Masur conducts Mendelssohn, another bad bartender and new hookers in the hood

I don't have a good reason for having never seen Kurt Masur conduct the San Francisco Symphony before last night. He makes an annual visit and has for years, so one would think my appreciation for the Romantic rep and his prowess in it would have caused an earlier encounter than last night's all Mendelssohn program at Davies Symphony Hall. To make me feel even more like a rube, it wasn't even Masur or the Mendelssohn which prompted my interest in this particular program. No, it was the participation of Maya Lahyani and Susannah Biller, two young opera singers whose talents have caught my interest, as well as the Davies After Hours event scheduled to follow the performance.

The first half of the performance was the Symphony No. 4 in A major, aka Italian. Masur, using the perhaps the most minimal gestures I've ever seen a conductor use, led the orchestra through a superb performance of the work. Though his gestures were almost imperceptible except when signaling an entrance, the orchestra was with him every step of the way. Re-arranged to emphasize the violins, with the six basses forming an aesthetically pleasing backdrop almost center stage instead of the timpani (which was placed at the far right-side of the stage), the SFS musicians sounded like an entirely different orchestra for this piece. It was a pleasure from the first note through the last.

After the intermission came the the complete A Midsummer Night's Dream. Most of us know only parts of this work- the Overture and the Wedding March, and to hear the entire thing is a rarity. I, for one, now know why. It's an incredibly tedious piece. Despite the game efforts of the orchestra, especially the flutes of Tim Day and Linda Lukas, and a truly outstanding turn by Itay Tiran as the narrator, the piece is just didn't work for me in a concert setting. The music starts and then suddenly stops, as the narrator constantly interjects between passages that increasingly seems like merely repetitve snippets which grow shorter as the works gets longer. Perhaps this is my fault for going into it unfamiliar with its entirety, but I'm certain my response wasn't unique. Biller's two solo turns were nice, and in her brief almost thankless moment in the spotlight Lahyani sounded gorgeous as usual. The San Francisco Girl's Chorus sounded positively angelic. It's just too bad all of the talent was invested in a work that yielded so little to enjoy.

Agreeing to attend with me at almost the last minute after Chad Newsome unconscionably cancelled, Herr Feldheim and I decided to skip the After Hours event and head to a less crowded locale for conversation and drinks. We chose the completely empty Blue Muse, where we once again encountered another seriously bad bartender. I won't speak for Axel, who seems less particular about these things than I (read less bitchy, yes), but I doubt I'll go back. Why? For starters, turn the TV down. Better yet, turn the TV off completely and put on some music. Two, if you've never tried what we're drinking, my drink is not where you should get your first taste from- try your own, or at least ask me before you dip a straw into mine. Unless you're buying the round. Three, if we're talking, you really don't need to interrupt us. Truly, you don't. Thankfully another couple came and diverted her attention until her friend showed up with a dog the size of a horse. After I was molested by the dog we took our leave and looked for another locale. We ended up continuing our conversation in the 101- two middle-aged guys now anonymous in the crowd of 20-somethings, left alone, and free to chat.

After we took our leave, I made my way home through the Gulch- the first time in awhile I've strolled through it at 1:00 am on a Friday night. It's more crowded than ever with young people packing the sidewalks outside the bars and generally being obnoxious. Walking past Divas I was surprised to see an entirely unfamiliar group of hookers working the street- a new generation apparently taking over the neighborhood. Standing at the corner of Larkin and Post, I spotted Veronica a block away at her usual spot under the streetlight at Hemlock, where she's been doing her thing for years. I found her presence strangely reassuring. Not everything changes.

In the holiday Meat Grinder

Saturday night in the City. Holiday season is in full effect. Penelope is at the beach. The Femme is stuck in her castle. The Swede is on holiday in Syria, the Greek's gone MIA, the Minister's Rebellious Daughter is nowhere to be found and the only two people who would go see a nasty Thai flick about cannibalism ala Sweeney Todd are my next door neighbor who can't get out of a holiday party (perhaps she was just being kind) and la Divinavila, who is in L.A.. Fuck it, I'm still going, but the trek to the theater forces me to walk through the hordes downtown, tens of thousands of oblivious out-of-towners and tourists who move in slow, meandering packs weighed down by bags from Old Navy, a general sense of stupor and their obvious, oblivious awe and uncomfortableness at finding themselves in an actual City for a change. There are couples and groups and I'm consciously aware that I'm on my own, headed to see a movie called Meat Grinder. Ho ho ho.

I arrive at the venue. There's a big party going on downstairs. An usher asks me "Are you here for the Nutcracker?" I reply in the negative. I'm here to see the movie. It's supposed to start in 10 minutes.

She looks puzzled. She tells me the movie is upstairs but they haven't told her to let anyone up yet. She directs to someone who should have an answer. Turns out I'm the first one there. I get my ticket and a guy comes out and lets me into the upstairs theater. It's small, and completely empty. It stays empty, except for me, for at least another five minutes. I open up my package of Red Vines, bought at a Walgreen's on Market St.. I think I should be in a grindhouse. Why did the Strand Theater have to close? I'm a middle-aged white guy sitting alone in a theater with Red Vines and a flask on a Saturday night while there are thousands of people within a mile's radius who are shopping for loved ones, dressed up and on their way to holiday parties, celebrating "the season." It's okay- I'm in my natural element. Meat Grinder is part of series of films called Go to Hell for the Holidays and that's something I can appreciate. It's an idea I can get behind after a week where Obama completely punks out and then lets Bill Clinton stand in for him. Talk about disappointing.

Finally someone else walks into the theater, and wouldn't you know it- it's someone I know. Not well, but our jobs used to intersect and I seem to always see him at Patti Smith concerts. We have a mutual friend, Chad, who tipped me off to these screenings and I know it was this guy who told him about it. We chat for a bit about A Serbian Film, which I know via Chad he has a screener copy of which he sent via intercompany mail to a co-worker/friend and it got lost. Can you fucking imagine that? If you don't know what I mean, it's akin to accidentally forwarding a link to a kiddie porn or bestiality website to your friendly, born-again co-worker at a huge corporation via email. Some people have questionable judgement- I'm often one of them. A couple of other people filter in- a lone female who sits on the aisle (and bails about 15 minutes into the movie) and a fat bald guy and his bleach blonde female companion who look like their next stop after the movie is going to be the Power Exchange. The bald guy looks like one of Vukmir's goons in A Serbian Film. I feel like a scuzball just for being in the same place as these two.. A single white guy in his twenties shows up, looking self-conscious, and takes a seat. An Asian guy takes a seat in the row behind me and proceeds to constantly pull stuff from a paper bag loudly. Asshole. Then he proceeds to cough like he has TB. There are now eight of us. The lights go down. My mother had invited me to a family dinner and a boat parade with Christmas lights in Sausalito. I chose this instead. Like I said, my judgement is often questionable. The Asian guy keeps hacking and ruffling through his bag of tricks. I want to smack him, but I don't want TB, so I sit there passively hoping he'll shut the fuck up.

Meat Grinder turns out to be a near miss. The acting is good, the cinematography better, but the narrative of the movie is completely screwed. For horror to be effective, the audience has to undergo a sensation of mounting tension. This movie, which starts with dated footage suggesting the past ala Martyrs, goes back and forth to the point of incoherence. The audience is never really sure where we are in the story, as the idea of crafting a linear plot is anathema to director/writer/editor/cinematographer Tiwa Moeithaisong. It's too bad, because he knows how to create great individual scenes and images, but the whole is a jumbled mess that fails all litmus tests for what makes a great horror film. Or even a good one. At least that's how I saw it from my Western perspective. Perhaps there is something different in Thai culture that makes all of this not only palpable, but acceptable. It's entirely possible. Who am I to judge? I thought The Grudge and it's Japanese original, Ju-on to be barely watchable crap.

The film ends on a note of incoherence, or at least ridiculousness, and my acquaintance remains seated to watch the credits. I bail, wait a few minutes outside to hear his opinion, but decide enough is enough. I make my past the bums bedding down for the night in the doorway of the now vacant Virigin Megastore as shoppers and the bridge and tunnel crowd walk by them and pretend they don't exist. Past the Ferrari store which never has a soul in it but has manged to be there since last year, thinking I'll give my own souls a lift and look at the kittens and puppies in the windows of Macy's but there are just too many damn people there. It's a mob. I walk past the restaurants which are all packed, the couples dressed up for a once-a-year night on the town, the groups of Guidos who somehow manage to take up the entire 10 foot-wide sidewalks and I make my way back home, wondering what the fuck I'm going to eat for dinner. The Paki place across the street from my apartment is packed and I peek in the window see many tables without any food on them. Not an option.


I enter my building, where there is party going on in the lobby, which the HOA rents out for people who want to have a party in an art deco palace. It's not a party I can crash, otherwise I might out of sheer ennui and the desire to get this Bickle-esque taste out of my mouth. In the lobby is a relatively new resident I know and she has a certain hunger in her eyes as she's talking to the doorman/guard. I know that hunger like I know the back of the my hand. She looks at me, and I wonder to myself how many other men who live in this building have felt that weight, the palpable desire, of that particular, distinct gaze. It's too close to home. The elevator opens, I punch the button for my floor. it opens and I stride down the quiet hall to my apartment- the last one on the left. Entering, I'm met with complete indifference by the other occupant- a cat. Now we are current, and the tourists and shoppers should be gone, it's almost 11pm, and now it's time to get something to eat. Ho ho ho.

Update on Sunday morning: The Femme called me this and complained about the darkness of this post. It's really meant to be tongue in cheek- I mean who else but a Travis Bickle type would really go see this kind of stuff during the holiday season? Have a nice day and don't forget to smile.

A pleasant evening stroll through the Tenderloin. Really!

I was escorting the Femme Fatale to Muni last night. It was warm out, there were a ton of people on the street enjoying the weather, and all of a sudden the Tenderloin seemed like an (almost) bright, shiny place. This was magnified tenfold when we got to the normally disgusting, bum and junkie-filled Hallidie Plaza and found a full-fledged salsa party underway with a great band and people dancing. It was a WTF moment in the best possible way. I don't know who is responsible for this but that "Thank You!" and please give us some more!

Walking back home after sending the FF back to her castle on the Hill, I checked out this opening at the scrappy, interesting Ever Gold Gallery, featuring the work of John Held Jr., who works in a variety of mediums and seems to have a thing for rubber stamps. A lot of 50's era styling younger women seem to have thing for Held Jr. (who must have a good 10 years on me), so it was an interesting mix of people floating about. The show has some interesting, very detailed works that are well worth spending some time investigating.

The Ever Gold's hours are seen above. The gallery is on O'Farrell between Jones and Taylor. Check it out- the people who run it are good neighbors and the space is a positive newer addition to the neighborhood.

Will the Little Chinese Man be at Tendernight?

The first ever TenderNight event takes place tonight at 8:00 at Edinburgh Castle. If you don't know where the Edinburgh Castle is you should probably stay home. But if you do venture out, you'll see some of your neighbors, meet some new people and hear a bunch of bloggers from the 'Loin tell stories from their blogs and such. I've heard prizes will be awarded and a special drink has been created just for tonight.

I have been asked to participate in the story-telling, which I modestly declined, but if someone prods me after a round or two of bourbon, I have a feeling I may end up giving a detailed account of the whole story about The Little Chinese Man.

Maybe he'll even be there...

Dog day afternoon

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An Afternoon at the Night Cap

Just another dog day afternoon in the Tenderloin. Hanging out, with nothing to do. Dedicated to Madame Merle and Atticus.

In the Back Corner of a Speakeasy

Bourbon and Branch has been in my neighborhood for a few years now and much to my surprise they've been able to maintain the same strict house rules and reservation/time limit policy in place since they opened. These same rules and policies keep me from going very often because while I appreciate the novelty (and quiet) I generally don't like rules. I especially don't like rules when I'm drinking.

However on Tuesday I found myself there with 5 other wonderful folks to celebrate MAP's birthday and I was reminded of how great their drinks really are. I had a Liberal and was tempted to order another but had a something Louisiana instead that was almost as delicious. The Liberal, however, was sublime. Many Sazeracs were consumed, all of them expertly made- and I am a very picky Sazerac drinker. Also tasty were the Saint Germain and the Ramos Gin Fizz, which was not on the menu but willingly provided.

While I smirk at the pretensions behind this and other "cocktail forward" bars (I am not making the term up- this is how our server described Rickhouse, also owned by the folks), the drinks are damn fine- and worth the price, though they certainly ain't cheap.

Yes, the photo is of The Liberal (foreground) and The Saint Germaine. I broke the rule against taking pictures. If Bourbon and Branch relaxed all of the rules except the cell phone ban, I'd probably drink here a lot more often than I do. So maybe they should leave them in place. I already like bourbon way too much as it is. Notice my choice of words here? Yes, I said I like bourbon way too much. I did not say I drink bourbon way too much. Nor do I drink way too much of what I like. What I meant to say is I like to drink way too much Bourbon. And there we are.

Regardless, stay away on the weekends, especially after after midnight, when the place, especially the library, always seems to be taken over by trendy type douches who are as obnoxious as the crackhead douches outside, taking the whole thing (and themselves) way too seriously. Early on a Tuesday is good- when we got there it was quiet, and though the place was almost full when we left two hours later, it remained easy for all of us to talk in our nice dark corner booth.

In the Alley

In the alley outside of the Shooting Gallery.

Strippers!

Since I've lived in this neighborhood for five years, and hung out in it for a lot longer than that, it's sometimes easy to think it will never change. But recently, I noticed this sign replaced the really ugly, sleazy one outside the world-famous Mitchelll Bros. O'Farrell Theater, which is just down my street. This sign is a huge improvement over the old skanky one:

Turns out the daughter and son of Jim Mitchell, the brother who killed Artie, the other Mitchell Brother, are now running the joint and have ambitions to make it a friendlier place for the neighborhood, the dancers and the patrons. That's all to the good, believe me. I haven't been in the place since 1992, but I'm wishing them all the success in the world since it's not going anywhere and it is a City institution. There is a profile and interview with Meta Jane Mitchell Johnson in the current SF Bay Guardian here. Good luck Meta and Justin. Let me know when there's a locals discount.

Then there's the skanky New Century Theater across the street, which I have only been to once, this past Valentine's Day (at MG's request), but they've had this sign up for awhile now, and the first thing I thought of when I saw it was "Gosh, she looks like Anna Netrebko!"

No such luck on the inside, but the talent was good in a different way, and though I suspect no one at the New Century even knows who Netrebko is, it's nice to see the neighborhood spiff up once in awhile.

Tenderloin Valentine

I suppose MG and I had a different sort of Valentine's Day than most people . After cooking a meal that used pretty much every plate and utensil in the kitchen, we decided to go take a stroll through the neighborhood. Our first stop was my very favorite bar, the Geary Club. It was MG's first time there. The Geary Club is a tiny place in the middle of a block. It doesn't have a sign or anything at all signifying its presence and it's so small it would be easy to walk by it without even noticing it. There aren't any people hanging around outside smoking, because everyone inside is smoking. Endlessly. The drink selections are nothing fancy. The word mixologist has probably never been uttered inside its walls and if you ask for anything containing more than two ingredients you'll probably have to come up with an alternative request. It has absolutely zero pretense and it's the kind of place where people go to get unapologetically drunk- not to have drinks.

It's an especially fun place when L_____ is working- not only does she look (and sound) like Joan Jett cast in a downscale version of The Threepenny Opera, but she's usually pretty sauced herself on Jagermeister. The Geary Club has a great jukebox featuring crap you'd never want to listen anywhere else but there, where all of a sudden it seems perfectly suited to the environs. It's also the kind of place where once in awhile people steal away and go have sex in the bathroom while you're having an in-depth conversation about Milton with a toothless guys who is nevertheless well-versed in the nuances of Paradise Lost as well as Samson Agonistes. Seriously. Also, for such a seriously downscale place, there a surprising number of good-looking younger women in there from the neighborhood, often alone, who come to tell their latest sorrows regarding the male species to L____, as if she were the Oprah of the Tenderloin. It's not a hook-up place, but it's a great place to drink away the shame of your last one.

The bar is run by a woman named June, who isn't nearly as much fun as L_____, but it's her place and she's pretty sweet. I can't say the same for the other broad who works the bar, who is so unpleasant I usually go across the street to Whiskey Thieves on the nights she's there. She's a horrorful bitch, but the Geary Club is the real deal. Be warned however, everything you are wearing is going to reek of cigarette smoke when you leave, though you probably won't care at that point. North side of Geary between Leavenworth and Hyde. Look for the tiny door and the orange light inside- there really is no sign and you won't see it from the street.

From there we went to DIVAS, the city's largest transgender bar in SF and it was pretty quiet. One of the ladies loved MG and gave a little performance for her, which culminated in them doing a bit of dancing. I watched, and checked out Veronica, who has always reminded me of Sophia Loren doing a turn in a Rob Zombie movie. There is something about Veronica that's always fascinated me, as I've observed her for years now. On the way out, Iris asked us if we wanted a date, but we declined. Iris has an ass that defies gravity (and human biology), but she's a bit ___- I'm not sure what the word is.

At MG's behest, we then made our way over to The New Century Theater. It was my first time there, as I'm really not a fan of strip joints, but it wasn't all bad. Again, Valentine's Day had taken a toll and the place had a sedate, sullen feel to it, though MG thought the strippers were pretty good overall. As for me, my feelings and history with this business should be saved for another time- or perhaps a book. I will say one thing, thankfully of the half-dozen girls we watched, only one was obviously surgically enhanced- the rest of the talent seemed to be natural- and thus pleasing to behold. I think we stayed about an hour, one of the girls hit on MG, which flattered her, and then we caught a cab to the End Up.

The End Up is the one place in San Francisco that is always bumping on a Sunday night regardless of whatever else is or isn't going on. It's legendary, it's fun, it's super-gay, and the music is non-stop. We danced for about two hours with Q, a recent transplant from NY, who only later did I realize probably thought MG and I were there for some purpose other than dancing our asses off. Still, we all had a good time, much better than the group of Korean thirty-somethings, who not only couldn't dance, but seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the surroundings. MG thought it was the best house music she's ever heard. The dj was pretty awesome- and I'm so glad I took the day off today because by the time we got home at 5am, Valentine's Day had turned into a long night- the kind you can only have here.

A Lush Failure

San Francisco is a city that drinks. No matter where you live in this town there is always a great place you can get to (and more importantly, from) without having to get in a car or even a cab if you want to go out and have a few with your friends or meet a new one. If there is one thing we tend to do well, it's bars. Yet tonight I went out to dinner with my friend Kristi and on the way home we decided to stop in at the newly relocated Lush Lounge to see what it looked and felt like. The horror. I haven't felt so dismayed since I looked into the reincarnation of The Owl Tree- which I've never stepped foot in since Bobby died- it's just too sad to see what it's become.

The Lush Lounge originally opened at Polk and Post in the space that long ago a version of the Motherlode- one of the City's more interesting trans bars that got folded into the DIVAS complex now residing across the street. The Motherlode was a fascinating joint, much more fun than the disgusting Aunt Charlie's and unlike Aunt Charlie's, the stench of spilt semen and urine didn't abuse your nose when you walked through the front door. But for one reason or another, it closed and the space was eventually re-opened by a guy named Kenny and his partners (who later opened up Vertigo down the block) as the Lush.

The Lush was originally conceived as a piano bar, something Polk was sorely missing since the demise of The Swallow in the 90's. There was an upstairs stage where bands like Lee and the Press-On Nails would give incredibly entertaining shows. It was actually the first place I ever saw Leslie Presley, who makes Lavay Smith look like chopped liver, and that ain't an easy thing to do. But the Lush ran into problems, the music stopped and the bar evolved into a predominantly gay bar that was straight-friendly and became the anchor for what came to be the renaissance of lower Polk Street, with the Hemlock, Blur, Vertigo, R Bar, O'Reilly's, McTeague's and others all following its lead. The drinks were good, the people were nice, and while there were TVs in the bar (anathema to me), they were always showing old movies- not ESPN or some bullshit like that. It was a nice place on a shitty corner where anyone could feel at home and have a good time.

A few months ago they posted a sign saying they would be moving across the street into a place formerly occupied by a skate shop among other things. I have no idea why. Probably another greedy landlord wanted to jack up their rent to some obscene level now that they were successful and the owners of Lush probably said "fuck you" and they saw the empty place across the street which was bigger and said "let's start over." Then they closed. The Lush was stripped to the walls. Across the street the windows were papered over with a sign announcing their eventual relocation.

Every once in awhile I'd walk by, see the doors open as they were renovating the joint and think to myself "looks good- nice, big place, exposed brick walls- looks like they're doing it right."

Tonight the reality was a dismal slap in the face. Where to start? Two large-ass TVs above the bar tuned to ESPN and some other lame-ass sports channel. The music was Gene Loves Jezebel followed by a bunch of 80s bands most people never heard of and couldn't care less about. The decor looks like the Bigfoot Lodge (whose continued success confounds me to no end) crossed with a Conde Nast ski resort. In two words- it sucks and it looks like a douche bar. Even worse, the clientele was like an older version of R Bar or the Hemlock- straight, drinking Coronas and PBRs, looking to get laid. Having recently spent a couple of hours last Saturday night at what must be the douchiest bar in all of San Francisco (not by choice, mind you)- the Republic, I won't say I was disgusted, but I was not at all amused. Is this the future of Lower Polk/ Tendernob? I hope not.

Another great SF bar bites the dust. Too bad. So raise a glass to the death of the Lush Lounge as it was- for it has now joined the ever-increasing list of joints that "used to be." As for me, I guess I'll go back to the Geary Club next time (at least when Lillian or June are there because the other woman is a fat, old, rude bitch and I always go across the street to Whiskey Thieves when I see her behind the bar). Yeah- the selection of booze isn't what I'd like (not like I'm picky), but the people are real, the drinks are cheap, and it still has the feel of the neighborhood. Cheers.

South Pacific in San Francisco

I had lunch with mother today at the restaurant in Nordstrom's which is about as perfect a place as one could wish to lunch with their mother on a Saturday afternoon in downtown San Francisco unless you want to dine in Neiman's Rotunda, which just seems too forced to me.  My mother was downtown to buy make-up.  We discussed our jobs, pets, the shape of things to come and the past weekend over dishes served with fries and a special dipping sauce which was tasty but probably loaded with things I wouldn't want to know about while we looked out at the view surrounding the Powell Street Cable Car turnaround. I could see the windows of my apartment from where I sat, which made everything seem slightly more delicious. During the converation I told ma mere I had seen the revival of South Pacific the previous night, which she was suitably unimpressed by. It seems she's waiting for Oklahoma! or something else like that. She's a tough cookie. That must be why people like her, but I think my mother's charms rest elsewhere.

Last night as I walked by the downtown Hilton on my way to meet The Minister's Rebellious Daughter at First Crush for pre-performance bourbons and snacks, I thought about the impression this neighborhood can make upon the average tourist from quieter parts (they are easily identified). There was a pretty blonde of a certain age leaning against a pillar that she seemed to want to melt in to. Her face bore an expression of extreme apprehension. I looked about to see what could cause her such discomfort and it was readily apparent. Sometimes I genuinely feel sorry for tourists in this town- there are just so many low-lifes and losers hassling people incessantly.

The Minister's Daughter was there when I arrived, comfortably esconced at the bar between two uptight, fussily dressed queens (bow-tie? seriously?) and a threesome that was another two rounds of drinks away from happening. We ordered apps and Manhattans, then another round of drinks. The queens seemed to exhibit a notable discomfort while I related a last weekend's Sapphic free-for-all at La Cita to the Minister's Daughter, which pleased me to no end since they refused to yield the seat that was being held for me. They really had nothing to say to one another so they were obviously eavesdropping on our conversation.

Finished  with our pre-performance sustenance, we made our way through two blocks of human excrement to the Golden Gate Theater. It should be noted this theater is a dump and an embarrassment. Broken windows can be seen from the facade and the interior isn't much better. As it was an unusually hot day in the City, the entire place smelled rank and nasty like a gymnasium, causing one to notice more than one normally would that the place is a pit in need of serious refurbishment. This is the largest theater in San Francisco for touring plays? Shorenstein Company, you need to clean this place up- it's a capacious shit-hole.

As we took our seats, the Minister's Daughter admonished those seated around us to behave themselves during the performance. Unfortunately, the dish to my left took her too seriously and I was disappointed when she didn't join in on "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair." In her little B & W dress and boots I have to confess I would have liked that.  The woman behind us (Mezzanine row E, seat 8) was completely annoying, laughing and giggling at practically everything- lady, you need something you aren't going to find in a theater- may I politely suggest this?

The scrim covering the stage featured words from James Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, from which the book of the play originated, set the tone for what was to follow. This multi-Tony award winning revival, directed by Bartlett Sher, has depth and delivers a completely satisfying evening of distinctly American theater. Sixty years after its premier on Broadway, this amazingly structured play still has a lot to say to contemporary audiences.

If you haven't seen South Pacific before, or have only only seen the 1958 film, you may surprised by how relevant the play is to the here and now. The brilliance of this production rests in its ability to bring out the deeper nuances of the story and the music without ever becoming a morality lesson or an exercise in nostalgia. Conflicts about race, responsibility and alienation are present throughout.

The sophistication and depth of Rodgers and Hammerstein's work are fully evident here and this production includes music and dialogue not seen or heard since the 1949 Broadway premiere. Featuring a twenty-five piece orchestra, vibrant sets, great choreography and a terrific cast, it's almost too much for just one viewing and could easily reward repeat visits. I plan on seeing it again because there are a lot subtleties in this staging and music.

Rod Gilfry (Emile de Becque), familiar to San Francisco Opera audiences, and Carmen Cusack (Nellie Forbush) lead a solid cast.  Gilfry's portrayal of de Becque conveys the character's conflicts and strengths through his voice and his body language. Gilfry has always been a singer who can act, and it pays off handsomely here. Unfortunately his booming bass-baritone was over-miked on the first night, which magnified his dominance over the rest of the cast. Gilfry probably doesn't need a microphone at all to make himself heard in this theater, so the crew ought to fix this one problem element of the show. But that's really the only negative thing I could say about the production. Gilfry sang "Some Enchanted Evening" beautifully, conveying the song's longing, and made "This Nearly Was Mine" riveting. If he decides to leave the world of opera, which I hope he doesn't, Gilfry could have a terrific career on Broadway.

Cusack's Nellie hits just the right combination of adhering to the original era of the play and infusing it with a contemporary sensibility. She's as much a woman of our time as she is from World War II- a neat trick that's brought home when she confronts her own racism. Cusack's voice is bright and she has an onstage presence that captures the audience without ever becoming overtly theatrical. "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair" was naturally a delightful, well-choreographed highlight, as was the final reprise of "Some Enchanted Evening."

Anderson Davis' turn as Lt. Joseph Cable is also rewarding, conveying the conflict of an educated man out of his element. Matthew Saldivar's Billis led the Seabees  through a rowdy "There's Nothing Like a Dame" with comedic gusto that was possibly my personal favorite moment of the night.  Keala Settle wasn't a spicy Bloody Mary, but she sang "Bali Ha'i" well and gave her character a poignant depth that left a deep impression.  Christina Carrera and CJ Palma were delightful as de Becque's children, Ngana and Jerome and the rest of the cast doesn't contain a single weak link.  The sets by Michael Yeargan provided a perfect setting for every scene.

It will play at the tired and run-down Golden Gate theater through October 25th before hitting the road for the next year. You'd be foolish to miss it.

After the show, the Minister's Daughter and I walked through the new Tenderloin "Arts District" which seems to be delineated chiefly by "arty" new crosswalks outside of the 21 Club (one of SF's greatest bars, but seriously downscale- the owner's name is Frank- introduce yourself and you are sure to have a great time- at least until you leave shitfaced and have to deal with all the scum @ Turk and Taylor). Now, when the cops take a picture of a sprawled, bleeding body at downtown's most notorious corner there will be an attractive new backdrop in the photo courtesy of Gavin Newsom and whoever else is behind this Quixotic idea.

Feeling hungry, we grabbed some pizza at Milan on Geary, some Stella on Sutter and discussed this amazing revival and local goings-on, including Malia Cohen's run for Sophie Maxwell's supervisor seat (which you will hear a lot more about on this blog since I adore Malia Cohen) before it was time to go home.

Living in the 'Loin #1

I live in the Tenderloin and as anyone who knows San Francisco can attest, this neighborhood has its challenges. I've lived here for five years. Some of my neighbors who've lived here longer think the area has improved in recent years, but I don't share their opinion. In fact, in the seventeen years I've lived in and around the City I think the Tenderloin's gotten worse, largely due to an out-of-control drug trade coupled with a police department that seems incapable or unwilling of doing anything about it.

I live in a really cool art deco hotel that was the first building in San Francisco to be converted into condos. My apartment has an awesome view and I can see 180 degrees from the TransAmerica Pyramid to Twin Peaks.

From the street below I can hear the whistles of the dealers, incredibly loud sirens, people screaming, people yelling incoherently and once in awhile the distinct sound of gunfire.

I can walk out the door of my building and get pretty much any kind of food I want at anytime, most of it well made, tasty and cheap. On the other hand there's a Ruth's Chris, Morton's, and a plethora of this city's best restaurants all within a ten to fifteen minute stroll or less.

I can also buy crack, heroin, weed, hookers of both genders and plenty that are a little of both any time of the day or night. It's an eight block walk to work, eight blocks in the other direction the opera house and six blocks to the top of Nob Hill. There are definitely benefits to be had, no doubt, and the good comes with the bad, right?

But it can disheartening, soul-crushing sometimes, to be a witness to the constant human train-wreck that runs rampant through this neighborhood. I never wanted to be the kind of person who just ignored people asking for change, even if I had none to give, but now I'm one of them. I used to offer to buy people food if they asked for some money to get some. No more.

Now I know only suckers and tourists do that. You can get three free meals a day around here if you're willing to wait in line for it. Every day. Free groceries, which I see people sell on the street a few blocks away after they get them. Free medical care. And $2 pints of vodka.

Sadly, I've gotten used to seeing people behave like animals- in how they treat themselves and how they treat others. One gets used to certain things most people would never tolerate if you're you're exposed to it long enough- just ask a victim of domestic violence, a cop, an emergency room nurse, an Israeli, or a Palestinian.

Although it repulses me, I've gotten used to the smell of streets that smell like piss, human shit on the already disgusting sidewalks, people peeing in the streets, discarded used condoms, trash, dealers asking me if I want some crack or some other dope, hookers asking me for dates, bums hitting me up for change, food, cigarettes, my coat. The amputees, the people who reek of urine so badly you can smell them from forty feet away, half a block if the wind is blowing. Usually it just rolls right off my back.

But every once in awhile I see something, or really, someone, whose behavior or condition is just so completely awful it just leaves me feeling so fucking sad and suddenly there is nothing I want to do more than to just leave this place. That sadness always seems to leave a residual Travis Bickle-like anger behind, where I too feel like saying “All the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

Today was one of those days. Except here, the animals are out all day and all night, and it never rains in California. It only keeps pouring. This is still the Barbary Coast.

Another night, another shooting in the TL

It is now 2:00 AM and I just heard the gunshot. Someone just fired a gun. One shot this time. Clear, distinct. Someone just got shot. Again. Less than a block away. I'm now listening to the sirens of the police cars. Again. Now I hear the ambulance. Why can I now differentiate between the two? When does this stop? Who can stop it?