After-Dinner Skit Leaves a Bad Taste in Her Mouth

As political satire, it may have lacked the sting of “Doonesbury” or the intellectual heft of “Animal Farm.”

But the skit put on by the Escondido Rotary Club teasing the ruling slow-growth coalition of the Escondido City Council had a certain tanginess to it. One of the targets thought it went too far.

It was part of the after-dinner entertainment at a banquet to usher in the new club president. The premise of the joke was that the often-contentious City Council had been asked for a pro-forma resolution praising the outgoing Rotary president.

Enter a character dressed as a child (portraying Councilman Kris Murphy, 27).

And one dressed as a nerd, fumbling with papers and documents and spouting nonsense (portraying Councilman Jerry Harmon, not known for brevity). And another with a sandpaper tongue (portraying Councilwoman Carla DeDominicis, a lawyer).

Everything was fine hometown fun until someone used a five-letter word to describe DeDominicis. A word that rhymes with witch .

Club President Elmer Cameron said he hoped word of the word wouldn’t leak out. Fat chance. DeDominicis was not amused.

At a subsequent council meeting, another of Escondido’s Rotary clubs asked that a park use fee be waived for its upcoming picnic at Kit Carson Park.

DeDominicis said that if Rotary wants to engage in political activity, maybe the council should reevaluate whether the club fits the definition of a community group entitled to free use of the parks. The club got both the waiver and the message.

Cameron apologized publicly. His club apologized publicly.

The Rotarian who uttered the offending word--whom Cameron declines to identify--wrote a private letter of apology to DeDominicis.

“It was an indiscretion,” said Cameron, retired associate superintendent of Escondido elementary schools. “As soon as he said it, people in the audience groaned. It was a mistake and in no way represents the good work done by Rotary or the attitude of Rotarians.”

DeDominicis said she was shocked at the use of the word--given Rotary’s famous test for public speech: Is it true? Is it fair? Will it build good will? Will it be beneficial?

“The word may be true,” she said, “but it doesn’t build good will.”

Those Were the Days

“I Cover the Waterfront,” the 1933 film based on the book by the late Max Miller, is just out on home video (King Bee Video. $14.95).

Miller was a young reporter for the now-defunct San Diego Sun when he wrote a tale of the fishermen, scavengers and hustlers who inhabited the San Diego waterfront, such as the guy who preserved a dead whale with hot paraffin and charged 25 cents a peek. Sort of an early Sea World.

The book was picked up by Hollywood, with Ben Lyon as a semi-scrupulous newspaper reporter and Claudette Colbert as a fisherman’s daughter. A critic at the time called it “stolid and often grim” but well-acted.

It’s an interesting portrait of San Diego: Rife with illegal-alien smuggling, bumbling politicians, police nearly always looking the wrong way, reporters tangled in knots trying to make sense of it all.

Not at all like today.

That Explains It

The Del Mar Hilton opened with a splash Tuesday, as a horseman in racing silks galloped along the beach and tossed a bottle containing a hotel key into the ocean.

The bottle is redeemable for a free weekend at the hotel, on Jimmy Durante Boulevard just off Interstate 5.

Be warned: The Del Mar Hilton is in Del Mar in name only. The hotel is actually in San Diego. If it had been in Del Mar, it’s doubtful it would have been built, at least not as quickly.

Del Mar prefers half-a-dozen years of debate, two elections and at least one lawsuit first.