Diva on the Verge at the Odyssey Theatre.

In her compelling one-woman show, soprano Julia Migenes, who has sung more leading roles at more opera houses than you've had hot dinners, offers a solo show that is a true-life analog of Terrence McNally's play Master Class. However, Migenes is the real thing -- a bona fide, card-carrying prima donna of the larger-than-life school -- and the story of her life in art is both lighthearted and unpretentious, simultaneously celebrating opera and sending it up. For all her operatic pedigree, which includes the renowned 1984 film version of Carmen with Placido Domingo, Migenes cleverly positions herself here as an "anti-opera" opera star, with a narrative patter (credited to her and Bruce Vilanch) that spoofs various operatic traditions, while still dazzling us with renditions of the arias themselves. Thus, Migenes dons a goofy white shroud to comically satirize the over-the-top libretto of the madness scene from Lucia di Lammermoor at the same time her gorgeous coloratura rendering of the song is perfect. She jokes about the ridiculous death scenes from La Traviata and Tristan and Isolde, even as her voice hauntingly conveys the genuine feeling of the music's heightened realism. Credited to director Travis Preston, the show first played here 10 years ago; since then, the piece has evolved into a lighter, breezier work that emphasizes folksy general opera stories over Migenes' actual biography, which would frankly be welcome. When she's telling her story, Migenes exudes a sultry sophistication and a dry wit; when she sings (accompanied by Victoria Kirsch's excellently evocative piano playing), she's every bit the diva she purports to be, making this a unique and captivating experience. Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., W.L.A.; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sun., 7 p.m. (no perfs Dec. 24-25, Dec. 31, Jan. 6), through Jan. 9. (310) 477-2055. (Paul Birchall)

Remembering John Lennon.

Today, if you go into just about any coffeehouse throughout the land, the usual mélange of Christmas songs such as “Little Drummer Boy” and “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” have been gratefully, if temporarily replaced by songs celebrating the life and times of the central Beatle, John Lennon, who was assassinated 30 years ago today. For that alone, I suppose, one must be thankful to Lennon, even if the Beatles music provides but a temporary respite from the a-tonal warbling of “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus (Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night).”

Of course I never knew John Lennon. How could I have? But quite briefly my mother and I sublet one of the apartments in the glamorous Art Deco buildings directly across from The Dakota on 72nd Street and Central Park West. Quite a lovely neighborhood! This was back in the late 70s, when the neighborhood was full of leafy canopies and crazy old women wearing frilly hats walking their little poodles. Hard boiled doormen in huge longcoats would nod and smile at you as you would walk down the street, heading for the entrance to Central Park, which, in the memory of my childhood mind, was leafy and green and full of golden light. This would have been right around when Lennon and Ono were living quietly in the Dakota across the street from us. No, we never saw him: These were big Central Park West apartment buildings and each one was like its own outer space colony. But for that brief summer and fall, we had the same view, on a high floor, overlooking the sprawling green of Central Park and the elegant grey sidewalks of Central Park West.

On the night John Lennon was shot by the maniacal John David Chapman, I was living in Santa Monica and in my first year at Santa Monica High School. What was that – 1979? 1980? 1980, yes. Anyway, I was watching some idiotic TV show, I recall, when the TV reporter broke in suddenly, to announce the news that John Lennon had been shot outside the Dakota. Well, at the time, I noticed that my mother had quite a strong reaction – she was a child of the sixties and all, though, and he was quite the iconic figure to someone growing up in the Ground Zero of the Greenwich Village beat movement. For me, I just wondered precisely why they were interrupting TV shows to announce the death of someone who was a celebrity, not a political figure like the President. I mean, Lennon was a good Beatle, of course, but did he warrant such an interruption of my episode of “One Day at a Time?”

However, the next morning, I grabbed my little blue packpack and threw it raffishly over one shoulder, like all the trendy kids were doing with their backpacks that year to be cool, and headed off to school. Overnight, an upset student had clearly broken into the school grounds with a can of spray paint. Yet, clearly a West Coast breed of anarchist, he had vandalized the science and humanities buildings with lyrics from John Lennon songs. “Give Peace a Chance!” the vandal had sprayed on one Wall. “All You Need is Love,” he had written on another. “You might say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one,” and “Imagine – John Lennon, 1980” all were scrawled all over the gym outer walls.

I recall thinking that, my goodness, someone was so powerfully moved by the news of the death of John Lennon that they literally felt they had no alternative but to storm the Samohi campus and declare their despair and grief in the only way they knew how. I remember realizing that if I did not think this cultural moment was not significant, well, that was my problem, not the world’s. And now I have lived long enough to realize that, even at 16 or 15 or however old I was, that was a Zeitgeist Moment.