In 1978 I was producing and performing in Les Nickelettes’ play Curtains! My 15 year-old Nissan Datsun reliably got me around town to meetings, rehearsals, and performances. It was a boxy little compact, beige, with a clutch transmission, but it served its purpose. An added plus was that it was paid for, and the auto insurance was cheap.
One evening, as I was driving along San Francisco’s Hwy 101’s aptly named “hospital curve”, a California Highway Patrol car suddenly veered across three lanes to check out an apparent escapee from nearby General Hospital. Seen faintly from the soft shoulder of the road was a frail figure climbing the hill still in a hospital gown. The car in front of me slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the CHP cruiser, I simultaneously slammed on my breaks stopping just in time, but the truck coming around the curve behind me plowed into my tiny Datsun. Thankfully, my only physical injury was a whiplash, but the Datsun was totaled.
Sorting out the insurance, and making a claim against the state’s CHP department would take months and months, so I was back to good old, unreliable public transit. This put a crimp in my responsibilities as a theater producer. I lamented to Vince, my staunchest supporter, and live-in partner at the time, “If I have to rent a car to haul props, sets, and costumes across town in-between runs of Curtains! and then back again into storage, it will cost a fortune.”
Three days later, coming to my rescue, Vince tossed me a set of keys. “A new set of wheels? I asked in surprise.
“Go take a look,” he beamed. I skipped outside, excited to jump into my new ride, but stopped mid-skip and stared at a metallic gold 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback station wagon. “Seriously?” I said, “I’m going to look like a suburban housewife.”
“It has low mileage and only one previous owner,” Vince pointed out. “The back seat folds down so you can load your theater stuff.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “but can’t I have a roomy car that also makes me look like a hip artist?” He shrugged, I sighed. Hopping in behind the wheel, I turned on the ignition. At least it had an automatic shift.
Eventually I grew to love my signature gold Pinto and it proved to be a tireless workhorse, transporting performers and materials for years to come.
1972 Ford Pinto Station Wagon
Many of my favorite memories in the iconic Pinto were the late-night drives home after rehearsals. Les Nickelettes managed to finagle free rehearsal space in some out-of-the-way destinations. I couldn’t in good conscience let members wait at lonely, desolate bus stops, followed by blocks-long walks to their apartment buildings. So, I offered everyone in need a ride home. Same for performances at far-flung areas like Fort Mason, situated on a wharf overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Members would jump into the front seat, back seat, and cram into the back storage area. And I, as the driver of the trusty gold Pinto, would drop each and every one of them off at their front doorstep. The trips around the city were often sidesplitting fun with the group telling jokes, singing songs, or just letting off steam after a rehearsal or performance. One time, we were laughing so hard I had to pull over next to a park so a couple of the ladies could pee. There was also validation of women protecting other women.
Many years later, when I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with my daughter, my husband Vinny (not to be confused with the aforementioned Vince), and I, bought a brand-new trustworthy family Dodge mini-van. The dealership offered us a $100 trade-in for the gold Pinto. As the salesperson drove it away down a ramp – to some mysterious subterranean cellar for discarded cars – I felt a pang of sorrow. Having intense feelings for an inanimate object felt strange, but then I realized it wasn’t the object that I had feelings for: it was the flood of fond memories attached to that metallic gold 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback station wagon, and for all the Nickelettes who had come along for the ride.
Spawning was the perfect metaphor for Les Nickelettes. We were always hatching new ideas, and continually giving birth to new members who embraced our off-the-wall sensibilities. The dauntless annual swim upstream of the salmon also seemed to match our struggle up the raging river of show biz – always going against the current. When we decided to produce our own “Oscar-like” show it felt natural to adopt these two metaphors, and so, The Salmon Awards were born. As I describe in Anarchy in High Heels, we started out thinking we would spoof the awards by giving ourselves trophies. But that was too self-indulgent. We hit on the idea of rewarding the people behind the scenes that made our zany escapades possible. So, we bought second-hand trophies, decorated them with glitter, sequins, and feathers, and passed them out at a faux award ceremony to producers, journalists, set designers, costumers, graphic designers, composers, and back stage crew who helped us during our swim upstream. But in the book many details about this annual event had to be cut out.
In a 1977 Berkeley Barb article titled, “Salmon Eggs”, Nickelette member Ellin Stein wrote this insight into the annual event:
If the Salmon Awards sounds like an intensely in-group cult phenomenon, it is. But the audience is as much a participant in the event as the winners or performers. The Nickelettes are not only a women’s group, they are a feminine group. That is, their creativity springs very much from the feminine principle. Thus, instead of being only an object piece to be judged and evaluated by the audience, Nickelette shows are also a process which depends on the rapport created between audience and performer. The audience must be prepared to give something rather than just watch passively.
Or, put another way, by outsider Sandra Rider, Call Board, 1978:
The need to placate the audience with psycho-social messages and droll comic patter is absent. And it is that same disregard for audience approval which made me a friend of the Nickelettes. It was refreshing to see performers unconfined by substance, form, theme, or for that matter, talent. Their primary message remains: ‘Who cares! Have a good time!’
Like Sandra Rider suggests, The Salmon Awards got a reputation in the underground counterculture that it was a rollicking party not to be missed. After swimming upstream all year, these girls were ready to SPAWN! But it was also a performance-art kind of event where the recipients of the awards were moved, touched, and/or truly honored. Jan Edwards, one of our costumers commented: “It was the first and only awards I’ve ever received in my life for anything.”
Of course, Les Nickelettes always kicked off the show with the signature song and dance routine: “Come to the Salmon Awards”:
What good is sitting at home on your ass
Playing with yourself all day
Go play with someone else just once
Come to the Salmon Awards
…The Nicks have been around for about 10 years
And lots of times it’s been only doubts and fears,
But mostly all this weirdness gets us high.
Though there are times we hate each other,
The audience is filled with zombies,
The critics think we stink,
And we wonder why?
Through are hands the money isn’t flowing
In spite of that, something keeps us crowing.
Are we just building swimming pools in the sky?
Or were our friends right from the start,
Could it be that this is art?
Start by admitting from cradle to tomb
Virtue is its own reward.
You’ve been wasting time my friends
Life isn’t worth a dime my friends
‘Till you’ve won a Salmon Award.
The audience reacted with raucous shouts of “Spawn!”
Over the years, interspersed between the presentation of awards, Les Nickelettes brought in well-known, and up-and-coming acts from our counterculture tribe to perform at the event.Paul Krassner (publisher of the satirical rag The Realist) performed his stand-up comedy routine, The Fabulous Frambesi Sisters (Nickelette Priscilla and her gay friend in drag) did a parody of ‘40s female duets, Sharon McNight debuted her cabaret chanteuse act. Scrumbly Koldwyn (from The Cockettes) brought his new group The Distractions who were a huge hit with their eclectic eight-part harmony and twisted take on reality, not to mention a bit featuring Nickelette Jane Huether singing Stormy Weather in French); Ral Pheno (sometimes described as a Godfather of punk rock) pounded out on his guitar the demented tune I’m On the Ward Again from his Greatest Fits record; and Leila the Snake (Jane Dornacker) disguised as an demented bag lady sang Getting Rid of Your Baby, an irreverent satire on the sappy Paul Anka top 40 hit of the time, Having My Baby. There was also comedienne Carrie Snow, Duck’s Breath Mystery Theatre, and Sando Counts (aerialist from The Pickle Family Circus) who stole one show with a tightrope act that featured enlisting volunteers from the audience to anchor both ends of his huge rope. Later in the show Sando did a brilliant performance of a couple dancing a waltz to classical music. Except it wasn’t a couple, it was Sando in a masked suit and a cleverly devised marionette that was attached to Sando in a way that looked like a live dance partner.
We gave names to the awards that both parodied and described the intended recipient. Some of my favorites: The Tanya Hearst Memorial Journalist Award, The Louis B. Mayer Mogul Award, The Rocketfeller Space Cadet Achievement in Corporate Leadership Award, The Pat Nixon “Good Taste is Timeless” Award, The Larry Flynt Achievement in Publishing Award. And, The Martyr of the Year Award, which went to the Nickelette who whined loudest about how much she suffered for her art. I recall I won three times.
The annual Salmon Award event was our biggest fundraiser of each year. Once we got non-profit status (1976), we were able to augment ticket receipts with revenue from the sale of alcoholic beverages. Members of the board of directors took on bartender duties, and hawked to thirsty patrons a potent concoction of vodka, rum, with just a dash of fruit punch, we dubbed: “Jungle Juice.” The sign above the bar, featuring a fish merrily jumping up river, guaranteed that downing multiple glasses would lead to spectacular spawning. Revelers responded by emptying the punch bowl. For us, the additional revenue spawned deposits into the Nickelette coffer – all for the preservation of the species.
The audience came to participate in the annual Salmon Awards not just watch passively. And although it was a Les Nickelettes inside joke, the audience got to feel they were in on it.
The array of awards before the ceremony. An award recipient (in disguise).
The Rock Star Who Refused to Grow Up – 1976 & 1979
Groupies in Bondage
In 1976 Les Nickelettes decided to write, for the first time, a full-length play with original music. As female baby boomers in our twenties we noticed that males of our generation resisted maturity and continued to embrace the irresponsibility of youth, especially in the realm of rock ‘n’ roll. Super groups in the ‘70s like Aerosmith, Kiss, and Pink Floyd seemed to flagrantly resist male maturity. A satire of this phenomenon called to us. So, it may come as no surprise that we chose to parody the J. M. Barrie classic tale Peter Pan. We would later learn that individuals unable to take on responsibility or commit to relationships suffered from a “Peter Pan Syndrome”. We reimagined the main character as a pompous rock star who refuses to grow up. What fun to focus on a lighthearted takedown of this hyperbolic spectacle of childlike excess. And I got to play the part of Peter Pan. This is a summary of the script for Peter Pan: A New Rock Fairytale.
(The play opens with CROCK (the crocodile character) as an omnipotent narrator, and impresario of the rock palace Never Never Land, where rock and roll dreams come true. Setting the story in motion, CROCKopens the curtain to Trendy WENDY’S bedroom and disguises herself as a lamp under a lampshade. WENDYis asleep, but her prepubescent sister TAMMY is covertly reading. The title of the book is clearly visible: The Year of the Cock.)
TAMMY: No! He said again, and drove his heavy cock into her accessible inner portions, meeting the . . .
WENDY: (Awakens, looks at TAMMY, and then under her pillow) Tammy, you stole my book, and my most prized possession, Peter Pan’s magic sword. Give it back to me now, you bitch! (WENDY grabs the silver glittered phallic shaped sword from under TAMMY’S pillow.)
TAMMY: Oh, take your stupid sword, you jerk! Nobody understands me. I’m almost sixteen and . . . I still haven’t started my period.
WENDY: That’s okay, Tammy. You’re not as abnormal as you seem. In the garden of love your path is that of the late bloomers. (The girls fall asleep.)
(PETER PAN and TINKERBELL -a 250 lb. fairy in pink overalls and plastic wings- leap into the darkened bedroom.)
PETER: Tinkerbell, help me find my magic sword.
TINKERBELL: What’s your magic sword doing in a place like this? (WENDY and TAMMY wake up.)
WENDY: Peter, I knew you’d be back, man. I mean the moon is in Aquarius and Jupiter is in line with . . .
PETER: Hey Wendy, give me back my sword and I’ll take you to Never Never Land.
WENDY: Okay, Peter, but only if you let me be your girlfriend.
PETER: Yeah, but, no commitments.
TAMMY: Oh, boy. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll!
PETER: (Holds out his hand) Tinkerbell, fairy dust, please.
TINKERBELL: No, Peter. As your manager, I have to remind you that you’re late for rehearsal.
PETER: (Stamps his feet in tantrum mode.) It’s my life! I’ll do what I want!
(Reluctantly TINKERBELL sprinkles pixie dust over everyone and they break into song as they prepare to fly off to Never Never Land):
The best minds are meetin’ with Fairy Dust
You’ll act like a cretin on Fairy Dust
Get tied up and beaten on Fairy Dust
Your brain will be eaten by Fairy Dust
Fairy Dust. Look at me – I’ve been drugged
Fairy Dust. Look at me – I can fly…
(They exit, leaping off the stage. CROCK, reappears, snaps her fingers, and shifts us to the next scene. V.D. the Pirate Queen and her lover/manager SYLVIE SNATCH are in a rehearsal studio scheming to dethrone PETER PAN.)
SYLVIE: We’ll make you a punk Pirate. I see you in hip boots, eye patch, and a parrot that pukes on stage.
V.D.: Wow! I’ll be so hot Peter will melt in the heat.
SYLVIE: You’ll be number one, and I have the perfect foil to Peter’s magic sword. (SYLVIE whips out a guitar in the shape of an explicit naked woman’s body. V.D. Squeals in delight and strums the guitar.)
SYLVIE: Stick with me, lady! I’ve got big plans. I’ve got big ulcers.
V.D.: This is a great prop, but I can’t be a big star until I get some groupies.
SYLVIE: I’ll get you groupies, or my name isn’t Sylvie Snatch.
(TIGER LILY enters. TIGER LILY is a Native American activist, who is inexplicably a devoted groupie toPETER PAN.)
V.D.: What’s up Tiger Lily?
TIGER LILY: I’m looking for Peter Pan.
SYLVIE: Peter Pan’s been two-timing you, Tiger Lily. He’s only using you. Why don’t you hook up with us?
TIGER LILY: I’ll never betray Peter, besides, your women.
SYLVIE: (to V.D.) Yeah! Grab her! (The PIRATES each grab one of TIGER LILY’S arms.)
PETER (leaps in): Drop that groupie!
V.D. (drops TIGER LILY’S arm): Is that a sock in your crotch, or are you just glad to see me?
TINKERBELL (leaps in): Peter, you’re flying a little low.
SYLVIE (to Peter as she drops TIGER LILY’S arm): V.D. is on the rise and nobody can stop
TINKERBELL: Pan will stamp out V.D.
WENDY (enters panting): Oh, Peter you flew too fast for me.
(PETER looks at WENDY, then TIGER LILY.He grabs WENDY by the elbow and steers her upstage left.)
PETER: Hey, sit this one out, honey buns. (He returns to TIGER LILY’S side.) Hey, Tige, can you do me a favor? Go to McDonald’s and get me two Big Macs, and some crispy fires?
TIGER LILY: Okay, Peter. But Big Macs are not organic. (She exits. PETER walks back to WENDY.)
PETER (puts his arm around WENDY): Wendy, I’ve reserved the Bridal Suite at Myrtle’s Shady Lane Auto Court.
TINKERBELL: Peter, I’ve got the band all set up, you need to rehearse.
(Lights up on a bed at the Auto Court. WENDY and PETER are in post coitus bliss.)
WENDY: Oh Peter, eight times in half an hour.
PETER (gets up and straightens his clothes): I’m getting hungry.
WENDY: Come back to bed, Peter.
PETER: I’m moving on, baby. (PETER grabs his sword and heads for the door. As he exits, he collides with TAMMY on her way in.) I’m never going to settle down.
TAMMY: What a jerk.
WENDY: No. He’s A Man Who Cares. (She sings):
If I am his, I’m what he is
And what he is, is my all
And that man knows he’s in luck
Cause I’m such a good . . . cook.
(During the song, V.D. and SYLVIE enter, disguised as chambermaids, and as the song ends, they kidnap WENDY and TAMMY. Blackout.)
(Lights up outside the Auto Court. As PETER walks away, TIGER LILY rushes in.)
TIGER LILY: Here’s you Big Mac and I’ve got news for you, Tinkerbell’s a traitor, she’s in cahoots with V.D. and Sylvie!
PETER: Nah. (he grabs the fast food bag and stuffs the burger in his mouth.) What kind of drugs have you been consuming, Tige?
TIGER LILY: Peter, I overheard them. The Crock is going to stage a “Battle of the Bands” at Never Never Land between you and the Pirates. And Tinkerbell’s not going to tell you about it.
PETER: Tink, betray Me?
TIGER LILY: And that’s not all, V.D. and Sylvie plan to kidnap your groupies, Wendy and Tammy. (Blackout.)
(Lights up inside the Auto Court. WENDY and TAMMY are tied up.)
WENDY: What do you sleazy people want with us?
V.D.: We want you to defect from Peter Pan and become our groupies.
WENDY: And what if we refuse?
SYLVIE: Well, little miss health conscious twat, we’ll force feed you junk food.
V.D. (laughing): And as for your little prepubescent sister, we’ll cut out the crotches in all her panties.
WENDY: Oh, my God! Help! Help!”
(PETER bursts in, brandishing his sword. V.D. fights back with the fringe on her Gucci Bag but surrenders when she breaks a fingernail. PETER unties WENDY and TAMMY.)
WENDY: Peter, you saved me!
(TAMMY decamps to the Pirates. TINKERBELL barges in, takes in the scene, and tries to tip-toe out.)
PETER: Tinkerbell, you betrayed me! (PETER brandishes his sword in her face.)
TINKERBELL: I gave you the best years of my life!
PETER: You exposed me to V.D.! Well, I don’t believe in fairies anymore. Let’s get out of here Wendy.” (Everybody exits except TINKERBELL.)
TINKERBELL: It was just one little incident. This is what I get for messing round with mortals! (She launches into her song):
Fairies sometimes cry, but fairies never die
We just fade away
Mortals don’t believe in us, dismiss us as unreal
Never take us serious, how do you think we feel?
Okay, I’ll just fade away (pause). Takes too long. There’s a quicker way. (She grabs a bottle of No Doz and Nyquil from the bedstand and gulps them down.) Good-bye cruel world. You won’t have Tinkerbell to kick around anymore.
PETER (enters): I forgot my sword. Tink, what have you done?
TINKERBELL: You don’t believe in me, I’m fading away.
PETER: No, Tinkerbell. I was just kidding. I believe in magic, I believe in Tink! (He repeats the phrase over and over until TINKERBELL is revived.)
TINKERBELL: Come on Peter, we have to get over to Never Never Land for the Battle of the Bands. (Blackout.)
(Lights up on Never Never Land. PETER PAN, with an even bigger stuffed sock in his crotch, sings his vapid hit; Don’t Grow Up Baby. V.D. counters with her kick-ass new wave mega hit: Kook City. It doesn’t matter. CROCK double-crosses everybody.)
V.D. (to CROCK): Who’s the winner?
CROCK: Sorry, but there is no winner, it was a tie. So, no pay day today.
SYLVIE: What about our percentage?
CROCK: The gate was low.
TINKERBELL: We want our money! (V.D., SYLVIE, and PETER & TINKERBELL close in on CROCK.)
CROCK: This is getting too real.
TAMMY (enters): Hey, everybody I just got my period!
TINKERBELL: Time for some magic. (She sprinkles fairy dust on all.)
TAMMY: Gosh, I feel so different. Why don’t we stop fighting and all join together in one big super group? (TINKERBELL waves her magic wand and they all sing in harmony.)
In the 1950s and 1960s the annual Miss America Pageant was huge. Young girls all over America tuned in to see who would become the fairest of them all. We were told this was the highest achievement any woman could hope for, the ultimate honor; to be declared the prettiest, the most talented, the sexiest woman in a swimsuit in all of America. I tuned in every year to raptly listen to Bert Parks sing;
There she is, Miss America
There she is, your ideal
And I dreamed that someday I could be up on that stage being crowned the most beautiful woman in America. “An American fairytale came true,” crowed Bert
The second-wave feminists of the late ‘60s blew the whistle on this deceptive dream and called it out as sexist and racist. In 1969, outside the pageant venue in Atlantic City, women libbers protested by throwing false eyelashes, bras, girdles, and curlers into a trashcan. They wanted to set it on fire but the police said they didn’t have a permit. Still, the myth persisted that these wild women burned their bras in protest. The establishment was aghast. How could these women criticize something as American as apple pie? This was the spark for my feminist awakening.
And it provided a rich parody for Les Nickelettes. In our debut at the Mabuhay Gardens in 1975 we introduced “The Semi-Annual, Bi-Weekly Ms. Hysterical Contest”.
Our version features host Bert Farts introducing the Ms. Hysterical contestants: Ms. Stake, Ms. Conception, Ms. Information, Ms. Behave, Ms. Begotten, Ms. Understood, and the outgoing Ms. Hysterical— Ms. Laid. I played Ms. Stake and performed a talent culled from a cartoon of Jules Feiffer: Dance to Spring.
Bert Farts (one of our troupe in male drag) presides over the talent portion of the contest. “Ms. Stake’s talent is interpretive dance,” announces Bert to the audience.
“My Dance to Life is a poetic interpretation of life itself, Bert,” says Ms. Stake breathlessly as she launches into her piece:
Life is a never-ending stream of consciousness.
…Up the mountains, down the valleys, up the mountains,
down the valleys, up the mountains, down the valleys,
until finally, ta da . . . death!”
She ends by falling dramatically prone and lifeless on the stage floor.
“Very poignant, Ms. Stake,” remarks Bert. “Next, is Ms. Conception, who will sing a song.”
“Thank you, Bert,” says Ms. Conception. “My song is called ‘The Birth Control Blues’”
I tried the pill they said it was the way,
Take a pill at breakfast and you can screw all day
But the pill made me fat, and gave me blood clots, too
So I got me a diaphragm, guess that’s the safest thing yet
But oh, it’s slimy, and easy to forget
‘Cuz when I see you, honey, you know I sure get wet
“Very slick, Ms. Conception,” comments Bert. “Next up, is Ms. Behave from No No Nevada.”
Ms. Behave plasters a smile on her face as she sings (to the tune of “Has Anybody Seen my Gal?):
I’m 5’ 2”
Eyes of brown
Horniest woman there is around
Does anybody need Ms. Behave?
Could she blow? Could she suck?
Could she, could she, could she fuck?
The music speeds up and Ms. Behave grabs a jumping rope and sticks a kazoo in her mouth and proceeds to jump rope while simultaneously playing the kazoo.
“Multi-talented to say the least,” observes Bert. “Now we have Ms. Understood who is proud to have no ambition.”
“This is dedicated to Ritchie Valens,” Ms. Understood tells the audience. “Too fast to live and too young to die!” (To the tune of “Java Jive”):
Give me cocaine and give me speed
And give me lots of that old evil weed
Uppers and downers they give me a thrill
Pop a, pop a, pop a, pop a pill.
“Very interesting Miss Understood,” says Bert. “Maybe we can meet in the alley behind the theater after the show? Now, let’s welcome Miss Information from Washington, D.C. Exactly what do you do?”
“I’m reluctant to scatter dirt after it’s all been neatly swept under the rug but I just had to leak those damning documents. I wrote this little song after Watergate. (To the tune of the Rolling Stones “It’s Only Rock and Roll (But I Like It)”:
If I should dig down deep in my file
Spill it all over the stage
Would it satisfy you, would it slide on by you
Would you think the girl’s insane, she’s insane
I know it’s only espionage but I like it.
I know it’s only sabotage but I like it, like it, yes I do …
“Sounds like a CIA plot, Ms. Information,” comments Bert.
“Thank you, Bert. And, by the way, I read your file, and I will not reveal that nasty incident in Morocco in 1955.”
“Okay, Miss know-it-all.” Bert says dismissively. “Get out of here!”
“And Finally, we have Ms. Begotten, as the wrangler cowgirl Farfa Knout: “This contest is fixed, it’s rigged,” puffs Ms. Begotten. “And I have as much chance of winning as a fart does in a windstorm in hell. Anyway, here is my song”:
I’m an old cow turd from a grand old turd
And I don’t give a damn
If I smell like spam
Bert puts his arm around Ms. Begotten. “Shit fire, you’re a real down home gal, Farfa.” “Now let’s bring out the reigning Ms. Hysterical, Ms. Laid, who will relinquish her crown tonight.”
“Don’t count on it, Bert,” replies Ms. Laid.
“Tell the audience” continues Bert, “How does it feels to be the most glamorous girl in America.”
“My greatest thrill was servicing America’s military men,” answers Ms. Laid as she launches into her song (tune of “Man o’ War”):
When he advances, can’t keep him back
So systematic is his attack
All my resistance bound to crack. . .
His bayonet makes me cry for aid
Oh, how he handles his hand grenade
He’s my man ‘o war
“You’re the real deal, Ms. Laid!” says Bert. “Now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the musical chair competition to choose the new Ms. Hysterical.”
We never plan in advance who will win, so the game is for real. The contestants push, shove, elbow each other in the face, pull chairs out from one another, and any other trick that will win them the coveted seat in the last chair. After the winner is announced Ms. Laid refuses to relinquish the crown, and runs offstage with Bert hot on her heels, “Give me that crown, you bitch!”
The left-behind contestants decide to reject the contest. When a battered Bert returns with the crown no one wants it. “But every girl in America wants to be Ms. Hysterical,” says a shaken Bert.
“No they don’t!” yell the contestants. Bert withers, then suddenly, straightens, and strips off his suit to reveal a silver lame swimsuit underneath, and shoves the crown on his head.
Les Nickelettes made fun of this “beauty meat market” in 1975, but none of us foresaw the dwindling influence and dramatic shifts that would occur within the pageant in the years and decades to come.
Les Nickelettes onstage at The Intersection Theater in North Beach in 1974
San Francisco’s counterculture in the mid 1970s was all about doing whatever you wanted. A seize-the-moment motto prevailed that disregarded mainstream societal rules. With that mindset the members of this underground tribe set out to get as high as possible, and have the time of their lives. Booze was the easy legal way to go, but we also indulged in weed, acid, mushrooms, psilocybin, MDA, and the crème de la crème – cocaine
In 1974 Les Nickelettes were doing bi-monthly performances at the Intersection Theater in San Francisco’s North Beach. The rudimentary skits were intentionally under rehearsed, but had a compelling energy of anarchistic female humor.
Alice In Blunderland, Les Nickelettes parody of Lewis Carroll’s Alice In Wonderland, was our contribution to glorifying the drug culture of the time. Did I mention that we also indulged in some of these legal and illegal substances before going on stage?
Our story begins with Alice (alone on stage) taking multiple sniffs from a mysterious unlabeled tube. Her mother enters, and demands to know what she is doing. Alice goes ballistic with an adolescent “Tantrum Stomp” – I want my own way / I want my own way…
Alice’s mother yells, “Stop!” Alice looks at her blankly. The mother sings:
Alice, Alice, you’re such a freak
Your room hasn’t been cleaned for a week
Daddy and I have spent money on you
But you just sit in here and sniff glue
Your father and I had such high hope – but all you do is smoke dope
Cocaine, marijuana, and airplane glue will be the ruin of you.
“Fuck off mom!” Alice defiantly declares, and snorts cocaine off a gigantic mirror. The lights blink off and on, and Alice spirals down into the drug-fog fantasy of Blunderland.
Alice
A White Playboy Bunny pops in, “I’m late, I’m late!” and dashes out.
The Mad Hatter uninvites Alice to a dope peddling tea party. The Dormouse confides to the uninvited guest, “There’s no telling what’s in the tea, but it’s so affordable”.
“Have some,” Mad Hatter says, offering Alice a joint.
“Don’t mind if I do,” says Alice reaching for the weed.
The Mad Hatter snatches it away, “How rude!”
The White Playboy Bunny pops in: “Twinkle, twinkle little bat, how I wonder where you’re at. Time, time, time, time, I’m late.”
“You’re just talking a lot of nonsense.” Observes Alice.
“Is it?” says the White Playboy Bunny “Or are you just hallucinating?” The Bunny disappears and a Space Kitty appears lounging on a spaceship: “Space is all around you, but it’s also what’s inside you. Outer space is where you’re at.”
“Where did you come from?” asks Alice.
“From space, of course,” says Space Kitty.
“What sort of people live around here?
“Some live this way, and some live that way, and some others live another way,” grins Space Kitty. “They’re all mad, but you’re the real space kitty.”
“How did you know I was loaded?”
Space Kitty: “You must be, or you wouldn’t have gotten here. Uh oh, here comes the Queen.” (Kitty fades away. White Playboy Bunny toots a kazoo to announce the Queen.)
Queen of Hearts appears and yells, “Fore!”
The Queen of Hearts (who looks uncannily like Alice’s mother) uses a golf-club to chase Alice back through the mirror, shrieking, “Off with her drug-filled head!”
Safely back home, Alice vows never to get high again. But the White Playboy Bunny appears, offering her some pills to get small, and some pills to get large. Can Alice resist? It appears doubtful, “I think I’ll take a couple of each.”
The ensemble sings a finale, glorifying the ingestion of drugs: the nicest part of when you’re getting high / is when you’re floating through the sky…
Queen of Hearts
Bob Starfire of the San Francisco Phoenix weighed-in on our bi-monthly revues at the Intersection:
There’s a new-style vaudeville arising now in San Francisco. …’cult happenings’ – this is, events which appeal to a limited, enthusiastic, and uncritical audience.
…One of the most enduring and popular of these groups has been Les Nickelettes, who have for some three years now been giving bizarre shows at strange times for weird people … most of whom enjoy them immensely.
In the early days of Les Nickelettes’ evolution we performed on stages, but also, acted out our anarchistic antics with events we called “stunts”. We invaded The Carol Doda Condor Strip club on Broadway, jumped on stage, and sang a song dressed in Girl Scout uniforms and plastic breasts. We crashed the ultra-chic San Francisco Opera opening wearing vintage clothing and mop-top wigs. These great stories are included in Anarchy in High Heels. But one caper didn’t make the cut. Here it is.
In 1973, KQED, San Francisco’s public television station, staged its annual fund-raising auction. The event was run by rich, high-society Marin housewives with little else to do. The Nickelettes volunteered to make an appearance and donated a private exclusive performance as an auction item. For our live appearance we came up with the idea of a performance art satire of a stripper popping out of a cake. Our version had seven Nicks portraying a variety of skewered female fantasy figures hiding in a huge wooden cake. “Debby was dressed as a bride, and I was Sister Liturgica,” Priscilla recalled. “They wheeled that big wooden cake in front of the camera, and we jumped up, one at a time, doing our individual slogan, song, or cheer. Well, as the camera panned to me – in my full nun habit, and over-the-top make-up – I crossed myself, and anoited the audience with an apostolic blessing. And it just so happened that the Pastor’s wife of the Trinity Church was watching the KQED auction on TV. At the time, my day job was working as a secretary to the Pastor of the church. She screamed at the Pastor, ‘Hugh, it’s Priscilla!’ He comes running out and there I am on TV doing this blessing in my bad nun’s outfit.
The next day, I’m at work, when the Pastor walks up to my desk, and says, ‘I saw you on television last night. Can I see you in my office, please?’ And I’m thinking, oh no, he’s going to fire me. He closes the door, sits at his desk, peers over his glasses, and scolds, ‘Miss Alden, nuns do not deliver the apostolic blessing: that honor can only be bestowed by The Pope.’
I slink back to my desk thankful I still have a job.”
Priscilla’s story wasn’t the only scandal that evening. After our “performance” we were hanging out watching the auction when a roving camera captured Bermuda drinking a beer. The Marin housewives promptly kicked us out of the TV studio. Their disapproving looks as we packed up and left, made us feel like wayward teen-agers. “Right, breaking the rules, you know, looking bad, virgins with beer.” Debby laughed.
Breaking the rules had a price, evidently; there was not one bid made on our donated private performance.
Me, in the dress, and Deborah Marinoff in front of the Intersection Theater San Francisco 1973. Photo copyright Clay Geerdes
Me in the same dress in front of the poster for my book “Anarchy in High Heels” 2021.
Second-hand shops in 1973 were full of treasures from the fifties and sixties. Clothes from those days used well-made, quality materials. As a cash-poor artist I browsed these shops weekly. As a Nickelette, I looked for flashy, unusual items to use as costumes. One day, I found a gorgeous dress. It was a black velveteen fabric cocktail dress adorned with sequins and rhinestones. The amazing feature was the skirt; it depicted gold-painted, elaborate Aztecan Goddesses highlighted with hand-sewn silver sequins. I had to have it. But when I tried it on it was too big. No problem, I’ll just take up the side seams. I wore the dress on many occasions while in Les Nickelettes. The most famous time was captured by photographer Clay Geerdes in front of The Intersection Theater in North Beach with my co-Nickelette Debby Marinoff. In the photo we playfully stuck our thumbs out hitchhike-style. That photo of me was chosen to adorn the cover of my memoir; Anarchy in High Heels. It captures the impish ethos of Les Nickelettes along with the never-ending desire to always show up in the most glamourous outfit.
Time moved on, costumes came and went. I stashed the Aztecan dress in my basement. This kind of retro outfit fell out of favor. Still, I held on to it, and many other costumes of that era, I just couldn’t let them go.
Fast forward 48 years, Anarchy in High Heels: A Memoir is scheduled to be published. As I get ready for the book launch, I pulled out the dress, thinking maybe I could put it on display for this special night. Then I decide to try it on, even though I know there’s no chance it will fit. Yep, I can’t zip it up. But then I look closer and see that the side seams of the bodice had been taken in. I had forgotten that detail. I ripped out the seams – 2 inches on both sides – and slipped the dress over my head. The moment of truth: will I be able to zip it up? Holding my breath, and with a little help from a friend, the zipper completed its journey, and I even survived the fastening of the hook and eye on top. Whoa! I can barely breathe, but the dress fits! As I wear the dress it conforms to my body (no stretch fabric here) and feels more comfortable.
There’s no doubt that as women’s bodies age, they change. Giving birth, menopause, metabolism changes, altered eating habits, all take their toll. Thickening in the middle is common. I’ve heard that one reason for that thickening is due, in part, to our shrinking skeleton. Whatever the reason, a middle bulge in older adults is inevitable. I feel blessed that the dress I plucked off a thrift store shelf 48 years ago and altered to fit my 26 year-old body fit my 73 year-old body on that special day when I presented Anarchy in High Heels to the world.
The price of admission to the People’s Nickelodeon was a nickel. It was 1971, and my day job was working as a cashier at The Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater. So, when the midnight after-hours Nickelodeon began, I volunteered my services as a cashier. In lieu of a salary I got to be part of the “in-crowd” and partake in the fun of presenting classic movies, vintage cartoons, and cult shorts under the banner; “uppers and downers” to the young, hip underground film set. One thing the counterculture staff of the theater got a kick out of was punking the deep pocketed porno crowd. I smiled when unsuspecting O’Farrell Theater customers walked in and thought the porn movies were still playing. A guy in a business suit plunked down a twenty-dollar bill for a ticket. I said, “I can’t break a twenty.” He then pulled out a ten. I shook my head. Next, would be a fiver, and I would look him straight in the eye and say, “Mister, do you have a nickel?” With a bewildered look, the guy fished out the coin and plunked it on the counter. As soon as he turned the corner and stumbled into the dark theater, I burst out laughing.
It’s hard to describe the People’s Nickelodeon to folks who weren’t there. And it’s hard to convey the vibe of the early anarchistic Nickelettes. The best depiction at the time came from David Kleinberg in the San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle, who characterized the scene as; “The freaks answer to the Mickey Mouse Club.”
He reported his experience of interviewing the Nickelettes backstage:
“’We’re the kids that were rejected in high school’ a voice shouts as they stand around you like a group of girl scouts with cookies to sell.
‘We’re horny.’
‘We’re the ugly ducklings.’
‘People come to see us. We’re popular.’
‘I make sex movies.’
‘We’re All American girls.’
‘We drink milk and eat granola.’
‘The more out of step the better.’”
Our process was pure improv. We’d meet the day before the performance on Monday afternoon, find out the featured movie for that week, and decide on a theme. On Tuesday, we’d meet at 9:00 pm, get as high as a kite drinking, and smoking dope while putting on costumes and make-up. Then around 11:00 pm we would do a quasi-rehearsal, maybe coordinate a finale song and dance, and at midnight, we would do the show and let whatever happen, happen. The Nickelettes and the creators of the People’s Nickelodeon saw it as a 1970s vaudeville-type revue. But it was more like a free-for-all with permission to do anything we wanted. On the week that Gulliver’s Travels played on the big screen we dressed as cheerleaders and cheered for the little people and then the big people. The audience roared with approval so we took it further and led a cheer for Gulliver, then the Nickelodeon, and lastly, the Nickelettes. Our antics encouraged louder and louder shrieks of laughter and applause: a high point for counterculture cheerleading. And all for just a nickel.
In his article “Midnight at the O’Farrell” for the Los Angeles Free Press’s San Francisco Report, Clay Geerdes described the Nicks:
“…the Nickelettes have been performing a valuable form of theater. It is always cathartic to see those things which most of us express only in the darkness freely expressed in the light.”
Unbeknownst to us at the time, the winds of change blew open a new door for women’s lib. Read more about it in Anarchy in High Heels.
In 1992 Les Nickelettes celebrated their 20th anniversary with a party at my house. The group hadn’t produced a play since 1985 but we still got together regularly for parties, pot lucks and gab sessions. Throughout my home I curated a museum style history of the troupe with a display of posters and photos from my archive. This led the revelers to conjure up old memories and laughs. Near the end of the event someone said, “We should write a book about Les Nickelettes.”
“Yeah, it could be Anarchy in High Heels – The Book,” I laughed.
The title Anarchy in High Heels had been coined 10 years earlier when I utilized the phrase in recounting the history of the group at Les Nickelettes Tenth Anniversary Bash. Subsequently, we used it as the title of one our shows. I was the only member that had been with the group from the very first time we stepped onstage through to the final show – a roller coaster thirteen years of highs and lows and everything in between. I was considered the glue that had kept it all together – the “mama” that watched over her brood. A light bulb went off in my head; I had to write the story of Les Nickelettes.
I sat down the next day and scribbled down my recollection of the very first performance, and then fast forwarded to write my memory of the last performance of the last play. But then, I pondered how to fill in the gaps from that beginning to that end. I knew I couldn’t do it by myself. I started inviting different groups of performers from the various eras to my living room to reminisce about their time in the group (through the many years the group existed it evolved into three distinct phases). I taped these sessions, and they helped to trigger my memories, but also, critically, they filled in the lapses of my remembrances. Some people weren’t able to make the sessions, so I traveled to their homes and taped one-on-one sessions. And then there were people I had stayed in touch with but who had moved far away. I sent them a list of questions and they wrote back with their replies. Organizing, transcribing, and following up on the gaps in this material took many years. Not to mention that this project competed with my responsibility as a parent, and a day job. Still, slowly, a structure and a series of stories began to take shape.
Life intervened once again with a lay-off, a new demanding job, and a daughter in high school. My extra-curricular writing project was put on the back burner.
Five years later, after another job change, and my daughter off to college I returned to the project. Picking up where I left off, I saw I had about four chapters – not even half-way. I committed to writing every Saturday evening, a time when I was rested and knew I didn’t have to get up early the next day. It was a slow slog. I dove into my extensive archives: posters, flyers, scripts, press releases, photos, videos, and did more interviews. I also refreshed my memories by reviewing written comments and feelings jotted down in the pages of the datebooks that I kept at the time.
Finally, when I retired in 2013, I had a first draft. A big, messy, inflated, overwritten, shitty, first draft. But now, I had the luxury of devoting all my time to revising and polishing the writing and finding a pathway to publishing. I figured it would take me about a year to whip it into shape, then I could “shop it around” to agents and publishers.
It took six years. Revise, revise, and then revise again. I thought when I started that I was writing a non-fiction account of Les Nickelettes but the initial feedback I got from early readers suggested a shift in perspective: “How did you feel about that experience?” “How did it affect your life?” And finally, “Why don’t you make it more like a memoir?” This led me to insert myself, my feelings, and my personal growth into the manuscript.
At the same time, I started researching the publishing process. I volunteered at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference, I signed up for workshops, read articles, books, and scrolled through the internet. I learned that, like many things, the process of publishing was changing with lightning speed. As traditional publishing paths became increasingly difficult, especially for debut authors; e-books, self-publishing, small press, and hybrid-publishing was booming. I slowly began to get a feel for this broad spectrum in the current publishing landscape.
After I completed the manuscript, I knew instinctively something wasn’t right. I knew it was too long, and… what? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was stuck. Maybe if I cast it out into the universe, find a publisher, or an editor, they could help me find clarity. This led me to write a book proposal, another big time-consuming learning experience. When it was completed, I paid a publishing professional to evaluate it for me. Her critique of my first two chapters included in the proposal at first devastated me. But, after reflection, I began to see the light. First, I hadn’t completely committed to the point of view of a memoirist. Second, I had avoided letting the reader in on the “takeaway”. Wait. I’m supposed to let the reader in on what I learned? I had avoided inserting my takeaways because I thought you were supposed to let the reader “get it”.
I opened the file on my computer, looked at the first page of a nearly four hundred page manuscript, and sighed, could I slog through another compete revision? I took advice from a book on writing by the well-respected writer Anne Lamont: take it just one bird at a time. Just one scene at a time. And then, it clicked. By completely buying into a memoir point of view, and adding my upshot at the end of stories, I sensed the narrative falling into place. I knew I had nailed it when I enjoyed re-reading the adventures of Les Nickelettes for the twentieth time.
I was excited. I rewrote the proposal and sent it out to agents. I got mostly radio silence, and the agents that did respond did so with with a rejection (“not right for me right now, maybe some other time”). Then I turned to small presses and got some encouragement, but no takers. Finally, I submitted to She Writes Press – a hybrid-press that champions women writers. Bingo! The She Writes Press hybrid model does require the writer to invest in the project, but the dividend is a first-class published book with national distribution, and a gateway into a women’s community of writers. Like Les Nickelettes I found acceptance in a society of women; now that’s a takeaway. And so, after a mere thirty years, I present Anarchy in High Heels: A Memoir to the world.
Recently, there was news that the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater was up for sale. Memories of this being the unlikely birthplace of my feminist theater group Les Nickelettes surfaced. You may ask: feminism in a porno palace, really? Hey, this was San Francisco in 1972. A hip underground counterculture was thumbing its nose at past hang-ups, and at the same time saying, “anything goes.”
A less garish facade of The O’Farrell Theatre in 1972
The O’Farrell Theater gained notoriety for opening the first hardcore porno film venue in the country, but Les Nickelettes didn’t emerge from that Mitchell Brothers’ enterprise. Instead, a different, after-hours counterculture event launched the group . In 1972 I was 24, and to pay the rent, I took a day job as a cashier at The O’Farrell Theater. One of the projectionists, Vince Stanich, came up with the idea for The People’s Nickelodeon. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, at midnight, after the moneymaking endless porno loops had ended, the theater was thrown open to the stoned “freaks.” Everything cost a nickel: the popcorn, the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and admission to see a forties newsreel, a Betty Boop cartoon, and a kitschy classic movie. Reefer Madness was shown at The People’s Nickelodeon before it became a cult classic.
1972 Nickelodeon Poster
As the popularity of this after-hours event grew, me and my theater friends became the Nickelette cheerleaders for The People’s Nickelodeon. Give us an “N” – give us an “I” – give us a “C” . . . But the hodge-podge troupe quickly evolved into something more meaningful. Maybe it was the times. Maybe it was the underlying second-wave feminist movement, but we came together in a sisterhood of unique and bawdy female satire that surprised us all. The creation of the group may have been accidental but the collective unconscious synergy of this eclectic group of women came together in the right place at the right time, and it took on a life of its own.
The Nickelettes in 1972 in the lobby of The O’Farrell Theatre with the night manager and the famous “moose head.”
To give credit where credit is due, Vince Stanich came up with the idea of Nickelette cheerleaders for The People’s Nickelodeon. He proposed the idea as he and I hung out smoking weed in his “Clubhouse,” an O’Farrell Theater backroom behind the projection booth – his 12-hour shift work station. It was a heady time. After midnight on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, in a reimagined porno theater, a creative genie was let out of the bottle. There would be no going back, no desire to. It was the beginning of my thrilling thirteen-year adventure in Les Nickelettes. I had the time of my life.
Me performing at The People’s Nickelodeon in 1972. I was channeling my inner Janis Joplin
November 7, 1972 – the reelection of Richard M. Nixon. The election results were announced before the midnight People’s Nickelodeon show. The counterculture had no illusions about the character of “Tricky Dick.”
ANARCHY IN HIGH HEELS 