Night Crawler

Affirmative Actions
Stepping past a length of chain-link fence, we are greeted by a woman in a dark suit and an extravagant feather headdress. Her highly glossed mouth forms smiling words, but her eyes are unreadable behind the black sunglasses that she wears despite the gloom. Like many others involved with The Mexterminator Project -- the latest collaboration between acclaimed performance artists Guillermo Gómez-Pena and Roberto Sifuentes -- this woman works under the title of "Docent." Behind her, in the reddish glow of the Somar exhibition hall, several lifeless white chickens swing from the rafters, and a great silver crucifix gleams dimly. The backdrop gives the docent's title a supernatural connotation as she welcomes us warmly to the Techno-Museum of Experimental Ethnography and Apocalyptic Culture, where we are invited to relate to a "cultural other" and interact with the "specimens" on display.

"You may feed, touch, and talk to the cyborgs, as the mood takes you," says the docent. "You may even replace them for a time." She assures us that there are others, like her, on the premises to help us through the evening.

In the hall, each of the exhibition platforms is neatly labeled: Cyber-Vato, El Paramilitary Samurai, La Cultural Transvestite, La Morra Diabólica, and El Mexterminator. The specimens are absent, but the platforms are cluttered with a lush assortment of "cultural artifacts" that express their personalities -- guns, hats, booze, votive candles, toilets, guitars, animal skulls, flags, trophies, wheelchairs, drug paraphernalia, food, computers, games, a dagger, and photographs. In one corner of the hall, a large statue of a headless Virgen de Guadalupe looms; in another corner, a life-size stuffed leopard stands watch; and in the middle stands an enormous, highly polished, red art car in the shape of a stiletto-heeled shoe. A flashing LED banner announces the FBI's supposed political agenda, and odorless smoke drifts through the room.

Despite the cheerful dance music that fills the hall, the setting is disquieting. It's too red, and there are too many weapons.

"Please make your way to the Anthropo-Lounge Interactivo," announces a soothing airline voice over the intercom.

The lounge is carpeted in red and draped with black cloth and leopard skin. In one corner, a towering altar of television monitors keeps an eye on the exhibition hall. Vibrant black velvet paintings of disjointed cultural stereotypes adorn the walls: a woman with a mustache and a machete; a shapely man with big guns and a sombrero; an intergalactic alien; a tantalizing cyborg. A large blue-white cross illuminates the bar, where a number of "museum patrons" take advantage of libations.

Those who need help mingling are invited to the Cultural Lounge, a small cafe at the end of another fenced-in walkway, where folks are welcomed by a Latino gent with a great head of hair, then purposefully seated with strangers by a European hostess in a Japanese dress. After a brief conversation period, they are entertained by Linda Stevens, a transracially adopted lesbian comedian who cracks jokes about El Nino and masturbating in the Castro District.

"The specimens have taken their places," announces the soothing intercom voice. "If you would please make your way into the exhibition hall."

La Cultural Transvestite, a woman with a mustache dressed in fishnets and a mariachi jacket, lifts the lid off a toilet that sits at the base of the giant silver cross and squats over it. She stares quietly at the crowd from behind dark sunglasses while a sexy chanteuse pants a Spanish refrain through unseen speakers. El Paramilitary Samurai, in full fatigues and a gas mask, quietly stalks the crowd from his platform, caressing his machine gun and taking careful aim at human targets as they present themselves. Cyber-Vato, a muscular man wearing a shot-up T-shirt, a leg brace, a bandanna, and sunglasses, sits in a chair contemplating the crowd while dangling a cat-o'-nine-tails in one hand. A docent carrying a tray of fruit peels a banana and feeds it to him carefully.

La Morra Diabólica, the only specimen kept in a cage, is a wild-eyed schoolgirl who murmurs to herself and throws fits during the periods between intravenous injections into her upper thighs. From a wheelchair, El Mexterminator studies his boxing gloves -- one painted with the American flag, the other with the Mexican flag -- taking blows in the face, from himself, from each side.

In the lounge, La Suprema Chicana -- dressed in a wedding gown, a diamond tiara, and kneepads -- lifts her skirt to reveal a protective jockstrap. She strips down to bra and panties for the mostly male group that is still in the lounge drinking. A lumbering man in a green shirt unbuckles her shoes, while a docent dressed as Frida Kahlo circulates with a costuming cart, offering to transform anyone into a black nationalist, an Indian warrior, an American cowboy, or a generic terrorist. A pale naked man enters the "audience diorama" wearing a wrestler's mask. He lies down on a platform in an elegant pose, for 10 minutes. (He's a true redhead.)

The soothing intercom voice announces that La Cultural Transvestite is now crucifying herself. And, indeed, she is lashed to the silver cross wearing nothing but fishnet stockings. Her face is obscured by a large sombrero but people in the crowd continue to talk to her, offering her fruit. La Suprema Chicana climbs inside the stiletto-shoe car, and El Mexterminator fires it up. They drive around the hall, filling it with exhaust and the strong stench of gasoline. The music reaches me in waves and time seems to distort.