There was a flurry of interest last month in a fellow, claiming to be Lamont Dozier -- the man who wrote all those hits for The Supremes, The Four Tops, and the The Temptations -- who was going around San Francisco, hustling people, and fleecing small business owners.
A quick-witted bartender at the Hyde-Out saloon on Nob Hill spotted him, and called police. They carted him off to the hoosegow.
The alleged imposter, identified by the SFPD as Alan Young, was in the Hyde-Out earlier, boasting about his 27 Grammys, and getting people to play "his songs" on the jukebox. That included The Temptations' "Papa Was A Rolling Stone."
I know. He gave me an interview for this newspaper. That takes moxie. I suppose it only bolstered his credibility as people watched. Well, maybe. He later took a few people with him to Yoshi's, where I understand he was treated royally.
"I have to tell you," I said to SFPD Lt. Lyn Tomioka, "this guy was pretty good. He seemed to know everything."
"He's had plenty of practice," said the lieutenant.
By the way, Lamont Dozier did not write "Papa Was A Rolling Stone." ...
Now, onto the real Rolling Stones: The folks at the San Francisco Art Exchange gallery threw a nice party the other night for the famed London rock photographer Gered Mankowitz where he celebrated his new book of his pics of Jimi Hendrix. Gered also traveled with the Rolling Stones on three tours. In one of the backrooms at the gallery, a rather prim, lovely British lady boasted, "Look what we just bought."
It was a photo I've never seen: Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull cooing over a microphone in a recording studio.
"May I ask how much you paid for this?" I asked in my own pedestrian way.
"Oh," the lady said,"just two."
"Two hundred?"
"No, silly," she chortled. "Two thousand."
Business was brisk. Gered had a good night. He sat down with me later, and said he wanted to tell me a story about Brian Jones. Gered was genuinely fond of the Stones' beleaguered blond boy.
"I was with Brian one day," recalled Gered, "when he reached into his pocket, and said, 'I've got two tabs of acid for us.' I told Brian that I did not take LSD. Brian said, 'Fine, I'll take both, and then you can write down everything I say.'"
Ah, those were the days. ...
Why is it that the under-class always seemed to get over-charged? Just wondering. ... Valerie Pinkert went to see "Aida" at the SF Opera, and said of the Egyptian pageantry, "I've never seen so many men in skirts since the Folsom Street Fair." ... Word from employees indicates that Cala Foods on Nob Hill has regained a lease on life. It will remain as is for at least another year. Rumors have abounded about its imminent closing for many months now, demolishing the building, constructing condos, and all that. ...
I will always have a bit of a smile on my face when I think of Tony Curtis, who died on Sept. 29 at the age of 85. It was no exaggeration to call him The Prince Of Hollywood. Born Bernie Schwartz in the Bronx, he fought off anti-Semitism, and fought off the thugs on the street. Whatever they did to him, it certainly had no impact on his enduring good looks. He must have protected his face well during those donnybrooks on the sidewalk.
A child of the Depression, he joined the Navy during World War II. Still Bernie Schwartz, he served on a submarine called the U.S.S. Proteus. That was a foreshadowing of his acting career. Like Proteus, the mythological sea-god who could transform himself into many creatures, Tony Curtis proved to be an astonishingly versatile actor.
He took lessons at the New School of Social Research in New York, where careers are still being launched.
Many of us agree that Curtis' role as the amoral press agent, Sidney Falco, in "The Sweet Smell of Success," is still a riveting, scary performance.
He triumphed in Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot" as the musician partner of Jack Lemmon. On the lam from the mob, the two had to dress as women to avoid being liquidated by the bad guys. With Marilyn Monroe in the mix, it was quite a trinity of talent. As a zany transvestite, Curtis endeared himself to lots of San Franciscans.
Yet this is why I smile.
I met Curtis when he came to San Francisco eight years ago to appear in a stage version of "Some Like It Hot" at the Golden Gate Theatre. The show was a silly pastiche, but it was fun. Then his late 70s, Curtis took the role that Joe E. Brown played in the film. This time, Tony got the punch line: "Nobody's perfect."
After the show, Curtis took me, and my columnist friend, Dave Donnelly, backstage, and regaled us with stories about Hollywood. One thing was apparent: he really loved being Tony Curtis. He had managed to leave Bernie Schwartz behind, and reinvented himself. Yes, he had some bad patches -- married five times or so, struggled with hooch & drugs. Then again, nobody's perfect. ...
####
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Could You Watch My Lobster For A Minute, Please? San Francisco Northside, August, 2010
Perhaps July is the coolest month. Coldest in 40 years, they say. So they say. I felt so bad for the tourists who were freezing while standing in line at Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, I wanted to go across the street to Walgreens, and buy them mittens. Then I saw a man on Polk and Sacto. turn in for the night at 8 o'clock, grip his blanket, and try to sleep on the sidewalk. ...
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
After that rather cryptic dispatch was printed in this paper last month about me, that is, "Bruce went on a vacation that no one would envy" or something like that, I feel I have some explaining to do for the readers.
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street.
"You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street.
"You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
Is It Happy Hour Yet? October 2010
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Drawing Crazy Patterns on Your Sheets, San Francisco Marina Times, Oct. 2010
When I was a youngster, I used to pester my mother, asking her to tell me stories about the Great Depression, and the Second World War.
I was only curious. It didn't mean I actually wanted to experience those horrors.
Funny how life rolls around in a crazy pattern. The New Depression, or quasi-Depression, has a grip on us. As for World War, well, no real World War yet, we just have too many wars going on right now. One is too many.
Even the Marina, with its pretty, placid exterior, seems to hold a quiet sort of anxiety these days. I walked through the Tenderloin late last month. San Francisco has wild contrasts between neighborhoods. The TL is verging on out-and-out anarchy. The tourists, from the nearby big hotels, looked scared out of their wits. So was I. No wonder Gavin Newsom, and Kamala Harris are aspiring to jobs in Sacramento. I don't blame them for wanting to get the hell out of here. Of course, most of us have to stay, and try to figure out what to do.
San Francisco used to enjoy an exquisite form of madness, the kind of madness that stimulated the soul, and fed the intellect. At least it was amusing.
It was a fun sort of lawlessness that created the Beats, the be-boppers, the Hippies, the Diggers, the renegade musicians, the barking, beatified poets, and later, even the high-rolling dot-com people who seemed to have had a great deal of fun. But that was some kind of fallacious fun, built in many ways on a cracked foundation. That's different than the cracked artists, and writers that I loved so much.
"This doesn't feel like a city," said a women from Chicago in the lobby of the Fairmont. "Chicago is a real meat, and potatoes city." One fellow from Los Angeles sniped, "San Francisco is small, and confused."
You mean it's no longer everybody's favorite city?
I now fear the worst. In many ways we've lost our sense of humor. We've lost our sense of fun. There was a sense of mischief, a sense of zaniness here. Caprice was the order of the day. With forty years in San Francisco, I give myself license to reminisce a little.
Nostalgia is affordable. It's hard to be gracious when your pockets are empty, and when so many to try to get their hands into your pockets -- even if they are empty.
In the old days, a tea party involved smoking grass. Now, I hear about so-called Tea Party people who would rather see chaps like me paralyzed -- and then cut off our medical marijuana. Tea Party? As in Boston Tea Party? Aw, c'mon now. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it: "The last refuge of a scoundrel is patriotism."
The Tea Party has scored a few victories by exploiting voter disenchantment, and their many disappointments. But being drawn to them is like marrying someone on the rebound. Marrying Sarah Palin -- literally or metaphorically -- is a chilling thought. That's the same as drawing crazy patterns on your sheets, as Mr. Dylan phrased it.
Speaking of matters medical, I'd like to know who is in the California Department of Insurance. These people are allowing insurance companies to raise their rates by 19 per cent or even more. That includes Aetna, Anthem Blue Cross, Blue Shield, and Health Net Inc. So much for health care reform.
What a sign of the times.
Californians are exposed to a marauding band of reverse-Robin Hoods. They steal from the poor, and give it to the rich.
"To live outside the law, you must be honest," Mr. Dylan warned.
On the topic of music legends, 16 years ago, I ran into Eric Clapton in the Marina. He had brought his blues show to the Fillmore, which had been closed for decades. I had just been separated from my wife, and had my own blues.
"I know how you feel, man," Clapton kindly intoned. "My girlfriend went back to her old boyfriend. I'm kinda tore up about it."
"You mean women actually leave Eric Clapton?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Fortune magazine had reported that Clapton had made $600 million that year.
"At least your work is going well," I said facetiously.
He didn't crack a smile. He said, "You know, Bruce, we can always control our work. We just can't control the people we love."
With that, he offered me two precious tickets to his show -- the hottest tickets in town.
"Maybe this will help things between you, and your wife," he said.
It did -- for awhile. But what has endured is recalling Eric Clapton's kindness. I have to keep in mind there are very decent people on the planet. It helps to remember that in order to get through dark times. I have to trust some people sometimes. Even if someone might always be trying to get into your house, and draw crazy patterns on your sheets.
Bruce Bellingham writes for the Northside San Francisco, and is author of Bellingham by the Bay. Even if he's in the kitchen with the Tombstone Blues, he likes to get e-mail. Send him a note at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
I was only curious. It didn't mean I actually wanted to experience those horrors.
Funny how life rolls around in a crazy pattern. The New Depression, or quasi-Depression, has a grip on us. As for World War, well, no real World War yet, we just have too many wars going on right now. One is too many.
Even the Marina, with its pretty, placid exterior, seems to hold a quiet sort of anxiety these days. I walked through the Tenderloin late last month. San Francisco has wild contrasts between neighborhoods. The TL is verging on out-and-out anarchy. The tourists, from the nearby big hotels, looked scared out of their wits. So was I. No wonder Gavin Newsom, and Kamala Harris are aspiring to jobs in Sacramento. I don't blame them for wanting to get the hell out of here. Of course, most of us have to stay, and try to figure out what to do.
San Francisco used to enjoy an exquisite form of madness, the kind of madness that stimulated the soul, and fed the intellect. At least it was amusing.
It was a fun sort of lawlessness that created the Beats, the be-boppers, the Hippies, the Diggers, the renegade musicians, the barking, beatified poets, and later, even the high-rolling dot-com people who seemed to have had a great deal of fun. But that was some kind of fallacious fun, built in many ways on a cracked foundation. That's different than the cracked artists, and writers that I loved so much.
"This doesn't feel like a city," said a women from Chicago in the lobby of the Fairmont. "Chicago is a real meat, and potatoes city." One fellow from Los Angeles sniped, "San Francisco is small, and confused."
You mean it's no longer everybody's favorite city?
I now fear the worst. In many ways we've lost our sense of humor. We've lost our sense of fun. There was a sense of mischief, a sense of zaniness here. Caprice was the order of the day. With forty years in San Francisco, I give myself license to reminisce a little.
Nostalgia is affordable. It's hard to be gracious when your pockets are empty, and when so many to try to get their hands into your pockets -- even if they are empty.
In the old days, a tea party involved smoking grass. Now, I hear about so-called Tea Party people who would rather see chaps like me paralyzed -- and then cut off our medical marijuana. Tea Party? As in Boston Tea Party? Aw, c'mon now. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it: "The last refuge of a scoundrel is patriotism."
The Tea Party has scored a few victories by exploiting voter disenchantment, and their many disappointments. But being drawn to them is like marrying someone on the rebound. Marrying Sarah Palin -- literally or metaphorically -- is a chilling thought. That's the same as drawing crazy patterns on your sheets, as Mr. Dylan phrased it.
Speaking of matters medical, I'd like to know who is in the California Department of Insurance. These people are allowing insurance companies to raise their rates by 19 per cent or even more. That includes Aetna, Anthem Blue Cross, Blue Shield, and Health Net Inc. So much for health care reform.
What a sign of the times.
Californians are exposed to a marauding band of reverse-Robin Hoods. They steal from the poor, and give it to the rich.
"To live outside the law, you must be honest," Mr. Dylan warned.
On the topic of music legends, 16 years ago, I ran into Eric Clapton in the Marina. He had brought his blues show to the Fillmore, which had been closed for decades. I had just been separated from my wife, and had my own blues.
"I know how you feel, man," Clapton kindly intoned. "My girlfriend went back to her old boyfriend. I'm kinda tore up about it."
"You mean women actually leave Eric Clapton?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Fortune magazine had reported that Clapton had made $600 million that year.
"At least your work is going well," I said facetiously.
He didn't crack a smile. He said, "You know, Bruce, we can always control our work. We just can't control the people we love."
With that, he offered me two precious tickets to his show -- the hottest tickets in town.
"Maybe this will help things between you, and your wife," he said.
It did -- for awhile. But what has endured is recalling Eric Clapton's kindness. I have to keep in mind there are very decent people on the planet. It helps to remember that in order to get through dark times. I have to trust some people sometimes. Even if someone might always be trying to get into your house, and draw crazy patterns on your sheets.
Bruce Bellingham writes for the Northside San Francisco, and is author of Bellingham by the Bay. Even if he's in the kitchen with the Tombstone Blues, he likes to get e-mail. Send him a note at bruce@northsidesf.com
#####
Thursday, September 16, 2010
mort sahl's san francisco, northside, oct. 2010
"Life has its hazards," Mort Sahl once said to me.
Mort, who is now 83 years old, was supposed to come to town with Dick Gregory the other day but had to cancel. I miss the friendship we once had -- but life has its hazards. Just a few years back, he told me he wanted to move back to San Francisco, after decades of living in Los Angeles.
"The definition of courage in L.A.," he said, "is going to a restaurant that hasn't been reviewed yet."
Many may not recall what Mort Sahl meant to San Francisco in the old days. That's the 1950's and 1960's. A stand-up comic who, with Lenny Bruce, redefined stand-up comedy. It was topical, social commentary with a bite to it. A deep bite. It was lacerating. And it was brilliant. It was an answer to stock Borscht Belt jokes. Mort would take to the stage in a v-neck sweater, clutching the New York Times.
"Here's a typical New York Times headline," Mort quipped. 'World Comes to an End, Women and Minorities Affected.'"
Mort is an equal-opportunity satirist. Often described as a liberal or a lefty. That's all wrong. One of his best friends was Gen. Alexander Haig.
"Why is that?" I once asked him
"Because Haig is an individual, and I'm an individual."
Mort's one of a kind. That must be a lonely gig.
Mort worked for Jim Garrison for a year. Yes, that Jim Garrison, the New Orleans District Attorney who indicted Clay Shaw in an alleged conspiracy to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. Mort took to all the TV talk shows to promote Garrison's allegations. He stopped telling jokes. The TV people stopped booking him. So did everyone else. You see, America wanted to "move on" after the Kennedy assassination.
"What happened to the funny Mort"? they wondered. He never stopped being funny, of course. But great comedians are serious people.
But Mort came back. He's quite indefatigable.
One day, Mort and I left the Big 4 after lunch. There was a collection of tourists across California Street, on the steps of Grace Cathedral.
"Look," says I to Mort, "they're still waiting for Bishop Pike to come back." I figured he'd like the 1960's reference to the disappearance of the former Episcopalian bishop who vanished in the Sinai Desert, never to be seen again.
"Pike Bishop!" Mort exclaimed.
"What does that mean?"
Mort said, "When Sam Peckinpah wrote 'The Wild Bunch,' he gave William Holden character the name of Pike Bishop."
I'd forgotten that. Goes to show that some of these cats don't take the gig too seriously. Mort worked with the notorious, gifted, lunatic Peckinpah who had a penchant for poetic cinema violence. Mort enjoyed being an actor in his movies.
Starting at the Hungry i and at the Purple Onion, both owned by Enrico Banducci, Mort became a star. That had much to do with Herb Caen. He praised Mort Sahl in his column incessantly. He also contributed to the legend of San Francisco of being a haven for the creative and the obstreperous.
"Some fellows came in the Hungry i one night," Mort recalled, "and I signed a movie contract on a wine barrel."
He appeared on the cover of Time magazine in 1959. That's a pretty big deal.
When Enrico got into financial trouble, which was frequent, Mort came to Enrico's on Broadway to do a month-long stint for him. That was in the 1980s. That's when I first met him. He asked me to record his shows.
China, who Mort married twice -- she was the first Asian centerfold in Playboy -- watched the front door. Someone should have been watching all of us.
Herb Caen attended opening night, but they were never friends after a falling-out years and years before. Probably over a dame, to use the parlance of the day. Mort asked me to interceded to see if Mort and Herb could be reconciled. Herb wouldn't go for it. I'm sure that contributed to Mort's sense that I have failed him.
Stick around long enough, you disappoint everybody.
Later, Mort's son, Mort Jr. died of a drug overdose in an L.A. rehab. Mort called me right away to tell me. His second marriage to China fell apart.
"China couldn't stand to be in L.A. after that," he said.
In 1960 Mort was hired to do a stand-up act at the wrap party for the John Huston film, "The Misfits." That was at a hotel in Reno. The film was written by Arthur Miller for his wife, Marilyn Monroe.
"Clark Gable came downstairs, in a jacket and tie, greeted everyone warmly, and apologized for retiring early," Mort told me. "He wasn't feeling well."
Gable died soon after the shooting from a heart attack.
"Marilyn Monroe summoned me to her table that night," Mort recalled. 'Don't be afraid, Mort,' she said.
"I'm not afraid," Mort replied.
With that, Ms. Monroe took Mort's hand, and placed it on her breast.
"We're all afraid, Mort," murmured Marilyn.
That story still gives me the chills.
It's difficult not to be afraid. It would a shame if I could not talk to Mort again. It makes me fearful to consider that I can easily lose all the the people, and the things that I love.
It's a fragile life. It's treacherous out here. Yes, life has it's hazards.
Bruce Bellingham is also a writer for the Marina Times. Tell him some stories at bruce@northsidesf.com
######
Mort, who is now 83 years old, was supposed to come to town with Dick Gregory the other day but had to cancel. I miss the friendship we once had -- but life has its hazards. Just a few years back, he told me he wanted to move back to San Francisco, after decades of living in Los Angeles.
"The definition of courage in L.A.," he said, "is going to a restaurant that hasn't been reviewed yet."
Many may not recall what Mort Sahl meant to San Francisco in the old days. That's the 1950's and 1960's. A stand-up comic who, with Lenny Bruce, redefined stand-up comedy. It was topical, social commentary with a bite to it. A deep bite. It was lacerating. And it was brilliant. It was an answer to stock Borscht Belt jokes. Mort would take to the stage in a v-neck sweater, clutching the New York Times.
"Here's a typical New York Times headline," Mort quipped. 'World Comes to an End, Women and Minorities Affected.'"
Mort is an equal-opportunity satirist. Often described as a liberal or a lefty. That's all wrong. One of his best friends was Gen. Alexander Haig.
"Why is that?" I once asked him
"Because Haig is an individual, and I'm an individual."
Mort's one of a kind. That must be a lonely gig.
Mort worked for Jim Garrison for a year. Yes, that Jim Garrison, the New Orleans District Attorney who indicted Clay Shaw in an alleged conspiracy to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. Mort took to all the TV talk shows to promote Garrison's allegations. He stopped telling jokes. The TV people stopped booking him. So did everyone else. You see, America wanted to "move on" after the Kennedy assassination.
"What happened to the funny Mort"? they wondered. He never stopped being funny, of course. But great comedians are serious people.
But Mort came back. He's quite indefatigable.
One day, Mort and I left the Big 4 after lunch. There was a collection of tourists across California Street, on the steps of Grace Cathedral.
"Look," says I to Mort, "they're still waiting for Bishop Pike to come back." I figured he'd like the 1960's reference to the disappearance of the former Episcopalian bishop who vanished in the Sinai Desert, never to be seen again.
"Pike Bishop!" Mort exclaimed.
"What does that mean?"
Mort said, "When Sam Peckinpah wrote 'The Wild Bunch,' he gave William Holden character the name of Pike Bishop."
I'd forgotten that. Goes to show that some of these cats don't take the gig too seriously. Mort worked with the notorious, gifted, lunatic Peckinpah who had a penchant for poetic cinema violence. Mort enjoyed being an actor in his movies.
Starting at the Hungry i and at the Purple Onion, both owned by Enrico Banducci, Mort became a star. That had much to do with Herb Caen. He praised Mort Sahl in his column incessantly. He also contributed to the legend of San Francisco of being a haven for the creative and the obstreperous.
"Some fellows came in the Hungry i one night," Mort recalled, "and I signed a movie contract on a wine barrel."
He appeared on the cover of Time magazine in 1959. That's a pretty big deal.
When Enrico got into financial trouble, which was frequent, Mort came to Enrico's on Broadway to do a month-long stint for him. That was in the 1980s. That's when I first met him. He asked me to record his shows.
China, who Mort married twice -- she was the first Asian centerfold in Playboy -- watched the front door. Someone should have been watching all of us.
Herb Caen attended opening night, but they were never friends after a falling-out years and years before. Probably over a dame, to use the parlance of the day. Mort asked me to interceded to see if Mort and Herb could be reconciled. Herb wouldn't go for it. I'm sure that contributed to Mort's sense that I have failed him.
Stick around long enough, you disappoint everybody.
Later, Mort's son, Mort Jr. died of a drug overdose in an L.A. rehab. Mort called me right away to tell me. His second marriage to China fell apart.
"China couldn't stand to be in L.A. after that," he said.
In 1960 Mort was hired to do a stand-up act at the wrap party for the John Huston film, "The Misfits." That was at a hotel in Reno. The film was written by Arthur Miller for his wife, Marilyn Monroe.
"Clark Gable came downstairs, in a jacket and tie, greeted everyone warmly, and apologized for retiring early," Mort told me. "He wasn't feeling well."
Gable died soon after the shooting from a heart attack.
"Marilyn Monroe summoned me to her table that night," Mort recalled. 'Don't be afraid, Mort,' she said.
"I'm not afraid," Mort replied.
With that, Ms. Monroe took Mort's hand, and placed it on her breast.
"We're all afraid, Mort," murmured Marilyn.
That story still gives me the chills.
It's difficult not to be afraid. It would a shame if I could not talk to Mort again. It makes me fearful to consider that I can easily lose all the the people, and the things that I love.
It's a fragile life. It's treacherous out here. Yes, life has it's hazards.
Bruce Bellingham is also a writer for the Marina Times. Tell him some stories at bruce@northsidesf.com
######
connie francis returns to san francisco, northside, oct. 2010
Connie Francis, the top of the pops singer of the 1950s, and 60s, comes to the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16 to sing a whole roster of her many hits. They include "Who's Sorry Now," "Stupid Cupid," "Don't Break the Heart That Loves You," "Everybody's Somebody's Fool," "Mama," and "My Heart Has A Mind Of Its Own."
She played here a couple of years ago, and was a smash hit. This time she celebrates the 50th anniversary of her hit song, "Where the Boys Are," which is the theme from the movie in which she appeared.
"I love playing the Castro," she said in a phone interview from her home in Florida. "I describe 'Where the Boys Are' as the gay national anthem."
Yes, Connie, as she insists on being called, is a very funny woman.
She also brings a 21-piece orchestra with her, something unheard of in this spartan times.
"I bring all those musicians because I need all the help I can get," she quipped. "I like the sound of strings, and I like the big brass sound, too. I was raised on the big bands. These days it's unheard of. I used to make records with a live orchestra, all of us in the studio at the same time, the way that Frank used to record. It's very exciting."
That was before music videos, many of which Ms. Francis finds unacceptably vulgar.
"I've lost all faith in the FCC," she said, "for allowing this stuff to get on the air."
But music videos, in a sense, might have arrived earlier than we know.
"In 1959 or so, I got a call from 'the boys' in Newark (the New Jersey mafia)," Francis recalled. "They had an idea to put films or kinescopes on juke boxes. I thought the idea was brilliant. I warned the boys they weren't going to deal with Bing Crosby or artists like that. They gave up. They couldn't take dealing with blacks. They could not control them."
The mob did infiltrate the smaller record labels, such as Reprise or Roulette.There was a lot of brutality. She remembers when her good friend Jimmy Rodgers, of "Honeycomb" fame, was beaten so badly by mob thugs that his singing career was brought to an end. The assault was actually carried out by an off-duty cop in the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's been a busy summer for Connie Francis, still irrepressible at 71. She held a "Where the Boys Are Concert" in Ft. Lauderdale, where the movie was shot. To her astonishment, 30,000 people showed up. Over the years, her popularity has endured, particularly in Europe -- Germany, specifically, where she is still considered a major star.
She recently has played to sell-out houses in Hong Kong, Manila, and Malaysia, where the queen of the country shouted out requests.
Ms. Francis has also remained very political. In the 60s, she worked on the presidential campaigns of Richard Nixon, and Nelson Rockefeller, But her perspective has changed greatly.
"I call myself an independent progessive now," she said. "Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich, and Mitch McConnell are frightening. To me, the GOP stands for Greed Over Principle."
She still uses her music as a weapon of mass diplomacy.
"The Iraq War was a horrible mistake," she said. "It only empowered Iran to do what its doing. I was the first American to sing in Romania. I performed on Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, and Radio Luxembourg. It was great to promote America in those days, but this is not the America I grew up in. Yet we were born at the right time to see the advent of many great things. Now, the great entertainers are all gone -- Sinatra, Sammy Davis, and all."
And there was Bobby Darin. After being married, and divorced four times, the love her life remains Darin. They met in the 1950s at the famed Brill Building in New York, where the songwriters created hits. Fearing an elopement, Connie's father chased Darin through a theater with a loaded pistol. He later married Sandra Dee, from the "Gidget" movies. Not marrying Darin, she said, was the biggest mistake she ever made.
But he was only 37 when he died of a congenital heart defect.
"I knew he would die young," Ms. Francis said. "He told me the doctors said he would not live past 25."
In 1984, she published an autobiography, "Who's Sorry Now?" Her story is compelling, a tale of overcoming some tough episodes. She has just published a new book, "Among My Souvenirs."
Many of the great entertainers may be gone, but Connie Francis is still here. She performs at the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16. Tickets are $49-$99.
####
She played here a couple of years ago, and was a smash hit. This time she celebrates the 50th anniversary of her hit song, "Where the Boys Are," which is the theme from the movie in which she appeared.
"I love playing the Castro," she said in a phone interview from her home in Florida. "I describe 'Where the Boys Are' as the gay national anthem."
Yes, Connie, as she insists on being called, is a very funny woman.
She also brings a 21-piece orchestra with her, something unheard of in this spartan times.
"I bring all those musicians because I need all the help I can get," she quipped. "I like the sound of strings, and I like the big brass sound, too. I was raised on the big bands. These days it's unheard of. I used to make records with a live orchestra, all of us in the studio at the same time, the way that Frank used to record. It's very exciting."
That was before music videos, many of which Ms. Francis finds unacceptably vulgar.
"I've lost all faith in the FCC," she said, "for allowing this stuff to get on the air."
But music videos, in a sense, might have arrived earlier than we know.
"In 1959 or so, I got a call from 'the boys' in Newark (the New Jersey mafia)," Francis recalled. "They had an idea to put films or kinescopes on juke boxes. I thought the idea was brilliant. I warned the boys they weren't going to deal with Bing Crosby or artists like that. They gave up. They couldn't take dealing with blacks. They could not control them."
The mob did infiltrate the smaller record labels, such as Reprise or Roulette.There was a lot of brutality. She remembers when her good friend Jimmy Rodgers, of "Honeycomb" fame, was beaten so badly by mob thugs that his singing career was brought to an end. The assault was actually carried out by an off-duty cop in the Los Angeles Police Department.
It's been a busy summer for Connie Francis, still irrepressible at 71. She held a "Where the Boys Are Concert" in Ft. Lauderdale, where the movie was shot. To her astonishment, 30,000 people showed up. Over the years, her popularity has endured, particularly in Europe -- Germany, specifically, where she is still considered a major star.
She recently has played to sell-out houses in Hong Kong, Manila, and Malaysia, where the queen of the country shouted out requests.
Ms. Francis has also remained very political. In the 60s, she worked on the presidential campaigns of Richard Nixon, and Nelson Rockefeller, But her perspective has changed greatly.
"I call myself an independent progessive now," she said. "Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich, and Mitch McConnell are frightening. To me, the GOP stands for Greed Over Principle."
She still uses her music as a weapon of mass diplomacy.
"The Iraq War was a horrible mistake," she said. "It only empowered Iran to do what its doing. I was the first American to sing in Romania. I performed on Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, and Radio Luxembourg. It was great to promote America in those days, but this is not the America I grew up in. Yet we were born at the right time to see the advent of many great things. Now, the great entertainers are all gone -- Sinatra, Sammy Davis, and all."
And there was Bobby Darin. After being married, and divorced four times, the love her life remains Darin. They met in the 1950s at the famed Brill Building in New York, where the songwriters created hits. Fearing an elopement, Connie's father chased Darin through a theater with a loaded pistol. He later married Sandra Dee, from the "Gidget" movies. Not marrying Darin, she said, was the biggest mistake she ever made.
But he was only 37 when he died of a congenital heart defect.
"I knew he would die young," Ms. Francis said. "He told me the doctors said he would not live past 25."
In 1984, she published an autobiography, "Who's Sorry Now?" Her story is compelling, a tale of overcoming some tough episodes. She has just published a new book, "Among My Souvenirs."
Many of the great entertainers may be gone, but Connie Francis is still here. She performs at the Castro Theatre on Oct. 16. Tickets are $49-$99.
####
A Man for All Seasons, Northside San Francisco, Oct. 2010
One of the great joys of visiting the Big 4 on Sundays was to hear Don Asher's tender treatment of the piano keyboard. He could switch styles from jazz to blues to the Great American Songbook with sublime sensitivity. He had taste, treating each tune with a singular respect. Not only was Don a terrific musician, he was an astute, and eloquent gentleman who also wrote several books. Herb Gold, the most famous novelist on Russian Hill, called to tell me that Don was in a hospice. Herb loved Don. Who didn't? Don loved music, he loved ladies, he loved literature, and he loved tennis. He thought Roger Federer was the cat's meow. Don Asher had so much vitality, and a love for life, that it amazes me that he would not live forever. It's a shame he didn't. He died on Aug. 24. He was 84 years old. There will be a memorial for him on Oct. 2 at the Century Club, 1355 Franklin Street. ...
Herb Gold went back to Haiti last month. Herb's an expert on Haiti, been there more than a dozen times. He wrote a book called "The Best Nightmare on Earth: A LIfe in Haiti." This already bereft country is in shambles since the Jan. 24 earthquake that killed 220,000 people. Hard to imagine. The place has always been tormented by poverty but Herb says it holds a gripping sort of charm. I'm not sure what Herb was doing there -- obviously he'll write about it -- but I suspect he also might try to break up any fist fights between Wyclef Jean and Sean Penn. Just before he left, Herb said sardonically, "One of my neighbors heard that I was going to Haiti. They said cheerfully. 'Have a great vacation!'"
Some day at the beach. ...
There's a sad irony about the closing of the Washington Square Bar & Grill, and the death of Ed Moose, who founded the place all those years ago with his partner, Sam Dietsch. Ed was 81. He loved being the master of ceremonies at his restaurants, The Square & later at Moose's, across Washington Square. I've never seen anyone work a room like Ed Moose. Former Governor Pat Brown was pretty good, too. Like Don Asher, Ed loved what he did, and would sink his teeth into everything. One of the great parties Ed threw was for the surviving chaps who made the Nixon's Enemies List. NBC News' Sander Vanocur and Mart Nolan of the Boston Globe were among the guests. Yes, they were perceived enemies of the great paranoid president. What an inspired idea for a party. Ed loved the media. After all, in his young days he was a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was the best of friends of Herb Caen. I'm not sure if Herb had any real friends, but he and Ed were certainly closely-held co-conspirators, conjuring up North Beach intrigues. Ed was an exacting employer but Barbara Carberry, who worked for him at Moose's restaurant, says her time there gave her some of the best days she ever had.
"It opened the whole world to me," she says. "Because of Ed, I met some of the most interesting people. I'm very grateful for that. I'm very grateful that I was part of Ed Moose's world for awhile."
Ed sponsored his Penny Pitch and raised thousands and thousands of dollars for St. Anthony Dining Room over the years.
Anothrer one of Ed's contributions to San Francisco culture was hiring all those great musicians over the years. Mike Greensill ... Wesla Whitfield ... Dick Fregulia ... Mike Lipskin ... Tim Hockenberry ... and yes, Don Asher, to name a few. Ed also took care of his friends, who sometimes would get a bit drifty. Glenn Dorenbush was one of them. When Glenn did the public relations for the Washbag, as Herb Caen described it -- Ron Fimrite called it the world's greatest saloon -- someone offered Glenn lunch. He shot back, "I've never been more insulted in my life!" Glenn, you see, preferred a more liquid repast. Kevin Keating was a Washbag regular. He used to work with Chronicle columnist Stan Delaplane, who held a permanent seat at The Square. Kevin also wrote for airline magazines. He once said to me, "I just went down the Baja Peninsula in a Hummer for an article. I learned that everything is Mexico will stab you." All this reveals what a territory for San Francisco characters that Ed Moose cultivated. Bless his heart. The Square was a watering hole for friendly beasts to slake their thirst as the climate changed inexorably around them. As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Oh, my poor dead dears." ...
"God was in a good mood when He made San Francisco," Lana Vy remarked the other day, a notably beautiful September day. She pours drinks at the Hyde-out on Nob Hill. Occasionally she takes out her ukulele, and entertain the customers with one of her songs, such as "If You Marry Your Best Friend." Lana just started a band called The Edibles. We have no comment on that. But her line about God and San Francisco is food for thought. It reminds me of the time when I asked a Roman Catholic priest, Father William Myers, what St. Francis would say if he learned this city was named after him.
He said, "I don't know if he'd laugh or cry." ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He's not sure if he should laugh or cry. Give him direction at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Herb Gold went back to Haiti last month. Herb's an expert on Haiti, been there more than a dozen times. He wrote a book called "The Best Nightmare on Earth: A LIfe in Haiti." This already bereft country is in shambles since the Jan. 24 earthquake that killed 220,000 people. Hard to imagine. The place has always been tormented by poverty but Herb says it holds a gripping sort of charm. I'm not sure what Herb was doing there -- obviously he'll write about it -- but I suspect he also might try to break up any fist fights between Wyclef Jean and Sean Penn. Just before he left, Herb said sardonically, "One of my neighbors heard that I was going to Haiti. They said cheerfully. 'Have a great vacation!'"
Some day at the beach. ...
There's a sad irony about the closing of the Washington Square Bar & Grill, and the death of Ed Moose, who founded the place all those years ago with his partner, Sam Dietsch. Ed was 81. He loved being the master of ceremonies at his restaurants, The Square & later at Moose's, across Washington Square. I've never seen anyone work a room like Ed Moose. Former Governor Pat Brown was pretty good, too. Like Don Asher, Ed loved what he did, and would sink his teeth into everything. One of the great parties Ed threw was for the surviving chaps who made the Nixon's Enemies List. NBC News' Sander Vanocur and Mart Nolan of the Boston Globe were among the guests. Yes, they were perceived enemies of the great paranoid president. What an inspired idea for a party. Ed loved the media. After all, in his young days he was a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was the best of friends of Herb Caen. I'm not sure if Herb had any real friends, but he and Ed were certainly closely-held co-conspirators, conjuring up North Beach intrigues. Ed was an exacting employer but Barbara Carberry, who worked for him at Moose's restaurant, says her time there gave her some of the best days she ever had.
"It opened the whole world to me," she says. "Because of Ed, I met some of the most interesting people. I'm very grateful for that. I'm very grateful that I was part of Ed Moose's world for awhile."
Ed sponsored his Penny Pitch and raised thousands and thousands of dollars for St. Anthony Dining Room over the years.
Anothrer one of Ed's contributions to San Francisco culture was hiring all those great musicians over the years. Mike Greensill ... Wesla Whitfield ... Dick Fregulia ... Mike Lipskin ... Tim Hockenberry ... and yes, Don Asher, to name a few. Ed also took care of his friends, who sometimes would get a bit drifty. Glenn Dorenbush was one of them. When Glenn did the public relations for the Washbag, as Herb Caen described it -- Ron Fimrite called it the world's greatest saloon -- someone offered Glenn lunch. He shot back, "I've never been more insulted in my life!" Glenn, you see, preferred a more liquid repast. Kevin Keating was a Washbag regular. He used to work with Chronicle columnist Stan Delaplane, who held a permanent seat at The Square. Kevin also wrote for airline magazines. He once said to me, "I just went down the Baja Peninsula in a Hummer for an article. I learned that everything is Mexico will stab you." All this reveals what a territory for San Francisco characters that Ed Moose cultivated. Bless his heart. The Square was a watering hole for friendly beasts to slake their thirst as the climate changed inexorably around them. As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Oh, my poor dead dears." ...
"God was in a good mood when He made San Francisco," Lana Vy remarked the other day, a notably beautiful September day. She pours drinks at the Hyde-out on Nob Hill. Occasionally she takes out her ukulele, and entertain the customers with one of her songs, such as "If You Marry Your Best Friend." Lana just started a band called The Edibles. We have no comment on that. But her line about God and San Francisco is food for thought. It reminds me of the time when I asked a Roman Catholic priest, Father William Myers, what St. Francis would say if he learned this city was named after him.
He said, "I don't know if he'd laugh or cry." ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He's not sure if he should laugh or cry. Give him direction at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Friday, July 23, 2010
Is It happy Hour Yet?
for Marina Times, August 2010
by Bruce Bellingham
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
by Bruce Bellingham
My favorite story of the month is the one about the transient who unlocked a shuttered bar up in Auburn (it was closed for ABC violations), and started selling drinks on his own. He was not the real owner. The town was so grateful that the watering hole had been revived, the local paper, the Auburn Journal, did a feature story on the welcomed reopening. The illicit proprietor gleefully posed for pictures. Then the cops recognized him from the paper as someone they had run into the hoosegow a few times for vagrancy. It seems he scared up the money to buy a six-pack, sell it in the bar, and garner seed money to buy more booze for the customers. This charade went on for days until the authorities got wise to him, and trundled him away.
The late Ron Fimrite had a great, old expression for jail: "durance vile."
Remanding him to durance vile is all wrong. Surely this sort of initiative should be recognized in some favorable way. The fake tavern owner showed real entrepreneurial spirit. Aren't we supposed to be creating jobs these days? Perhaps others would like to take over other shuttered businesses, and give it their best shot. There are plenty on Union Street. Putting the guy in the slammer at the expense of taxpayers isn't very constructive. Maybe he should be sent to bartender's school as part of his rehabilitation.
Speaking of rehabilitation, I walked down Union Street the other day, and found myself fielding questions about my health. Yes, I was absent from these pages for some time, and was in the hospital for some time.
People may inherit money from their families; some of us inherit heart disease, and a taste for unhealthy things to go along with it.
When my father had heart trouble -- there's a euphemism -- the doctors told him to take phenobarbital for chest pain, and recommended bed rest. A massive heart attack killed him at age 46. They can do a lot more for heart patients these days. However, the patient had best cooperate with the regimen. Dr. Dean Ornish (I'm always namedropping, even if it's over a mere matter of mortality) sent me a note, and offered his support. Years ago, he warned me about the perils of a bad family history. Have you ever seen his Reversing Heart Disease Diet? Sheesh. One is expected to eat little except nuts and berries, sort of a post-nuclear holocaust menu. Birdseed for the rest of my life. That's for the birds. OK, OK. I get it. You may expect a tweet from me.
This is the punishment for all the sybaritic times that I've had. Durance vile. I will be reduced to furtively peering into deli cases, and harboring impure thoughts about the mortadella.
"Listen," I said to the nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, as she added anti-coagulants to my IV, "If I water down my drinks, will my blood be thinner, too?"
The smartass question went dutifully ignored.
But I wasn't ignored. Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the people at St. Francis, St. Mary's and General Hospitals. And I'm grateful to Dr. Debbie Brown, Dr. Harvey Caplan, and Dr. Mary Gray. Yes, I have a Dr. Brown, and a Dr. Gray. I'll get to the pastels one of these days. Lots of other non-medical people were really sweet to me, too. Grateful I am, though I once published a sentiment that read, "When you start counting your blessings, you're really screwed."
Yes, these dark habits are hard to break.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, and writes for the Northside. Send him an encouraging word at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Bellingham by the Bay,Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
Perhaps July is the coolest month. Coldest in 40 years, they say. So they say. I felt so bad for the tourists who were freezing while standing in line at Swan Oyster Depot on Polk Street, I wanted to go across the street to Walgreens, and buy them mittens. Then I saw a man on Polk and Sacto. turn in for the night at 8 o'clock, grip his blanket, and try to sleep on the sidewalk. ...
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
###
A chilly month indeed. What would Mark Twain say? (You know he supposedly said that famous line about the frigid San Francisco summers.) What would Mark Twain not say? He did say this: "Now I hate to tell a plain truth, bit I must -- the bulk of San Francisco's liberality seems sometimes actuated by a love of applause." ...
Plain truth ... that's gotta sting a little. ...
July was a great month for the warm, specious sensation of Schadenfreude, with all of the public humiliations that celebrities have endured -- Mel Gibson's dark excursions, Lindsay Lohan's Day of Reckoning, Whitney Houston going unglued, Charlie Sheen's continuing private chaos -- most of us can all feel better about ourselves. We have all these people to sneer at. Where would we be without knowing that people actually attend tractor-pull competitions, people over whom we can really feel superior?
Gee, I can provide my own humiliations. But, I imagine, they are not so interesting. I could always audition for Stumbling with the Stars.
Times have changed. There is no more expectation of privacy. Hardly. I recall when Joe DiMaggio lived in the Marina. His disdain for media attention was palpable. Reporters backed off. They were sore afraid. If he was recognized while sauntering along Marina Blvd. or even when he was standing in line at the Red Cross Shelter at the Marina Middle School in the days following the Loma Prieta earthquake, Joltin' Joe would wince when someone would call out his name. My brother, Jack and I, saw him once and said hello. Jack was a DiMaggio devotee, we backed off from the bad vibes that Joe emitted. No wonder he could intimidate all of Yankee Stadium and those therein. Perhaps Joe recalled how Marilyn Monroe would thrive on the adoration of the world that she encouraged, and purr at the sight of the ever-present camera lenses. ... Truth is, Joe DiMaggio was a confidante of Vic Ramus, who owned the Horseshoe Tavern on Chestnut Street in the old days. They were old friends. Stefan Wever owns the saloon now. I saw Joe open and up, and be chatty with people he trusted, when Vic was there. As I mentioned, times have changed.
One the topic of fame, I hear Chris Isaak is a heavy contender for being the next Simon Cowell on American Idol. Chris seems to be awfully nice for the gig, but it would be refreshing to see some civility for a change, particularly from a San Francisco boy. Just as long as Chris keeps singing. Rod McKuen says of American Idol, "The producers have a lot to answer for." He means there will be a Day of Judgment for the show's success at marketing cruelty and freak-show antics. But punishment does not seem to be in the offing. On the contrary, the program has become a way of life. ...
Now that the Washington Square Bar & Grill is closed during the daytime hours, where does that leave the North Beach dinosaurs who used to slake their thirst at the bar? Well many are gone, I'm afraid. Where's Michael McCourt? He's counseling troubled persons who arrive on the shores shoeless, and without portfolio. That's what I hear. Where are the great characters? I was straightened out on this topic. They are still here. Did you see the ads on the buses? "San Francisco is full of characters." And I saw, as part of the PR campaign, a picture of Shrek. Yes, Shrek. This invention of Hollywood movies is supposed to be a S.F. character. Well, all right, there were days when I woke up looking like Shrek. But never waking up with Shrek, for Gawd's sakes. The auslanders have taken over San Francisco culture, for sure. ...
One of the best addition to the San Francisco landscape in Richard Rodriguez, who is a terrific writer and former essayist on the former Lehrer News Hour. Now it's called the PBS NewsHour.
"Jim Lehrer fired me," Richard explained to me when I ran into him on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights, his neighborhood. "Jim doesn't want essays on the air any more. After his friend, Roger Rosenblatt left, Jim abandoned the whole idea of people having commentaries. It wasn't a very good environment for writers who might have something to say. So, I was gone." ...
Liam, who used to own the S.N.O.B. Wine Bar, wants it known that he's changed the name to The Pour House. ... Down the street, the Lush Lounge, since it moved from its digs on the east side of Polk & Post, is going great guns. "Drinks are cheap, the company's friendly," sputters a seasoned local. ... I asked my cardiologist, "I I watered down my drinks, then I could thin out my blood?" She did not think that was funny. Apparently blood can be thinner than water. Well, some jokes can wear thin, too. ...
Some of us are just downright shellfish. Katie Baker, writing on the SF Appeal website, swears she saw something that looked like a lobster, painfully trundling itself along the promenade in the northern part of Golden Gate Park. Not so astonishing to me. Surely you recall Gérard de Nerval, the poet who walked his lobster on a leash on the streets of Paris during the early part of the 19th century. Ah, to be a boulevardier once again. Perhaps there are a few of these characters left, brazenly dragging their shellfish pals along the winding walkways of Golden Gate Park. Lobsters, as you know, can be notoriously uncooperative, particularly when they sense they are in the vicinity of a gurgling vivoir in a Richmond District seafood house where their crustacean cousins are awaiting their fiery fate. Besides, lobsters really do not like being schlepped from place to place on a leather tether. Given the chance, they'll make a run for it. Who could blame them? It is understandable that they long for the halcyon days when lobsters, with their ragged claws, could scuttle freely across the floors of the silent seas. Free the lobsters! Citizens, strike a blow for the Republic! ...
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. His doctors say it would be a good idea for him to walk his lobster as often as possible these days. Hold the butter. What do you think? e-mail bruce@northsidesf.com
###
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, August, 2010
After that rather cryptic dispatch was printed in this paper last month about me, that is, "Bruce went on a vacation that no one would envy" or something like that, I feel I have some explaining to do for the readers.
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street. "You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
No, I am not in jail with Lindsay Lohan. That punishment would be too cruel, and certainly too unusual for the poor, misbegotten woman. She's suffered enough.
I was in the hospital for a time. They call it a heart attack. Everything I see that fellow on TV, proffering drugs for some pharmaceutical firm, woefully claiming he had a heart attack at the age of 58, I say, "Shut up, already."
I'll tell you, I had no conventional symptoms -- no chest pain -- just felt really sick, as if the flu had been delivered to me in a big package by overnight mail.
I took a cab to St. Francis Hospital. That's my friendly neighborhood healing house, but they said I had to go to St. Mary's. I was transported by ambulance there. We couldn't fit all the paramedics in a taxi, I guess. Suddenly it all became very dramatic and terrifying. Enough to give one high blood pressure. Lots of people were involved. I was embarrassed by troubling them that much.
I sensed disdain from the staff as I was wheeled into an operating room. They cut off my underwear with a pair of scissors. Imagine. I hardly know them. Everyone looked grim. I felt guilty. I think they knew that I knew that I was not exactly a health nut for the past couple of years. I thought I could eat anything, and drink everything. Why take my underwear? They had to insert a needle into my groin. It's called an angioplasty. It introduces a stent to clear a blocked artery. Yes, a blood clot. All of the menudo, and margaritas had caught up with me.
I was flushed with anti-coagulants. I said to a nurse, "If I water down my drinks, will that help thin my blood?"
She didn't think that was funny. It was a week with a shortage of humor, I'm afraid.
Later, Dr. Debbie Brown would say to me, "You romanticize the wicked life of a writer too much. maybe Herb Caen could have gotten away with it until he was 900 years old. That doesn't mean you can." Yes, Dr. Brown knew of my affiliation to Herb Caen. Herb was 80 when he died, by the way. He might have said, "You can stay away from hooch, rich food, no sleep, and bad company. You may not live forever. It will just seem like it."
Perhaps the worst part of all this is getting yelled at afterwards. Everyone yelled at me: "How come you didn't tell me?" All that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, I did not know what was going on. I didn't think to pick up the phone to call.
I'm sorry about that, people.
Perhaps, like Thomas Jefferson, I should have a conversation with my heart. I certainly owe that still-beating beast an apology, too. I once owned a Morris Minor. I was only a kid when I was driving the Morris in Golden Gate Park when the front left wheel fell off. The mechanic said to me, incredulously, "You sure like to ride them right into the ground, don't you?"
I've been doing it ever since.
Remember that old Lightnin' Hopkins song? "My starter won't start this morning/My motor won't even turn."
It just comes to mind.
A few days after the hospital stay --- yes, that vacation you don't want to take -- I got a call from the ambulance company. They said I owe them $1,876.00 for my excursion to St. Mary's Hospital. Imagine that. I didn't even use the mini-bar. I'm not sure what kind of tip I should leave. I'm still gobsmacked by the cost of the trip across town. But the fellow was nice, as was everyone at St. Francis, and St. Mary's. With all these saints, how could I lose?
A saintly nurse at the Castro-Mission Clinic said, "Oh yes, it's you. I saw your chart. You're lucky to be alive." And so I am.
If this long list of medical facilities bewilder you, well, how do you think I feel? The list is longer, but will skip that for now.
This is not meant to be a cautionary tale. We're all grownups here. But for all the complaining I do about San Francisco, and how it has slipped into a funky condition, I have to say they provide comprehensive health insurance that saved a wretch like me. Talk about pre-existing conditions. I got out of the hospital on a Friday. Monday, I'm in the office of Healthy San Francisco on 25th Street. "You had a heart attack?" asked the friendly chap. "I think we can help you out."
Imagine that.
A whole cadre of persons helped me out so my final word -- as yet -- does not have to be so final.
Bruce Bellingham is a writer from the Northside, and the Marina Times. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com. Tell him something encouraging.
###
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Bellingham by the Bay,Northside San Francisco, March 2010
Myles O’Reilly is putting the wearing of the green back into Green Street this St. Patrick’s Day. After a four-year ban, Myles has been given permission by the S.F.P.D. to close down Green Street in front of his O’Reilly’s Irish Pub & Restaurant to hold a day-long St. Pat’s party again. There’s a new boss at Central Station, Capt. Anna Brown. “She’s much more sympathetic to the concerns of businesspeople in North Beach,” says Chiching Herlihy, who works with Myles. “It’s so encouraging to see someone on our side for a change.” Chiching also says the restaurant has hired a gaggle of wee people, that is, dwarves who can play leprechauns as part of the entertainment. You know the old saying: bad audition, good performance. Something like that.
Chiching held an open call for leprechauns. Some of the "little people" did not like the competition. The exchange of nasty words deteriorated into a physical brawl. There was a donnybrook of dwarves on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The cops had to break up the melee. Lots of biting, and scratching. That’s entertainment. It will be calmer for St. Pat’s, I’m sure. …
Bobby Mulhern, the general manager of the Golden Gate Yacht Club, is flooded with phone calls from around the world these days since word got out that the club will be the new home for the America’s Cup trophy. This is a really big deal for the little yacht club that could, just down the street on the Marina Green waterfront from the bigger, richer, St. Francis Yacht Club. “There’s no definite date for the arrival of the trophy,” says Bobby. “They have to build a special security case for the thing.” One element of security is to have Larry Ellison on board. “Every time he steps through the doors here,” Bobby explains,” Larry is nothing but a gentleman.” Insiders say San Francisco looks pretty good for being the host to the next America’s Cup race when the challenge arrives. That, in great part, is up to the gentleman from Oracle who walks through those doors at the Golden Gate Yacht Club – with the cooperation of the all-knowing authorities at City Hall. …
That report about DNA evidence linking Trailside Killer David Carpenter to the unsolved San Francisco killing in 1979 of Mary Bennett out at Lands End reminds me of Robert Graysmith's excellent book, The Sleeping Lady, the old Ohlone name for Mt. Tamapais, where many of the murders took place. Graysmith, who also wrote the famous Zodiac book, chronicles the murderous activities of Carpenter, and the dedicated homicide cop who finally tracked him down. The book scared me so much, I was afraid to go jogging for about two years. All right, so I wouldn't have gone jogging anyway. The late, great actor Robert Morley once observed, "Jogging is the most dangerous thing to happen to America since Vietnam." But Morley was talking about the general preservation of health, I suppose, not the hazard of encountering predators like Carpenter. One more word about Robert Graysmith. He is one of the great coffee house writers. He wrote in longhand every day at the Owl & Monkey Cafe on 9th Ave. in the Sunset. Sadly, it's long gone. I hope he's made enough money to buy his own cafe by now. My friend Diane Weissmuller was so fond of Robert Morley (two of her fave films are The Grand Bouffe & The Loved One) that she named her cat Morley: "Like the great actor, Morley's very large, very snooty, and very condescending." Since the cat learned how to get on Twitter, he's been quite incorrigible. …
I heard a coyote may have killed a cat on Russian Hill the other day. Coyotes on Russian Hill? Odd. I thought they were hanging at the Balboa Café, checking out the young bartenders. … Warren Hinckle has yet another signature basset hound to take the place of sweet, loyal, lugubrious Melman. He died recently at age12. Melman did not not succumb to the ravages of second-hand smut at the Mitchell Bros. "No," reports Eric Eckert, a keen observer of the tavern circuit, "Melman was killed by all the hot dogs that the locals would buy him at the Route 101 saloon on Van Ness." He died from a surfeit of sausages. Eric also says that Mr. Hinckle's new puppy is named Hunter, in honor of Warren's great, late friend, Hunter S. Thompson. ... Have you heard those stories about hostile toll-takers on the New Jersey Turnpike cursing at the motorists, and throwing the change into their faces? Ah, the Garden State, where they only grow thorns. Not to worry. Surely this sort of incivility can't take place here in California. We won't be seeing any change being returned to us for a long time. ...
Bruce Bellingham’s new book has a working title of I’m Too Old for Me. We’re beginning to suspect that he’s just been writing titles lately, but it would be too much trouble to confront him on this matter, Maybe you’d like to. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
Chiching held an open call for leprechauns. Some of the "little people" did not like the competition. The exchange of nasty words deteriorated into a physical brawl. There was a donnybrook of dwarves on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The cops had to break up the melee. Lots of biting, and scratching. That’s entertainment. It will be calmer for St. Pat’s, I’m sure. …
Bobby Mulhern, the general manager of the Golden Gate Yacht Club, is flooded with phone calls from around the world these days since word got out that the club will be the new home for the America’s Cup trophy. This is a really big deal for the little yacht club that could, just down the street on the Marina Green waterfront from the bigger, richer, St. Francis Yacht Club. “There’s no definite date for the arrival of the trophy,” says Bobby. “They have to build a special security case for the thing.” One element of security is to have Larry Ellison on board. “Every time he steps through the doors here,” Bobby explains,” Larry is nothing but a gentleman.” Insiders say San Francisco looks pretty good for being the host to the next America’s Cup race when the challenge arrives. That, in great part, is up to the gentleman from Oracle who walks through those doors at the Golden Gate Yacht Club – with the cooperation of the all-knowing authorities at City Hall. …
That report about DNA evidence linking Trailside Killer David Carpenter to the unsolved San Francisco killing in 1979 of Mary Bennett out at Lands End reminds me of Robert Graysmith's excellent book, The Sleeping Lady, the old Ohlone name for Mt. Tamapais, where many of the murders took place. Graysmith, who also wrote the famous Zodiac book, chronicles the murderous activities of Carpenter, and the dedicated homicide cop who finally tracked him down. The book scared me so much, I was afraid to go jogging for about two years. All right, so I wouldn't have gone jogging anyway. The late, great actor Robert Morley once observed, "Jogging is the most dangerous thing to happen to America since Vietnam." But Morley was talking about the general preservation of health, I suppose, not the hazard of encountering predators like Carpenter. One more word about Robert Graysmith. He is one of the great coffee house writers. He wrote in longhand every day at the Owl & Monkey Cafe on 9th Ave. in the Sunset. Sadly, it's long gone. I hope he's made enough money to buy his own cafe by now. My friend Diane Weissmuller was so fond of Robert Morley (two of her fave films are The Grand Bouffe & The Loved One) that she named her cat Morley: "Like the great actor, Morley's very large, very snooty, and very condescending." Since the cat learned how to get on Twitter, he's been quite incorrigible. …
I heard a coyote may have killed a cat on Russian Hill the other day. Coyotes on Russian Hill? Odd. I thought they were hanging at the Balboa Café, checking out the young bartenders. … Warren Hinckle has yet another signature basset hound to take the place of sweet, loyal, lugubrious Melman. He died recently at age12. Melman did not not succumb to the ravages of second-hand smut at the Mitchell Bros. "No," reports Eric Eckert, a keen observer of the tavern circuit, "Melman was killed by all the hot dogs that the locals would buy him at the Route 101 saloon on Van Ness." He died from a surfeit of sausages. Eric also says that Mr. Hinckle's new puppy is named Hunter, in honor of Warren's great, late friend, Hunter S. Thompson. ... Have you heard those stories about hostile toll-takers on the New Jersey Turnpike cursing at the motorists, and throwing the change into their faces? Ah, the Garden State, where they only grow thorns. Not to worry. Surely this sort of incivility can't take place here in California. We won't be seeing any change being returned to us for a long time. ...
Bruce Bellingham’s new book has a working title of I’m Too Old for Me. We’re beginning to suspect that he’s just been writing titles lately, but it would be too much trouble to confront him on this matter, Maybe you’d like to. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
The Final Word, Northside San Francisco, March 2010
Herbert Gold, San Francisco's famous novelist, approached me in the rain on Polk Street the other night. With his wet trench coat, and the rain running off the brim of his khaki hat in the shadows, he looked like a character out of The Third Man. Funny that, the author of The Third Man (he also wrote the screenplay for the classic movie) was Graham Greene. Greene was mad about the Caribbean. That's what Herb Gold wanted to talk to me about. Not about Vienna, where The Third Man takes place, but about Haiti, where Herb's been visiting off and on for decades. He's been there about 35 times. Herb loves Haiti. I've never heard anyone say anything less than glowing about Haiti, in terms of her soul, and her spirit. Herb wrote a famous book about Haiti called The Best Nightmare on Earth. That's a revealing title. It's hard to imagine a place on the planet that has had to endure more suffering. Since the earthquake that hit Haiti, the poorest nation in the hemisphere, killed 200,000 people two months ago Herb's heart has been breaking.
"Of course I want to go back," says Herb, "but I'm not sure if I wouldn't just get in the way. I'm a writer, not a doctor. I know people, friends of mine, who were killed. It's very difficult. Newspapers won't send reporters down there like they used to because of the economy. That could help, bringing more attention to this catastrophe."
Herb suggested I get in touch with a friend of his -- Dr. Yen-Len Tang, a pediatrician who works at Kaiser Hospital in Hayward.
I did.
Dr. Tang has been going down to Haiti since 2004, and left again just the other day for a month. His plans? To take care of sick, and injured Haitian children who are hospitalized out in the countryside.
What is so compelling about Haiti? Why does it have such a magical effect on so many who visit?
"Haiti is about chaotic growth, and decay at the same time," says Dr. Tang. "It's really quite magnificent.”
These are such mysterious signals, such contradictions.
"Many more people will die before the recovery happens, but I have to go back. During normal times, Haitians demonstrate incredible patience, show deep friendship, produce wonderful music, and food.”
Dr. Tang is paying his travel expenses, using vacation time he’s accrued at Kaiser. His will be living at Hospital Albert Schweitzer, an American-financed operation which provides health care for 300,000 people in central Haiti.
I wondered if he might be worried about his personal safety. He’s not, mostly because he will not be in the capital, Port-au-Prince, as things get grimmer. They will get grimmer before they get better. He also can speak Creole, the local lingo – a mix of French and the region’s ethnic African dialect. He’s divorced, and his kids are terribly proud of him. Dr. Tang went to Johns Hopkins Medical School, and trained at UCSF.
Will this journey into the post-earthquake darkness make him become a better doctor?
“I think so,” says Dr. Tang. “Obviously I am going to encounter children who are far sicker, far more badly injured that I would see in Hayward. I also see Haiti, a third-world country, showing signs of first-world problems, such as childhood obesity, and diabetes while the poor diseases, such as malnutrition, are rampant, too. They need our help, the help of the NGOs. I certainly get a lot out of being there.”
Herb Gold says there have been a lot of stupid things said about the disaster in Haiti – the vicious, and vile things that Pat Robertson, and Rush Limbaugh have said. Robertson said Haiti asked for the quake by making a pact with the devil all those years ago in order to gain independence from France.
“But,” added Herb, “for all of the putrid blathering from these morons, we still have someone like Dr. Yen-Len Tang, who shows real class, real kindness. That’s important to remember.”
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times, the sister publication. But Bruce doesn’t have any sisters. Perhaps this experience is good for him. Let him know one way or another. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
"Of course I want to go back," says Herb, "but I'm not sure if I wouldn't just get in the way. I'm a writer, not a doctor. I know people, friends of mine, who were killed. It's very difficult. Newspapers won't send reporters down there like they used to because of the economy. That could help, bringing more attention to this catastrophe."
Herb suggested I get in touch with a friend of his -- Dr. Yen-Len Tang, a pediatrician who works at Kaiser Hospital in Hayward.
I did.
Dr. Tang has been going down to Haiti since 2004, and left again just the other day for a month. His plans? To take care of sick, and injured Haitian children who are hospitalized out in the countryside.
What is so compelling about Haiti? Why does it have such a magical effect on so many who visit?
"Haiti is about chaotic growth, and decay at the same time," says Dr. Tang. "It's really quite magnificent.”
These are such mysterious signals, such contradictions.
"Many more people will die before the recovery happens, but I have to go back. During normal times, Haitians demonstrate incredible patience, show deep friendship, produce wonderful music, and food.”
Dr. Tang is paying his travel expenses, using vacation time he’s accrued at Kaiser. His will be living at Hospital Albert Schweitzer, an American-financed operation which provides health care for 300,000 people in central Haiti.
I wondered if he might be worried about his personal safety. He’s not, mostly because he will not be in the capital, Port-au-Prince, as things get grimmer. They will get grimmer before they get better. He also can speak Creole, the local lingo – a mix of French and the region’s ethnic African dialect. He’s divorced, and his kids are terribly proud of him. Dr. Tang went to Johns Hopkins Medical School, and trained at UCSF.
Will this journey into the post-earthquake darkness make him become a better doctor?
“I think so,” says Dr. Tang. “Obviously I am going to encounter children who are far sicker, far more badly injured that I would see in Hayward. I also see Haiti, a third-world country, showing signs of first-world problems, such as childhood obesity, and diabetes while the poor diseases, such as malnutrition, are rampant, too. They need our help, the help of the NGOs. I certainly get a lot out of being there.”
Herb Gold says there have been a lot of stupid things said about the disaster in Haiti – the vicious, and vile things that Pat Robertson, and Rush Limbaugh have said. Robertson said Haiti asked for the quake by making a pact with the devil all those years ago in order to gain independence from France.
“But,” added Herb, “for all of the putrid blathering from these morons, we still have someone like Dr. Yen-Len Tang, who shows real class, real kindness. That’s important to remember.”
Bruce Bellingham also writes for the Marina Times, the sister publication. But Bruce doesn’t have any sisters. Perhaps this experience is good for him. Let him know one way or another. E-mail him at bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Christmas Curmudgeon, December 2009
Some of us find it easy to be cynical this time of year. Everyone should have a hobby, even if it's cynicism. But it would be unseemly to pick on the holidays right now when so many people are feeling apprehensive and vulnerable. That is, just plain scared out of their wits. I never liked this expression very much -- "Things could be worse" -- because it's facile and dismissive. And quite meaningless. Having said that (another meaningless expression), it's heartening to know that Timothy Geithner has not ordered the suspension of Christmas until fiscal 2011 or that, to my knowledge, there is no Home Shoplifting Channel on cable right now. Not yet.
Recently Tony Bennett was asked what it was like to grow up during the Great Depression. His answer was surprising: "It was terrific," Tony said. "Everyone knew their neighbor, and everyone looked out for each other. It was a great time."
Tony always kept his glass half-full.
In the past, it was traditional to make a meek request for tidings of comfort and joy. All right. So we lost joy in the stock market. We'll settle for simple comfort this year. That's what people really want. They want to feel safe again. They want something or someone to hold onto. There is uncertainty everywhere. It's a good time to be in love. It's a good time to find comfort wherever it may be found.
I find comfort by walking through dog-friendly and somewhat people-friendly Huntington Park atop Nob Hill. Grace Cathedral stands over the park with a stately, Gothic, timeless reassurance. I find comfort by gazing down California Street in the custody of the clattering cable cars, and see the smart, sharp outlines of white lights that frame the Embarcadero Centers this time of year. This looks like San Francisco is all dressed-up for a holiday party, in a tux, looking terribly grown-up. There was a time when sophistication without pretentiousness was a valuable thing. Perhaps that was a pretentious thing to say. I'll risk it.
My old friend, The Christmas Curmudgeon, is not pretentious. He keeps his glass half-empty. That's because he's always spilling his drink.
I caught a glimpse of the half-empty curmudgeon the other night. He was lurking under the half-moon amid the shadows in Huntington Park, at the annual Tree Lighting Ceremony. The Christmas Curmudgeon is not a cynic. He simply can't enjoy himself while others are suffering. There's compassion underneath his crusty exterior. He still embraces enough humanity to be outraged. But no one was outraged this evening as the holiday lights suddenly illuminated the trees in the park. There was a sigh of pleasure from the crowd.
The genteel, unflappable Simon Harrington, the Big 4's food & beverage director, handed out cups of hot chocolate. The S.F. Girls Chorus sang like angels before the park's fountain. It was all very comforting.
I saw a familiar-looking couple standing off by themselves, silhouetted by the cathedral lights. They were oblivious to the world, and paid no attention to this eavesdropper.
The half-moon, showing itself through the clouds, hovered in the black sky.
I sauntered closer to the couple. She whispered hopefully, anxiously, to him, "It's going to be a good Christmas this year, isn't it?"
He murmured to her with all the courage he could muster, holding her close to him, feeling her tremble: "Yes, my darling, it’s going to be the best."
Bruce Bellingham is crazy about the holidays. He thinks everyone should be happy this time of the year, and should be filled with the spirit of comfort & joy – in the words of Gavin Newsom – whether you like it or not. Talk to Bruce at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Recently Tony Bennett was asked what it was like to grow up during the Great Depression. His answer was surprising: "It was terrific," Tony said. "Everyone knew their neighbor, and everyone looked out for each other. It was a great time."
Tony always kept his glass half-full.
In the past, it was traditional to make a meek request for tidings of comfort and joy. All right. So we lost joy in the stock market. We'll settle for simple comfort this year. That's what people really want. They want to feel safe again. They want something or someone to hold onto. There is uncertainty everywhere. It's a good time to be in love. It's a good time to find comfort wherever it may be found.
I find comfort by walking through dog-friendly and somewhat people-friendly Huntington Park atop Nob Hill. Grace Cathedral stands over the park with a stately, Gothic, timeless reassurance. I find comfort by gazing down California Street in the custody of the clattering cable cars, and see the smart, sharp outlines of white lights that frame the Embarcadero Centers this time of year. This looks like San Francisco is all dressed-up for a holiday party, in a tux, looking terribly grown-up. There was a time when sophistication without pretentiousness was a valuable thing. Perhaps that was a pretentious thing to say. I'll risk it.
My old friend, The Christmas Curmudgeon, is not pretentious. He keeps his glass half-empty. That's because he's always spilling his drink.
I caught a glimpse of the half-empty curmudgeon the other night. He was lurking under the half-moon amid the shadows in Huntington Park, at the annual Tree Lighting Ceremony. The Christmas Curmudgeon is not a cynic. He simply can't enjoy himself while others are suffering. There's compassion underneath his crusty exterior. He still embraces enough humanity to be outraged. But no one was outraged this evening as the holiday lights suddenly illuminated the trees in the park. There was a sigh of pleasure from the crowd.
The genteel, unflappable Simon Harrington, the Big 4's food & beverage director, handed out cups of hot chocolate. The S.F. Girls Chorus sang like angels before the park's fountain. It was all very comforting.
I saw a familiar-looking couple standing off by themselves, silhouetted by the cathedral lights. They were oblivious to the world, and paid no attention to this eavesdropper.
The half-moon, showing itself through the clouds, hovered in the black sky.
I sauntered closer to the couple. She whispered hopefully, anxiously, to him, "It's going to be a good Christmas this year, isn't it?"
He murmured to her with all the courage he could muster, holding her close to him, feeling her tremble: "Yes, my darling, it’s going to be the best."
Bruce Bellingham is crazy about the holidays. He thinks everyone should be happy this time of the year, and should be filled with the spirit of comfort & joy – in the words of Gavin Newsom – whether you like it or not. Talk to Bruce at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Sunday, October 25, 2009
When October Goes ... Northside San Francisco, Nov. 2009
October was chock full of activity, lots of things to talk about at the office water cooler. That is, if people still had jobs to go to at the office. Popular topic: Two Northwest Airlines pilots overflew Minneapolis by 150 miles. They may have been asleep. I admire those pilots. I can never sleep on airplanes. ... Did you know that every year, more people get killed by donkeys than by plane crashes? "What does that mean?" asks Edwin Heaven. "Never ever ever fly Donkey Airlines." ... It was hard to escape the Balloon Boy story. The minute people found out the kid was all right, they wanted someone to punish. The Balloon Boy's daddy will pay the price for inventing a hoax. Some hoax. Kid's stuff, if you will. Here's a real hoax: the war in Iraq. ...
October brought a lot of recollections of the Loma Prieta earthquake, 20 years on. Art Agnos told 300 people at Ft. Mason's Cowell Theatre that one of his proudest moments as mayor was to press for the demolition of what Herb Caen called "the Dambarcadero Freeway." Before that grey monstrosity on the waterfront became our Tectonic Parkway, like the Cypress in Oakland, the Board of Supervisors agreed to tear it down. The measure, Agnos recalled, passed by only one vote. ...
There were laughs, but more tears as 500 mourners celebrated the life of Ray Piccinini at Sts. Peter & Paul on Oct. 7. Ashling Cole sang well & soulfully. Over the years, Ray was a popular waiter at Enrico's, Jovanello's & The Stinking Rose. He was equally famous for cheering up sick kids at various hospitals on Easter. After the Mass, a procession of fans, friends & family carried flower arrangements down Columbus to The Stinking Rose for a farewell party. ... Jimmy Hamilton, the screenwriter who worked with Sam Peckinpah, & would grace the Washington Square Bar & Grill with his bonhomie, died last month. He was 79. Jimmy was also at times a longshoreman like his old friend, the late Johnny Weissmuller Jr. They were big men in all the right ways. The North Beach literati, including Tony Dingman, Curt Gentry, Ron Fimrite & Michael McCourt were part of the tribute to Mr. Hamilton at the Sausalito Cruising Club on Oct. 17. One of my favorite lines from Cross of Iron, the movie he wrote for Peckinpah: “I believe God is a sadist, but probably doesn’t even know it.” Jimmy Hamilton was anything but a sadist. “He was truly one of the kindest men I ever knew,” said a wistful Diane Weissmuller. …
Robert Plant was in town for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass show, but simply had to catch a rugby match on TV while here. He wandered into the Nob Hill neighborhood bar, the Hydeout, and asked Kelly O’Blennis, who was pouring the drinks, how he could see some “English football.” She said it was not usually available. Producing a C-note, he asked if something could be arranged. The next day, Mr. Plant was happy with his rugby & his Tanquerary & tonics, hiding at the Hydeout. Kelly wasn’t quite sure who he was: “I saw an old, ugly guy with a really beautiful young girl, so I figured he had to be somebody.” …
There were other water cooler stories from last month. NASA crashed a vehicle the size of an SUV into the moon. I can understand that. What I can't understand is why Lindsay Lohan was at the controls. ... Ernie Beyl says he wants to read Sarah Palin’s new book – as soon as the English translation is available. … Sharon Anderson heard that Tom Cable, head coach of the star-crossed Raiders, is off the hook for an assault charge. “Perhaps he’d be more useful in Afghanistan,” says Sharon. … Rush Limbaugh dropped his effort to be a part owner of the St. Louis Rams. Maybe he found out colored people were on the team. Too bad for Rush. The NFL has access to all those painkillers. … Edwin Heaven muses, “The ultimate irony would be if Michael Vick developed a medical condition which requires an assistance dog.” …
The aforementioned Ms. Anderson was in town last month. I was happy to show her some of the brighter spots on a Sat. morning that included Diva’s, the tranny bar in Polk Gulch, & a wonderful breakfast at Little Henry’s Italian Food, 955 Larkin at Post. Henry & his wife, Jade, are terrific people. Their place in the Tenderloin draws real characters: cops, pensioners, politicos, aging hippies, hustlers, bohunks and hornswogglers – and some real nice local folks. Jade suggests that all of us come for dinner the night before Thanksgiving to relieve the stress of the holiday. Then come back Thanksgiving Day, too. Last year they served 42 turkeys, & many more people. …
Here it is, November. Norm Goldblatt is already thinking of the holidays at the close of this most rewarding year. “It’s like the old Jewish joke,” says Norm. “Grandmother gives the kid two shirts for Hanukkah. He comes downstairs wearing one. Grandmother says,” What's wrong? You don’t like the other one?” … Did I mention October also marked 80 years since the Big Wall Street crash? And this month it will be 100 years since Johnny Mercer was born in Savannah (Nov. 18). Lee Lessack & Linda Purl will celebrate Mercer’s life of song at the Rrazz Room, Nov. 23-25. Check out www.therrazzroom.com. Mercer wrote: “I should be over it now. I know it doesn’t matter much how old I grow. I hate to see October go.” … I dunno, Johnny. I’m not so sorry to see October go. …
Bruce Bellingham is working on a book with the working title, The Remorse Code, where the narrator’s intransigence is only outmatched by his recalcitrance. It will be published in 2050. Or so. Meanwhile you may reach Bellingham at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
October brought a lot of recollections of the Loma Prieta earthquake, 20 years on. Art Agnos told 300 people at Ft. Mason's Cowell Theatre that one of his proudest moments as mayor was to press for the demolition of what Herb Caen called "the Dambarcadero Freeway." Before that grey monstrosity on the waterfront became our Tectonic Parkway, like the Cypress in Oakland, the Board of Supervisors agreed to tear it down. The measure, Agnos recalled, passed by only one vote. ...
There were laughs, but more tears as 500 mourners celebrated the life of Ray Piccinini at Sts. Peter & Paul on Oct. 7. Ashling Cole sang well & soulfully. Over the years, Ray was a popular waiter at Enrico's, Jovanello's & The Stinking Rose. He was equally famous for cheering up sick kids at various hospitals on Easter. After the Mass, a procession of fans, friends & family carried flower arrangements down Columbus to The Stinking Rose for a farewell party. ... Jimmy Hamilton, the screenwriter who worked with Sam Peckinpah, & would grace the Washington Square Bar & Grill with his bonhomie, died last month. He was 79. Jimmy was also at times a longshoreman like his old friend, the late Johnny Weissmuller Jr. They were big men in all the right ways. The North Beach literati, including Tony Dingman, Curt Gentry, Ron Fimrite & Michael McCourt were part of the tribute to Mr. Hamilton at the Sausalito Cruising Club on Oct. 17. One of my favorite lines from Cross of Iron, the movie he wrote for Peckinpah: “I believe God is a sadist, but probably doesn’t even know it.” Jimmy Hamilton was anything but a sadist. “He was truly one of the kindest men I ever knew,” said a wistful Diane Weissmuller. …
Robert Plant was in town for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass show, but simply had to catch a rugby match on TV while here. He wandered into the Nob Hill neighborhood bar, the Hydeout, and asked Kelly O’Blennis, who was pouring the drinks, how he could see some “English football.” She said it was not usually available. Producing a C-note, he asked if something could be arranged. The next day, Mr. Plant was happy with his rugby & his Tanquerary & tonics, hiding at the Hydeout. Kelly wasn’t quite sure who he was: “I saw an old, ugly guy with a really beautiful young girl, so I figured he had to be somebody.” …
There were other water cooler stories from last month. NASA crashed a vehicle the size of an SUV into the moon. I can understand that. What I can't understand is why Lindsay Lohan was at the controls. ... Ernie Beyl says he wants to read Sarah Palin’s new book – as soon as the English translation is available. … Sharon Anderson heard that Tom Cable, head coach of the star-crossed Raiders, is off the hook for an assault charge. “Perhaps he’d be more useful in Afghanistan,” says Sharon. … Rush Limbaugh dropped his effort to be a part owner of the St. Louis Rams. Maybe he found out colored people were on the team. Too bad for Rush. The NFL has access to all those painkillers. … Edwin Heaven muses, “The ultimate irony would be if Michael Vick developed a medical condition which requires an assistance dog.” …
The aforementioned Ms. Anderson was in town last month. I was happy to show her some of the brighter spots on a Sat. morning that included Diva’s, the tranny bar in Polk Gulch, & a wonderful breakfast at Little Henry’s Italian Food, 955 Larkin at Post. Henry & his wife, Jade, are terrific people. Their place in the Tenderloin draws real characters: cops, pensioners, politicos, aging hippies, hustlers, bohunks and hornswogglers – and some real nice local folks. Jade suggests that all of us come for dinner the night before Thanksgiving to relieve the stress of the holiday. Then come back Thanksgiving Day, too. Last year they served 42 turkeys, & many more people. …
Here it is, November. Norm Goldblatt is already thinking of the holidays at the close of this most rewarding year. “It’s like the old Jewish joke,” says Norm. “Grandmother gives the kid two shirts for Hanukkah. He comes downstairs wearing one. Grandmother says,” What's wrong? You don’t like the other one?” … Did I mention October also marked 80 years since the Big Wall Street crash? And this month it will be 100 years since Johnny Mercer was born in Savannah (Nov. 18). Lee Lessack & Linda Purl will celebrate Mercer’s life of song at the Rrazz Room, Nov. 23-25. Check out www.therrazzroom.com. Mercer wrote: “I should be over it now. I know it doesn’t matter much how old I grow. I hate to see October go.” … I dunno, Johnny. I’m not so sorry to see October go. …
Bruce Bellingham is working on a book with the working title, The Remorse Code, where the narrator’s intransigence is only outmatched by his recalcitrance. It will be published in 2050. Or so. Meanwhile you may reach Bellingham at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Monday, September 28, 2009
Twenty Years On, Loma Prieta Quake Is Recalled
A strange thing about the Loma Prieta Earthquake, which struck the Bay Area twenty years ago this Oct. 17 with a 6.9 Richter Scale ferocity: it hit the Marina District particularly hard, compared to other parts of San Francisco. Four died in the Marina. The neighborhood was devastated. Fires broke out. Houses collapsed. Many were permanently driven from their homes. Yet just blocks away, north of Van Ness, in Cow Hollow and Pacific Heights, the glassware was intact. Not a dish was cracked. Odd that the serious damage in this area was contained to the Marina. Later we'd find out about the landfill and the precarious seismic state of the ground where homes were built in the 1920s, where people live today. Many live, it seems, without thinking about the next quake too often or perhaps not at all.
"This is landfill all right," a soil engineer said to me during the days following the quake. "And it's really lousy landfill."
The question will be heard over and over this month: Where we you when the quake hit twenty years ago, if you were here, of course?
It's easy for me to recall where I was at 5:04 p.m. on Oct. 17, 1989. I was on the radio. I'd read the local news updates to the afternoon show, "All Things Considered," on KQED-FM. I remember thinking what a dull story I was reading when the building began to shake violently. It threw my chair against the wall behind me.
I pulled myself back to the microphone, and spoke as calmly as a could, speaking to the engineer behind the glass, "You know, Jerry, I think we're having an earthquake -- a rather severe earthquake."
Jerry Neuman nodded, looking for a way to get out of the studio at 8th & Bryant. You'll recall that area is also built on landfill. The shaking seemed to go on forever, but it was only fifteen seconds. Suddenly we were plunged into darkness, and we were knocked off the air. As I made my way out of the darkened building, there was pandemonium in the hallway. There was no way to get back on the air. As the first temblor subsided, and the aftershocks began, I snapped into action: I went across the street to get a drink. In the saloon, the bartender was rattled. The TV sets that normally rested on high shelves were on the floor, picture tubes shattered. Bottles were there, too, a small sea of broken glass. In the street, high-voltage power lines were down, sputtering and crackling -- shooting sparks across the pavement as a weirdly still dusk settled over The City. Little by little I understood the staggering power of this quake. I walked back to the radio station, which was located under a freeway overpass. Several rivets from the steel roadway frame had popped at at unimaginable speed, like shells from a howitzer, shattering car windshields in the parking lot.
As I looked toward the north, I could see the glow on the horizon from a big fire in the Marina. I assumed the neighborhood -- and my home -- were history. Just like the films I saw of the 1906 quake, I also assumed San Francisco might be swallowed up in flames.
But it time it was clear that The City would survive, and, as I mentioned, most of the town went unscathed. Maybe that's because the epicenter was seventy miles to the south. The 1906 quake's center was a few miles off the Golden Gate. The vulnerable landfill parts of San Francisco provided a map of where the worst would occur next time. A few blocks from the radio station, South-of-Market, an old, brick building on Bluxome St. crashed to the ground, crushing five people to death as they got into their cars. Many escaped injury by leaving work early that day to attend the World Series at Candlestick Park.
When I got back to the Marina, very late that night, I was stunned by the devastation. Buildings had keeled over. The fire that had incinerated scores of apartments was still smoldering. The ominous smell of gas still hovered in the air.
The liquid sand was still pumping out of the cracks in the ruptured sidewalks.
I still remember how still it was that night – not a hint of a breeze off the Bay – and very warm, unusually warm for San Francisco. That made a scary night even spookier. I guess this was what they call “earthquake weather.”
As for being a reporter who lived in the Marina, misery was not hard to find during the days and weeks that followed the quake. There was no running water nor electricity for weeks. The only businesses that were open, it seemed, were the bars. So many people fell off the wagon, it could have been covered as a traffic story. Even Joe DiMaggio had been displaced from his home on Francisco Street. That gives “Joltin’ Joe” new meaning. He joined the legions of homeless at the Marina Middle School, a temporary shelter. In fifteen seconds, the world had been altered dramatically. The Marina, which had been a sleepy village, had been discovered by the outside world, changing the neighborhood forever.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which includes a longer account of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Send your ideas to bruce@northsidesf.com
###
"This is landfill all right," a soil engineer said to me during the days following the quake. "And it's really lousy landfill."
The question will be heard over and over this month: Where we you when the quake hit twenty years ago, if you were here, of course?
It's easy for me to recall where I was at 5:04 p.m. on Oct. 17, 1989. I was on the radio. I'd read the local news updates to the afternoon show, "All Things Considered," on KQED-FM. I remember thinking what a dull story I was reading when the building began to shake violently. It threw my chair against the wall behind me.
I pulled myself back to the microphone, and spoke as calmly as a could, speaking to the engineer behind the glass, "You know, Jerry, I think we're having an earthquake -- a rather severe earthquake."
Jerry Neuman nodded, looking for a way to get out of the studio at 8th & Bryant. You'll recall that area is also built on landfill. The shaking seemed to go on forever, but it was only fifteen seconds. Suddenly we were plunged into darkness, and we were knocked off the air. As I made my way out of the darkened building, there was pandemonium in the hallway. There was no way to get back on the air. As the first temblor subsided, and the aftershocks began, I snapped into action: I went across the street to get a drink. In the saloon, the bartender was rattled. The TV sets that normally rested on high shelves were on the floor, picture tubes shattered. Bottles were there, too, a small sea of broken glass. In the street, high-voltage power lines were down, sputtering and crackling -- shooting sparks across the pavement as a weirdly still dusk settled over The City. Little by little I understood the staggering power of this quake. I walked back to the radio station, which was located under a freeway overpass. Several rivets from the steel roadway frame had popped at at unimaginable speed, like shells from a howitzer, shattering car windshields in the parking lot.
As I looked toward the north, I could see the glow on the horizon from a big fire in the Marina. I assumed the neighborhood -- and my home -- were history. Just like the films I saw of the 1906 quake, I also assumed San Francisco might be swallowed up in flames.
But it time it was clear that The City would survive, and, as I mentioned, most of the town went unscathed. Maybe that's because the epicenter was seventy miles to the south. The 1906 quake's center was a few miles off the Golden Gate. The vulnerable landfill parts of San Francisco provided a map of where the worst would occur next time. A few blocks from the radio station, South-of-Market, an old, brick building on Bluxome St. crashed to the ground, crushing five people to death as they got into their cars. Many escaped injury by leaving work early that day to attend the World Series at Candlestick Park.
When I got back to the Marina, very late that night, I was stunned by the devastation. Buildings had keeled over. The fire that had incinerated scores of apartments was still smoldering. The ominous smell of gas still hovered in the air.
The liquid sand was still pumping out of the cracks in the ruptured sidewalks.
I still remember how still it was that night – not a hint of a breeze off the Bay – and very warm, unusually warm for San Francisco. That made a scary night even spookier. I guess this was what they call “earthquake weather.”
As for being a reporter who lived in the Marina, misery was not hard to find during the days and weeks that followed the quake. There was no running water nor electricity for weeks. The only businesses that were open, it seemed, were the bars. So many people fell off the wagon, it could have been covered as a traffic story. Even Joe DiMaggio had been displaced from his home on Francisco Street. That gives “Joltin’ Joe” new meaning. He joined the legions of homeless at the Marina Middle School, a temporary shelter. In fifteen seconds, the world had been altered dramatically. The Marina, which had been a sleepy village, had been discovered by the outside world, changing the neighborhood forever.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay, which includes a longer account of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Send your ideas to bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Vampires Aren't What They Used to Be, Northside San Francisco, October 2009
Vampires are all the rage these days. There's a whole batch of new, popular vampire books, movies and TV shows. Small wonder. Most of the world is wobbling from the effects of economic anemia, inflicted on us by insatiable children of the night who've drained us of practically everything we have. Stories about vampires only reflect what's going on. While we were sleeping, someone was noshing on our necks, drinking the lifeblood from the collective body.
With his cape, and his Carpathian countenance, Bela Lugosi was the definitive vampire of cinema. Then movie vampires got younger, and prettier. Even the females. Vampires now come in every stripe. Even in pinstripes. Oh, there are also vegetarian vampires. Did you know that? They'll sink their teeth into your celery root when you're not looking. Then, without warning, they'll charge you $2.29 a pound for pinto beans. The real vampires in the world, robbing you of your energy, even your identity. Some people simply wear you down, even during a casual meeting. Others will nickel-and-dime you into paralyzing fatigue with credit card charges, sin taxes, and parking tickets. Vegetarian vampires can be as wearying as the other kind. Perhaps they have even a little more smugness than their carnivorous counterparts.
Even the Night of the Ghouls is not safe anymore. The Grinch stole Halloween this year. He foreclosed on the holiday. There will be no big parties in the streets of San Francisco. Too much money, too much trouble. Only the Big, Bad Bailed-Out Bankers can afford to throw parties these days. No matter. We're all getting too old for parties anyway. Our party's over. Besides, we have to be in good shape for All Saint's Day, that pious day after the debauchery of Halloween. My favorite day is All Souls' Day. It follows All Saints' Day. Membership has its privileges. Ah, but let's face it: saints and sinners alike, we're all in the same boat. Some of us just get better cabins, that's all. The difference between a saint, and a sinner is a process called transfiguration. That's the Catholic Church's version of Extreme Makeover. It makes for a dramatic change. For example, Sebastian looked pretty bad at one time, with about 135 arrows in him. Now, beatified, he looks terrific in that painting.
"There are three phases of life," says Charlie Mandel. "Youth, middle-age, and 'Gee, you look great!'"
St. Augustine found beauty in proportion. So did Hugh Hefner, but I think that's another story.
There's a new movie for younger audiences about John Keats, who famously observed, "Truth, beauty. Beauty, truth -- that is all."
But looks are fleeting in a temporal world. That's why the memories of people who were close to us are so valuable. We often recall them in their finer moments, remembering them with a simple beauty. These recollections transcend time, and push aside the nastiness of aging.
"Imagination is memory," said James Joyce.
On All Souls' Day, the departed are permitted to return to the world for the day. Just my luck. I probably owe them money. Nah, it's a day for reconciliation and forgiveness. With all its religious overtones, it also smacks of a ghost story. We all love ghost stories. The storied vampires, with their legendary immortality, and their dark sexuality, take up a big place in the realm of spooky tales.
Here, take the garlic, the crucifix, add them to your earthquake kit. We are certainly living in spooky times.
Bruce Bellingham, author of Bellingham by the Bay, is a big fan of classic horror films. But he finds nothing more terrifying these days than looking at the evening news. Tell him what you know: bruce@northsidesf.com
###
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Bellingham by the Bay, October 2009
Satire has been permanently ransacked. I mean, what's the use of continuing the effort to make fun of things when the surreal becomes the commonplace? One example is Tom DeLay's appearance on "Dancing with the Stars" last month when he cavorted about, and in karaoke style, mouthed the words to The Troggs' 1966 hit "Wild Thing." For a moment, even I was speechless. The Troggs, a Brit band, named their group as a lark after the term troglodyte. Life imitates art. Tom DeLay is the real thing. Next, they'll bring on Bernie Madoff to dance the hora and sing "Havah Nagilah." Tom DeLay gives crooks a bad name. While his associates remain in prison for cheating Native-Americans over fake casino schemes, Tom, a former pest controller before becoming a pest in the House of Representatives, now takes low-brow taste to new heights with the happy assistance of Disney ABC. Heigh-ho. Go, ahead, Tom, sue me. Then I can put on my hi-heel sneakers, and appear on "Dancing with the Defendants." ... Speaking of Disney, the new Disney Family Museum opens in the Presidio this month. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to know this. Perhaps Tom DeLay will greet you at the door. He’ll be dressed as Goofy. …
So glad that’s out of my system. … Charlie Mandel is reviving his old Media People publication, this one, online of course. “I want only positive, terrific writing from journalists these days,” says Charlie. “Emphasize positive.” Unlike the preceding paragraph, I guess. Charlie once said the USA Today is wonderful: “I learn less than I knew before I picked it up.” Not so positive. …Brandy Marts is positively the new President of the Board of the North Beach Chamber of Commerce. She assures me there’s no truth to the rumor that one of the saints at Peter and Paul will be laid off during the recession. Well, someone’s gotta celebrate Mass at Gino & Carlo. … Speaking of saints, we send good wishes to Ray Piccinini, the celebrated waiter at The Stinking Rose on Columbus, who’s in Kaiser recovering from a kidney problem. Ray so dazzled King Abdullah II of Jordan, and Queen Raina one night at the restaurant, the royal couple invited Frank and his wife Pamela to the palace in Amman for a visit. Ray’s no stranger to hospitals. He’s been cheering up sick kids there for over 40 years. …
Actors Joe Bologna and Renée Taylor haven’t been able to get back to S.F. lately, mostly tied up with rebuilding their house in Beverly Hills. Joe, droll as ever, says, “We had an unlimited budget and we exceeded it.” … Norm Goldblatt, also an assiduous watcher of the economy in Silicon Valley: “Still bad down here,” says Norm. “Special at Outback Steakhouse? Sub-prime Rib. Don't order it. Too risky.” ...
Mary Travers died on Sept. 16 at the age of 72. Of course she was the Mary in Peter, Paul & Mary. Her parents were journalists, and organizers of the Newspaper Guild. I ran into Mary back in the 1990's at the dim sum place on Battery Street, Yank Sing. Appropriate name, now that I think about it. I chatted her up at the bar. I asked her how she and the group got its hands on an obscure Bob Dylan song called, "Too Much of Nothing." Mary told me it was a song that Dylan couldn't fit it onto one of his LPs. "Speaking of old times," said I, "I was just talking to Enrico Banducci at his restaurant up in North Beach a little while ago. I bet he'd love to see you."
You'll recall that Peter, Paul & Mary got a break by playing at the hungry i in San Francisco, owned by Enrico in the wee, small hours of the 1960's.
She scribbled a note on a cocktail napkin for me to carry to Banducci, thanking him for launching her career.
I said to Mary, "This would a whole lot better if you just carry the note yourself."
She replied, "I can't. Too many years have passed. I'm too embarrassed to face him now."
I dutifully carried the cocktail napkin back to Enrico's, gave it to Banducci. Naturally, he regarded me with disgust, and said, "You couldn't do better than this? How come she didn't come in person?"
Mary was a real sweetheart, there was an air of kindness & authenticity about her.
Peter Yarrow, the Peter in Peter, Paul & Mary, sent me an e-mail after Mary died.
"Contrasting with the times when we were at odds or 'figuring it out'," wrote Peter, "when those moments of beautiful flight of spirits joined on stage, particularly at benefits and marches, or even when we found that 'sweet spot' in our testing and debating our differing perspectives on issues, or the aesthetic value of a piece of music or art, the sense of the security of our 'family' was reasserted. Such moments kept us humble in our awareness of the great privilege of our association and, of course, kept us together."
50 years of singing, fighting for causes or fighting each other, yet staying together, that's quite a legacy, a very positive one. … Heigh-ho …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s been wandering lately. Not so much a troglodyte – more of a Meanderthal. Get his attention at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
So glad that’s out of my system. … Charlie Mandel is reviving his old Media People publication, this one, online of course. “I want only positive, terrific writing from journalists these days,” says Charlie. “Emphasize positive.” Unlike the preceding paragraph, I guess. Charlie once said the USA Today is wonderful: “I learn less than I knew before I picked it up.” Not so positive. …Brandy Marts is positively the new President of the Board of the North Beach Chamber of Commerce. She assures me there’s no truth to the rumor that one of the saints at Peter and Paul will be laid off during the recession. Well, someone’s gotta celebrate Mass at Gino & Carlo. … Speaking of saints, we send good wishes to Ray Piccinini, the celebrated waiter at The Stinking Rose on Columbus, who’s in Kaiser recovering from a kidney problem. Ray so dazzled King Abdullah II of Jordan, and Queen Raina one night at the restaurant, the royal couple invited Frank and his wife Pamela to the palace in Amman for a visit. Ray’s no stranger to hospitals. He’s been cheering up sick kids there for over 40 years. …
Actors Joe Bologna and Renée Taylor haven’t been able to get back to S.F. lately, mostly tied up with rebuilding their house in Beverly Hills. Joe, droll as ever, says, “We had an unlimited budget and we exceeded it.” … Norm Goldblatt, also an assiduous watcher of the economy in Silicon Valley: “Still bad down here,” says Norm. “Special at Outback Steakhouse? Sub-prime Rib. Don't order it. Too risky.” ...
Mary Travers died on Sept. 16 at the age of 72. Of course she was the Mary in Peter, Paul & Mary. Her parents were journalists, and organizers of the Newspaper Guild. I ran into Mary back in the 1990's at the dim sum place on Battery Street, Yank Sing. Appropriate name, now that I think about it. I chatted her up at the bar. I asked her how she and the group got its hands on an obscure Bob Dylan song called, "Too Much of Nothing." Mary told me it was a song that Dylan couldn't fit it onto one of his LPs. "Speaking of old times," said I, "I was just talking to Enrico Banducci at his restaurant up in North Beach a little while ago. I bet he'd love to see you."
You'll recall that Peter, Paul & Mary got a break by playing at the hungry i in San Francisco, owned by Enrico in the wee, small hours of the 1960's.
She scribbled a note on a cocktail napkin for me to carry to Banducci, thanking him for launching her career.
I said to Mary, "This would a whole lot better if you just carry the note yourself."
She replied, "I can't. Too many years have passed. I'm too embarrassed to face him now."
I dutifully carried the cocktail napkin back to Enrico's, gave it to Banducci. Naturally, he regarded me with disgust, and said, "You couldn't do better than this? How come she didn't come in person?"
Mary was a real sweetheart, there was an air of kindness & authenticity about her.
Peter Yarrow, the Peter in Peter, Paul & Mary, sent me an e-mail after Mary died.
"Contrasting with the times when we were at odds or 'figuring it out'," wrote Peter, "when those moments of beautiful flight of spirits joined on stage, particularly at benefits and marches, or even when we found that 'sweet spot' in our testing and debating our differing perspectives on issues, or the aesthetic value of a piece of music or art, the sense of the security of our 'family' was reasserted. Such moments kept us humble in our awareness of the great privilege of our association and, of course, kept us together."
50 years of singing, fighting for causes or fighting each other, yet staying together, that's quite a legacy, a very positive one. … Heigh-ho …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s been wandering lately. Not so much a troglodyte – more of a Meanderthal. Get his attention at bruce@northsidesf.com
####
Thursday, August 27, 2009
In San Francisco, A Famous Watering Hole Celebrates 40 Years
About two-thousand revelers came out for a block party on Union Street -- between Laguna and Buchanan -- to celebrate 40 years of Perry's, the legendary saloon and restaurant, on a cool, sunny Sunday, Aug. 23.
Perry Butler, who has transformed his informal dining spot and popular watering hole into a franchise around the Bay, seemed to be enthralled by the turn-out.
The block was closed to traffic. Muni cooperated by running motorized buses on the 45-line to accommodate the celebrants. From a stage, music was provided by the jazz group California Honey Drops and The Sun Kings, a popular Beatles cover band.
"This is really terrific," Butler said to dozens of people as they grabbed his hand to offer congratulations. He seemed a little overwhelmed.
Cow Hollow was a sleepy little village when Butler opened Perry's in 1969, fashioned after P.J. Clarke's, the saloon on New York's East Side. Perry's soon altered the neighborhood, a loose collection of mom & pop groceries, a few drugstores, a hardware store or two, as it burgeoned into a hot single's spot with an urbane clientele. Perry's began to take on a life of its own. It created new life on the street. Much of the word was spread by stewardesses -- now called flight attendants -- who found Perry's to be a great place to unwind after the jets were cooled on the tarmac. Perry's became the place to go when in San Francisco.
"You should have been here in the old days," a seasoned vet of the Perry's 40-year experience said. "The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn't shown up yet. If you went home alone at the end of the night from Perry's, then something had to be really wrong with you."
Aside from the lusty single's scene, Perry's became a media hang-out, particularly for sports figures, and newspaper people. Herb Caen was often there, as was Charles McCabe. So was Ron Fimrite. Kevin Keating and Glenn Dorenbush made it their office. Scott Beach's stentorian voice was often heard booming at the bar. Johnny and Diane Weissmuller were convivial regulars.
"I first met Charles McCabe on a rainy night at Perry's," recalled Carole Vernier, Herb Caen's longtime assistant. "McCabe inadvertently stomped on my toes as he shambled out the front door. He broke my foot. It hurt like hell, but I was thrilled to meet him."
Ball players of every stripe would roll in. Chub Feeney, former president of baseball's National League, was a regular (his picture is still on the wall, along with a that of another regular, Hank Greenwald, who was a celebrity bartender on the two nights that led up to the street party). Other celebs behind the bar were Joe Montana, the Chronicle's Bruce Jenkins, Channel 2's Tom Vacar, former 49ers President Carmen Policy, and the unsinkable Willie Brown. Thing is, all bartenders at Perry's, whether former or current, are celebrities. Michael McCourt, Michael English, Paul McManus, Howie Mayser, Bob Tobias, Joe Nazzaro, Mike and Chris Fogarty, Billy and Tony Masarweh, and Kevin Young were among those in attendance.
"The party was an incredible success," said host Iain MacKinlay on Monday morning. "It was beyond our best expectations. And we're really feeling it today." It's hard to access just how many hamburgers were served in the restaurant. The dishwasher could not keep up, plastic cups of all sorts were soon brought out from the storeroom.
"There are people here today I haven't seen in years and years," said Ed Guelld, longtime San Francisco resident.
Indeed. Steve McPartlin, who used to be a Bay Area TV personality, winged in from Palm Beach, Fla. for the occasion.
"It's great to be here," he said, "but it saddens me to see so many businesses on Union Street shuttered. All the same, the turn-out of all these people today is really amazing."
There was a large coterie of old-timers in front of Perry's and inside the place, too, but the overwhelming numbers were comprised of younger people.
"This is a lot of fun," exclaimed Katie Johnson, a Cow Hollow resident in her 30s. "I feel like I'm part of the neighborhood. After all, everybody knows Perry's."
"Perry's means having a good time," gushed Dustin Moore. "I'll be coming here for the next forty years."
Why did Melissa Mahony go to the block party? "Why not?" she shrugged.
"I saw so many old-timers today, many of my old friends who opened Perry's," mused Elaine Robinson. "I saw a guy from way back who we used to call Buffalo. He told me he was in town for five days only. He said his liver wouldn't be able to take more than that." Buffalo? "Yes, in the old days, everyone had a nickname."
Ms. Robinson's nickname from the old days?
"I don't have to reveal everything," she said mysteriously. "Not even for old-times' sake."
###
Perry Butler, who has transformed his informal dining spot and popular watering hole into a franchise around the Bay, seemed to be enthralled by the turn-out.
The block was closed to traffic. Muni cooperated by running motorized buses on the 45-line to accommodate the celebrants. From a stage, music was provided by the jazz group California Honey Drops and The Sun Kings, a popular Beatles cover band.
"This is really terrific," Butler said to dozens of people as they grabbed his hand to offer congratulations. He seemed a little overwhelmed.
Cow Hollow was a sleepy little village when Butler opened Perry's in 1969, fashioned after P.J. Clarke's, the saloon on New York's East Side. Perry's soon altered the neighborhood, a loose collection of mom & pop groceries, a few drugstores, a hardware store or two, as it burgeoned into a hot single's spot with an urbane clientele. Perry's began to take on a life of its own. It created new life on the street. Much of the word was spread by stewardesses -- now called flight attendants -- who found Perry's to be a great place to unwind after the jets were cooled on the tarmac. Perry's became the place to go when in San Francisco.
"You should have been here in the old days," a seasoned vet of the Perry's 40-year experience said. "The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn't shown up yet. If you went home alone at the end of the night from Perry's, then something had to be really wrong with you."
Aside from the lusty single's scene, Perry's became a media hang-out, particularly for sports figures, and newspaper people. Herb Caen was often there, as was Charles McCabe. So was Ron Fimrite. Kevin Keating and Glenn Dorenbush made it their office. Scott Beach's stentorian voice was often heard booming at the bar. Johnny and Diane Weissmuller were convivial regulars.
"I first met Charles McCabe on a rainy night at Perry's," recalled Carole Vernier, Herb Caen's longtime assistant. "McCabe inadvertently stomped on my toes as he shambled out the front door. He broke my foot. It hurt like hell, but I was thrilled to meet him."
Ball players of every stripe would roll in. Chub Feeney, former president of baseball's National League, was a regular (his picture is still on the wall, along with a that of another regular, Hank Greenwald, who was a celebrity bartender on the two nights that led up to the street party). Other celebs behind the bar were Joe Montana, the Chronicle's Bruce Jenkins, Channel 2's Tom Vacar, former 49ers President Carmen Policy, and the unsinkable Willie Brown. Thing is, all bartenders at Perry's, whether former or current, are celebrities. Michael McCourt, Michael English, Paul McManus, Howie Mayser, Bob Tobias, Joe Nazzaro, Mike and Chris Fogarty, Billy and Tony Masarweh, and Kevin Young were among those in attendance.
"The party was an incredible success," said host Iain MacKinlay on Monday morning. "It was beyond our best expectations. And we're really feeling it today." It's hard to access just how many hamburgers were served in the restaurant. The dishwasher could not keep up, plastic cups of all sorts were soon brought out from the storeroom.
"There are people here today I haven't seen in years and years," said Ed Guelld, longtime San Francisco resident.
Indeed. Steve McPartlin, who used to be a Bay Area TV personality, winged in from Palm Beach, Fla. for the occasion.
"It's great to be here," he said, "but it saddens me to see so many businesses on Union Street shuttered. All the same, the turn-out of all these people today is really amazing."
There was a large coterie of old-timers in front of Perry's and inside the place, too, but the overwhelming numbers were comprised of younger people.
"This is a lot of fun," exclaimed Katie Johnson, a Cow Hollow resident in her 30s. "I feel like I'm part of the neighborhood. After all, everybody knows Perry's."
"Perry's means having a good time," gushed Dustin Moore. "I'll be coming here for the next forty years."
Why did Melissa Mahony go to the block party? "Why not?" she shrugged.
"I saw so many old-timers today, many of my old friends who opened Perry's," mused Elaine Robinson. "I saw a guy from way back who we used to call Buffalo. He told me he was in town for five days only. He said his liver wouldn't be able to take more than that." Buffalo? "Yes, in the old days, everyone had a nickname."
Ms. Robinson's nickname from the old days?
"I don't have to reveal everything," she said mysteriously. "Not even for old-times' sake."
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Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Bellingham by the Bay, for Northside San Francisco, September 2009
A couple of days before the "full-blown Irish wake" at the Washington Square Bar & Grill for the great writer Frank McCourt on Aug. 29, Frank's kid brother, Michael, who pours drinks at The Square, revealed a great accolade for his late brother. Frank died in N.Y. on July 19. "I'm not talking about the Pulitzer Prize or those other awards that Frank got," Mike said. "Get this. He was mentioned on The Simpsons. I really wish Frank had been able to see that. He would have been thrilled." That's the big one. On the show, Homer & his dad drink up a storm in a pub in Dublin then buy the tavern while awash in all sorts of liquid & Irish literary references. Getting a mention on The Simpsons? That's cool. It's really arriving while you're going. Frank always had style, coming or going. ... Also in the realm of immortality, someone exclaimed on Showtime's hit show, Weeds, "You're hotter than Gavin Newsom!" That's bound to garner a few more votes for the Gav. Yes, but remember: smoking is not permitted at the polling places. ...
At the Balboa Cafe, Judge Bill Newsom, the father of the next governor of California (yes, I think Gavin will pull it off) sat down with Carole Vernier & Diane Weissmuller to show pics of his trip to the nether regions of British Columbia. "We stopped off in Juneau to buy nine cases of wine, then flew 480 miles to the interior of B.C., one of the most beautiful places on the planet," said Bill. If you're 500 miles from civilization -- that is, away from a liquor store -- you have to be prepared. "There we were, several of us in the wilderness, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman comes out of nowhere, and demands to know if we paid a tariff on the wine. I said we had not. He then announced, and was pretty stern about it, that he had to confiscate the wine. I was speechless, and a little unnerved. Then I heard giggling from beyond the trees. The Mountie broke down, laughing, saying it was just a joke that he and his pals were playing. I still don't know where they came from, but we certainly were happy to share the wine with them." Yes, Judge Newsom had been punked by the Canadians. You know the old expression: a Mountie always gets his wine. ... Diane Weissmuller, the widow of Johnny, the son of Tarzan, also collects old sayings: "Johnny used to tell me that he was born with a silver knife in his back." Ah. Hooray for Hollywood. Speaking of Johnny Mercer, Turner Classic Movies will air what appears to be a great doc about Mercer, The Dream’s On Me, directed by Clint Eastwood, on Wed., Nov. 4, at 8 p.m. It features a few of my friends, Rod McKuen, Gene Lees, and Jonathan Schwartz. This is almost enough to move me to get cable, though my cardiologist ordered me never to watch Glenn Beck. Beck's Fox News on-air companion is often Kimberly Guilfoyle, who apparently took a sharp right turn in order to get to New York ... On the passing of the vituperative cable TV star/newspaper columnist Robert Novak, Charlie Mandel deadpanned, "Everything he ever said went under my head." ... They say Carly Fiorina doesn't bother to vote on Election Day. What's the big deal? Only the little people vote. ... How long will it be before the Board of Supes declare it "Squeaky Fromme Day" in S.F? ... The riveting Chiching Herlihy, longtime girlfriend of the brilliant Myles O’Reilly of North Beach pub fame, was in high dudgeon the other day. “Whatever happened to chop suey?” she demanded. Good question. It was invented in S.F. but seems to have gone the way of the Hangtown Fry, hang it all. The Hangtown Fry, invented during the Gold Rush is an omelette with oysters & bacon can be found only at three places on the planet: the Tadich Grill, Sam’s Grill on Belden Place & Brenda’s on Polk Street. Most of the gold can be found now in the pawn shops. “There are mysteries in the universe,” contends Deirdre Black, the Goddess of Galway, “such as why there seems to be an Irish pub near every funeral parlor.” …
You have to give Bill Maher credit for talking to Obama through The Huffington Post about the President's sudden interest in golf: "The only sand trap I want to see you get out of is Afghanistan."… Yes, our engagement there is a calamity in the works, doomed from the start. It's not quite like taking Kandahar from a baby. ...
Good on Perry Butler for the 40th anniversary of Perry’s on Union Street. “You shoulda been here in the 1960s,” an old-timer said to me at the bar. “The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn’t shown up yet.” Perry’s was a great gathering-place for “stews” in the old days, now known as flight attendants. Many of them lived downtown. That’s why, explains Carole Vernier, the catch-phrase of the 60s and early 70s was, “Are you married or do you live on Bush Street?” … Next door to Perry’s is the office of Sal Salma & Co., also celebrating 40 years in the Marina. Sal, a genial, safe-made man, owned the Marina Café on Lombard. He once held a “Calamari Festival.” I wrote a poem in honor of the occasion: “Would I be a quisling to a brisling if I professed a preference for squid?/Would I be a bounder to a finnan haddie or flounder, a rat to the sprat if I did?/Would I be forsaken by cod if I pledge my palate to calamari?/Rebuffed by beluga, the tuna, the tortuga, a heel to the sole? OK, OK, so I’m sorry.” … And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s currently working on a new book with the unworkable title of In the Realm of the Senseless. Please torment him at bruce@northsidesf.com
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At the Balboa Cafe, Judge Bill Newsom, the father of the next governor of California (yes, I think Gavin will pull it off) sat down with Carole Vernier & Diane Weissmuller to show pics of his trip to the nether regions of British Columbia. "We stopped off in Juneau to buy nine cases of wine, then flew 480 miles to the interior of B.C., one of the most beautiful places on the planet," said Bill. If you're 500 miles from civilization -- that is, away from a liquor store -- you have to be prepared. "There we were, several of us in the wilderness, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman comes out of nowhere, and demands to know if we paid a tariff on the wine. I said we had not. He then announced, and was pretty stern about it, that he had to confiscate the wine. I was speechless, and a little unnerved. Then I heard giggling from beyond the trees. The Mountie broke down, laughing, saying it was just a joke that he and his pals were playing. I still don't know where they came from, but we certainly were happy to share the wine with them." Yes, Judge Newsom had been punked by the Canadians. You know the old expression: a Mountie always gets his wine. ... Diane Weissmuller, the widow of Johnny, the son of Tarzan, also collects old sayings: "Johnny used to tell me that he was born with a silver knife in his back." Ah. Hooray for Hollywood. Speaking of Johnny Mercer, Turner Classic Movies will air what appears to be a great doc about Mercer, The Dream’s On Me, directed by Clint Eastwood, on Wed., Nov. 4, at 8 p.m. It features a few of my friends, Rod McKuen, Gene Lees, and Jonathan Schwartz. This is almost enough to move me to get cable, though my cardiologist ordered me never to watch Glenn Beck. Beck's Fox News on-air companion is often Kimberly Guilfoyle, who apparently took a sharp right turn in order to get to New York ... On the passing of the vituperative cable TV star/newspaper columnist Robert Novak, Charlie Mandel deadpanned, "Everything he ever said went under my head." ... They say Carly Fiorina doesn't bother to vote on Election Day. What's the big deal? Only the little people vote. ... How long will it be before the Board of Supes declare it "Squeaky Fromme Day" in S.F? ... The riveting Chiching Herlihy, longtime girlfriend of the brilliant Myles O’Reilly of North Beach pub fame, was in high dudgeon the other day. “Whatever happened to chop suey?” she demanded. Good question. It was invented in S.F. but seems to have gone the way of the Hangtown Fry, hang it all. The Hangtown Fry, invented during the Gold Rush is an omelette with oysters & bacon can be found only at three places on the planet: the Tadich Grill, Sam’s Grill on Belden Place & Brenda’s on Polk Street. Most of the gold can be found now in the pawn shops. “There are mysteries in the universe,” contends Deirdre Black, the Goddess of Galway, “such as why there seems to be an Irish pub near every funeral parlor.” …
You have to give Bill Maher credit for talking to Obama through The Huffington Post about the President's sudden interest in golf: "The only sand trap I want to see you get out of is Afghanistan."… Yes, our engagement there is a calamity in the works, doomed from the start. It's not quite like taking Kandahar from a baby. ...
Good on Perry Butler for the 40th anniversary of Perry’s on Union Street. “You shoulda been here in the 1960s,” an old-timer said to me at the bar. “The Pill had just been invented, and the bad diseases hadn’t shown up yet.” Perry’s was a great gathering-place for “stews” in the old days, now known as flight attendants. Many of them lived downtown. That’s why, explains Carole Vernier, the catch-phrase of the 60s and early 70s was, “Are you married or do you live on Bush Street?” … Next door to Perry’s is the office of Sal Salma & Co., also celebrating 40 years in the Marina. Sal, a genial, safe-made man, owned the Marina Café on Lombard. He once held a “Calamari Festival.” I wrote a poem in honor of the occasion: “Would I be a quisling to a brisling if I professed a preference for squid?/Would I be a bounder to a finnan haddie or flounder, a rat to the sprat if I did?/Would I be forsaken by cod if I pledge my palate to calamari?/Rebuffed by beluga, the tuna, the tortuga, a heel to the sole? OK, OK, so I’m sorry.” … And we’ll leave it at that. …
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He’s currently working on a new book with the unworkable title of In the Realm of the Senseless. Please torment him at bruce@northsidesf.com
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