If you want to do something awesome Saturday night but you’re not entirely sure what, try JooWan Kim’s hip-hop opera, Great Integration. It’s an allegory of end times (think 2012, Mayan-style) layered in a pulsing hybrid of hip-hop, jazz, and classical.
You know you love Gilbert and Sullivan. Go on. Admit it. Or you’re at least mildly curious, given all the Gilbert and Sullivan-inspired dialogue in early seasons of The West Wing. Luckily for you, Lamplighter’s Theatre proffers what LA Weekly calls the “best Gilbert and Sullivan in the country.” It also, in this particular instance, proffers singing pirates.
If you're reading this, you’re likely well aware that Smuggler’s Cove has the best rum in town. (Which may or may not mean you research local watering holes with alarming regularity.) What you might not know is that there’s nothing more bad ass than taking a deceased - and, we assume, appropriately gutted - blowfish from its salty sea home and sticking a colored light bulb up its butt.
Comedians, people in very large hats, one-man shows, and the world’s only pencil musician join the dozens of theater companies converging on Yerba Buena Center this weekend.
In a cunning plot to rope in new audiences, the San Francisco Theater Festival puts on a whole cluster of shows at Yerba Buena Center once a year - all for free.
This post is for the subset of the San Francisco population inhabiting the Venn diagram interception between People Who Enjoy Classical Dance and People Fond of the Free. With the related but not strictly necessary parallel with People Fond of Drinking Booze at the Ballet.
It’s not every day you find the business end of a pants-less cherub hovering over your gin and tonic. But if this is an experience you simply must add to your bar repertoire (really, you must), head to Gold Dust Lounge. Founded in 1933, this San Francisco institution seems to have handily avoided changing anything since. It still boasts the decor of a gold rush-era bordello, complete with worn red velvet, chipped gilt, and cheap booze.
Christian Cagigal is a dark little conjurer with a thoughtful view on evil and an experiential one-man show threaded with gothic whimsy. “It won’t be the feel-good show of the year,” he says. But if you let down your defenses, Cagigal promises to give you magic.
He’s also hatching good-natured plots to steal your soul, so be sure to keep that shit close. (I stuffed mine in an empty wine glass and shoved it under the seat. Seemed to work.)
If you’re feeling the overwhelming urge to feast your eyes on modern dance and your teeth on bites of salmon (um, no promises on the salmon, the press release didn’t include a menu), head to the Mission for tapas, ODC-style.
If you were a virginal young woman more willing to use your brain than your boobs to get ahead in the world, how would you feel if you came home from Cambridge to discover that your mother is a notorious madame and the luxury of your childhood was bought via the virtual enslavement of women not so different from yourself?
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