Sam Barry's Blog, page 4

Apparently We Can't Just All Get Along

Newt Gingrich

I'm not that old, even if my nineteen-year-old daughter Laura thinks I am. I say this because whenever I start talking about the time before Laura was born (1993), she rolls her eyes and make jokes about me walking five miles to school in bare feet through snowstorms, which, for the record, I never said I did. (We did ride to school on buses in bare feet through snowstorms, because shoes had not yet been invented.)

I bring up the past because unlike so many commentators I don't know what's going to happen next, so I don't have much to say about the future. However, I do have some rather vivid memories of the past that seem to apply to the present.

One of the things I remember very well from the good old days is pervasive racism, sexism, ageism, and a general fear and loathing of homosexuals. There was a crackle of civil war in the air; many of our cities were burning; leaders were being shot right and left: from 1963 to 1968, Medgar Evers, John Kennedy, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert Kennedy were assassinated; between 1978 and 1980 Harvey Milk, George Moscone, and John Lennon were gunned down.

Now, a black man is in the White House's Oval Office. Gay Americans serve openly in the military. Women work in the highest echelons of government, business, universities, colleges, and religion. And I think to myself, the United States has much to be proud of.

Then, listening to the news, I hear a group chanting at a Newt Gingrich rally in Florida: "Kenya! Kenya! Kenya!"

I wish I could say they were from the Kenyan Ministry of Tourism, but I am sorry to report that these idiots were stating where they want to send the president of the United States.

The idea of sending black people back to Africa has a long history in this country, but in the mouths of white people after Reconstruction, I think I am on pretty safe ground when I say this is simply the white racist's solution to the Negro Problem.

I'm an optimist. I want to believe human beings will come together and solve the serious problems that face us now and threaten our children's future. I want to believe that the American dream is alive—not the dream of a big house and a couple of cars, but the dream that we will continue to work together to make this nation more just for everyone. I'd like to think that we really are all in this together—citizens of one nation—and that when push comes to shove, we have each other's backs.

But I have my doubts, and not just because of a group of fools chanting at a Newt Gingrich rally. That's their right, even if they are wasting an important right (free speech) on an unimportant matter (demonstrating that they are really stupid). I hear a lot of unintelligent things said here in San Francisco about conservatives, or Christians, or people who live in some strange part of the country like Oklahoma or Walnut Creek. Prejudice is prejudice, whether you are on the left, right, or in the middle.

Still, that group at the Gingrich rally represents an alarming, old, but living penchant for racism in this country. Like a weed that won't go away, bigotry rises again and again. And if whites can be racist, so can anyone else. It is not a good trait to encourage in a nation largely made up of immigrants from everywhere. There is a hard core of racially-motivated white people in this nation who voted against Obama because he is black and wants him to fail at all costs. That group is found on the far right and is doing grave harm to the party of Lincoln. They spout hatred on the airwaves, undermining the very quality that makes this nation great: the active belief that we can make the world better for everyone.

That noble goal requires fairness and balance, not venom and intolerance. The anger and hate that has become commonplace, whether it is aimed at a black president or at a conservative evangelical Christian, is thinly disguised fear. Fear is the enemy that we must face if this nation is to continue to grow into its promise of greatness. We must, as we use to say so often in my childhood long ago, be the home of the brave. We must be brave enough to make room for everyone. And everyone, last time I checked, means everyone—gay people, Christians, Muslims, women, Latinos, rich people, poor people, people who have done time in prison. Even old people.

NCIS Cows

For a while after her hip surgery, my wife Kathi Kamen Goldmark, aka "Scratchy," was on a steady diet of narcotics. One of the interesting side effects of these painkillers are the ideas that enter Kathi's dreams in the middle of the night.

Not long ago I was shaken out of a sound sleep.

"Call Hollywood Now! I have a great idea for a new TV show," Kathi said. "NCIS Cows!"

NCIS stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Service. For those of you who aren't familiar with NCIS and NCIS Los Angeles, these shows feature military cops investigating murder after murder after murder involving Marine and Navy personnel. To judge by these shows, the Navy and Marine Corps are infested with killers. If you are considering signing up, I would opt for the Air Force.

Kathi, her dilated eyes half open, thought NCIS Cows was a really great idea. "You could replace all the actors with cows!" she said. "Moo," she added, by way of sample dialogue. "And chickens live next door in the 'Chicken Shack.' Tension ensues."

"Great idea, sweetheart," I said.

"Farting is methane acting," she added, giggling. Then she went back to sleep. I was wide awake. Who wouldn't be, after hearing something like this from his spouse?

Then there was the night Kathi woke me up to tell me her two grandmothers and two great aunts had visited her in a dream, all dressed in black, like they were there to take her away to the world beyond. This seemed a little scary to Kathi, and also confusing, since Grandma Clara was a fashion plate who would wear gem-tone colors with a matching purse, nail polish, and was never without her blue eyshadow. But the ancestors weren't there to take Kathi away. Instead, they told Kathi they had a message for me.

"Tell Sam there's a secret latch inside the cake, so when you jump out you won't mess up your costume."

"That's it?" I asked.

"Yes," said Kathi, who seemed a little disappointed by the pedestrian nature of the message herself. Then she rolled over on her side and went back to sleep.

And there was the family of circus bears in Doctor's Hospital in Coral Gables. Kathi said the bears carried green parasols, wore little green ruffled skirts, and rode tricycles, and that they were there to protect the patients. Actually she didn't tell me this right away—it took her about a week, because every time she started to explain about the bears she would begin to giggle uncontrollably. All I had to do was say "bears," to send her into fits of giggles.

Admittedly, Kathi was on some pretty hardcore drugs at the time. But it isn't always about drugs. The other day we were perfectly sober, driving back from Kathi's new job at the Palo Alto JCC, chatting about a friend's ex-husband.

"He was a handsome poet," Kathi said. "He knew William Burroughs. But his career never took off. He was in my Poets Who Juggle event," she added, thoughtfully.

"Poets Who Juggle?" I asked.

"Yeah," she explained. "While one six-foot-tall woman poet read Emily Dickenson a bunch of other poets came on stage dressed in clown suits and juggled. Well, they tried to juggle. None of them knew how."

"Huh," I commented.

"I would do 'Poets Who Juggle' again," said Kathi, her eyes getting a little misty.

There were no narcotics involved with the juggling poets. It was just pure, unadulterated Kathi.

Or, as NCIS's Mark Harmon would say, "Moo."

The Weight

For me, the last few years have been an extraordinary mix of ups and downs. On the positive side, after eight years courtship Kathi and I married, and I had a book of my own published and then Kathi and I had one published together. On the other side of the balance sheet, we were each treated for cancer; and my job in publishing at HarperOne was eliminated. (Given that I was working for Rupert Murdoch, I suppose I should be happy that I wasn't eliminated.)

I enjoy thinking about big, abstract ideas, like the meaning of life, God, history, and art. This may explain why I have made so little money in my life. I have tried to develop a reasonably coherent philosophy. But when I was pacing the halls of the hospital in November, awaiting the doctor's report after my wife's emergency surgery, I noticed a distinct change in the nature of my thoughts and feelings. I was no smarter or deeper, and my character was as flawed as ever, but there was a lot less of what might be called intellectual puttering and emotional frittering in my head and heart.

Crisis focuses the mind. My beliefs and passions were stripped of frill and fat, and my values and priorities were dramatically changed. The vanity of constantly measuring who is best looking, most clever, famous, athletic, powerful, popular, richest, toughest, and so on, was revealed as ultimately ephemeral. The competition for resources that consumes so much of our days seemed suddenly to be missing the point of life entirely.

Here's what matters: the blessing of friends; family; good food; people checking in on each other; knowing that the people you love are safe; laughter; music; forgiveness; hope. And life itself—having another day.

Here's what matters: being kind; acts of generosity; easing someone's suffering; taking notice of the forgotten; helping the weak; making the world a little more beautiful, a little more fun, and a little safer.

I often daydreamed that one day I would be powerful or rich enough to do something so magnificently generous that all my petty sins and all my little hurts would be forever salved. Everyone would love me, and as for my enemies, well, I'd show them.

I will never be powerful or rich, and even if I was, I could never repay the miraculous gifts I have been given—life itself, second chances, the ability to read, and speak, and sing, and laugh. And love.

I have been showered with love, but I haven't always believed this or noticed. But in the last few years, as Kathi and I have gone through illness and job loss, I have come to see how generous, kind, and caring the world can be. So many people have given so much, starting with my family, my brothers and sisters and children and cousins. But there are so many others—friends who dropped off food at our door or shipped us wonderful or whimsical gifts. Calls that came just when we needed one—people who came out of nowhere to offer their help, and hope, and comfort.

Sometimes the world appears to be filled with violence, cruelty, hate, lying, vanity, and greed. That world is real, but it is not the truth. There is a verse in the New Testament that says, "since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us." When times are hard I sense the presence of a cloud of witnesses—the people who have walked this earth before me trying to be good, and the people who have offered a helping hand. I feel their presence now especially, and by no means only in the mystical sense. The witness comes in the form of a text message, or phone call, or email, or meal, or gift, or a hug. I swear I can even feel people who are pausing in their day and thinking about us.

This is my family—from my beloved kin to someone I met only last month—offering the support they can, taking some of the weight off of us and holding us up until we have the strength to hold ourselves up again—until we have the strength to pass along our love to another sister or brother.

Geriatric Batman

I am a superhero. When I was little I wore my coolest pajamas and a towel cape pinned around my neck and run around the house taking on the evil villains who threatened my family and the human race at large. I did a pretty good job. No one was killed or maimed under my watch. As I grew older, I stopped wearing the pajamas and towel (in front of people), but as noted male psychologist Jerry Seinfeld has observed, many so-called adult men don't see superheroes as fictional characters: they see a plausible career path.

But as we grow older, we grow wiser—no, wait, that's another piece. As we grow older, we grow slower—physically, mentally, and in terms of superpowers. I noticed this the other day when my wife Kathi and I were hurrying to a doctor's appointment. (You never see superheroes at doctor's appointments. "Okay, Spiderman, turn your head and cough; and again; and . . . hey, what's this sticky stuff all over me?!")

Kathi is dealing with what we euphemistically refer to as a "health challenge." She is recovering from a hip replacement, so her superhero power (attending thousands of social functions a week while maintaining a full workload) has been hampered of late. The upside is now, because of her titanium hip, she will have a new superpower—doing the dance known as "the bump" and sending villains crashing into walls.

Kathi was making her way down the stairs one step at a time to get to our Honda Batmobile, which we keep in our special Batcave garage. Meanwhile, I was bringing the various items we needed—her purse, my keys, my brain, etc. Kathi got in the car on the passenger side and I hopped in the driver's side. Kathi then politely pointed out that her door was still open, so I got out and closed that, then hopped back in the driver's side. I dug around in my pockets and eventually found my keys, then realized I had forgotten my cell phone. I ran back upstairs and called my cell on the landline, which helped me locate it wedged into the couch, which I had been sitting on, staying abreast of breaking television information.

When I was once again in the driver's seat, I opened the garage and backed out. I did this very slowly, because we live in a 1940s era San Francisco home with a garage and driveway width designed for what I assume were very narrow cars. It takes real care to back out without knocking a mirror off, like I did last year. I checked that there were no passing pedestrians, because California law frowns on running them over, like I did last year (just kidding!). Then I navigated the even narrower passageway between the two cars that are always parked on either side of our driveway. And since we live on a rather steep hill and cars are always flying down the street, I put on my hazard lights, backed the car's rear end into the street, got honked at, pulled forward into the driveway, and repeated this several times until I had the car fully in the street, per our superhero strategy.

Then, about halfway down the block we had this conversation, as we always do:

"Did I shut the garage door?"

"I think you did."

"Are you sure?"

"I think you did."

"I think I did, too. But I'm not sure."

"I'm not sure either."

"I'd better go back and check."

I drove around the block, as I always do, took note of the fact that the garage door was indeed shut, as it always is, and then set off to the doctor's—and, wherever needed, to take on the villains of the world.

Sure, Kathi and I aren't the superheroes we once were. We don't look quite as imposing in our pajama/towel outfits. We aren't as quick as we were, and our memories aren't as sharp; but like the tortoise, we will beat the hare every time, assuming the hare is stupid enough to take a nap in the middle of the race like he did last year.

But when that Bat Signal appears in the night sky, rest assured that we will respond with all due speed, as soon as we get the car out of our garage, which will be after I find my keys. However, if you have a crime problem during the day, we suggest you try Superman, since the Bat Signal doesn't show up so well in the daytime sky, and our eyesight isn't what it once was. And anyhow, we'll be busy at the doctor's office.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer: a Meditation

It's that time of year when we eat cookies, and nothing captures the spirit of this season more than the loveable reindeer with the shiny red nose.

I'm talking, of course, about Rudolph. People all over the world know the story of how Santa's Ninth Reindeer saved Christmas, and possibly Western civilization, when, under orders from the Allied High Command he led Santa's sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve raid of the entire world. As Winston Churchill said in his famous speech to Parliament, "Never has so much been owed by so many to so few. And tomorrow morning I'll be sober, but you'll still be ugly."

You know you're an outcast when even the prime minister teases you for your big red nose—especially a prime minister who was really not in a position to poke fun at another person's face. I mean, had Winston ever looked in a mirror?

But such mistreatment was nothing new to Rudolph—he was relentlessly teased by the other reindeer for his strange, glowing nose. It is a matter of public record that they laughed at him, called him names, and wouldn't let him join in any reindeer games. In short, Santa's reindeer—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen—were bullies. If there had been a Facebook they probably would have cyber-bullied Rudolph.

The story of Rudolph reminds us that even though the world in unfair, and even through bullies and narcissists run the world, if you just hang in there, remain true to yourself, and don't get that operation to correct your disfiguring electric nose problem, eventually the guy in charge will realize he can use you, and all his sycophant followers who have rejected you for years will pretend they always loved you and you'll get a listing in Wikipedia.

You worry, though, that all that success might go to Rudolph's head—that he'd turn into the bully jerk at the top, and some other reindeer would become the outcast. I can see Rudolph sitting around the pool at a four-star hotel in Vegas, smoking a cigar and drinking top-shelf scotch, a sunglass-wearing, scantily clad reindeer babe next to him, bossing around some small reindeer with day-glo antlers named Rupert.

But what happens after that fateful foggy Christmas Eve doesn't have any bearing on why the story of Rudolph is so very popular. What matters is that the underdog catches a break, the little guy is recognized, and the status quo is shaken up for the better.

Most of us feel small, powerless, and underappreciated at times, and it's not at all unusual to feel like your nose is radioactive. It's reassuring to believe that, in the end, the right thing will happen—the underdog will have his or her day and the underlying fairness of the universe that we are convinced must exist will be revealed—and there is a reason we have this freakish nose. Everyone is redeemed—not just Rudolph, but Santa and the other reindeer, who finally do the right thing.

This is why we love stories like "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." We root for the underdogs because their success is our success. Underdog stories are about surprise—about the world being turned upside down and the mighty being laid low. Every underdog victory is proof that a miracle can happen—maybe just a little one, but a miracle all the same. After all, most of us only need a small miracle—a place to live; a second or third chance; another day.

Underdog stories are stories for everyone—stories of staying true to ourselves; of not conforming at the expense of our souls, of making our place in the world; of beating the odds when the world has written us off.

You don't have to be a child to believe in miracles; they happen all the time. They don't make songs or television specials about most of them because they are private miracles. They are small to the world, but mighty to one neighborhood, one family, one elderly woman. They happen in people's homes, in hospitals, in church basements, in emails, in classrooms, and in people's hearts. And they happen all the time—not just one foggy Christmas Eve.

Lost in the Hospital, Thanksgiving Eve

Thanksgiving Eve: I am in Doctor's Hospital in Coral Gables, Florida, pondering the mysteries of life.  Alone, after midnight, I find myself stumbling down an empty hallway, looking for food, tired and confused. I don't know how I got here. I've wandered into a part of the hospital that is brand new and not yet open. The hallway is empty, pristine. I slam into a door, trying to get out and find a more familiar part of the building, but the door is locked.

You would think after spending most of five days in the same building I would know my way around, but windowless hallways are disorienting to the sleep-deprived and vulnerable. I can tell, because I keep meeting the same groups of other sleep-deprived, vulnerable family members wandering the same halls.

I am here because my wife Kathi needed emergency surgery to repair her hip. Thankfully, my brother Dave and his wife Michelle live nearby, so we have the loving support of family. I spend most of my time in the hospital, with occasional trips over to Dave and Michelle's for a shower, coffee, food, beer, and company.

Unscheduled events like the one that landed us in this hospital are more disorienting than simply getting lost in a building. One moment I was striving to finish my life's to-do list, like always. The next thing I knew all those goals were set aside and I was living at a hospital, trying to learn a whole new language and strategy.

Most days we act as though we are in control and know what's going to happen next. We tell ourselves and others stories to explain this crazy life, when the truth is we don't have a clue what's coming, good or bad.

There is clarity in moments like this one.  We are forced to pause, to think, to listen, and maybe even to consider what's really important.

Some people don't have a lot to be thankful for this year. Some of them are right here in this hospital. The hospital I would have preferred we not be in. Others are in a war zone far from here, or on the streets, or alone in their apartments.

For the last few days I felt a little like that—a wounded soldier, an orphan, a prisoner. Only that isn't how this story goes.

Hospital or no, I have a lot to be thankful for: the extraordinary woman who is my wife; my amazing children; my loving brothers and sister and sisters by marriage; my wider family that includes my friends; a lifetime of experience and memories; the breath in my body.

When I am really thankful—when the belief that I am in control of the future is shown to be make-believe— the fear that drives the obsession with control recedes in importance, like a game I don't want to play anymore. I am in awe of the amazing people who have touched my life, changing me forever.  Through them I am connected to a multitude around the world and across generations.

I give thanks for life itself, for what is beyond my ability to understand, and I accept the unraveling of all my logical systems and beliefs; the disassembling of me, my schemes and religion and science and philosophy. Tomorrow we may fall off a cliff and break bones; tomorrow we may land in our family and friends' loving embrace. Or both.

I remember the wounded soldier, the orphan, the prisoner. Standing here in this hospital hallway—alone—with everyone— I give thanks for life, for being given the opportunity to try, for failure, illusion, hope, and faith. And I give thanks for love, the greatest mystery of all.

I Have Been to City Hall and I have Seen the Promised Land

In the waning days of the 2011 San Francisco mayoral campaign, I would like to offer some thoughtful words of wisdom. If anyone has any, please write them down on a $20 bill and mail them to me at:

Don't Quit Your Day Job Productions

PMB #120

236 West Portal Avenue

San Francisco, CA 94127-1423

Meanwhile, in his November 1, 2011 Bay Guardian column Tim Redmond wrote that "defeating Mayor Lee will take a confluence of events and strategies that starts with a big progressive turnout — and with voters who don't like the idea of an incumbent with ties to a corrupt old political machine." This statement, combined with the title of the piece, "Anyone but Lee," amounts to a rousing (if not explicit) endorsement of yours truly for mayor. (Just to be clear, I, Sam Barry, am "yours truly.") The title of the piece even rhymes with my campaign motto, resulting in a catchy little chant:

Sam Barry for mayor

How bad can he be?

The Bay Guardian says

Anyone but Lee!

Are you listening, Occupy San Francisco?

Thank you, Tim Redmond. Thank you, Bay Guardian. I am sure I don't deserve your support.

In my first act as mayor, I am going to join the Occupy Movement. But rather than camping out down near the Embarcadero surrounded by tourists and white collar workers who can't do anything to change the system, let's camp somewhere where we'll be seen by people with real power. I propose that we set up camp over in Sea Cliff, the most affluent neighborhood in the city. Maybe the locals will send their butlers out with tea and cookies! Maybe Robin Williams will join us! And at the very least, we'll have a spectacular view.

I have another suggestion: you know how the Occupy Movement has developed an informal public address system whereby one person says something and others repeat it, thereby communicating the message to the crowd? Why not add a melody and make it musical? It's called call and response, and people have been doing it for years.

Of course, I don't want to be cocky. I could lose. John Avalos could win. I like John Avalos; if he wins, well, that wouldn't be so bad. You would lose my insightful leadership, my creativity, my good looks, and above all, my connections. There are a lot of harmonica players who would be disappointed. On the other hand, Avalos does have some interesting ideas and experience in government. If Avalos wins, I could live with that. I feel similarly about Dennis Herrera and Leland Yee, pretty much in that order. In fact, you might consider voting along the lines suggested in this slate.

But I think you should write me in. That's what Kathi Kamen Goldmark is going to do. Kathi is just one San Francisco voter, chosen by me at random, who has no ax to grind. (She does have a guitar.) And after you write me in, come join us at El Rio (Motto: "Your dive") for the Los Train Wreck All-Star Jam on election night, November 8. Our band, Los Train Wreck, will be playing from 8 to 11:30 pm, celebrating my election as mayor in particular, San Francisco more generally, and peace, jobs, and justice for all. And I really mean that last part. See you there.

Occupy Sam Barry

Things are heating up in the Occupy Wall Street, Oakland, Atlanta, etc. movement. Not since the appearance of the CSI television franchise has America seen such rapid spread of a cultural phenomenon. Activists are camping and marching everywhere. Meanwhile, the Congressional Budget Office announced that those Americans in the top 1% of income have seen their incomes grow by an average of 275 percent.

Perhaps a visual image might help to understand this statistic. If we picture these richest Americans in their underwear, what we would see are people who are grossly, horribly obese. They are eating all the food in the refrigerator and grabbing all the household money to eat at sumptuous restaurants. They are stopping at one fast food restaurant after another and ordering the most fattening choices and invading big box stores to stock up on huge containers of snacks.

While the vast majority of American struggle to make ends meet—by which I mean keep a roof over their heads, food on the table, clothes on their backs, and if they are wildly successful, see a doctor and dentist now and then—never mind anything so extravagant as help their kids advance their lives by going to a good school or (gasp!) go on vacation—the rich are trying to figure out where to invest all that money.

Currently the Occupy Movement is not a fully coherent, which is no surprise. Americans are, for the most part, hard working, mind-your-own-business sorts, and it's clear that the people marching and camping include, along with activists, many people who normally wouldn't be out demonstrating—the middle class (a somewhat meaningless term, given the Congressional Budget Office's report), old and young, employed and unemployed, representing a variety of views.

People are angry that their representatives in the federal government appear to be bought and sold by lobbyists and big campaign contributors, a trend that has grown virtually unchecked for decades. People are angry that government is increasingly dysfunctional. People are angry at the lavish paychecks of executives of incompetently-managed banks and investment firms. Our nation's infrastructure is deteriorating, our public schools are closing, and our colleges are being priced out of the reach of the so-called middle class.

Meanwhile, there are many eloquent people advocating for the wealthy, arguing that "we shouldn't take away the incentive of the rich to create more wealth." They say the Occupy Movement is misguided, since we need gifted innovators to build new companies, creating more wealth and jobs.

Few would argue with the need for innovation and the freedom to pursue opportunity, but this perspective ignores (or reveals an ignorance of) what life is like for most Americans. This is a capitalist world, and there is no serious sign that our most capitalist of nations is moving one inch toward any other economic system, in spite of the paranoid ranting of a few that our president is a socialist. But our government, the very wealthy, and the apologists for great power and wealth have consistently favored the rights of capital over all other human rights.

The Occupy Movement may be unfocused and vague in its demands. This is no surprise for a largely spontaneous uprising. But those with great economic and political power would be unwise to simply wait for winter and fatigue to wear the movement out. They might get their wish, but the underlying injustices that prompted the Occupy Movement will still be there, and the anger and frustration will not go away until these are addressed in substantial, systemic ways. Better to harness this energy now and march together toward justice.

This crisis has led me to make a momentous decision. As one of the nation's thought leaders* and the future mayor of the United States' loopiest city, I promise to get up from behind my desk, march out of San Francisco City Hall, and head straight to the dentist to get my teeth fixed on the great dental plan afforded me as a public servant. After that I thought I'd go see an opera and see if I can't get to know the rich patrons on a first-name basis and maybe get invited to some lavish parties in Pacific Heights. From that vantage I promise I will look into changing the system. I will work from within, but when I am handed a glass of chardonnay, I promise I will be raising a toast to you, the People. Because I am with you in spirit.

*i.e., I think I'm a leader.

Making Radio Waves

Recently, in a blatant effort to get attention, I announced that I was running for mayor of San Francisco. And it's working! Today the San Francisco Chronicle sat up and took notice, as Emmy-winning radio personality and columnist Ben Fong-Torres trumpeted my candidacy in his column Radio Waves.

I don't want to make too much of being mentioned in Ben's column—by, say, leading this blog with it, posting it on Facebook, tweeting on Twitter, throwing a victory party, hiring a skywriter, or spraying graffiti on City Hall. That's all fine for the other candidates, such as Ed Lee. If Ed wants to waste the taxpayer's money throwing extravagant parties, hiring skywriters, and spraying graffiti all over City Hall, that's his business. I won't judge him. Other people may, but not me.

Ed Lee's motto is "Ed Lee gets it done." My motto is "How bad could he be?" Ed's motto is pedestrian and vague. My motto is aspirational. Ed's motto is focused on "it." What is "it"? Ed doesn't say. For all you, the voter, know, Ed is talking about buying a dozen eggs and a half gallon of milk. Or maybe he is talking about dismantling the Golden Gate Bridge, although why Ed Lee would want to dismantle San Francisco's most famous landmark and a vital artery for the entire state is beyond me. My point is Ed's motto doesn't really inspire.

On the other hand, "How bad could he be?" is a motto for the ages. Over the centuries many great leaders have been chosen on exactly this basis. A couple of kingmakers get together in a corner, blow some smoke rings, talk about their golf games, and then start kicking around a couple of names.

"There's Marc," says the first kingmaker. "He gets it done."

"Get's what done?" asks a second kingmaker.

"There's Julius," says a third kingmaker, blowing a particularly fabulous smoke ring.

"Julius!" says the first kingmaker. "I hadn't thought of him."

"Julius," says the second kingmaker, mulling it over. "How bad could he be?"

Clinking glasses, they all agree, "To Julius Caesar!"

I don't want to compare myself too closely to Julius Caesar. I would prefer the George Washington model: retiring at the end of an illustrious career, beloved, wearing nothing but the finest wooden teeth, etc, etc.

And so I say to you, San Francisco, if called upon to serve, I will reverse Ed Lee's decision to dismantle the Golden Gate Bridge. I will do my utmost to live up to my campaign slogan.

Water, Bullets, and Gold

I stopped listening to the news for about a week, and was startled, when I reengaged today, to discover that the world was entering a period of unprecedented peace and prosperity. Then the alarm went off and NPR's Morning Edition came on: "Reports that the earth is rapidly moving closer to the sun were rebutted by Republican presidential candidate Rick Perry, who said 'That makes about as much sense as a pig poopin' on a rooster,' then flipped a silver dollar in the air, winked at the gathered reporters, and shot a hole clean through the coin, adding, 'That's how we do it in Paint Creek, Texas.' Support for NPR comes from Chevron, DynCorp, Dow Chemicals, Philip Morris, Pfizer, Wal-Mart, and listeners like you."

Maybe it's just my perception, but we do seem to be in a period of extraordinary rancor, dislocation, turmoil, danger, and fear. As a result, I decided to go see a movie.

I chose Contagion, which follows Beth Emhoff (Gwyneth Paltrow), an American businesswoman flying home from Hong Kong. She is not feeling well and when she gets home complains to her husband Mitch (Matt Damon) that she is suffering from jet lag. She falls violently ill and is taken to the hospital, becomes the first known casualty, and is labeled patient zero. The director of the Center for Disease Control, Dr Ellis Cheever (Laurence Fishburne), sends Dr. Erin Mears (Kate Winslet) to discover the pandemic's origins. Meanwhile, the World Health Organization's Dr. Leonora Orantes (Marion Cotillard) heads to China for the same purpose, but is kidnapped by locals seeking a cure. Conspiracy blogger Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law) fans the flames of panic for his own reasons. The death toll rises and panic ensues. There are riots, cities are quarantined, bodies are thrown in mass graves, and millions die. I didn't get any popcorn. I did notice, when I went to the bathroom, that everyone was doing an especially good job of washing their hands.

In many ways Contagion reminded me of the Disneyland ride "The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh." At first everything seems okay as we are swept away by a magic breeze past colorful leaves, but then a blustery windstorm blows Winnie the Pooh (Zach Galifianakis) and baby Roo (Patton Oswalt) into the air and a storm floods the Hundred-Acre Woods. Later, when Pooh settles down for a nap, he starts to dream about pots and pots of his favorite thing: honey. Then the Heffalumps (Jack Black) and Woozles (Jim Carrey) seem to come to life and everything goes horribly wrong.

By the way, near the end of The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, as you pass through the tunnel after Pooh has his Honey wet dream turned nightmare, look up and back and you will see the three moose heads from the old Country Bear Jamboree ride. This is because The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh was built on the location of the old "Country Bear Jamboree" nightmare. For more fun facts about Country Bear Jamboree, watch Tony Goldmark's video.

But back to Contagion—it's a good movie with a stellar cast. Don't leave before the credits end—you don't want to miss the zany outtakes and wacky flu pandemic humor.

If a rapid pandemic like that portrayed in the movie was really underway, I suspect Contagion would be a box office flop. As I write this we are witnessing a global financial mess unfold, the paralysis of our federal government, and—well, I'll stop listing. The point is, we don't want to see movies about these events, because they're already happening, and we hear about them every day when our alarm clock radios go off, unless we have them set on a shock jock's show for our sanity's sake.

I have a harmonica student named Alex Tuch who works in the financial sector. One night during a lesson he quipped that we should stockpile "water, bullets, and gold." If gets that bad, I'm not sure I see the point. I think I'll stick with honey. And while I'm on the subject—don't ever share your harmonica with anyone.