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516                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
            the milling people, David Baker and I made eye contact that, because he
            seemed to recognize me, impelled me to rise from my chair to begin the
            exact stylized movement, traveling mainly on the knees — with much leg
            jack-knifing — toward him. It was the 70s. Nobody cared how outrageous
            anyone acted. The dance thrilled us both — that night, again, and for a
            couple of weeks, as it had when we first had met in December 1972.
               David  Baker  was  sometimes  called  “Thumper.”  He  should  not
            be confused historically, however, with my other pal, the legendary
            “Thumper,” the uber-popular and handsome San Francisco barber and
            wrestler Jim McPherson mentioned in my “Gay Sports” feature; in 1974,
            I shot Super-8 footage of McPherson’s wide smile, and his photo appeared
            in Drummer 115, page 32. It was David “Thumper” Baker who was the
            man I wrote about in 1972, and published, as noted, in “Leather Christ-
            mas,” Drummer 19 (December 1977).
               Years later, in the 1990s, David Baker sent me an invitation to a
            revival of  Crimes Against Nature. He had moved to Eugene, Oregon,
            where in the diaspora of the zero-degrees salon around Drummer he was
            living with the long-haired redhead Michael “Misha” Workman whom
            I had photographed on March 22 and 29, 1988, as the model, “Outlaw
            Red,” for my Palm Drive Video feature, Bellybucker. David and I hadn’t
            seen each other in years; so the reunion involved much hugging in the
            lobby of the New Conservatory Theater building at 25 Van Ness in San
            Francisco where the producers of the revival were seeking backing. (The
            evolution from “fucker” to “backer” takes about twenty years.)
               In fact, David Baker and I hadn’t seen each other since February
            1983 when Mark Hemry and I walked up to the apartment (kind of a
            rehearsal space, I think, perhaps for Studio Rhino) at 2926 16  Street,
            San Francisco, for the preview opening night reading of The Ubu Cycle
            by Alfred Jarry, the father of theater of the absurd, who had started riots
            in Paris in 1896 when the opening word of his Ubu play was a word that
            had never been said on a stage: merde, shit. This was as culture-changing
            as Lytton Strachey suddenly announcing the word semen in 1905 when
            he looked at a spot on the dress of Vanessa Bell who was Virginia Woolf’s
            sister. He said simply, “Semen?” His daring unlocked the Bloomsbury
            stuffiness the way that semen on the dress of Monica Lewinsky changed
            the national discussion in America in 1995.
               My friend, the often scatalogical artist Claude Duvall, who had pro-
            duced Beat poet Ruth Weiss’ The Thirteenth Witch (1980), was producing
            Jarry’s three plays:
               •   Ubu Roi (or Ubu Rex) 8 PM, Mondays, 14 and 21 February,
                   1983, retitled and re-phrased by Duvall as King Turd;

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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