10 Gay Sensibilities on Parade Over Thanksgiving Weekend

usa-001Over the four day Thanksgiving weekend I recognized gay sensibilities integrated into every aspect of our culture. After six decades on this planet, I’m thankful that, for many of us, being gay in America allows our fullest expression. My dream for next Thanksgiving is that everyone can enjoy such latitude.

 

imgres1. High Kicks and Show Tunes. The Macy’s Day Parade plays on the television while I put the turkey in the oven. I stop basting to watch Broadway snippets by Tony Danza (really?), Idina Menzel, and the Rockettes kick line. Love those silver shoes.

images2. Grandmother’s Dishes. My housemate and I have a cupboard full of china and silver that none of our siblings wanted. Our Thanksgiving table sparkles with crystal candlesticks, flower embellished china, and curlicued silver. We use the Greek motif set for dessert.

IMG_10843. Mix and Match. Hosting Boys in the Band style all-male events is passé. Three gay men join us for dinner, along with a pair of female friends and a few straight guys. What none of us share are blood relations – everyone at our Thanksgiving feast is a transplant from somewhere else.

images-14. Let Them Eat Cake. The ethos of the skinny gay guy is kaput. We are as thin and fat, grey and gravity worn as everybody else. Seven pies and a gigantic red velvet cake spread across our Thanksgiving dessert buffet. We indulge in every one of them.

imgres5. Antiquated Homoeroticism. On Friday I take in Foxcatcher. Channing Tatum’s lumbering, inarticulate jock reminds me of guys I admired and feared in high school. Steve Carell’s creepy John DuPont makes me squirm; I recall inhabiting skin that provides no comfort. The erotic dissonance of their wrestling relationship is palpable, but dated as Mark Ruffalo’s aviator glasses.

images6. Yoga Sculpt. Saturday morning I take my usual yoga sculpt class. I lay my mat before the front mirror, wear only skimpy compression shorts, pump the heaviest hand weights, and drench my towel in sweat. The thirty young Lululemon women arrayed behind me are accustomed to my deep squats in their midst.

images7. Sing Along Time. Saturday afternoon, two friends and I invade the balcony of an old vaudeville theater for the Mary Poppins Sing-Along; the only grownups without a toddler in tow. Then again, no one is really at grownup on a jolly holiday with Mary. I tear when the family runs off to fly kites while Julie Andrews rises to the clouds.


imgres-18. Liberal Guilt Trip
. On Saturday night my housemate and I attend Eve Ensler’s new play, O.P.C., at the A.R.T. Less a play than a polemic; it suffers from too many judgments against a world of too much trash. When the lights come up we shake our heads among the middle-aged couples who wonder what we did to deserve such a scold. Eve needs to learn that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

images9. Gym with Guys. Sunday afternoon is Gold’s Gym time – stretching and a triceps workout followed by twenty minutes of cardio. Unlike yoga women who exercise toward the back of the studio, gym boys strut and pose in front of their mirrors. I run my paces on the treadmill with the best view of the free-weight floor and enjoy their grunts and presses as much as they do.

images-110. NFL Time. I wind up my weekend like most Americans – watching football with buds: Patriots versus Green Bay. True, we have hors d’oeuvres rather than chips, wine as well as beer, and spend as much time analyzing physiques as play action. But when the Pats go down 26-21, we’re just as despondent as any fans.

 

With so many gay sensibilities infiltrating our society, I can foresee a time when so-called ‘gay sensibilities’ will disappear. Being who we are without wearing a gay label is not a loss I fear; it’s a dream I embrace.

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Past Peak

vitruvian_man-001Fall foliage peaks around these parts in October, when hillsides display New England’s calendar splendor; giant arcs of brilliant red and orange leaves holding firm to their branches. But I prefer November’s starker beauty, when more leaves lie underfoot than hang overhead. The stragglers still clinging to their life-source are too few, too fragile, too sallow to conceal the dark trunks and branches silhouetted against the slanting sun. They remind me of myself: past prime and, by most economic measures, practically past purpose. Yet, in their diminished form and number, these leaves reflect autumn’s weak light with greater dazzle. They are also all that stand between us and full-on winter.

IMG_1051I am not old; it will be years before I’m the gaunt silhouette of a winter human. I’m middle-aged; a term that our youth-obsessed culture only applies when our middle years have, in fact, already passed.

Just as global warming pushes peak foliage deeper into autumn, so too our longer life spans change our perceptions of age and time. I grew up in the era when we distrusted anyone over the age of thirty; everything worthwhile belonged to the young. A recent survey reports that we don’t achieve optimal happiness until the age of 33. But the reality of aging is more complex than a single year can connote. The Atlantic Monthly reveals the magic of the U-Curve, while Britain’s Daily Mail contends that happiness dips in our thirties and forties, only to tick up from age 50 and peak at age 85!

I’ve never laughed as long or hard as I did during my teens and twenties, but I prefer the more balanced happiness – call it contentment – that arrived in my forties and fifties. Most of my friends are in their sixties; soon, I’ll join their ranks.

We still talk about bigIMG_1057 issues: the state of our economy, the direction of our nation, the health of our planet. But our personal health demands more discussion, dissection and diagnosis than before. Traditional career satisfactions are behind us; we’ve either retired or moved into holding patterns pending Social Security. We speak in the past tense more than in the future one. A decade ago, we juggled careers and children and aging parents. Now, our parents are deceased; our children are grown; our grandchildren have yet to arrive. As those immediate demands diminished, then evaporated, life became more leisurely, open-ended and satisfying.

It’s been almost a year since I left paid-work. My son was the first person to label me retired, but I’ve come to embrace the word. Freed from pursing a paycheck, I’ve published a book, become a yoga teacher, taken up massage, joined a gym and tutored immigrants. I have the time to visit any friend who lands in the hospital, but I can relax into a novel whenever the urge strikes me.

I’m not as actively engaged in the world as when I battled downtown traffic every day and lent my hand to designing hospitals. Six hours of sleep was the norm then. These days, I always get seven or eight, sometimes 10.

IMG_1058I am like that November leaf[, depleted of the chlorophyll that once made it verdant, but full of carotene, the less robust but more stable pigment in yellow leaves. My contributions, like the faded leaf, are subtler than during the mid-summer of my life, but they are more gentle and personal, too. A golden leaf dangles from its withered stem. The sun shines upon it, and I feel splendid in its fleeting light.

________

This essay was originally published in WBUR Cognoscenti titled ‘A Starker Beauty: Embracing the Autumn of One’s Life’, on November 29, 2014.

 

 

 

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Giving Thanks for the Unexpected

haiti-001Of the many, many things I have to be thankful for today, Dieunison stands out as the most unexpected blessing in my life. When he adopted me in 2010 I could not have realized how much he would personify everything fantastic and tragic about Haiti. He became the narrative thread of my Haitian adventure described in Architecture by Moonlight and its most popular character. He’s captivated readers of Boston Globe Magazine and was the featured essay this month on Medium. Today he and his brother Dieurie are heads taller than when I first met them, live in a secure house, have regular meals and education (thank you, Lex and Renee Edme and everyone at Mission of Hope). They may be awkward 13 and 14 teenagers still grappling with third and fourth grade, but their opportunities have never been brighter.

Fortunately, none of these ‘improvements’ have altered Dieunison’s fundamental character – he is still a mischievous cut-up and natural heart breaker. He charms and confounds everyone who crosses his path. Dieunison recently captivated Sean Collins, a Mission of Hope volunteer, with a studious side I have never seen yet always knew existed within his clever spirit. Using yet another derivative spelling of this chameleon’s name, Sean writes in his blog:

141010 Dieunison on Library FloorSome of the kids have definitely been a big inspiration too.  With the class of younger kids most of them just want to play math games and take pictures.  But one kid in particular is too fascinated by the world around him to be caught up in that sort of mindless entertainment.  Dionson (pronounced Jenson) is a 13 year old boy whose bright mind and thirst for knowledge has truly amazed me.  All class he sits and reads the French Wikipedia pages.  He’s on a new topic every day and never stops asking questions.  Together we’ve explored sounds, light, the stars, the planets, force, and a few other aspects of the natural world.  After the second day of class he begged me to let him keep the laptop out a little longer.  I of course said yes and he went with me to the room where I charge the laptops.  A few minutes later one of his friends appeared and asked if he could use a laptop.  I told him he could only use one if he used it to read.  He agreed to my terms and booted up his own machine.  After about 30 minutes I had a group of 5 all laying on the carpet eagerly exploring Wikipedia.  Dionson is a brilliant young mind and I hope the other kids continue to follow in his footsteps.

I never take for granted the many gifts in my life. But Dieunison infiltrated my soul so unexpectedly he is a unique gift. I have promised him and his brother Dieurie that when they graduate high school, I will bring them to visit the United States. That is years away, but I can already envision what joyful chaos he will create at our Thanksgiving feast.

DSCN2136Dieunison and his brother Dieurie

 

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NewTV: Three Lessons Learned

haiti-001Last week I had my first TV studio experience. BJ Krintzman, Newton lawyer, mega-blonde and overall fabulous person, interviewed me on her long running cable television show, “That’s the Law”. I was hard pressed to figure what Architecture by Moonlight had to do with the law, but BJ made a clever connection, which led us into a fascinating discussion of Haiti. BJ made some other fresh observations: describing the book as “A Year in Provence meets Three Cups of Tea.” Watch the interview here.

Three things I learned from my adventure in television:

IMG_00491. Studios are wicked cold. I was glad I wore a sweater.

2. You can’t see a thing beyond the bright lights, except these flashing time signs that pop up with ten minute, five minutes, one minute left that burn into your brain and make you want to talk faster.

3. When you see hosts and guests chatting during the credits, we’re not actually saying anything. BJ just told me to fake blather.

IMG_0058Thanks to BJ and her great crew for interviewing me. I am all ready for John Stewart. Why hasn’t he called yet?

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Clinical Test Reject

vitruvian_man-001Over the past year, I’ve offered myself up as guinea pig to a variety of clinical tests. I have a keen interest in neuroscience in general and Alzheimer’s disease in particular, so most of my inquiries have been brain-related. I have taken the online tests at mindcrowd.org, joined the Brain Health Registry, and evaluated my authentic happiness.   I spent two mornings at the Brandeis Memory and Cognition and Research Lab punching keys to record my facility at replicating lists of words and numbers with speed or accuracy – sometimes both. I scored as a satisfactory human being, except when it came to pattern manipulation. Then my spatial skills rocked me off the chart; a guy who’s been an architect for over thirty years is graphically dexterous. Each of these endeavors were considered baseline activities, helping research groups develop databases of normal functioning from which they can investigate the cool stuff: abnormalities.

images-6My primary source for finding clinical trials is Alzheimer’s Association Trialmatch. I get a list of potential trials every few months and am on a first name basis with Katie, who follows my process of query and rejection as study after study determines me an unfit candidate.

My first rejection was a VA study of physical fitness and cognitive brain function. Who better, I wondered, than an exercise maniac whose brain runs on overdrive? However, I was disqualified in the phone interview round for being color-blind. People say there are actual numbers in those damnable computer circles with red and green dots. I swear they are all the same color.

images-4Then I was rejected from Prospective Evaluation of the Sensitivity and Specificity of Cognitive Tasks for Diagnosis of the Cerebellar Cognitive and Affective Disorder at MGH for being left-handed. That felt like medieval prejudice.

Last month I got excited about Neuroimaging Study of Exercise and Memory Function because it included a regular exercise regimen. But they wanted couch potatoes, so my daily routine tossed me out of contention.

I chose not to pursue a study that required taking injections of an experimental drug. It seemed unwise for a person predisposed to avoiding drugs to start ingesting a substance burdened by a list of potential side effects that spilled onto a second page.

images-2But then I found the egg study: The Effect of Daily Consumption of Eggs on Cognitive Function in the Elderly. I could eat two eggs a day (or four ounces of egg substitute if I wound up in the control group) for six months in the name of science. I filled out the application, passed my phone interview, and headed off to the Jean Mayer USDA Human Nutrition Research Center on Aging at Tufts University for my intake interview.

I didn’t understand any of the science in the abstract, but the study logistics were plausible. There was an initial on-site interview and test, then a follow-up clinical exam to verify suitability. During the study I would visit the center every month to get eggs, and have a series of tests performed when the study commenced, and again after three and six months.

images-3The Tufts Nutrition Center is in a tower designed by my former firm, SBRA, during that period when we really didn’t like cities. The 1970’s concrete behemoth has an insignificant entrance and casts deep shadows over Washington and Stuart Streets near Chinatown. I remembered models and plans from the office, so anticipated the bright, airy three-story atrium that defines the upper floors. But anyone else would be confounded by the difference between the mean-spirited lobby and the sunny clinical areas.

I filled out paperwork, got shuttled from nurse to nurse, and eventually met Elizabeth Johnson, who took me into a small room off the atrium and administered a macular pigment density study. Turns out Elizabeth is the principal investigator, and took time to explain the study’s objectives to me.

Carotenoids are plant pigment found in yellow/orange fruits and vegetables. The more carotenoids we consume, the more we have in our bodies. But these plant pigments also contribute to other aspects of our health, and may contribute to increased cognition. Lutein, a carotenoid common to green leafy vegetables as well as egg yolk, is of particular interest. According to Dr. Johnson, it’s difficult to design a study that can directly measure neural lutein levels and the relationship with cognition.

images-5Fortunately, brain lutein levels are positively correlated to lutein levels in our retina, and we can do simple, quick, non-invasive tests to determine our lutein levels in the retina.

In broad terms, the study plans to measure baseline lutein status and cognition for two subject groups. One group will eat more eggs, whose yolks are high in lutein, while the control group will eat similar amounts of egg whites only. After six months, if the hypothesis proves true, cognition will improve among egg eaters relative to egg white eaters. Improved cognition implies decreased propensity for Alzheimer’s. The scientific path is not always a straight line between two points. In this case measuring lutein levels is a round about way of exploring whether there is a neurological benefit of eating eggs. Never mind that cholesterol business.

imgres-1Dr. Johnson adjusts instrument controls while I stare through a lens in a small box at a fuzzy, blue dot that comes into ever-sharper focus. It’s much like any ophthalmologist’s exam. She tells me the good news – my macular pigment (lutein in the macular area of the retina) is 0.7 on a scale from 0 to 1.0, very high for a person my age. (I have reached that stage in life where every commentary on my physical being is qualified by an age reference.) Unfortunately, Dr. Johnson explains, the bad news is that my eyes are too good to be part of the study. They are looking for people over age 50 in the 0.3 range. “We simply can’t expect to find any measureable change in your lutein levels when starting from such a high baseline.”

My guinea pig cravings have been thwarted once again; first, too much exercise, then color-blindness, left-handedness, and now high lutein levels. I’ll keep looking for a study that wants me. After all, I’m only getting older and eventually my body will deteriorate to a level suitable for research.

_________

Special thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Johnson, who reviewed and edited my science or this article.

 

 

 

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Boston Globe Magazine – Raising Roofs to Sweeping Dirt

haiti-001Architecture by Moonlight has officially launched! Many thanks to Susanne Althoff, Francis Storrs, Hans Schulz, and the Boston Globe Magazine for publishing an excerpt; New England Mobile Book Fair, Book Ends, Harvard Bookstore, and Calamus for hosting readings, Joe McDonough at MIT Alumni Association and BJ Krintzmen at NewTV for their interviews, Felicia Gordon for publishing essays on Medium, and my wonderful friend Globiana for hosting my launch party. There is more to come – find it at www.paulefallon.com.

MAG1116_Haiti95798782The Globe Magazine excerpt features my first trip to Haiti after the earthquake, when my son Andy and I build temporary shelters. I end my readings with a passage from my last trip about the women who sweep dirt. They help me understand that although we embark on foreign travel in search of the exotic, what ultimately imprints is our commonality.

This morning I realized my bond to those who sweep dirt is even closer than I thought. I received this email from my daughter, a Peace Corps volunteer in Cambodia.

imagesKeep spreading knowledge about how most people in the world live. Maybe your book will help open up some eyes. I sweep my yard every morning, and every morning I think about you and the Haitian women sweeping their yards. Small world, lots of dirt.

 

 

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The Virtues of Being Colorblind

vitruvian_man-001Long before the word ‘colorblind’ became a saccharine euphemism for ‘not racist’, it described a person’s inability to see certain colors because the cones in their retinas do not register the complete spectrum of wavelengths entering the eye. It’s a genetic condition that affects up to 5% of all men, but few women. There are several varieties of colorblindness with technical names like protanamoly and deuteranamoly, but most people refer to the three most prevalent types as red/green, green/brown, and blue/purple: the predominant color confusion inferior cones induce.

imgresColorblindness is determined by a simple visual test. A single digit, composed of multiple dots of the same color, floats in a field of differently colored dots. Or so I’m told. I’ve never seen a red ‘3’ or green ‘6” or blue ‘7’ pop out when I study that dizzy array. I think the test folks are pulling my leg; they just chuckle and tell me I’m colorblind, and I’ve got it bad.

“What color is this?” “What color is that?” As soon as people learn I’m colorblind they point to their blouse or a painted wall. If I misname the color, they laugh. If I guess correctly, they doubt my veracity. Colorblindness does not turn the world black and white; it simply renders it in a more limited palette. It cowers in the murky blends of the color spectrum; it thrives in texture and shadow. I can match eight shiny crayons in a Crayola pack with their conventional names, but I cannot articulate the yarns of an autumn sweater.

imagesThere is a semantic element to colorblindness – if I see green and call it green, then its green, at least to me. But when so many other people call the same object red, I must shrug and yield to the majority. Science reveals that colorblind people see a less vibrant world. Anecdotal evidence supports that finding. Often, when I point out a color I like, my companion will recoil, “Its so garish.”

imgres-1My favorite painter is Mark Rothko, whose saturated colors soothe me while Seurat’s pointillism leaves me cold. I love artificial brilliance: carpets in Chinese restaurants, maraschino cherries, The Lego Movie. All those bright yellow heads! No one is colorblind to yellow. We all see the sun with equal radiance.

As a fledging architect, colorblindness was my burden. I passed color theory by actually reading the theory, since I could not trust my eye to discern desired relationships. When a senior partner at my first job demonstrated how he wanted me to render a drawing, I was too insecure to admit that, to my eyes, his subtle earth tones looked like mud. Instead of paying attention to his line weight and hand technique, I resorted to color-by-number. I scribbled down the Prismacolor designation of each pencil he used. No way could I differentiate Burnt Umber from Terra Cotta by looking at the lead.

Over time, as my confidence grew, I developed a distinctive rendering style: all grey tones. I divulged my condition to clients, and got exempted from those pesky discussions of interior finish selection. I could focus on form.

I got used to the inevitable questions when someone discovered my so-called disability. Colorblindness is a conversation starter; people find satisfaction in being more color literate than me. As disabilities go, colorblindness is minor, yet it’s important for each of us to embrace our shortcomings; so integral to our humanity.

FULL_AppleBowlJust last week, when the grocery checkout mentioned the colors of the apples I bought, I told her that, being colorblind, they all looked the same to me. This triggered the usual exchange. Until she said, “Maybe the world is brighter for you in other ways, just not through color.” As transactional conversations go, it was stellar.

I used to consider colorblindness a deficiency. Then I realized it was just a different way of being. Now I see its advantages. It’s a unique perspective I can share with others, one that can lead to a deeper connection. Maybe the politically correct use of the term ‘colorblind’ is not so remote from its genetic origin after all.

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Medium is the New Message – Culture Club is the New Party

usa-001If 140 characters stymie your expression, time to move past Twitter and explore Medium. Medium.com is a longer form collection of essays, rants, humor, and quality writing, started by Twitter co-founders Evan Williams and Biz Stone in 2012 with an eye toward sharing more substantive ideas.

 

Medium is comprised of hundreds of collection’s, each curated by an editor. Some collections have only a few dozen readers and explore specific topics, like Urban Planning, Yoga, or Detroit. Others have hundreds of readers and focus on general interest topics such as travel or politics. The largest collections, with thousands of readers, include essays that span genres and explore the essence of contemporary life. Over the past year I’ve posted over fifty essays to Medium, in a variety of collections. But when I have something really worthwhile, I always start with my preferred curator, Felicia M. Gordon.

02-elle-01-feb-fashion-worbook-parallel-thinking-stripes-0113-xln-mdnHarlem’s 21st century renaissance is encapsulated in this singular talented woman. Felicia is trained in drawing, painting, and photography, and I can attest to her exquisite editing skills. She formed the Sugar Hill Culture Club in 2006 to develop collaborative art projects that reflect a refined, urban ethos. She has been profiled in Elle and New York Times Style Magazine. Felicia’s recent book, Where’s Wendell? is a hand bound photographic journey with avant-garde fashion designer Wendell Headley. I am looking forward to the copy I ordered as a Christmas present to myself.

 

Felicia’s Culture Club collection on Medium proclaims to “get in the cracks and crevices of race, class, culture, and identity. It’s a party. Come as you are.” That slightly irreverent description is spot on. Culture Club is ripe with provocative ideas and excellent writing that is both fresh and relevant.

 finalbook2Over the next few months, Culture Club will feature excerpts from Architecture by Moonlight. True to her discerning taste, Felicia selected only half of what I offered – the best stories and observations of my time in Haiti will be published on Culture Club. Enjoy The Same Moon and Adopted by an Orphan now, and look for others in the weeks ahead.

But don’t log on to Culture Club just to read me. Read the dozens of other thoughtful writers Felicia supports. You will always find something to nourish your mind and your soul.

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Ocean View Restaurant

vitruvian_man-001ocean view signSometimes it’s important to take the long view on the good things in life.

 

 

romanceMy wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our honeymoon because it was so romantic.

 

 

dancingMy wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our tenth wedding anniversary because we liked to dance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

imgresMy wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary because it had a heart healthy menu.

 

 

 

early bird specialMy wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our fortieth anniversary because it offered an early bird special.

 

wheelchair

 

 

My wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our fiftieth anniversary because it was wheelchair accessible.

 

 

romance

 

My wife and I went to the Ocean View Restaurant on our sixtieth wedding anniversary because we’d never been there before.

 

 

Thanks to Garrison Keillor who featured this story on A Prairie Home Companion.

 

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Brooklyn Street Struts into Wayland

vitruvian_man-001The Boston area has an eclectic collection of small theaters where energetic troupes produce shows on vintage stages. Jamaica Plain’s Footlight Club, Riverside Theater Works in Hyde Park, and Arlington Friends of the Drama are but a few of the venues where emerging talent and seasoned hoofers offer engaging theater at a fraction of the price downtown shows command. On Halloween night I ventured beyond Route 128 to see the Vokes Players Production of Avenue Q. The few extra miles along Route 20 were worth the effort.

imgresBeatrice Herford was an Anglican minister’s daughter turned vaudeville comedic monologist and dowager wife of the well-to-do Wayland gentleman, Sidney Hayward. In 1904 she built a theater to entertain her friends, complete with balcony, side boxes, and a carved proscenium. By the 1930’s the 90 seat Vokes Theater, named after an English comedienne Mrs. Hayward admired, was wilting. Beatrice ceded it to a local group who, with occasional interruptions, has performed there ever since. They’ve made improvements, like adding heat and restrooms and a back stage, but the place retains the Depression era gumption of Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney ‘putting on a show’.

imagesThe lobby of the Vokes Theater’s wood frame Victorian structure has that distinct scent I associate with Cape Cod spring – a bit musty yet ripe with promise. Our third row center seats were perfect – in the double height space with the graceful balcony arcing behind, the whimsical boxes on the sides, and the fanciful proscenium filling our full width of vision.

images-1I never saw Avenue Q on Broadway (Tony Award for Best Musical, 2003) where it played in the 800-seat John Golden Theater. Boston Lyric Stage’s excellent 2012 production adapted the show’s scale to its smaller space, but turns out that, just like toddlers like to watch their Sesame Street up close to the tube, Avenue Q improves with proximity. What the Vokes production lacks in the Lyric’s polish, it makes up for in intimacy. From twenty feet away, the actors and puppets portrayed the alternating humor and pathos that is the core of Avenue Q with both levity and conviction.

The cast is uniformly good; three are worth special mention. Nick LaPete as Nicky and Trekkie Monster is outstanding; his facial expressions and vocal tricks match his puppets with uncanny precision. If Gary Coleman could sing half as well as Lovely Hoffman, who cross-dresses to plaimgres-1y the former child star, he might not have been so broke when he died. Christine Verzosa, as the Japanese social worker Christmas Eve, has impeccable timing. Her lisping, ‘evelyone a little bit lascist’ brought down the house.

 

When Beatrice Herford died in 1952, the Vokes Players hung an oil portrait of a stately dame with a giant boa at the end of the theater’s main corridor. She looks like Ethel Barrymore channeling Brenda Braxton in Smokey Joe’s Cafe. Which pretty much sums up my initial impression of the Vokes Players. Avenue Q seems an appropriately quirky play for this delightful little theater, and it’s easy to see how this winter’s Harvey could be a great fit as well. Harder to imagine how they will tackle their spring production, the Palm Springs faimgres-2mily squabbles of Other Desert Cities, beneath the putty garlands above the proscenium that Beatrice reportedly gilded herself. I may just have to motor out west again to find out if the Vokes Players can bring the desert to Wayland as effectively as they bring Brooklyn.

Avenue Q plays at the Vokes Theater through November 15, 2014.

 

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