of the famous playwright and congresswoman. Clare and Cliff, now married, "haven't been out of each other's sight since that night."

Yes, Clare is from the same family as Sheldon Luce, who gave Pat her a break in the finance world all those years ago.

She opened the Dixie Café for Tom Clendenning and opened Rosalie's on Van Ness Avenue. It closed. She reopened it as Rosalie's Redux with Harry de Wildt. It closed. "I think Harry accidentally wandered into the kitchen and recoiled at the sight of the butcher in a bloody smock. It was all over."

Pat went back to work for Cliff Abbey, producing jeans on Potrero Hill.

One day, Pat and Gavin had a chat at the Balboa about opening a wine store in the Marina. What would they call it? Gordon Getty had composed an opera called "Plump Jack." Pat thought it might be a good name for the shop, considering the Gettys were involved. After a protracted battle with some neighbors who didn't want another wine shop in the area, PlumpJack Wines finally opened.

Kelley retains undying respect and loyalty for Mayor Newsom. The feeling is mutual.

"Gavin is awfully smart, a self-taught businessman," Pat says. "He exudes honesty and loyalty. In turn, he expects commitment. We made it with pluck and hard work -- not always knowing what we were doing.

Sure, we had advantages -- people wanted to see what the Gettys were doing. I was perfectly happy. Two years into the wine store, I hear from Gavin, 'We're going to buy the Pixie Café. I need a challenge."

That became the PlumpJack Cafe on Fillmore.

Meanwhile, Jack Slick and his partners, Cathe and Doyle Moon, were running the Balboa Café, which had been a funky neighborhood bar in the old days, frequented by sodden merchant sailors. Jack, Cathe and Doyle took it over and it became a very hip spot. Boz Scaggs, a friend of Slick's, was among many musicians often seen at the Balboa. Yes, Pat worked for Jack at one time, too. (Slick now owns a bar in Sacramento.) The Jack Slick days became quite notorious for his bizarre, rambunctious behavior. Herb Caen reported the time Slick dragged a man out of the bathroom with his pants down, holding a syringe. Slick screamed, "I don't want any junkies in my bathroom!"

The man was a diabetic. The syringe contained insulin. The restaurant paid the man a $600,000 settlement. It was another blow to a foundering ship. Kelley suggested to Gavin that the PlumpJack people pick up the Balboa, that it could be as great as it used to be. They got it for a song.

Pat's not comfortable with the moniker of "kingmaker" but she's undoubtedly and relentlessly imaginative. One fateful night at the PlumpJack Cafe, Pat Kelley introduced then-Mayor Willie Brown to Gavin. Later, Pat nudged Willie with the notion of appointing Gavin to a commission. "After all," Pat said, "You gave Billy Getty a commission."

Mayor Brown appointed Gavin to the Parking and Traffic Commission. The rest is political history. Gavin was later appointed supervisor in District 2. Then he was elected to the office. When Newsom was elected mayor, he had to relinquish his PlumpJack holdings in San Francisco.

Today Pat has a 28-year old son, Kevin, a real estate agent at Sotheby's. Her daughter, Kathleen, 44, is married with three boys.

What's left for Pat Kelley to conquer? She might conquer the English lexicon. She has passion for words. A dictionary remains open on the counter in the kitchen of her cozy Marina apartment. "I try to learn a new word every day. Aside from that, "I'd like to go another NCAA tournament. I'd like to meet Frederick Larsen (the Chronicle photographer); I want to have lunch with Lance Armstrong and Wayne Gretsky. I've met Domingo, Pavorotti and Joan Sutherland. Who's left?

I'd like to get backstage and meet Donald Fagen when he comes the Paramount in Oakland on March 28th. There are so many challenges and wonderful things yet to do."