Category: Events

 editors note: 2013   I can’t believe the Tactile Dome is still alive and well

John Law recalls:

“Play Dead (Steve Mobia)
Our first visit to the delectable Mountain View Cemetery in the Piedmont hills high above Oakland. We drove over to East Bay after applying white face and donning all black togs at Circus of the Soul. We parked in a wealthy, tree lined Piedmont neighborhood in our fleet of junk cars. Some wary householder who observed this invasion of low rent ghouls called the Piedmont police, who upon their speedy arrival severely threatened our attempt to de-car and enter the back wood route into the cemetery proper. While all 40 ghouls cowered inside the cars Dave Warren dragged himself up onto his cane and clutching a large watermelon to his chest tottered over to the two squad cars in his white deathmask and threadbare all black ensemble. After a while Dave strolled back to his ghoul packed Galaxy 500 and the half dozen other marginal vehicles as the two prowlers sped off into the night. It seems that the cops were satisfied by Dave’s explanation (augmented, no doubt by the watermelon!) that all 50 of the down at their heels ghouls were on the way to a house party in tonie Piedmont. (This was my first experience of seeing what I came to call the Obe won kanobi move: “…these are not the Droids you are looking for, officer…… you wish to let us pass…” with a little wave of the hand!!! Thanks Dave!- JL). We snuck in via the beautiful woodland trails at the back of the cemetery and after entering the stunning mauseleum and crypt row at the center of the necroplolis, Mobia explained the game. I was transported into a state of almost orgasmic engagement of the senses by the combination of our indescribably strange and beautiful environment and the fabulous game we played several rounds of over the next few hours. I was literally experiencing Garys philosophy about living each day as though it were my last through a type of sensory synesthesia that is ever so rare and unforgetable. At one point after being killed and transforming into one of the Minions of Death, I entered my animal spirit in such a tangible fashion that my conscious, rational mind went away. I was an animal, an undead predator mercilessly stalking the living. While crouching atop a moorish styled mausoleum a spied a dark figure creeping among the bushes and angel statuary 10-12 feet below. Reptile brain in charge, I leaped onto the supine figure and after wrestling across the green engaged in an unearthly passionate kiss for an unknown length of time. After, this delectable and never before seen by me succubus pulled ourselves apart snarling and panting, and slowly backed one away from the other until we were obscured from each others view by the funereal gloom. At the regrouping after the event I searched very intently for my erstwhile lover. She was not in the group, no one recognized her description and, I never saw her again. Another brilliant moment during one of the evenings rounds came when I and two other undead crept up from behind low lying headstones to “kill” two women we detected at the edge of the proscribed playing area. As we got closer, and they finally notice the three ghouls creeping toward them I got a flash that, perhaps they were not with our party and were simply innocent cemetery strolling passer-bys. Even though silence was required for this game, I in a spasm of uncertainty blurted out: “are you dead yet? Are you dead yet????” The two women it was dawning on me were walking their dog looked at us with a very strange, frozen expression and quite emphatically, almost hysterically said” “..no, no….. we’re NOT dead!!”

Many Suicide Club events, particularly the physically dangerous and/or illegal variety were no alcohol, no drugs affairs. Even so, many members would imbibe on occasion. Kathy Hearty’s Summer of Love re-enactment was an event that actually encouraged participants to “get in the spirit” of the original period.

Photographer Greg Mancuso caught the faux-hippies in the act as they wafted and pranced down Haight Street. The genuinely sincere hippies on the, even at that time venerable Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park, welcomed the Suicide Club Flower Children in an act of (to paraphrase the Haight Denizens) “hearkening back to a more innocent time.”

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