I Should Have Such Problems -- San Francisco Northside, Nov. 2007

I Should Have Such Problems
by Bruce Bellingham

Tennessee Williams used to call it the "terrah of the blank page in the typewriter." Yes, terrah. That's "terror" south of the Mason-Dixon line.
It's an odd thing to imagine Tennessee Williams suffering from writer's block. He was too busy just suffering. Williams was astoundingly prolific, though most of his plays quickly drifted into obscurity. But he left us masterpieces like "A Streetcar Named Desire" ... "The Glass Menagerie"... and my favorite, "Night of the Iguana." He changed American theater. This is not a column about Tennessee Williams, or about the nighttime of the soul, and the essence of human tenderness, all in Tennessee's territory. It's about the "terrah of the blank page."
Terror is the mother of invention.
I would likely not sit here, and write this thing if people were not waiting for it, the editors, I mean. I'd rather take a walk through Huntington Park or sit in the Big 4, chatting up the tourists. There's nothing like a dark bar on a sunny day. But if I did that, the terror would be waiting for me anyway.
We all have our private fears. As a man, I could be frightened at the thought of being sexually assaulted, or going to prison, or getting booted out into the street, and then having to sleep in San Francisco's genteel Huntington Park. The Nob Hill Association would take a dim view of that. The truth is that what I really fear right now is losing my sunglasses. Sometimes a wave a panic comes over me when I can't find my sunglasses in my jacket, and can't remember where I might have left them. That's why I don't have expensive sunglasses, it's too painful to misplace them. I could say that I don't think I deserve expensive sunglasses but that would be getting off the point. I have a secret to impart here. I hope it causes no harm. Peter James, who owns Fog City Leathers on Union Street in Cow Hollow, always makes sure that I have a pair of sunglasses, and he kindly furnishes me with very cool Elvis-style glasses when I have broken or lost mine, and I'm left bereft and blinded by the garish sun.
In the whole panoply of problems that people have in the world, losing one's sunglasses does not sound so tragic.It is dilemma that is known in some circles as a "luxury problem." In many ways, San Francisco is getting more luxurious -- to a relatively small number of people, that is, the ones who are getting richer every day. So luxury problems are bound to follow. What's a luxury problem? Maybe the Lexus dealer cannot provide the color of car that we desire. Maybe we can't get reservations at Gary Danko. Maybe the interior designer has botched the delicate decor of the guest bedroom. Maybe we're having a row with the dog groomer.
This morning I saw a man, whom I see regularly, sleeping on the sidewalk on Sacramento and Polk. I wonder if there was a time in his life when he had a luxury problem. Yes, there was a time in my life when I thought, "Oh, only if I had a luxury problem." But a problem is a problem, and if a luxury problem drives one to consider getting drunk or jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, then it's still a real problem. A little problem can soon become a big problem. Who's to know? It always amazes me how often I'm willing to assume I know something about someone, that I know what people are thinking. I'm usually wrong about that. I'm almost always surprised to learn that people have private terrahs, I mean, terrors. Each of us has to tend to them. I have mine, too. That's why I'm sitting here with my sunglasses on, trying to avoid the glare off this terrifyingly bright , white blank page.

Bruce Bellingham is a columnist for the Marina Times, and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His next book is "The Angina Dialogues," and he's a heartbeat away from getting it done. Unless there is an unforeseen luxury problem.