I was homeless the fall of 1982. I moved to San Francisco the summer of ’81 and spent that fall at City College studying Music, Physics (with Paul Hewitt!), U.S History in the 20th Cent. with a writing class for therapy. As long as I was in school my dad sent me $300 a month. I lived on 14th between Irving and Judah with three young women, one was my best friend, Cathie Boise. I walked home from The Mab.
After a couple of months volunteering at One Act Theater on Mason I knew I was going to have to work full time before I was going to begin earning anything so after one semester I gave up my dad’s money and took up Stagecraft as a vocation.
I was earnest enough that once I found the Magic Theatre they saw me for the “enthusiast” I was and started working me regularly, making me staff sound engineer by 1983. None of it would have been possible without the late Terry Hunter, the reigning Sound Designer for New Theater who took me as an apprentice and showed me the ropes back in the day when it could be practiced as a career.
No one wanted me to be on the street so this odd document showed up one day to bail me out. One of the architects of the deal was the wife of the Sheriff of San Francisco, Mike Hennessy.
This is a very special thing, the trust, the naivete, the blatant disregard for authority in the form of a contract that couldn’t hold water. I have always wanted to be worthy of the trust people have had in me. This is one fine example from 34 years ago. If that’s not enough proof of my theater slut cred you can always ask Mary Jane Amato Touran De Anda Nat Fast and Scott McKinney Gibbs who were all accessories before, during and after the fact.
I lived illegally at the Magic Theatre, sleeping in the Northside booth until starting the coffee for the House Manager, running crew for a show in one of the theaters and then being handy man through the night until the office crew arrived in the morning. I bathed in the sink at the top of the stairs and shoplifted butter and smokes from the Marina Safeway after midnight by propping the door open at the top of the Southside fire escape. And I did have one or two guests join me for the night after raiding the House Managers wine cellar.
It lasted close to five months (not just one) and violated every rule Fort Mason and the SFPD had but John Lion knew about it and with his stamp of approval I was living the life “not for everybody” inside The Magic Theatre. Being a fan of Hermann Hesse I enjoyed this immensely!
As the stories fade, I may have heard one that John O’Keefe slept at the Magic when it was still in Berkeley. John and I have many Magic connections which I treasure.
Which reminds me, when is someone going to make a documentary about The Blake Street Hawkeyes?
Theater Punk 