By Chris Roberts
By Joe Eskenazi
By Albert Samaha
By Mike Billings
By Rachel Swan
By Erin Sherbert
By Joe Eskenazi
By Albert Samaha
A Fleeting Remembrance
Rosette gently pushes herself away from the graffitied wall of the Blue Barand walks up the hill with delicate, intangible steps that seem to impose on only the tips of her toes. At the corner, she stops, avoiding all but the slightest physical brush with humanity as her eyes flit across the surfaces of Broadway, looking for a new place to light.
"I do not want to miss any thing," she says with careful, feathery articulation, "but I also do not want to be distinct." Originally from Manila, Rosette is small-boned and ageless, as pretty as anything North Beach has to offer. She settles onto a low sidewalk step on Kearny and stretches a languid arm into the night, staring past the neon glow, into the shadowy stars above. The balmy weather and the giddy hustle of Broadway have left Rosette feeling sentimental: Eight years ago, she fell in love with a Navy man with whom she had spent as many weeks, and after he returned to the Chicago area, she followed, aided by the substantial bit of money he had left her.
"Why else would he leave me his address and so much money?" Rosette says demurely, glancing through her false lashes with large, searching, liquid-brown irises.
"Anywho," she says wrinkling her nose, "he tells me he's in love with a womanwoman, and he's very angry, so I split and come here, meet some friends on Polk and do okay." But, still, Rosette has a soft spot for men in uniform, and every year, during Fleet Week, she comes to watch the rambunctious young recruits pass by, always hoping for the off chance her man might be among them.
"It's silly. I know. But I want to look at him, just a little," says Rosette, lighting a long, mentholated cigarette and smoothing out her thin, summer dress. "And the men in uniform are cute to watch. But I'm done for military men."
The landscape is littered with uniforms caught in the rosy shadow of strip clubs and adult theaters, the men loud and gunning for a good time. Some dangle out of street-level bar windows, seeming to overflow from the buildings as they heckle fellow servicemen passing by; others stop to talk too long with the exotic dancers outside their theaters, causing the ladies to roll their eyes as the men finally enter. Taken in groups, the men are eye-catching, somehow aesthetically engaging in their solidarity; isolated, they are gangly, overloud, hormone-challenged young males let loose in a strange new city where they are expected to appear bold and dauntless... except for Rosette's mark, a tall, square-shouldered Marine with a well-bred gait, who actually tips his hat before stepping aside to allow two women to pass by on the crowded sidewalk.
"Like Cary Grant," coos Rosette, stepping into the stream.
"Buddy, you don't want a burlesque show," says a civilian to a Navy boy too young to get into the Hi-Ball Lounge. "They don't take it off, and it's sold-out, anyway. Go down the street."
He goes, and misses something. Inside the Hi-Ball, surrounded by red velvet and Barbary Coast zebra skin, the burlesque bump-and-grind of the Fisherman's Xylophonic Brass Orchestra seems to complete the evening's queer sense of nostalgia. An up-tempo go-go number brings to stage the irrepressible Going Going Gone Girls, who shimmy and jiggle in short-shorts and go-go boots. MC Mad Dog, a man "destined to spend his life pulling on doors marked pull," takes the stage in an ill-fitting jacket filled with worse-fitting jokes.
"Working in a burlesque show is like working in a candy store. After the first day, it's no big deal but, oh brother, that first day!" The appropriate bad-joke drum roll is inserted by Fisherman here, and accents nearly every joke hereafter. "How do you put out hot pants? With pantyhose!" The crowd groans appreciatively, and silver-haired Felix Rowan leans over to excitedly squeeze his wife of 19 years.
San Francisco's Tap Darlings take the stage in pink boas and seamed stockings. If not terribly talented, they exhibit an enthusiasm that could charm the cherry out of a Manhattan, and the xylophone trills, and thrills, under the direction of Fisherman and his fez. More bad jokes and booing give way to a lusty song by Toots La Rue - Marilyn Monroe - who inspires a knife fight between two suitors before being saved by a man in a gorilla suit. Then the statuesque Kaotica du Flambeauenters through a plume of stifling incense to do the "dance of the mother goddess," an awkward, sexless belly-dance made dangerous by a flaming sword precariously balanced on her head. More bad jokes.
Forty-six-year-old Laura Ethington moans, "This is not titillating. There should be more boom-boom in burlesque," and wipes sweat from her brow. As if on cue, Mad Dog calls for an intermission, which sends the stage crew scampering onstage to struggle with a giant white screen in a way that would make the kings of slapstick proud. A few audience members of nervous dispositions, or short attention spans, leave the club, just as San Francisco's six-gal burlesque squad, the Cantankerous Lollies, appears in curvaceous silhouette behind the screen. Red hair, black hair, and platinum - their attributes are called out in verse as they sidle in front of the spotlight with Spanish shawls, fans, top hats, guns, and stilettos, with only their high-heeled feet revealed beneath the screen in vivid Technicolor.