It's becoming increasingly challenging to produce an essay that does not portend disaster nor the imminent extinction of our species. Predicting doom seems to be the national pastime. It's a small consolation that no one can read the future. That would lead most of us to quit the game altogether. Now, now, I don't want to be a pundit. Nor a crepe-hanger. Nor a fortuneteller. There but for fortune go you and I. And fortunes seem to have eluded a lot of people lately.
I'll leave the punditry, and the acrimony to George Will, who thinks the new president is an outlaw. Mr. Will must be a lot of fun at cocktail parties. Anyone who wears a bow tie can't be all that much fun at cocktail parties.
I like the new president. Mr. Obama says we need a little gallows humor to get through the crises. There are more than enough persons willing to provide the rope for the hanging, but are a little slow in the joke-writing department. There are plenty of gallows, we're just short on the humor.
I'm willing to cast my lot with Barbara Azizo, who sent me a CD of the music that was performed at the Obama inaugural. It has a hopeful sound to it.
My favorite cut is the old Ray Charles version of "America the Beautiful." There's that line, "Love mercy more than life."
Obama seems to understand that the American Dream is more about giving than taking. Lord have mercy on us. God shed his grace on thee. If I keep up this faith-based rhetoric, I might even start to believe in God again. The United States is in a lot of trouble but we're not finished. We're only human. Well, at least part of the time. It's only human for Americans to want to be loved again. It's a good time to be in love. Even with ourselves.
"Yes, the night is like a lovely tune, take care, my foolish heart."
There's a solace in the quiet night in San Francisco. Oddly, it's a city that grows quiet in the late evening hours, when it has tired itself out through effort, exercise, and extravagance. Or even ennui.
Dr. Samuel Johnson said, "When you're tired of London, you're tired of life."
I feel that way about San Francisco.
But San Francisco's been looking a bit seedy lately, maybe a little tired, too. It's still a great town, but a little expensive. There but for fortune.
Yes, even the poor can be provocative and carefree. Sure, dance under the moon over Nob Hill, joust with the locals, jest with the tourists. Hustle this, hustle that.
What is poor? When you're out of dough? Out of resources? Out of choices?
You bet. All of it.
Slipping into poverty is a new, terrible thing for many. Yes, right here in San Francisco, this pretty outpost on The Coast.
The poor are not carefree. Not being able to pay the rent is a shackle around the ankles, like a suspect in cuffs.
It shortens the breath, it stifles the imagination, it crushes the ability to hope. It makes one avert the eyes from another, it makes one ashamed.
Shame is a powerful thing. It's an element that can control many of us. It's a built-in family foundation. It's more formidable than concrete. That can buckle, like the crumbling Doyle Drive. Not so a sense of shame. That's the the infrastructure of guilt that needs no repair. What it really needs is its own erosion. Why do we call them "guilty pleasures"? Why be guilty about feeling pleasure? I can't blame that notion on the Calvinists. All religions want to spoil our fun.
You see, the poor can afford dry wit. They cannot afford dry cleaning.
Now, these are abstracts. But there's nothing abstract about the sadness I see in San Francisco right now.
What is hope? It's a spark of energy. It's an inexplicable drive to move forward -- or at least get out of bed. It's a reason to have a reason to look up how to spell the word "inexplicable." That's inexplicable enough.
Some of us have this drive to explain things. John Gollin, the publisher of this paper, says business has never been better at the veterinarian's office. People hold their pets a little closer in bad times. Nervous people take comfort in other areas, too. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, and Campbell's soup.
Speaking of animals, I found this old P.J Corkey column from the S.F. Examiner. Here's a portion: "Regarding the trial in San Jose of Mark Gebel, the circus animal trainer accused of tormenting an elephant. Here's a report from Bruce Bellingham. 'Immediately after the jury returned its not-guilty verdict, the defendant Gebel jumped from his seat, rushed over to the jury box, and gave each member of the jury a treat, and patted them all on the head.'" I mention this silliness for no apparent purpose.
My friend, J. Bernard Kapok, could use a laugh right now. He's living in a bleak residence club since he hit hard times. Bernie Madoff talked him into a limited partnership, and it all went to hell. Madoff is a new sort of Robin Hood. He stole from the rich, and kept the money. Kapok says the house he's in was in disarray because no one could watch March Madness on TV. The telly's on the blink. Between you and me, I think they were using their converter boxes for religious purposes.
"We've taken to feeding the fish in the lobby tank as entertainment," reports the forlorn Kapok. "Last night some poor schmuck stood in front of the fish tank for 45 minutes, trying to change the channel."
Did you ever notice that the 30-Stockton bus always smells like mothballs? What does that mean? There are lots of strange odors on the bus. When I see passengers carrying canaries in cages, then I'll really get worried. The only thing missing on the 27-Bryant bus are the live chickens running up and down the aisle. Pilgrims cooking in the back of the bus. Mercenaries cleaning their carbines. ... Nothing outstanding -- except the warrants -- on the parole violator's express, the 27-Bryant, the bus that passes the Hall of Justice, and drops off the beleaguered folks who are headed to court -- or jail. This is the underclass coach. Further along the route, in the pre-dawn darkness, it stops at 5th and Harrison to pick up the dreary denizens of the shelter nearby. When the shelter is cleared at 7 in the morning, the souls spill out into the streets like unwanted pennies. Men, bearded, busted, worried; hollow women, tired beyond tired, faces creased with disappointment -- all carrying black plastic garbage bags like broken hearts.
Ah, but wait a minute, this was supposed to be a funny column. Something clearly has gone a awry. So wry it is.
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Northside San Francisco, and has been making an effort to write a book called The Angina Dialogues. Authorship is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Give Bellingham a piece of your mind at bruce@northsidesf.com
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