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.

David: The Musical

When reviewing the premiere of a new musical, one must be ever cognizant of the amount of work that has gone into its creation. Fully scored, booked and staged musicals take an almost astonishing amount of effort and audacity to execute -- and this can be all the more upsetting when the outcome is as misbegotten as is this near-incoherent adaptation of the story of the Old Testament's King David, his seduction of the beautiful Bathsheba, and his despair over his wayward sons Absalom and Amnon. Or, at least, that appears to be what the musical is about: Director Adam T. Rosencrance's production is in modern dress, which is not necessarily an unimaginative idea, but the presentation of the story is utterly without context -- the Biblical incidents are merely strung together with little dramatic development, psychological subtext or convincing emotion. One moment, Dane Bowman's oddly wooden David is crowned king, the next he's seducing Sara Collins' almost comically Valley girl-like Bathsheba. Other performers take on multiple roles -- but the character changes are disjointed and without explanation, often accomplished merely by an actor donning a new jacket or shirt, and not changing his actual personality. Thus, we start to wonder why David's servant Caleb (Austin Grehan) is suddenly one of the assassins plotting his demise, or why David's son Amnon (J. D. Driskill shows up as a spear-carrying soldier in the Hittite army. The score, credited to Costanza, Tim Murner, Rich Lyle and Michelle Holmes, is a workmanlike mix of heavy-metal rock anthems and hard country ballads ably rendered by the rock band Pullman Standard, but the numbers are all lyric-driven, and the singing is miserably drowned out by the hyperamplified sound system. More dismaying than the lack of coherence, though, is the lack of Goliath, who is barely mentioned in the play and whose absence seems like a painfully missed dramatic opportunity -- like trying to tell the story of World War II without a Nazi. Some of the show's early production flaws may iron themselves out over the course of the run -- one of the main actors was still lugging his script about like a Torah throughout the entire performance, for example. Hayworth Theatre, 2511 Wilshire Blvd., L.A.; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; through October 17. brownpapertickets.com. (Paul Birchall)

I Laughed So Hard I Cried.

As you might expect from a comic who dubs himself "the Goth Comedian," Mark White tells jokes that edge toward the darker and more disturbed side of the spectrum. Yet, you need not be afraid that the Goth Jokester will come onstage, bite the head off a bat, and then tell that tired gag about the two peanuts walking down the street. Fortunately, it turns out that White is a first-rate comedian who just happens to have a goth persona. Some of White's material is amusing -- most particularly jokes about his unique childhood masturbation technique ("Assume the paratrooper position!") and his parents' sagging tattoos ("I have seen the future of tattoos, and they're not pretty!"). Even given White's costume trappings of ghoulish lipstick, mascara and a seersucker suit, the Goth Comedian's routine is fresh and unexpectedly touching. In spite of his attempts to portray himself as a freak, he ultimately comes across as a sweet, oddly vulnerable fellow whose makeup belies an unexpected romantic streak. Complex Theatre, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hlywd. CLOSED. (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

That's Funny! You Didn't Sound Black On The Phone!

Performer Jacquetta Szathmari explains that for many years she had "given up on being black," not out of any internalized racism but because she had always disapproved of the narrow definition of behavior imposed on her by the outside community. In her cracklingly smart, funny, philosophical and often politically incorrect monologue, Szathmari describes growing up in an isolated, hardscrabble rural Maryland community, where she always dreamed of finding class and culture -- it's not that she didn't want to be black, she wanted to be upper class and live the life exemplified by a copy of The Official Preppy Handbook she purchased at a library bookstore. Thoughtful, introspective and sweetly intimate, Szathmari's solo show offers a great deal to ponder, as it presents a genuine, unapologetic nonconformist on her own journey of self-discovery. Various locations, hollywoodfringe.org/learn/content/268. (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

55 Minutes of Sex, Drugs, and Audience Participation.

Howard Lieberman and Loren Niemi's storytelling tour de force plants its tent pole deep in the territory of 1970s mythos, with the two men improvising earthy tales that are hilarious yet strangely melancholy. Some of the anecdotes undeniably hint at a nostalgia for a freer, hippie past -- of the four stories the two men unspooled, three described incidents involving sex-and-LSD drenched communes. Of the pair, Niemi, a craggy-faced, ponytail caparisoned character actor, tells more deeply introspective stories about drug use and an innocent romance, while Lieberman assays the persona of a neurotic Jewish intellectual as he describes his first (near) homosexual experience and his loss of virginity to a beautiful she-hippie. These two are fascinating performers who manage to whip up a theatrical experience from little more than their mouths and imaginations. ComedySportzLA, Ballroom Studio Theatre, 733 Seward St., Hlywd.; June 22-27, hollywoodfringe.org/project/view/54 (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

Can You Hear Me Now?

The DMV waiting room provides the comic fodder for playwright Phoebe Neidhardt's workmanlike series of character portraits of the denizens and customers at the government office where the author has gone to get a new license photo. The problem is that the real wackos waiting in line at the DMV are inevitably more interesting and engaging than these generic denizens of the government office. Neidhardt depicts the prissy gay DMV license photographer, a hard boiled female casting agent (with a yeast infection), a child's nanny (who inexplicably talks like Holly Hunter), and a cheerful Latino desk clerk. While the actress is commendably versatile, the characterizations lack the context and dramatic heft to emerge as anything more than the briefest of routine snapshots. Hudson Guild Theatre, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd, Hollywood; June 26, 8 p.m. hollywoodfringe.org/project/view/161. (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

921 F (For Feces)

Today was the day I came into the library to learn that a scoundrel had snuck into the biography section and smeared several whole shelves of books with his feces. It actually happened on Wednesday, and, in the aftermath, the entire section had been sealed off from the public by a Hazmat team and the vandalized books had been removed and bagged. The librarians had gone through the books to see which were salvageable, and which were, sadly, lost causes. When I arrived on Friday, much of the mess had been cleared up and attempts had been made to fill in the shelves, at least with a few books.

People who do not work in libraries may be shocked at the astonishing number of appalling incidents of this type that take place in locations that are supposedly meant for leisure and the betterment of the community at large. But, you see, the library is open and available to everyone -- and that means that anyone can come in and do whatever they desire. You may think that a library is like a social club, or a dignified place of quiet and peace, when, really, it is much more like a bus station waiting room or city park lavatory (with books on the wall). Although thousands and thousands of visitors are decent, respectful, and well intentioned users of the library, it only takes a comparative few wicked souls to ruin it quite well for many of them. And that, of course, is why they do it. You can either become famous by being the President or by killing the President – guess which one is easier to do?

A nice librarian snuck me into the top secret Reference Office to see the pile of salvaged books. They were mostly 921s – biographies for those of you who do not knew the Dewey Decimal System. And there were some Russian history books in the 890s, as well – those would be the books in the shelf on the other side of the biography section. The librarian I chatted with was somewhat curious as to the decision to vandalize biographies and wondered whether it had something to do with some particular obsession on the part of vandal. However, “if that was the case,” the librarian opined, “I would have thought he would have smeared feces over the 200s.” The 200s, as you may or may not know, is the section about religion.

The librarians were, as you can imagine, disgusted and rather depressed by the vandalism, which, in fact, was accomplished in a decidedly wily and careful way – calculated to destroy books that were, not only, frequently used but which also just happened to be shelved in a part of the building that is out of the sightline of the reference desk. No one saw the feces being smeared or thrown – the first anyone knew of it was when a patron reported that there appeared to be “chocolate” smeared all over some book shelves.

In the library work room, we all spent many minutes debating how the act had been accomplished. One security guard suggested that the feces had merely been hidden inside a plastic baggy and smeared along the shelves. Another page believed that the offensive ordure had been liquefied and stored in a squirt bottle for easy pouring and squirting on the books. This made sense to me, as I had seen on many episodes of my beloved MSNBC TV series “Lock Up” that convicts often create water bottles of feces to throw at the guards in the hopes of infecting them with Hepatitis.

In any case, the incident caused quite a stir at an establishment that doesn’t want for excitement. If you had told me, when I started working at the library, I would pretty much find myself working at a madhouse, I would not have believed you. But this isn’t even my first library incident involving feces! It’s something like the second or third. And today’s feces didn’t even represent the last exciting event of the afternoon. As I was heading out of the Computer Commons at the end of my shift, one of the security guards approached me to say that he had just escorted a library regular, a mentally unstable fellow known for his stench and the billowing white scarf he wears day and night, out of the building for masturbating in the fiction section – which, it turns out, is the favored section for homeless masturbation sessions. It seems to me they should rename the two sections of the library really. You want Steven King? Why, you can search for him in the masturbation section. You want a book about cats or a biography of Mozart? Check out the feces section.