Climbing as if there were no tomorrow

This essay originally appeared in Climbing magazine, February/March, 1991. It has been slightly revised.

Carl Henderson

It was during a torrential downpour nearly two years ago that I got the notion to climb with Carl Henderson. I was helping my friend move from one San Francisco flat to another when we were forced by the storm to take cover inside a rented moving van; that’s when I noticed, on top of one of his boxes, a coiled climbing rope and a pair of old E.B.s.

When I suggested doing a route together Carl was ambivalent. He hadn’t climbed in years, and the rop0e and shoes had been gathering dust in closets since he moved to the Bay Area in 1980. He let the offer pass with a shrug and a “maybe.”

Two months later, however, he gave me a call; he wanted to get back on the rocks. Little did I realize I’d soon be struggling, and eventually failing, to keep up with him as he pursued climbing zealously, like a man possessed.

At first I didn’t recognize the source of his devotion; after all, many people climb as though their lives depend on it. But now I think Carl drives himself so fiercely because he clearly sees his life’s horizon, even if he’s not at all convinced the sun will dip below it anytime soon.

In action, Carl is neither the most graceful of climbers, nor by any means the strongest. He’ll tell you that more important than strength on most climbs is balance. His main climbing exercise is something he calls “centering,” which I take it involves grabbing hold of wildly flung emotions and bringing them under control, to attain that crucial balance, not just on the rock, but in life generally.

I think I understand what he’s talking about, though I suspect his effort in bringing his emotions under control is stronger than mine. I do not have AIDS. Carl does.

Carl is also gay; we both are, which makes us anomalies in the largely heterosexual, male-dominated world of climbing. I presume most people know that being gay is in no way a precondition for having AIDS — that while the disease in the United States has hit the gay population the hardest, in other parts of the world it has stricken primarily heterosexuals. I hope most climbers also understand that AIDS is communicable only by the exchange of body fluids, primarily blood and semen. So climbing with a person with AIDS poses little risk of infection.

Some prejudices about gays die hard, of course. A few rude boys still deride other climbers as “homos.” They do so with a tiresome regularity and a carelessness born, I suppose, of outmoded habits or sheer rotten natures. And homophobia, if not rampant in our sport’s literature, is at least common; for example, a well-known guidebook to the Bay Area warns that while climbing at Beaver Street Wall, located in San Francisco’s most gay district, “you don’t want to walk around in your lycras …”

Experience tells me, though, that the climbing world is for the most part a remarkably open-minded, non-bogoted society. On a one-to-one basis, neither Carl, nor I, nor any other gay climbers I know has experienced homophobia among the straight climbers we hang out with. Not only are we open to them about our sexuality, but we mix freely in their social lives, and they in ours.

As it happens, I climb mostly with straight partners. It strikes me as odd to find myself explaining such a thing, because to me the issue of my partner’s sexuality is incidental. Cimbing itself is the goal.

But if I didn’t already have gay climbing friends, and wanted to make some, I’d have little difficuty in doing so. A nationwide network of gay, lesbian, and bisexual climbers exists, founded in Boston by Mark Mueller. Stonewall Climbers, as the group is called, takes its name from a Greenwich Villiage bar where patrons resisting police harassment in 1969 gave impetus to the modern gay-liberation movement.

Yet homosexuality is nothing new among climbers. The name John Menlove Edwards is familiar to only a few, but to his biographer, Jim Perrin, Edwards was the greatest British rock climber of the 1930s, the “father and prophet to the modern sport, one of its greatest innovators.” Perrin also describes Edwards as a “homosexual who preached openness and tolerance at a time when the laws against deviation from the sexual norm were harshly punitive.”

For those reasons, Edwards is a hero to me; I try to honor his spirit when I climb. In that same spirit, I hope, openly gay climbers will emerge at the forefront of the sport. But I also hope that climbers of all persuasions wioll take inspiration from Edwards, to continue striving to overcome barriers, to push to new levels of accomplishment, all the while reveling in the freedom that climbing brings, and appreciating the diversity of its practitioners.

I don’t know if straight climbers everywhere are accepting of gays among them. I’ve climbed in relatively few places, and with a limited number of people, mostly in the Andes and in California. My experience can hardly be considered representative of all climbers.

Instinct tells me, though, that I’d find a comfortable home among climbers in just about any place I decide to visit. In part that’s because climbing is such an anarchic scene, an ongoing rebellion against social strictures. Its practitioners seek solace in the liberating wilds from encroaching, smothering civilization. They’ve had enough containment; they want to use their muscles and wits to climb away from the stiff collars, the stuffed shirts, the passive beasts of burden who daily crowd in and try to mold them into one of their kind.

Few people living in cities and holding regular jobs keep more rigorous climbing schedules than Carl Henderson does, now that he is back at it. On most weekends, even on the coldest, most blustery days, he can be found at one of the local crags, setting up one toprope climb after another, chatting endlessly with other climbers, behaving professorially with first-timers by telling them where they’ll find their next fingerhold, or how they should turn out their toes in order to make it through the next, seemingly impossible move. Carl knows what he is talking about, having studied ballet for 12 years.

He was 19 when he moved from the washington, D.C., area to San Francisco with his first lover. Their relationship lasted a year and a half. In the early 1980s, Carl says, “I was a hippie after hippies were dead,” a classical-music freak who listened mostly to Bartok and string quartets, and whose favorite composition was Mozart’s Requiem. He lived in a group house in the middle of San Francisco’s gay ghetto, the Castro, slept on the floor, worked in fast-food restaurants, too computer-programming classes, and was always broke.

One day on Castro Street in 1981, he saw an article clipped from The New York Times and taped to the window of Cliff’s Variety Store. It had something to do with the discovery of a “gay cancer” that was killing people and had no known cure.

“People I knew started dying,” he says. “They would get sick, go in their houses, and close the door. Six months later, you’d hear they were dead.”

He went for his first AIDS test in 1987, and the result was positive: he had HIV, the virus that eventually leads to full-blown AIDS, in his bloodstream.

“I was disturbed, but not shocked,” he says. “I had been sexually active for 14 years, and only two of those were safe.”

Now he’s nearly 30, and though he foresees a cure being found for AIDS, the disease makes him live differently.

“There is no tomorrow,” Carl says. “I live for today.”

He still plans for the future — “I’d like to go traveling,” he says wistfuly — though not without some inconvenience, like having to take regular doses of the drug AZT, which interrupt the life cycle of the AIDS virus, and causes him extreme nausea in the process. Only by smoking marijuana can he ease the drug’s side effect and not continually feel sick to his stomach.

Fortunately, when all about him people are losing their heads over the tragedy that surrounds them, Carl keeps his by climbing.

“It’s a way of relieving stress,” he says. “It teaches me to overcome pain, physical limitations; to be calm, precise, accurate; to go through extreme motions when my brain is telling me, ‘People don’t do this sort of thing.’ Climbing is more than fun. It’s a necessity.”

Not long ago, four of us reached the top of Tuolumne Meadows’ Fairview Dome late in the day after a tiring climb. Trying to descend in the moonless night, we lost our way and had to downclimb exposed granite slabs in the dark. The long night ended with a stumbling thrash through the woods to camp. One of thoughts coursing through my mind during our ordeal was that the strain of our endeavor would weaken Carl’s already compromised immune system. It might even send him back to the hospital, where only a few months before he had struggled to overcome a bout of pneumocystis pneumonia he had contracted — rather foolishly, he admits — by running barefoot through the snow in Yosemite.

My fear then reflected how much I still have to learn about AIDS. Carl bounded back as quickly as any of us, and later we arranged for a November climbing trip to Joshua Tree: a sure sign that he has little intention of letting AIDS interrupt his plans.

. . . . .

 

Carl Henderson finally succumbed to AIDS in 1993. Shortly before his death, he wrote the following verse:

 

Nothing More

 

Masses of air on all sides

What a sight to see

It glides to and fro

With the wind

But it is just a cloud

Noting more

 

So lovely a shape

I have never seen

Smooth on all sides

Round and perfect

Light strikes it

And it dazzles my eyes

But it is only a stone

Nothing more

 

Placidity

No worries left

No pain to feel

An existence of

Tranquility

This is death and

Nothing more

 

— Carl E. Henderson

SFMOMA PARTY BLASTS OFF

billviola copy
Video Art by Bill Viola at SFMOMA

We may be a small city, but far from being a cultural backwater, we’re a city that knows how to party in high style. The latest evidence of this came last weekend at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, a place where, against the traditions of stuffy museums everywhere, people were allowed to be part of the art.

The occasion was “RGB,” the electronic-music rave and laser/light show organized by Blasthaus and held Saturday night/Sunday morning, July 10/11 [1999], in conjunction with the spectacular exhibition of video art by Bill Viola. The decision to admit hundreds or possibly thousands of people into the building late at night to dance, drink, and partake of a world-class exhibit was inspired. The sheer spectacle of masses of people talking boistrously, laughing, gesticulating toward the hyperkinetic laser projections high over their heads, and leaping about ecstatically in the usually hushed confines of one of the city’s most prestigious art santcuaries was in itself a fine work of art. Boundaries and etiquette were smashed, while leaving the museum and its art very much intact – though forever changed in the perceptions of those who were there. No longer, for them, can the institution be perceived as aloof or at all indifferent. It became a place of the people, by the people, and for the people.

In the building’s atrium, perched like an emperor on the staircase landing, looking out over the crowd toward the lofty front entrance, DJ Mocean Worker of New York City worked a set of turntables with considerable finesse. He amped the place up, sending beats streaming out at a dizzying rate, energizing the crowd with the latest in techno-trance sounds. The volume was such that you could take a smoke across the street at Yerba Buena Center and still hear the party loud and clear.

In the Be-Calm Transit Lounge, the ambient/experimental music room adjacent to the main dance area, a surprising number of computer geeks sat at banks of terminals, Netsurfing the night away. What they discovered in their journeys, only they can say, but the sight of them was disconcerting. Only the hardest of hard-core Netheads could stay off the dance floor when the likes of DJs Darkhorse, Joe Rice, and Pimps of Atlantis were creating the grooviest of vibes.

But far more than the music, the dancing, the lasers, or anything else, the party’s highlight came in viewing the Viola video installations. People flowed from room to room in the self-guided video journey (a sort of self-propelled Disney ride), repeatedly plopping themselves down to partake of extraordinary imagery and sound effects. Clearly many of those sitting for long periods in front of various video terminals or giant screens were tripping. And the atmosphere was ecstatic. Installations became living rooms, and the people in them family. People sat among friends and strangers, arms clasped around knees, shoulders brushing, everyone bathed in the dim light of video displays. With each mind-tripping sound and image effect, a sort of communal rush ensued.

Truly, “RGB” set a new standard for parties, and created a whole new way of appreciating art. The SFMOMA will never be quite the same, and that bodes well for modern art, modern art enthusiasts, and modern music as they move into the next, undoubtedly electronic millennium.

 

For a related story, see “Light, then … time: Bill Viola at SFMOMA.”

 

This article originally appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter on July 15, 1999.

 

Light, then … time: Bill Viola at SFMOMA

billviola1 copy
Bill Viola at SFMOMA

Just minutes after leaving the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art survey of video art by the masterful Bill Viola, I found myself inside that huge new Sony Metreon monstrosity walling off one end of Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. There, in the depths of a crass “futuristic” shopping mall/movie palace, countless video-display images and techno beeps and roars assaulted me as kids played oversized, oversexed video games overdone with gaudy colors and endless bloodlust. I couldn’t wait to flee before I forgot how wonderful video art can be.

The video masterpieces I experienced at the Bill Viola exhibit were inspired not by money, but by soul. The16 installations incorporated into an ingeniously designed room-to-room journey of sight and sound utilize imagery, light, darkness, space, time, distortion, the shock of the unexpected, ambient sounds, hypnotic motion, dub mixes, and an endless variety of explosions and continuous roars.

While video games engage minds, they leave bodies inert. Not so the Bill Viola exhibit, in which the body responds to the artist’s constructions by speeding up, slowing down, turning around, stopping, walking slowly forward toward looming objects, and retreating down narrow passageways from which emanate eerie noises and odd flashing lights. No drugs are required to appreciate this psychedelia. It’s the ultimate in light-and-sound architecture, a virtual passageway through which minds can be transported to many other realities.

My favorite stop came at “The Reflecting Pool” (1977-79), a 7-minute videotape in which a man emerges from a forest to stand naked before a rustic garden pond. Slowly, the pool comes to life, but seemingly occupies a different space and time than all around it. Dimensions become blurred, and what is real and what is reflection rely on the imagination.

What distinguishes Viola’s work from less imaginative video art is the spirit that enlivens it. Viola has drawn inspiration from Zen Buddhism, Christian mysticism, the physics of optics and the mechanisms of perception, Sufi poetry, and the free verse of Walt Whitman. His work is textured, neither muscle-bound nor insipid, but alternately muscular and brainy. In his range of imagination and technique, Viola demonstrates what video-art can be, while putting commercial video art to shame.

“Bill Viola: A 25-Year Survey,” was co-curated by David A. Ross and Peter Sellars, ran through September 12, 1999 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. 

For a related story, see “SFMOMA Party Blasts Off.”

Seth Eisen’s ‘Stitching the Invisible Whole’

SethEisen&RemyCharlipBetter late than never, this past weekend I caught the closing of San Francisco conceptual artist Seth Isen’s impressive solo show, Stitching the Invisible Whole, at the Sanchez Art Center in Pacifica, just a hop and skip away down the coast, and how appropriate was the seaside setting.

Eisen’s work assembles and stitches togther travel pics from Thailand, driftwood and other sea-pummeled flotsam and jetsam, and a few powerful news images, all reflecting the fateful day when he and partner Keith Hennessy were trekking in the northern part of the Thailand when the tsunami struck, killing nearly 300,000 people across eight countries.

In his artistic response, Eisen writes: “Rather than show only the gruesome face of the disaster I have chosen to alter and juxtapose my photographs next to found objects and images from the media to explore the fragility of our existence and complexity of human life.”

Seth did a remarkable job, even stitching images with a machine, as though embroidering them, giving them a vibrant, colorful texture and resonance. His objects fairly drip with thread and string, almost crying, the spindles discarded and scattered as though part of the ocean debris. You see the tragedy reflected in remnants, reminiscent of ancient garments decayed nearly beyond recognition, hanging together by threads or the faint breath of a long-vanished prayer.

The reception drew such long-time, passionate admirers of Eisen as journalist/author Jim Provenzano and dance/children’s book legend Remy Charlip, along with newer admirer Kirk Read, San Francisco’s rising author/open-mic star/performance artist sensation, who has a keen nose for talent and who frequents the new CounterPULSE space at 9th & Mission in S.F. where Eisen and Hennessy are both involved in art-show/performance art organizing.

For those who couldn’t make it to Stitching the Invisible Whole, you can still catch Eisen at the Sanchez Art Center where he maintains a studio. He conducts art workshops there, including mask making with found art. The Sanchez Art Center always has great shows up in its three big galleries, so it’s worth a visit anytime.

 

Leather on parade 

On Sunday afternoon the Dore Alley Fair came off with high spirits and many smiles (at least while I was there) as merry men galore bared chests, butts and more adorned by leather gear ranging from minimal (boots, cockring & choker) to maximal (full body coverage including head & face mask with breathing holes). It was an adults-only scene in the closed-off block, and appropriately the proprietor of LavenderLounge.com was there, checking out the beefcake. It was a great place to sin and be seen.

 

Birthday boy

That night came the lavish 30th birthday party for the adorable Cameron Eng, actor/director/producer, yogi, and loving partner of Terrance Alan, self-proclaimed Mayor of the happening Blue Cube nightclub at 34 Mason St. This tight, sweet couple occupy cool warehouse-like digs South of Market, where the huge wall are adorned with artistic greats including the fabulous Plasticfucker (L.A.’s Doug Murphy), the hot new artist collected by the stars. Cameron, with his perpetual big smile, glistening skin, twinkling eyes and long, silky black hair looked the star that he is. He shared his birthday cake with a host of glamaratti, including Sister Lolita Me Into Temptation, one of the most alluring of the Sisters I’ve encountered (also perhaps the youngest at 24) and the older-but-wiser Sister Uma Gawd, who patiently answered my questions about what it takes to enter the order (if anyone could initiate me, she could). Other revelers on hand to spank Cameron and taste his sweet, juicy pineapple-carrot cake included well-known party host and community benefactor Marty Kahn and faerie friends DolphPun and Baby; the devilishly handsome, gray-bearded, immensely erudite Wyn de Wally, garden designer and theater maven; Theatre Tableau Vivant set designer Dana van Porres; the cast of Whoop-Dee-Doo including Tom Orr, taking a spin to the kick-ass sounds of DJ PussPuss; scene photographer Dan Nicoletta (still looking for funds for that Harvey Milk bust in City Hall) and pal Jordy Jones (artist, writer, curator and community advocate); and so many others.

 

This article appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter, August 4, 2005.

Anything Goes: The State of Performance Art

The two-dozen or so artists and members of the audience that gathered one night last weekend at 455 10th Street, a performance gallery south of Market, were young and very hip. They were all pretty much insiders in the avant-garde art scene in San Francisco, and though they were expecting to be entertained and entertaining, they were not expecting the evening’s events to be either polished or particularly innovative. The fact that there were glimmers of outstanding artistic achievement was probably more than anyone had hoped for.

Michael_Brown_Performance_Art

When I entered the gallery, a shabby, converted warehouse, I immediately saw that the far end of the space was bathed in projections of typewritten words — big, bold, black-and-white lettering cast onto three walls, the floor, the ceiling, and all the stage props.

Interesting, I thought; it had the same dramatic impact as enlarged headlines in scandal sheets. The words leaped out, unintelligible but insistent. The projection spoke plainly: it was “art” large enough to fill an entire space with a minimum of investment in materials, time or imagination. It was functional and put me in the appropriate frame of mind: weirdness.

I seated myself in one of the plastic chairs angled toward the back corner of the gallery and waited to see what would take place. A quartet of musicians in another corner, arranged in a circle so that the backs of some of them were toward the audience, separating us from them, was playing a crudely enchanting music, seemingly spontaneous.  They played recorder, violin, mandolin and drum. It was an oddly primitive music, contributing to the atmosphere of ritual that filled the gallery, as if some ancient rite were taking place.

At center stage a sheet was draped over a square metal frame, perhaps a clothes rack. The projections cast over the walls also partially obscured the sheet, making it blend in with its background, camouflaged. At an apparently predetermined point in the playing of the music, a hand from under the sheet reached out and pulled the sheet down.

Ropes inside the frame suspended a man’s slender, naked body. The ropes looped around his side so that he faced the audience frontally, his feet pointing to the bottom angle of the frame, his head pointed diagonally to the top. His nakedness was obscured by projections onto his white-powdered body.

The projections were of clothes and abstract images. So perfectly placed was his body in relation to the projector that the images of clothes, ever changing, perfectly matched his form, neatly dressing him. Then there were bizarre projections, full of wild colors and unidentifiable images that sometimes made his body look ghastly, as though it were a corpse brought out of a terrible battle in the midst of war.

_______________

The gallery presented a potpourri of individual pieces bearing little relation to each other, a feature that much of what is called “performance art” has in common.

_______________

The people responsible for this captivating scene — m.c. schmidt, Wayne Niethold, and Michael Brown — originally devised the concept in New York for the Palladium. It was created, they said, to honor an acquaintance’s death.

“Performance art is just about anything you want it to be,” says Michael Brown, organizer of the events at 455 10th St.  Better known in the city as one of the infectiously good-humored workers at Café Flore, Mike is an installation artist whose vision and energy regularly brings together the works of various artists at the gallery, many of them, like him, recent graduates of Humboldt State College in Arcata, California.

The artists assembled a potpourri of installation, video, film, live music and performance art, individual pieces bearing little relation to each other, a feature that much of what is called “performance art” has in common.

One piece followed another in the course of the evening. The live music ended, and recorded, synthesized music took over, vibrating in deep, eerie, quadraphonic sound, a collection of found sounds and instrumental music with an overall ominous feel.

This was particularly true when the suspended nude climbed down out of his ropes, to be replaced on stage by four video screens pulsing eerily in the darkness with a taped segment entitled “Mechanical Spectacle.”

Created by Bill Smartt, Mykill Misrok, and Mark Misrok, it consisted of a mechanical farm, with mechanical chickens, ducks, farmers, cows, tractors and other such things, all in their proper settings of farmhouses, barns, and corrals, As the camera panned around and through the set, the pieces moved mechanically, as though they were magnetic and a magnet were being run underneath them. This movement was accompanied by strange electronic sounds, including echoes, claps, sticks clacking, and a farmer’s voice singing, in Hillbilly accent, “Jump down, turn around, pick a bail of hay.” It was a freakish and unsettling combination of sight and sound, nightmarish in effect.

This was followed, in startling contrast, by an outrageously funny act performed by Bill Smartt sitting at a desk, his face the center of a giant sunflower. In a Southern woman’s accent, he portrayed Kimberly, the receptionist for Temp Force, the temporary personnel agency.

“Thank you for calling,” she’d answer the telephone, her voice singsong, and then proceed to humiliate, degrade, and condescend to caller after caller seeking employment. The skit was done with great wit and devastating accuracy, even if the sunflower bonnet was something of a funny flop.

The most powerful piece of the evening, however, was Michael Brown’s own video presentation documenting the destruction of the old Falstaff brewery. It began with Mike engaging in a physical demonstration, a sort of rite in which he slowly and painstakingly moved a giant I-beam from the back of the warehouse onto center stage by rolling it on sticks.

At the same time, images of a crumbled building were projected onto one wall, first in black-and-white, then in color. My first thought was that it was the bombed-out embassy in Beirut, but then other images started appearing on video screens on other walls and I recognized the brewery.

The quadraphonic sound system was emitting magnified noises of traffic and jackhammers and the deep, echoing voice of a woman speaking in German. What was being said was never made clear, but the voice gave a documentary-like quality to the images, as though a member of the underground in World War II Germany was narrating an account of the atrocities she had witnessed.

Michael Brown and his colleagues at 455 10th St. did a remarkable job of providing fresh and interesting entertainment to a sophisticated, if not too critical, audience. Their ideas are as representative of the trends in performance art as anything else. Which is to say, in performance art, anything goes.

 

This article appeared in print in the San Francisco Sentinel, April 3, 1987.

Get wicked!

pinheadHear ye! Hear ye! Lads and lasses, ladies and gents, men lovers, women lovers, bi lovers, tranny lovers, leather lovers, fetish lovers and all you lovers of adult sex and relationships in all their glorious forms: Halloween is our holiday, our holy night, the night for everyone to celebrate queerness. Every culture tangles with ghosts in one way or another, and most of the world’s peoples dedicate rites and holidays to venerating or combatting demons. On this eve we queer folk, demonized by the forces of darkness the rest of the year, receive our just adoration. Everyone, even our straight sisters and brothers, agrees on this night to be queer, which is not just to be gay, it’s to be different.

But beware – bashers also take to the streets this night. We are not totally free to be ourselves, if that means to be careless. If our perceived otherness diminishes on this night, our perceived vulnerability increases. We prance in the spotlight. Nearly everyone gawks and points fingers at us, laughs uproariously with us, dances among us, swings on our arms and takes part in our sexy public frolicks, but unnatural enemies lurk in the crowds. Some truly ugly monsters may shadow us happy witches and freaks, and they may want to see real blood, our blood. We know this, because we’ve experienced it before. We’ve seen the packs of maurauding thugs sweep through the Castro on Halloween, wielding sticks and other objects to inflict real wounds. We’ve heard ourselves demonized on this night, not in fun but in all seriousness, and we’ve had to learn to defend ourselves. We’ve erected barriers, put police and crowd monitors in place, prohibited potentially harmful props from being carried about, and agreed to blow whistles at the first sign of trouble. Halloween is scary.

Get_Wicked!_B&W

So let us sally forth into the night, boldly wicked in our regalia, take part in this parade of the damned, and drink champagne as blood. Let us remember that this rite we’re taking part in evolved out of ancient agrarian rituals, and that our open queerness is a slap in the face at those who long tried, with tragic effect over centuries, to wipe out our kind. Our persecutors may roam yet among us, but most know better than to attack us, because we are strong in numbers, and we know how to fight back.

. . . . .

This article originally appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter, October 23, 1999.

Burroughs for opera lovers: Erling Wold’s ‘Queer’

Reviewed by Mark Mardon.

Erling_Wold's_Queer
A scene from Erling Wold’s “Queer” chamber opera.

Brilliance characterized every facet of Erling Wold’s Queer on opening-night, April 11, 2001, at ODC Theater in San Francisco’s Mission District. From conception through execution, the chamber opera based on the William Burroughs novel more than did justice to Burroughs’ spirit – it rekindled that spirit vividly for the audience, a sophisticated crowd that paid rapt attention to every subtle nuance of inflection and expression from orchestra and actors alike.

Truly the night belonged to composer Wold, whose latest, possibly greatest work follows previous chamber operas A Little Girl Dreams of Taking the Veil (1993-94) and Sub Pontio Pilato (1995-98) and a host of recordings, chamber pieces, and New Music-style electronic experiments. The concept of turning a classic of queer literature into a post-postmodern chamber piece, complete with on-stage orchestra and what amounts to a singing William Burroughs, dares to be taken seriously. In lesser hands, it could have turned Burroughs’ dry humor and desperate longings into farce. But the combined prodigious talents of Wold, stage director Jim Cave, dramaturgist John Morace, conductor Deirdre McClure, choreographer Cid Pearlman, lighting designer Clyde Sheets, and costume designer Hank Ford, together with a stellar cast, orchestra, and crew, skillfully brought life to Wold’s idea, turning Queer into an exceptionally well-rehearsed, well-executed, inspiring work of high art.

Wold’s composition for trumpet, guitar, piano, synthesizer, violin and contrabass, flawlessly executed by an orchestra including Wold on guitar, creates an atmospheric, classically based soundscape reminiscent of works by Philip Glass, David Del Tredici, and Ned Rorem; aptly, the Village Voice once described Wold as “the Eric Satie of Berkeley surrealist/minimalist electro-artrock.” Here, though, minimalism and melody go hand in hand, with lovely passages, including suggestions of Mexican mariachi music, offset by sections more mood-setting than melodic. The various passages cohere into a gorgeous tapestry, as intricate and interesting as any woven textile.

Part of Queer‘s appeal is its marriage of modern music with a text dear to the hearts of queer literati. It would have been easy to parody Burroughs using his own words. Fortunately, the caustically funny Burroughs temperament came across dazzlingly in the characterization of William Lee – Burroughs’ alter ego – by Trauma Flintstone, who turned in a bravura performance. Flintstone was a joy to experience as Lee, singing passages in recitative and flowing across the stage in hot pursuit of his love object. At times he soared in touching, elegant arias – usually just after he’d downed a drink or two, or tried to get his hand down Allerton’s pants and been yet-again rejected.

Not only did Flintstone exhibit rich vocal qualities and a prodigious feat of memory – he sang practically the entire libretto, whole passages expertly pieced together from the text of the novel – he convincingly personified the novel’s chief protagonist. He did this not by imitating Burroughs’ style, but by channeling the writer’s corrosive spirit with seeming effortlessness. Flintstone is a natural for the part, with lanky body, balding head, growly voice, and an apparently innate ability to tell fanciful yarns illustrated with expansive hand gestures and quirky facial tics.

Flintstone brought to the role natural charm, an easiness in body language, a measured pace, and inner motivation outwardly manifested by apt facial expressions, vocal tones, and gestures. His comfortable stage presence allowed him real interactions with his fellow actor/singers. Hints of music-theater training emerged in his vocal style, suggesting a potential for affectation and exaggeration, yet Flintstone nailed the operatic form, bringing heft to his performance and grounding it in the meaning of the text, rather than letting fly simply for the sake of melody.

Shane Kramer ably carried off the challenge of serving as Lee’s mostly unresponsive love object, Eugene Allerton, a young man of sullen good looks and aloof (not to mention alcoholic and heroin addicted) behavior. At first Kramer seemed an odd choice for the part, being perhaps older and more rugged in appearance than the novel suggests Allerton to be. Rather than a corrupt pretty kid, Kramer embodied the character of a jaded young tough, sullen in the way Brad Davis was as the sought-after sailor/sex object in Querelle. Yet Kramer pulled it off well, keeping himself aloof, disinterested, but never wooden. His sexuality always was palpable, and you could understand why Lee obsessed over him.

Lending lusty weight and powerful vocals to various character parts was Ken Berry, his acting and singing abilities indispensable to the overall tone and success of the piece. This is Berry’s second production with Wold, after playing the father in Wold’s A Little Girl Dreams of Taking the Veil.

Dancers doubling as characters – the lovely Stacey Em Jackson, Zenón Barrón, and Norberto Martinez – popped in and out of the scenes, gracefully, artfully merging dance and drama. At one moment they served as foils and counterparts to Lee’s lusty imagination; the next they were creating evocative tableaux on the wide, deep, beautifully lit stage. The set, with benches, tables, and bar at the front of the stage and an alluring bed toward the rear, allowed much space for the dancers, and choreographer Cid Pearlman made great use of the openings. Barrón and Martinez paired off frequently in sensuous dance-play that formed a continual backdrop to the goings on with Lee and Allerton. Especially in the second half of the show, together with Jackson, they infused the production with a sexy perfume of teasing, come-hither looks, and slow-motion seductions.

Queer, the chamber opera, conveys the story of a queer American bum south of the border in the 1940s as artfully as Queer, the novel. One might have expected a musical version of the book to incorporate grunge rock, or jazz, or blues, or tango – but a chamber opera? It works, and that’s all the encouragement anyone should need to check out this instant classic.

 

Erling Wold’s Queer played through April 22 at ODC Theater, 3153 17th St. Phone (415) 863-9834.

What makes Heklina tick? Trannyshack!

The founding diva of Trannyshack expounds on art and life.

Heklina&Crackers
Trannyshack founder and hostess Heklina
(nee Stefan Grygelko).

One sunny afternoon in the Tenderloin, Heklina gives me a walk-through tour of her teeny-tiny apartment, starting with a survey of the art on the walls:

“This is a piece by Sam Russell,” clucks the mother hen of Trannyshack, pointing to the first painting. “He helped me paint my apartment, and he gave this to me, and it hangs over my couch and I like it a lot. I don’t really know what it means. It’s kind of religious. To me it seems like an angel in the clouds.”

Moving on we come to some Walter Keene prints from the ’60s, little doll-like kids with big eyes on faded paper, which look due for an “Antiques Roadshow” assessment, and then a very early original Scooter painting from 1995. Scooter, the hip, hunky, queer Tenderloin painter/rapper/model-escort, has scooted on to New York, where he’s blazing his bold paths with his art and sex appeal.

Most jarring, in a psychic sense, is a self portrait as clown by John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer, called “Patches the Clown.”

“I think it’s super creepy,” Heklina shivers. “I got it from Chocolate, who bought it at an auction of John Wayne Gacy’s artwork in Indianapolis right before he was executed.”

There’s a pillowy sculptural piece on the wall by Portia 666, one of Heklina’s favorite drag artists, who in fact did her all-time-favorite drag number at Trannyshack. It was back in the club’s “early days” – Trannyshack at seven is still going strong, belying virtually everyone’s expectations, including Heklina’s – and Portia 666 did a number to Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen.” She dressed up as a unicorn and danced inside a huge Snow Globe made of plastic, bathed in snow-white light, tossing confetti around like snow.

After a peek inside Heklina’s surprisingly small drag closet, packed with dresses, wigs and other apparel, all neatly organized, we repair to the cozy kitchen table to talk, and the first thing she does is light up a cigarette, which she declares is the only vice she has left, along with caffeine, having dumped several others along the way.

I use the name Heklina, but of course that’s a nom de drag. Take away the drag façade, and the name no longer quite fits. Before me sits a gently unassuming guy, Stefan Grygelko, soft-spoken and oddly plain in appearance and style, who you can tell has lived awhile in the fast lane, finally to recover his bearings. The name is Polish, but Grygelko says he moved here from Reykjavik in 1991: “My mother is Islandic, so I have spent a lot of my life moving back and forth between the States and Iceland, and that’s where I was before, just living in Reykjavik and working at the art institute as a nude model and just partying.”

Grygelko was raised in the States, in Minnesota, New York state and Boston, and he’d already done a partying stint in California, in San Diego, where he spent a few years hanging out with punk rockers, transvestites and street people, surviving precariously: “I was 18, 19, 20, living on the streets, doing lots of drugs. I was pretty outlandish, pretty out there.”

Back in Iceland, Grygelko kicked the drug habit but continued to drink a lot: “It’s a very intellectual town; everybody’s really smart, so there’s a lot of art going on. But as far a the gay scene, there isn’t much of one, which is why I’d go to Europe a lot. I was kind of bored with Iceland, and never felt like I fit in with the culture there, because I was mostly American.”

He had no desire to go to California again, but changed his mind after a girlfriend came back from visiting San Francisco, raving about how great it was and insisting they move there: “So I married her – she was a lesbian – so she could get a green card, and we moved here together in ’91.”

Grygelko was immediately taken with the city’s queer arts subculture and fell in with the whole performing crowd, including the now legendary Diet Popstitute, Klubstitute and all those fun freaks. He hooked up with director/writer Tony Vaguely’s Sick and Twisted Players and felt right at home.

Grygelko “met everybody right away,” he says, “because I was dating Jason Mecier, who was half of Enrique, the performance band, and I was living in a house full of radical faeries, with Steve and Maxine and Portia Manson and Lucille and Racine. They had a big house out on 9th Ave. in the Sunset. I was just very taken with it all.”

Alas, Grygelko was not yet a performer, and at first managed to overcome stage fright by getting thoroughly drunk: “One time I did a Sick and Twisted show in a blackout. I don’t remember doing it. But that’s how it was back then, and it wasn’t too important to be sober. Now I can’t imagine doing a show fucked up.”

It was in this era that Grygelko began to dabble in drag, when he met comedian/drag artist Pippi Lovestocking (Scott Free), and when he got a job at the Stud in 1995, first working security and coat check, then bartending. Heklina and Trannyshack were born when Grygelko and Pippi persuaded the Stud’s co-owners, Michael McElheny and Fiesta, to let them do a series of benefits for Project Open Hand, called “Singing for Supper.” They would rent a karaoke machine, drag it into the Stud, and invite their friends to come and sing. Eventually it became a weekly Tuesday-night club, and they dispensed with the karaoke and made it a lip-synch/performance club for the punk/queer generation.

“I called it Trannyshack,” says Grygelko, “based on where Pippi was living at the time, with Chocolate, Ruby Tuesday and Bambi Lake under one roof, and whenever I would go over there I would say, oh, I’m going over to the tranny shack.”

Heklina&men
Heklina in her element at Trannyshack.

At the very first Trannyshacks, the performance line-up consisted of just Heklina, Pippi and DJ Robbie D, and maybe a couple other people. They charged only a dollar to get in. The club didn’t take off right away, and Grygelko says “Pippi kind of got bored with doing it with me, and when she left as my hostess and my sidekick, I just decided it would be fun to book different hosts each week, and to have different themes every week. And that really kind of clicked.”

For whatever reason, performers started clamoring to appear. Some carried the cachet of rock stars, including Darlin’, the Steve Lady, Peaches Christ, Portia 666, Juanita MORE!, Vinsantos, Blue Period glam rocker Adrian Roberts, real woman drag diva Trixxie Carr, and many more. As the talent blossomed, the cover charges started going up. Young, smart, sexy audiences went crazy over the punk/anarchic scene, a refreshing break from the dried-up, old-school drag of yore. At Trannyshack, irreverence reigned, and party people came in droves. Had the club been on a Friday or Saturday night, says Grygelko, “it would have died a long time ago, because it would have been so overrun with bridge-and-tunnel horrible people, you know what I mean?”

Running Trannyshack as a tight ship has forced Heklina to clean up her own act. People think Trannyshack is loud, rude and obnoxious, and they’re right, says Grygelko, but “the way it’s evolved, it’s very organized now. I don’t drink or get fucked up so I’m very controlling of how it runs, and everybody around me is kind of getting fucked up and drinking, and sometimes it feels like I’m in charge of the asylum.”

 

This article originally appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter, November 21, 2002

 

Whither Goeth the Rhino?

Doug Holsclaw talks of Theatre Rhinoceros

Doug_Holsclaw
Doug Holsclaw

On the map of gay San Francisco, Theatre Rhinoceros is a sacred community space. Five times a year in the old Redstone Building it calls home, the company mounts main-stage productions – with more shows in the downstairs Studio – and the faithful come to witness. At these times, the grizzled old gal radiates gay splendor.

For nearly 25 years, cutting-edge queer theater has found a home at Theatre Rhinoceros, beginning in times of heady optimism and fervent activism of the gay lib era, brazening through the dark years of the plague, lit by a spirit of defiance, and finally emerging again into the light of new hope. Or would that be the twilight of old hope?

This is the question of the moment as I meet with Theatre Rhinoceros Artistic Director Doug Holsclaw one recent afternoon at his Rhino turf in the Mission. We sit facing one another downstairs in the emptiness and shadows of the Studio, his chair perched on low stage platform, higher than mine, the difference in our heights emphasizing his regal nellyness. It’s just he and I, a microphone and digital device recording his every lisp, and a file-folder’s worth of images I’ve brought along, culled from a newspaper archive, documenting the many years of Theatre Rhinoceros productions. To get to the future, we’ll need to review the past.

“I don’t want to be an isolationist or separatist,” Holsclaw declares at the outset,” but I do think there is something to having our own home,” a place where queer stage artists can be themselves. He adds: “I feel like we’re not about straight approval.”

In his breathless, breathtaking way, Holsclaw justifies his theater’s existence: “If Theatre Rhinoceros didn’t exist, Barebacking wouldn’t have existed.” He adds an extra oomph: “I feel real strongly about that.”

John Fisher’s Barebacking, Holsclaw declares, “was a big production with great productions values and really controversial subject matter. Nobody else touched this show.” He beams with the pride of a proud parent, mother and father mixed in one.

He lives and breathes theater, you can tell, and the more in-your-face queer the play, the more he seems to like it: “I must say I don’t think we get a lot of credit for being as adventurous as we are.”

There’s a devilishness in him. He loves controversy. He also loves to tout the sheer variety of Rhino presentations: “We are not a theater that does just one thing,” he harrumphs, responding to invisible or imagined critics. “We just did Noel Coward, now we’re doing a women’s prison comedy, then we’re doing a gay version of Of Mice and Men. This is following Marga Gomez’s Twelve Days of Cochina, and Serina Queen of the Tango, about a drag queen tango dancer.” The last, he shakes his head, met with an unlucky fate, despite Matthew Martin delivering “the best performance he ever gave.” Alas, the play opened on September 9, 2001. It’s life was cut short by the bombing. The audience stayed home – a pity, he sighs, “because it was just wonderful!”

Doug_Holsclaw_1Continuing through the photos, Holsclaw comes upon yet another image of sexy guys baring all that counts to the Rhino audience: “This was a hot little comedy we did in the Studio,” he remarks of Out Calls Only. “When the first nudie boys shows started coming around, I said: ‘Let’s beat them at their own game. Let’s write something that’s really sexy, where sex isn’t the punch line. . . . It wasn’t like, oh, Naked Boys Singing: ‘Isn’t it funny when we wiggle our dicks?'”

Speaking of dicks brings him to Ronnie Larson, infamous director of 10 Naked Men and other controversies: “Ronnie Larson, you know, is a nut!” laughs Holsclaw, “but he’s talented, I’ve got to give it to him. I always say I’ll never work with him again, and I always do. He’s coming back next year.”

Holsclaw remains gently miffed at Larson for a nasty trick he pulled in the production of Girl Meets Girl: “He lied to me and told me it was [by] a woman playwright! It was really Ronnie using an assumed name. I took all sorts of heat. People wrote vicious things about me in the press, and I honestly got tricked!”

He recalls another play that caused a ruckus, and seems to revel in the memory, looking at the photographs: “This was Shopping & Fucking, which was one of my favorite productions ever. It caused all sorts of problems. We got hate mail. A major funder withdrew funding because the show was offensive to straight people. They said [the play presented] a very dark view of humanity.” Holsclaw sighs deeply, then replies: “Now, you step over people to come to this theater. Then you come inside and we’re supposed to be at a beach house at fire island? You know what I mean? Shouldn’t theater reflect the experience of the world?”

 

A dream come true

This place, this project, this dream called Theatre Rhinoceros, has been Holsclaw’s life and career and home for almost 20 years, almost since the time he moved to San Francisco from New York, in 1983. He never intended to become Artistic Director of a gay theater company, nor aimed for precisely the heights he’s achieved in the role, or the gravitas he carries with grace but can’t escape: “I never aspired to this, but now I’m the organizational history and memory of Theater Rhinoceros, because so many of my colleagues and dear friends before me are no longer here.”

It’s an awesome responsibility. If you want to do queer theater in San Francisco, you have a few choices: go the low-budget, anarchist/independent route, either in rental spaces or through workshopping at the Jon Sims Center and elsewhere; or plead with mainstream theaters to produce your gay-themed piece (thus currying the queer community’s gratitude); or turn to New Conservatory Theater Center or Theatre Rhinoceros, the two main homes plays and spectacles by, for and about queers.

“We recently started using Equity actors,” proclaims Holsclaw with pride. Rhino, he says, is “the first gay theater in the country to have a seasonal agreement with Equity. We pay our actors $125 a week.”

The amount is absurdly low, a mere token, and Holsclaw knows it: “Economics in the Bay Area have made it hard for young artists to live here because rents are so high. Young people are going to Portland and Seattle, not San Francisco, except the more professional ones. I don’t sense a rising class of younger artists in the volume there was when I started, because it’s a tough city to live in.”

Holsclaw describes finances at Theatre Rhinoceros as touch-and-go, but declares that thanks to his small, hard-working staff, and careful allocation of new grants, “At Rhino, you see the money on the stage.”

Just after he says this, Holsclaw drops the big news: “We’ve been in the planning process for our relocation; we’re in the process of negotiating an option to buy on a new building.”

The specific building Holsclaw has in mind for Theatre Rhinoceros is the old City Athletic Club smack dab in the center of the Castro. “If the homeless shelter moves out, it might become available,” Holsclaw says. “The location is beautiful. The idea of having a performing arts facility in the Castro would be a great thing for the community.”

Holsclaw feels the Castro location, for which they’ve already don an architectural feasibility study, would make GLBT theater accessible to a larger segment of the population: “What I hear from our audience is that while some people love the Mission District, some people don’t feel safe coming here. And people should feel safe coming to the theater. Once inside the theater, there should be an element of danger, because you don’t know what you’re going to see on stage.”

As for himself, says Holsclaw at interview’s end, “I’m not sure what the future holds, but in the next couple of years I would like to transition out of being to dog, and that will mean groom and coaching somebody.

Is anybody waiting in the wings?

“Well, that’s a top secret,” he winks, “just like my Boo Boo Bear.”

. . . . .

 

This article originally appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter.

Tripping over Tricia: The Cockettes on film

San Francisco filmmakers David Weissman and Bill Weber restore the long-lost Cockettes film  Tricia’s Wedding.   

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.15.10 PM
A scene from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

Preserving cultural trivia is no easy task. Much of the fluff of life disappears without a whimper, gone before anyone notices. By the time anyone realizes a thing’s importance, it may be too late to salvage. Fortunately, the world has documentary film makers such as David Weissman and Bill Weber, two San Franciscans feverishly dedicated to preserving the legacy The Cockettes, one of the more outrageous queer hippie performance collectives of the 1970s.

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.20.05 PM
A scene from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

In the course of assembling their documentary, Weissman and Weber salvaged a precious piece of trivia, a campy film produced by The Cockettes, called Tricia’s Wedding, long lost and mostly forgotten, but now restored, thanks to their efforts. Scenes from that film will show up in their documentary when they complete it (in roughly a year). Meanwhile, the story of Tricia’s Wedding and its restoration deserves telling, because it says a lot about how queer culture has evolved, and what it takes to ensure that a colorful part of the past remains accessible to us at present.

Tricia_Nixon_Wedding
Wedding day 1971: Pat Nixon, President Richard Nixon, Tricia Nixon and Edward Finch Cox.

It was 1971, and Tricia Nixon, the President’s daughter, was about to wed beneath the klieg lights of the national press corps. Meanwhile, back in San Francisco, a gaggle of wild drag performers calling themselves The Cockettes decided they wanted to celebrate the joyous occasion in their inimitable way. The manager of the flock, a fellow named Sebastian, proposed they film their own version of the wedding. They would screen it on wedding night at the Palace Theater in North Beach, where they had been holding regular Friday night “Nocturnal Dream Shows,” at which gender-bent hippies gathered to take acid, watch offbeat movies, display their feathered finery, and camp it up until dawn.

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.12.11 PM
A scene from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

“It took two days to make the movie,” says Weissman, who works out of an office in the South of Market space occupied by Frameline, the organization dedicated to promoting queer cinema. “It was made at a place called Secret Cinema on 16th Street. This was Steven Arnold’s warehouse. They put together the sets overnight, and filmed the sort-of-sober parts on Saturday, with the understanding from Sebastian that Sunday was the day they would all go completely berserk and have the post-LSD reception. There was a certain amount of consumption of substances during filming.”

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.12.46 PM
Reggie spikes the punch in a scene
from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

As Weissman describes it, the film Tricia’s Wedding is “basically is a psychedelic drag parody.” Among its huge cast of characters – all portrayed by wacky transvestites – were many of the notable political and cultural figures of the time: Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir; Lady Bird Johnson; Vice President Spiro Agnew; India’s Indira Gandhi; Martha Mitchell, the wife of Nixon’s attorney general; and Mamie Eisenhower, the former president’s wife. The recently widowed Coretta Scott King was portrayed by Sylvester, whose rise to fame as a disco diva was just beginning. A Cockette named Reggie played the key role of Eartha Kitt, who spikes the wedding punch with LSD in revenge for having been blackballed from the White House, the result of criticizing the Vietnam War during an intimate performance for Lady Bird Johnson, which had caused Lady Bird to cry.

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.11.58 PM
A scene from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

“It wound up being a huge, wild orgy at the end of the show,” says Weissman, describing the film’s wedding-reception scene. “Wigs and clothes come off and people flip out and have a lot of fun. Mamie Eisenhower, who was the mother of our country, has a wonderful drunken performance.” And Tricia Nixon herself was played by “the eternally hideous Goldie Glitters.” That she was marrying a man named Cox was ripe for Cockettes parody.

Weissman recalls first viewing the half-hour-long Tricia’s Wedding when he was about 20 years old, a few years after it was made: “I don’t know exactly when I saw it, but it changed my life. It really brought home to me the subversive power of comedy and particularly of drag. It was a really entertaining assault on all the norms of bourgeois American culture. It was just one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.”

For years, Weissman has wanted Tricia’s Wedding to be shown publicly by Frameline or some other group, “because I knew it was a piece of gay history.” Yet one big stumbling block prevented this: the only print anyone in existence was in the hands of Sebastian, and it was in very bad condition.

“Every time it would play,” says Weissman, “it would catch at a particular point and burn in the projector, and everyone in the audience would scream and yell.”

Screen shot 2013-10-15 at 1.10.17 PM
A scene from ‘Tricia’s Wedding’.

Weissman knew that Sebastian, who now lives in Los Angeles, had made a video copy of it, but it was made from the one bad print, so he worried Tricia’s Wedding would be lost once this print finally shredded. But making a fresh print proved highly problematical since neither Sebastian nor Mark Lester, the film’s producer, had any idea what happened to the original materials. They assumed everything had been lost.

Undeterred, Weissman looked up the film’s cinematographer, Paul Aratow, figuring he might know which laboratory the film was done in. Through an Internet search, he found Aratow in Los Angeles, and asked him “Did you shoot Tricia’s Wedding? He laughed and said: ‘Oh my god, I haven’t thought of that in 25 years!'”

Aratow said he thought the film had been processed at a lab on Columbus Street, Monaco, which still exists. Weissman called there and asked: “What are the chances of finding a piece of film from 29 years ago in your vaults?”

The person he spoke with knew the film, but said it had been processed at Palmer’s, which had long since closed down. The inventory from Palmer’s, he later learned, had been picked up by Pacific Film Archive in Berkeley, and by an archive in New York City.

It was at the latter that Tricia’s Wedding turned up.

“They had no idea what it was,” says Weissman. “They had the original sound track, and the original negatives.”

Once Sebastian authorized the release of the materials to Weissman and Weber, the two were quick to turn it around: “We just now completed making a brand new, absolutely perfect print and preservation negative of Tricia’s Wedding to save for posterity,” says Weissman.

And in this way, yet another chapter of queer history gets beefed up.

For information about Tricia’s Wedding and the making of The Cockettes documentary, contact David Weissman at GranDelusion Production, 346 Ninth St., San Francisco, CA 94103. Phone (415) 703-8661.

 

This article originally appeared in print in the Bay Area Reporter.