Allow me to begin by saying that I really look nothing like John Lennon.
That's right. I can plainly say that any resemblance I have to that icon of rock 'n' roll is negligible at best. But, I suppose, a slight appearance is better than none to most.
Early after arriving in NYC in the 80's, my newly arrived college friend, Faustus, had found a second-hand clothing shop near the apartment where we were staying in Washington Heights selling clothing by the bag. He & I had literally stuffed a couple of bags each with all sorts of odd clothing. We were very pleased with the bargain. The only trouble with these clothes was that most of them were from the 1970's.
Now, keep in mind, most of my life has been in the body of a typical slacker -- rather height/weight proportionate -- a bit husky, if you will. Only during a few points in life -- as during most of my time in NYC -- was I noticeably skinny. I'd even -- during my 1990's period of only affording a sandwich a week -- found myself weighing in the neighborhood of 135 pounds. That's amazing for me. From when I was about 5' 8" to 5' 10" tall, weighing about 180 pounds most of the time, to go down to 150 pounds, was really cool. But to go down to about 135 just astounded me.
But the 1980's was a fantastic time. Although I was only making a measly $6.50 per hour at the job I'd finally got at Star Magic, I'd always found myself with money in my pocket. I could easily pay the bills, eat in restaurants every night, go to movies three or four times a week, drink heavily every night & still have money for street musicians. Now, this was living.
I've, previously, mentioned one of my look-alike experiences at the wondrous Downtown Beirut -- the dive bar on the Lower East Side where I'd spent entirely too many of my evening -- & late night -- hours. Every night I would be told that I looked like some famous person. More often than not, I was told of my looking like some unnamed musician. Presenting myself in my skinny form, tight pants, long hair, beard & round-rimmed glasses, it was rare -- but frequently enough -- that I would be compared in looks to the aforementioned icon, John Lennon.
John had been murdered only a few, short years before my arrival in NYC, & I think we were all still mourning his death. I should think any skinny, bearded & round-rimmed glasses wearing white guy would have brought back memories of pictures of John.
By this time, Faustus & I were sharing an apartment on the border of Astoria & Long Island City, Queens, & both he & I were working at the uptown Star Magic -- he was full-time there, while I was still splitting my hours between that location & the Broadway shop in the Village. On the days I worked at the uptown shop, I'd normally get off of the RR train from Queens at the 59th Street station that I could walk through Central Park to W 72nd Street, walk past the famed Dakota apartment building where John & Yoko had lived since 1973. But, after late 1985, the western portion of Central Park at 72nd Street had been redesigned as a memorial to John called Strawberry Fields, & I -- the vague John look-alike -- passed through here frequently on my way to work.
Each time I'd walk through Strawberry Fields, I would find numerous people idly passing through or sitting on the benches, naturally, thinking of John. I can't tell you how entertaining it was to me to hear the gasps & see the people pointing at me on my way through. I'd kept expecting to read stories of "The ghost of John Lennon haunting Strawberry Fields" in the New York Post!
While I'd never found any such story, there was one night I was heading to a bar near Star Magic North, as it was referred to by my co-workers (simply to differentiate between the San Francisco shop -- SM West -- & the Broadway shop -- SM East) for some after-work gathering when, passing The Dakota, I'd experienced the most entertaining event of my entire NYC life. As I was approaching the gated courtyard entrance, a limo had pulled up from Central Park West & stopped in front of the gates.
This was by no means a strange event. Many of the residents of The Dakota were celebrities & got in or out of limos in front of the building. But this night -- the second I found myself next to this particular limo -- who steps out of the back & looks up at me in confusion? None other than Yoko Ono. Naturally, after her initial surprise, she'd realized that she was not looking at her dead husband, but some random white boy walking down the street.
Yoko & I exchanged bemused grins, & each of us, continued on our ways.
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