In the train, on the way up I'd been reading Barbara Wiesberg's biography of the Fox sisters -- the (in)famous 19th century mediums. And it mentioned that Maggie, who is my favorite of the Fox sisters because she MARRIED FREAKING ELISHA KENT KANE lived for several years at 35 East 19th street in a house owned by Horace Greely. Now, how cool is that? So I pulled out the ole' GPS and found that I was only a few blocks away, so I was walking and adjusting my camera strap which was at some harmonic length that caused it to swing like some great fierce bell every time I took a step when someone says "HEY! AREN'T YOU KYLE CASSIDY THE PHOTOGRAPHER?!" -- which is always a great thing to hear*
And of course I was, so I got to meet Margaret who was headed back to her office to do Important Things in the publishing empire.
Kane, the famous arctic explorer, was horrified by spiritualism and made Maggie promise that she would never do it again and then promptly died, leaving her destitute. (For those of you who don't know, Maggie and her two sisters claimed to be able to receive messages from the dead that would manifest in knocking sounds. A bunch of Harvard professors who examined them claimed that the sisters were able to make unusually loud popping noises by cracking their toes but this debunking didn't stop their international celebrity and they packed houses with lonely widows and grieving parents every night.) Horace Greely who, inexplicably, believed in her powers to speak with the dead took her in and put her up.
I had a powerful desire to stand on her front step. I found the house. I stood on the stoop. I tried to picture her walking out the door, looking left, walking right, carrying a package or an umbrella -- tried to think of how tall she might be, what she might have been talking about when she stood right there. Someone else lives there now, in the house. I wonder if Maggie's knocking on the walls.
You can't stand on a strangers stairs imagining dead magicians all day, so I met up with my friend Bernard from the New York Times (he's the one who took this awesome icon photo of me looking like some Hep Cat from the Future), we went to a noodle house called ... dang ... um ... Revolution or something like that. I had crispy fried tofu, which was very good.
There he plied me with sake and I came home. trillian_stars was at rehearsal, one of the last dress-rehearsals before the opening and they let me walk around the theater and take pictures. So I can tell you that it looks like this:
and it's going to be awesome. And there's a "meet the cast" party after the opening on Friday and you should be there for it. And you can meet silveringred, and indigo spice if you show up. We'll have them on display like trophy bass.
And Trillian has a super cool audition on Monday.
g'night folks! Be awesome tomorrow.
* My favorite "Hey! Aren't you Kyle Cassidy?" story was about a year ago, I was on a redeye from ... California to Philadelphia and the plane was freaking EMPTY, there were like eleven people on it, so I was stretched out across three seats reading a novel and thinking I was having a Grand Old Time when the flight attendant stops by and says "Would you like some wine from first class?" and i'm like "hella yeah!" and about 20 minutes later she says "Would you like a hot cookie? I'll make you one" and i'm like "OH YEAH!" and this goes on for like six hours until I'm bloated like a stuffed turkey and potted like a plant and as I'm staggering from the plane in the type of slow witted joy that heretofore was reserved for people like Paris Hilton and Donald Trump, I wave to the flight attendant and say "Th-(hic!)-anks! (burp!)" and she says: "Bye now! And by the way, I love Roswell!"
So, whomever you are, anonymous flight attendant -- thanks!