A number of years ago, when I was living with 6 people in a house we ironically dubbed “Awesomehaus” in Park Slope, one of my roommates, Ben, brought home a package of about 150 headshots of an actor named Peter Kidd. He’d found them next to a trash can on a street in the heart of Park Slope. We became fascinated with the story behind this Peter Kidd — what had happened to precipitate such an ignominious fate for this box of presumably expensive promotional materials? And why the hell did he appear to look like a completely different human being from headshot to headshot?
So, naturally, possessing a 40-foot long hallway and an unhealthy amount of free time, we decided to plaster all 150 headshots along the length of the foyer.
But it didn’t stop there. Another of my roommates, Chop, composed four different tracks to be played simultaneously about Peter Kidd, and during a party where we read “Hamlet”, we forced all of the players to stand in the darkened hallway during intermission as the soundscape blared, scaring the hell out of everyone.
Anyway, I was cleaning out my room, and I found copies of all three headshots in a box I’d forgotten about. So I played around with them, for the legend of Peter Kidd must continue.