By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
SAN FRANCISCOA gorgeous, henna-haired, six-foot-tall Cosmo girl in a miniskirt wanders onto the stage with a pair of chopsticks, which she uses to pick up, then reject, various pieces of street shit. "Say, Miss, did you, by any chance, see a turd anywhere around here?" she asks a girl panhandler in a beret and black raver pants. After much byplay about the color of the particular turd, where it might be, and the revelation that it's for dinner, the panhandler asks if she's serving the turd to her two male guests.
COSMO GIRL: You're impossible! I assure you I have no intention, whatsoever, of serving my guests a turd. The turd's for me. Everybody knows that men have much more respect for women who are good at lapping up shit. Saaay, would you like to join us for dinner?
PANHANDLER: I don't knowdepends on what else is on the menu.
This is Valerie Solanas's play Up Your Ass. The play Andy Warhol lost, the artistic assault for which Solanas shot him. Written in 1965 (before her SCUM Manifesto) in Berkeley and New York, it's a hilarious, dirty-minded send-up of heterosexuality on the eve of the sexual revolution and the sex and gender wars to come. It stars Bongi Perez, a Solanas alter ego, wiseass hooker, lesbian, and panhandler par excellence who describes herself as "so female, I'm subversive." Bongi plies the streets Valerie knew so well, hustling tricks for meals but putting out as little as possible, hobnobbing with the local drag queens (Valerie was a close friend of Candy Darling), jousting with bourgeois wives and career gals who prostrate themselves before men ("When I get on my knees, I get paid"), and cruising any "lowdown, funky broads" that come her way.
On January 12, 32 years after it was lost, Up Your Assis getting its world premiere in a San Francisco theater only blocks from the Tenderloin SRO where Solanas died alone in 1988. The production, by George Coates Performance Works, features an all-woman castunknowns except for pioneering lesbian comedian Karen Ripleyplaying male, female, and drag roles. And they're letting it rip. ("It's the horniest show in town," breathed one happy patron heavily after a recent preview.) Even before its opening, the show has picked up fans from the gender-bending scene, raves from drag kings and trannies, and beaucoup ink from the alternative press, and has inspired sweaty nervousness from the male-het arm of the avant-garde. The show has put a whiff of the Barbary Coast back into a town all-too-spiffed-up recently for the dotcom crowd. Playing its role, The San Francisco Chronicle refused to run an ad for the show unless the double s in Asswas changed to something else. Director George Coates went with Up Your A$$.
Solanas is quite a departure for Coates, who is known for avant-garde operas driven by technological wizardry and abstruse texts. His pieces have been performed around the world from the Brooklyn Academy of Music to L.A., Tokyo, Berlin, Belgrade, and São Paulo. Coates is staging Up Your Assword-for-word ("because it's a world premiere"), but most of the text is sung karaoke-style to pop songs of the mid '60s. After Coates had turned Up Your Assinto a musical, Valerie's sister told assistant director Eddy Falconer that Solanas used to make up funny lyrics about her family to pop songs when she was eight.
It was Falconer, who calls herself a "failed" female-to-male (s/he adopts a male persona but has never taken hormones or had an operation), who hipped Coates to Solanas. Falconer had encountered SCUMthrough the punk subculture in Berlin. Although Solanas herself was a total loner, she's been taken up by punks, anarchists, and surrealistswho hate Warholas well as young radical feminists, gender benders, and assorted fans of Kathy Acker and cartoonist Diane di Massa's homicidal lesbian terrorist. A score of SCUMpirated editions circulate on paper and many more on Web sites.
Coates discovered Up Your Assin a small Solanas show Pittsburgh's Andy Warhol Museum had put up to mark the 30th anniversary of the shooting. Turns out the copy Warhol lost had been buried under lighting equipment in a silver trunk owned by photographer Billy Name, famous for covering the original Factory with aluminum foil.
Early on, Coates sent Eddy Falconer to talk with Valerie's sister, Judith, who described the underpinnings of the rage Solanas turned into Lenny Bruce-style satire, including sexual abuse by her father as a small child; the birth of a son at age 15, fathered by a married man (the child was taken away, never to be seen again); her year in a mental hospital in Florida; her struggles, on and off medication, to write. Folk rumors that a super at the Hotel Bristol, where she died, had heard her typing sparked hopes that more Solanas writings might be unearthed. But Judith says that their mother burned all of Valerie's belongings after her death.
"We're breaking the taboo about Valerie with this production," says Coates, "introducing her to a new, younger audience as a very funny satirist and not just as Warhol's shooter." But breaking taboos has meant all of Coates's regular funders have deserted him. Coates, who's gotten money regularly from the NEA, knew he couldn't get it for Up Your Ass. Feeling censored, he decided to stage two plays with one all-female cast in repertory: Up Your Assand Arthur Miller's The Archbishop's Ceiling, set in Eastern Europe during the Cold War, about how human identity is distorted by censorship. Miller's play will open in February. Oddly, Miller and Solanas had converged once before, when Solanas thrust a SCUMleaflet into his hands in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel sometime in the '60s.