March 28, 2005
Once you get about an hour and a half north of Manhattan, not far from the Appalachian Trail, you'll find the historic and quiet town of Sherman, Connecticut, home of my cousin Victor. I went up there to spend Easter weekend at the invitation of Kevin and Maureen, his son and daughter-in-law, whom I've come to know well lately. The house and grounds were named Crabapple Farm, and never have I stayed anywhere more emaculate. Each room of this New England style house was meticulously organized into themes. I slept in the Safari room upstairs, totally decked out in jungle gear and leopard skin prints. The bedclothes were pulled back and a personalized bathrobe was there for my use. Even a late-night snack and wine in the kitchen was an exercise in detail. Slightly chipped bowls were not tolerated under this roof. This kinda put a kink in my plans; y'see, whenever I'm a guest at someone's home, it's a custom of mine to drink from the tackiest, most mismatched cup in the place. It puts me on level with my hosts, y'know? But no such thing existed here. I surrendered. The fact that it was a holiday raised the stakes as well. Preparing dinner was Victor's thing, and he and his partner Clay ran it like a runway fashion show, with everything in just the right place, well timed and color coordinated. It made for a damn impressive layout. The funniest part to me was Kevin, Maureen and myself giggling like forty-something teenagers throughout, snapping artsy photos while the grown-ups were out of the room. Wish we could've stayed longer, but we headed back into the city after nightfall.
Monday was also a day off, albeit a miserable rainy one, so it was hard to get out and do errands. Good thing Parson Meares on 36th and 8th was a short walk away. This is where stage costumes are manufactured and theatre magic is made. I'd been here several times for fittings, but today I was trying on a latex half-mask molded from a sculpture of John Lennon's face. Man, they do good work here. The nose and eyebrows were perfect. Don't worry folks, we're not wearing prosthetics throughout the show, just for a 45 second piece of Theatre Of The Absurd, penned by John himself. In fact, just about all of the script comes directly from John's mouth or his pen. Don has spent many years plowing through volumes of source material, carefully choosing quotes and writings to stitch together a narrative that is authentically Lennon. As someone who's read most of those writings and heard most of the interviews, I could well relate to the script when I first got it last September, and I knew straight away that this project lay in the right hands.