I spend the week after Shaw opens teaching a residency at one of my favorite elementary schools in Baltimore County and scouring the internet for reviews. I also have a third interview at Everyman Theatre for the position of Education Director, which goes well. I’m really beginning to warm to the job’s possibilities, and am excited by the way my proposals for expanding the position are received. Only two considerations give me pause: how will my residency schools and the Maryland State Arts Council react to my leaving them, and will the New York Times review change my life when it comes out?

As for the former, I haven’t received many residency requests for the 2010-2011 school year. I assume it to be the fault of the economy and look favorably at Everyman again. Just in case, I send an e-mail to my regular schools to see if any are interested in having me return. I expect nothing. But the response is overwhelming: thirteen schools request residencies. I usually only do five per year. So if Everyman doesn’t offer me the job, I still have enough work.

Now to wait for the Shaw reviews. The first comes from Theatremania and is an intelligently written rave. Clearly, the author is familiar enough with Shaw’s work to spot the parallels. If the Times writes anything close to this, I’ll be gold; but Theatremania is just an internet site and has little pull beyond the theater community itself. The second review is positive, but not glowing. Again, from an internet site, so it’s “nice,” but ultimately meaningless. Where’s the Times???

Suddenly, the reviews turn sour. A tiny internet site enjoys the actors but calls the script’s second act lackluster. It’s the first pan the script has ever received in three separate productions, but I’m not hurt. The review has no byline and the site is obscure. I get the sense that whoever the author is, he or she has chosen to write scathing things in an effort to drum up traffic to their site. But then it gets worse: Backstage, the prominent business rag for theater insiders, loves the script in one sentence, but hates the production in four paragraphs.

Again, I’m not hurt, because I am superlatively proud of the production, and no one’s opinion is going to change my own. But it is the only print review so far; and if the Times agrees with Backstage, it will spell trouble for any future career prospects I still harbor. Giving up playwriting for the Everyman job looks more inviting with every passing moment.

Being nothing but brutally honest about myself, I post the pans on Facebook along with the raves. Immediately, I get a message from Doug DeVita at Abingdon to call him at home. Doug worries that I’m upset, but I assure him I’m not. He tells me that he has heard through confidential sources that the Times loved us. I ask when the review is to be published, but Doug doesn’t know. Every new show on Broadway will be opening over the next two weeks. They take priority and, as a result, the review may never come out at all. So we wait. It still has not come out by the weekend.

I don’t go to New York that weekend because I have a reading at the Amnesty International Human Rights Arts Festival. The script, Absolute Amy, is not one of my favorites. It’s a political debate that at times gets too earnest. But I’m pleased with Catherine Aselford’s direction and grateful for the opportunity to hear the script, which plays better than I expected. Rebecca Herron is brilliant in a role I wrote specifically for her, and steals the show. Only nine people are in the audience, and that’s fine by me. One of the audience members is a Teaching Artist from a class I taught last summer. She is kind and I am glad to see a friend in the house, but I wish her first exposure to my work was a different play. I grab a bite with Becky Herron afterwards and have a blast.

I check online for Mickey McGuire’s stage manager reports about Shaw. They are mostly good: sold-out houses, much laughter. Keith Carradine apparently comes to a show. But one performance needs to be canceled because of a water main break on 36th Street. Unfortunately, this is the performance at which a commercial producer is due to attend and she cannot reschedule.

The final week of Engaging Shaw begins much like the previous one, with no review from the Times. We do, however, get two more internet reviews. One is a rave. The other praises everything but one actor, which I find tremendously unfair and thoroughly untrue. We begin to despair. Jackob (the director) and I begin to suggest that Abingdon extend the run, since the show is selling out every performance. But Kim insists that the company is merely an incubator, not a producer, and therefore never extends a run or moves a production. So Jackob and I try a different tack, to maintain our relationship both with the theater and with each other: we promote the possibility of a reading of another play of mine, Young Turg. But Abingdon expresses little or no interest in this idea. And worse, Jackob has been promoting the script without having read it. When he finally does, it’s not to his liking. We give up on Young Turg. Our hope lies in continuing the production of Shaw, which mean the Times review; but after a week and a half without publishing it, that hope has dwindled to nothing.

Naturally, just as we give up on it, it arrives: an unqualified rave, the like of which I never expected. And the effect is immediate: the last remaining seats sell within a few hours, strangers send me congratulations and fan mail through Facebook and AOL, and theaters that had rejected the script multiple times over the past decade request to read it again. When performances resume, Mickey’s reports reflect a surge in audience response. Apparently, once the Times tells New Yorkers the show is funny, they officially have permission to laugh.

Back at home, I’m getting over fifty e-mails a day, mostly from friends and fans, but a few small theaters and publishers make outright offers, and a couple of significant ones request the script. I’m overwhelmed. Betsy needs to remind me to breathe, and I develop a painful habit of unconsciously clenching my jaw, which I can’t shake. Unaware of what my best course of action is, I contact Jim Flynn, the agent to whom Warren introduced me on opening night. We have a great chat and Jim agrees to represent the script. I ask about the possibility of getting a commercial agent in to see the show and move it. He declares it to be remote. Since we only have four more shows, there isn’t time to interest anyone. Since the house is tiny and completely sold, there isn’t a seat we can give to anyone even if they were interested. Despite selling out all but one performance, despite a great review in the Times, the production will close on Sunday. Jim’s strategy is to approach the major regional theaters, which are about to complete picking their next season. We will particularly attend to those theaters where I have worked or possess a personal connection.

Then the phone rings. It’s Everyman Theatre, about which I’ve not given a thought in three days. They offer me the job. From the start they told me that working for them would mean the end of my playwriting career. That wasn’t an unwelcome prospect at the time. But I feel that my luck has changed so much over the past half week that I can’t walk away now. I turn the job down.

I head up to New York with Betsy and the boys for the final weekend. They’ve not seen this production, but they have seen the play before in all of its previous incarnations. They explore the city, while I sit in the lobby for the Saturday matinee. I have a couple of friends in the audience: Anne, a wonderfully creative woman I’ve known since elementary school, and Liz, perhaps my favorite person from the Long Wharf days and the model for a character in The Matchmaker’s Guide To Controlling The Elements. The actors are disappointed by how quiet the house is, but I suspect they’ve become spoiled since the Times review. Despite the silence, the show is well-received. In the lobby with me is a Shaw scholar, whose name I didn’t catch, but we have a warm conversation afterwards about the play and Fabian strategies for manipulating the media. While speaking to my friends, I notice Dr. Cornel West in the lobby. He wants to buy tickets for the evening show, but there are none to be had. The Shaw scholar and I follow him down to 36th Street so I can offer him my ticket for the Sunday matinee. Unfortunately, he can’t make Sunday. But he shakes my hand, thanks me, and tells me to keep fighting.

Meeting up again with my family, we have dinner at Lucille’s on 42nd Street. My younger son is a huge blues fan, and I had hoped there’d be a band playing. He’s disappointed to learn that the music doesn’t start until late. After dinner, we walk up 7th Avenue to see American Idiot, which we’re attending as a bribe for my kids in exchange for seeing Shaw. Before we turn west onto 44th Street, we notice ahead of us a car with some smoke coming out of it, surrounded by fire engines and police. “Typical New York,” we think.

American Idiot is a lot of fun, but has no depth or dramatic payoff. I love the music–particularly one of the new songs, Favorite Son–and the energy and choreography are inspiring, but I don’t care for the characters, one of whom never ventures from a couch. The boys love it and immediately repair to one of the gift shops on the way out. But as we head to the lobby, there are police everywhere, announcing that the theater, indeed all of Times Square, is closed. We later learn that the car fire we saw before the show was actually the attempted terrorist bombing. The police force us out to 8th Avenue, and I insist upon swinging by Abingdon to catch the final scene of Shaw from the lobby.

I stay for less than a minute, leaving quickly once a guaranteed laugh produces not a chuckle. It’s the worst house of the entire run, openly hostile, according to the actors. I’m worried now about the final performance on Sunday because I want my family to see the show at its best.

Sunday arrives and we have a nice breakfast at the Stage Door Deli. We attend mass at the most pathetic Catholic church I’ve ever seen. It offers only one mass on a Sunday, with no altar servers or music, and twelve parishioners in attendance. Betsy and the boys grab lunch, while I rush over to the theater to greet the members of the Bernard Shaw Society, who are bringing a group of about twenty-five people. Doug Laurie, the treasurer, hands me a copy of their journal, The Independent Shavian, in which Engaging Shaw is discussed. I sit beside John Koontz, the secretary, who has become an avid supporter of my work, even traveling down to Washington to see Irish Authors Held Hostage and Jack The Ticket Ripper at the 2009 CapFringe Festival.

My family arrives and the actors give their best performance to date. Huge laughs, much applause. Jackob is there, with gifts for everyone. There are many hugs and tears as we say goodbye, as well as a fair amount of frustration that the show wasn’t extended by Abingdon or moved by producers.

In the weeks that follow, only two of the theaters that my agent approached request to read the script. And not a single theater from the Baltimore/DC area responds. The e-mails from well-wishers, small theater companies, and even the agent evaporate. For all of the excitement of the past month, nothing has changed. Although actors and directors can find work simply because people like them, for a playwright, no matter how pleasant and easy-going you make yourself, it always comes down to two things: a good script and the whimsy of producers. I can only control the former.

I accept ten of the thirteen teaching jobs for next year, giving me no time to write anything new, then take out the garbage.

MONDAY
I’m home for only a day, before heading back to New York. There’s a huge list of things I need to do before my younger son’s confirmation on Saturday. My wife has been working furiously while I’ve been having heaps of fun in the city, so I need to make up some ground. I spend the morning hauling ten bags of mulch out to the garden and replacing two boards of our deck, staining included, when I get a call from Kim Sharp of Abingdon, whom I’d just left yesterday. He tells me that a critic has requested a clean copy of the updated script right away. He doesn’t need to tell me what that means. I know: the New York Times is coming to see the show. I don’t have a clean copy of the script. I need to type it. So, with many apologies, I again leave poor Betsy to prepare for Saturday’s massive party alone, while I tend to theater business.

TUESDAY
I take Amtrak up to New York for a special benefit performance of the play. Although I’d only left the city Sunday, it feels different. I can’t tell if it’s because the romance of the experience is abating or if my thoughts are back home, worrying about the confirmation. Either way, I’m tired. I spend the afternoon watching the Yankees in a pub on 8th Avenue, before walking to the theater.

The audience consists of Abingdon’s donors and board members, each of whom paid one hundred and fifty dollars to see the show and afterwards have dinner with the cast. Artistic Director Jan Buttram introduces me to everyone, like I’m the reason they’re there, which is a very odd feeling for me. I prefer to blend into the woodwork, so no one feels obligated to be nice. I’m immediately put in mind of the first scene of my play, wherein Shaw is meant to charm a potential donor.

I’m pleased to see the actors bringing fresh energy to the show. The audience laughs hard throughout the first scene, including at Webb’s opening speech which is dense and academic. But around scene two, silence descends. Warm smiles turn into disinterested staring. They perk up at the end of the scene, but collapse into silence again until the sex discussion at the end of Act One. I hadn’t noticed the actors doing anything different. The direction is still solid. Is it the script? All are complimentary during the intermission, but I’m worried. Act Two is perfect, with huge laughs; so I keep my concerns private.

The dinner is designed so that every donor has someone from the creative team at their table. I’m seated at the center table between two gorgeous actresses who are affiliated with Abingdon, but not in my show. One is in her twenties, the other in her seventies. I’ve heard the young woman’s name before, but we can’t discover a mutual acquaintance. The other member of our table is a donor being groomed for board membership. The two actresses and I are meant to be the “star power” that convinces him to maintain his relationship with the theater. The head of the Abingdon board was supposed to be at our table too, but had to cancel because he’s a C.P.A. and it’s two days before tax deadline.

The actors and Jackob, the director, work the room, going from table to table introducing themselves and making sure everyone has a good time. I marvel at Jackob’s ability to charm. I attempt something similar, but wind up telling the same story over and over again, boring myself and everyone within earshot. Back at my table, there’s no one around me whose voice is familiar. It’s a loud restaurant, and I am having a great deal of trouble hearing what anyone says. All I can make out is the rhythm of the speech patterns. The two actresses speak quickly, almost conspiratorially, with much laughter and agreement. Warren, the actor playing Shaw, visits our table, and speaks slowly, with authority and significant pauses which command everyone’s attention.

As the donors leave, Jackob and the cast coalesce around the table of Victoria, who plays Beatrice; and then, for me, the fun begins. Marc, who plays Webb, has been urging the people at his table to move the show to a commercial house for a million dollars. No offers are made. The waiters blink the lights to kick us out, so we stagger across the street for a drink. Jan tells me that she wouldn’t mind working with me again. Claire, who plays Charlotte, is “merry,” as she calls it, shouting hilarious, wacky, and belligerent non sequiturs at everyone. I’m still unable to understand much of what is said, but Claire tells me quite seriously that she’d prefer I was more outspoken and direct. I respond in my usual formal and emotionally distant way, perhaps with an attempt and wit. Jan pays for the round, and I walk with Mickey, the stage manager, to Port Authority before heading off to my hotel around 1:30.

WEDNESDAY
I am horribly depressed after a conversation with Betsy, who is offended by something I wrote. I feel I have done something wrong without meaning to do so. I am apologetic and explanatory, but the guilt at having upset her ruins the morning. The city goes from being the greatest place in the firmament, to being the most heartless and lonely. I head down to Horace Greeley Square Park, buy the Times, and read it cover to cover. This is the day I had originally planned to attend the Yankees game, but the cheapest available seats go for three hundred dollars, so I opt for another pub. The Yankees lose, echoing my mood.

There is a talkback with me and the rest of the cast after the show tonight. No friends are in attendance. The audience consists almost entirely of a group sale to the Rotary Club, who are fairly conservative and not at all intellectual. Just the perfect audience for a play about polysyllabic socialists. The show is godawful, completely lacking in energy. All of the problems I saw the previous evening are magnified tenfold. A quarter of the house stays for the talkback.

I love talkbacks, feeling comfortable and in my element. I get a number of laughs from saying the typical idiotic things I’m prone to mutter. The volunteer usher hopes that the cast will be kept intact when (not if) the production moves to a commercial house. Afterwards, I voice my concerns about the show to Jackob. I can’t put my finger on what is wrong, but something isn’t working.

I hop on Amtrak at ten p.m., headed to Baltimore. I arrive home after two.

THURSDAY
I awake at seven, bleary and catatonic. I have a job interview in Baltimore to be the Education Director of Everyman Theatre. It’s between me and one other person, now. I arrive half an hour late and unshaven. It’s the kind of job I’ve coveted for many years, and I paint many compelling pictures of how I see their department expanding.

But there are drawbacks. Though the money they’re offering is about twice what I currently make, the job requires four times the work. Betsy would need to take over my child-chauffering duties, which she found almost impossible last week. Naturally, I’d need to give up all of my freelance teaching and professional development work. Plus, I would need to give up playwriting entirely. There wouldn’t be time for me to write anything new, and they wouldn’t let me travel to rehearse anything old.

This is less of a deal-breaker than many people might think. I’ve been frustrated for many years now about both the quality of my recent work and the nature of the theater business. When I completed the first draft of Engaging Shaw ten years ago, I told myself I’d quit if the show never made it into New York. Now that it is in New York, does this mean that I’m required to continue this dreadfully unfulfilling path in perpetuity? My sons are nearing college age. Maybe, for my kids, I can take a hiatus for eight years, like I did when they were born. Would I have the energy to resurrect my playwriting career at the age of 53? Would I want to?

Though everyone at Abingdon indicates that they’d like to work with me again (a sentiment I return), I’m hemorrhaging money with all of the travel. Plus, I don’t think I have a script of Shaw’s quality which would fit their tiny space. I gave them Young Turg and Irish Authors Held Hostage but so far they’ve responded to neither.

If a commercial producer steps forward to move Shaw within the next few days, or if Everyman doesn’t offer me the job, then the decision is made for me. But it is more likely that I am the one who will need to start examining the course of my future.

In the evening, an e-mail from Jackob tells me that eight critics, including the Times, are watching tonight’s show. I’m not nervous, since it’s out of my hands and I know we’ve put together something that–when it works–works beautifully. Mickey’s stage manager report tells us the audience was full and very responsive.

FRIDAY
Betsy and I scramble to cook and clean for the arrival of thirty family members from four different states in anticipation of James’ confirmation. My wife is a wonderfully efficient planner, and has turned me into a reasonable facsimile of one when I feel like it. We rearrange furniture to make room for the rented tables and chairs. My job is to do grocery and airport runs. As I drive to BWI to pick up my sister, her daughter, and my cousin, I hear a news report about the murder of Brian Betts, who was the Arts Integration Coordinator at my older son’s middle school two years ago. He was one of the most dynamic and dedicated administrators I’ve ever met. He was the reason we chose that school, and he was instrumental in getting Evan into the percussion section of the band. It is a tremendous loss for middle school students in DC.

Compartmentalizing my shock and sorrow, I return home with family in tow and have a great deal of fun playing pool in the new basement with the boys and my brother-in-law. My cousin gives me a DVD of her documentary about skid row artists in L.A., which I’ve been dying to see. Before bed, I check online for Mickey’s stage manager report. For the first time, we had empty seats. He says it was quiet and that we “lost” the audience during Act Two, scene one. All bad signs. Because this is the day I’d arranged for a commercial producer to attend. There are no phone calls or offers made. I think of Shaw’s line in the play: “Like Ibsen, I will put my plays into print and trouble the theater no further with them.”

SATURDAY
The confirmation. My Dad and his wife arrive at the house early. I haven’t seen them in two years, and my father has indicated that this will be his last trip east. James had his braces removed a few days ago and looks like a million dollars. During the ceremony, my father-in-law falls ill, nearly passing out. He refuses to go to the hospital, hoping it will pass. It doesn’t, but he gets no worse, which I suppose is a plus.

The party after the ceremony seems to go well. It’s loud; but I know everyone’s voice, so I can hear them. I float from group to group, assisting with drinks, cooking, and cleaning up. The bar and basement are a huge hit. My Dad infuriates everyone by insisting we play pool by the official tournament rules that his buddies use in California. I remind him that we’re only playing friendly games, but he is adamant. The food came out very well, but we made too much. There are no seats for Betsy and me among the main group, so we sit in the foyer and share a lovely private moment. Unfortunately, the private moment turns out to be seen by the public, and we are teased by all.

Because of her father’s illness, Betsy has decided not to come with me to the press opening of Engaging Shaw. I understand. Mickey’s report again indicates a few empty seats and a quiet house.

SUNDAY
Opening Night. I have an early breakfast in Maryland with the extended Morogiello family, after which my Dad puts his credit card on the table and leaves without signing the bill or retrieving the card. Betsy will sign for it and mail the card to him later. I drive my sister and her daughter back to the airport, and my cousin and I head up to New York. My cousin, Judy, has been particularly worried about jet lag, so I provide her with a pillow if she wishes to sleep during the drive. Instead, we spend the entire drive talking and reminiscing.

We reach the city by three, staying at the Hotel Wellington just south of Carnegie Hall. I furiously write notes to the cast, thanking and congratulating them. At four, I meet Judy in the lobby. She insists upon springing for a cab. At the theater, my friend JoAnn arrives with a large contingent of Stony Brook friends, some of whom I’ve not seen in a quarter century. I return Betsy’s ticket to the box office to be resold, but Jan decides to use it and I’m happy to sit beside her the whole night.

It turns out that not a single member of the press will be at Press Night. They all came last Thursday. Apparently, the press finds Press Night too manufactured, since we’ve packed the audience with friends. They prefer to go to a late preview–which we also manufacture by packing the audience with friends. Essentially, it means that the critics saw the show before Jackob could give the actors the final notes I passed along to him on Wednesday. And it’s a shame, because the cast gives the best performance I’ve seen. Everything is working and the cast is fresh and energized. Beatrice even gets a laugh when she crosses to Webb during the splinter sequence! At the intermission, a stranger thanks me for writing the play. I try to give a witty response, but it comes off callous and glib. I vow to be earnest for the rest of the evening.

Afterwards, I shake the hand of just about the entire audience. I head to the post-show reception with Judy and a friend of hers who lives in New York. For some reason, despite the volume, I am blessed with the ability to hear everyone for this one night. It’s one of those parties where you talk to everyone, yet you talk to no one. No sooner do I start a conversation with one person, than someone takes my arm and my attention elsewhere. Warren has become this quasi-mystical creature to me, as if he knows everyone I’ve ever known, lived the career I’ve always wanted, and now plans to open the portal that has blocked my career for the past twenty years or so. Halfway through the party, he takes me aside and introduces me to Jim Flynn, an agent I’d been pursuing for about seventeen years. I make him laugh once or twice, but he does not proffer his services. I spend a lot of time talking to Piper, the Development Associate, who also has a hearing problem.

When the party breaks up I realize I’ve not eaten anything, so I head to a deli across from the hotel. Looking back on the evening, my only regret is that Betsy wasn’t able to share it with me. Too jazzed to sleep, I strike up a conversation with two women from Holland, who are stuck in New York because of the volcano. They are soon replaced by a couple from Dayton, who talk baseball. The reviews will start coming out in the morning. But I don’t care what they say. They can neither give me more than I received this evening, nor take away a smidgen of the joy that will carry me home. Like the character of Charlotte, I got what I wanted the minute I surrendered.

EASTER SUNDAY
I train into the city from my in-laws’ house in Cortlandt Manor, smiling at the suggestion of my mother-in-law that the upcoming production of Engaging Shaw was simply an excuse to avoid mass. I’ve not ridden on Metro-North in about ten years, and immediately I begin to think of the many times I’d traveled the route before, with Betsy, with Danny Vermont, or on the way to college. There are new luxury condos and townhomes along the way; and I think of how the poor owners are paying–in different senses of the word–for both the river view and the proximity to the railroad.

I arrive at the theater, very excited to see the final run-through and scene work before tech week. It’s my first opportunity to see what they’ve been working on, and my last opportunity to suggest any changes. Everyone seems happy to see me. Later, I’m told that some of the actors were intimidated by my presence; though I can’t understand why, because I’ve done nothing but gush about them and the entire experience from beginning to end. Marc Geller, who is playing Sidney Webb, warns us that he’s had a revelation about his character and wants to try something different today. His new take on the character is brilliant, as is the entire run-through. Claire Warden, playing Charlotte, is an absolute revelation: funny, strong, vulnerable, and able to hold her own against Warren Kelley, who delivers an intense and hilarious Shaw. I’m head-over-heels in love with her performance and tell her so. I’m honored that my play will be Claire’s New York debut, because she’ll be running that town in a year or so. My only note is to Warren, instructing him to keep all of his bandages on as he plows through Act Two, scene two.

Speaking with director Jackob Hofmann after the rehearsal, I’m a little embarassed because I’m so pleased with what everyone is doing, that all I can do is gush again. Everyone feels they need to return the compliments, which makes me want to run away. Before I go, Kim Sharp, the associate artistic director, gives me some suggestions for script changes, with which I agree. On the train back to Peekskill, I have a fun text exchange with my younger son about the Yankees/Red Sox game.

MONDAY
Betsy and the boys are heading back to Maryland, while I squat at the home of an old college friend in Astoria until Friday. I train into the city again, only this time I’m dragging an eighty pound suitcase behind. Frustrated that I’d be away from the gym for eight days while in New York, I packed the suitcase with dumbbells; but as I struggle to carry it up and down subway steps, avoiding tourists, it is clear that the genuine dumbbell is not the item within the suitcase, but rather the sweaty, grunting idiot who drags it.

The actors have a day off as the tech crew overtake the theater to focus the lights and write the cues. The set is gorgeous, particularly a huge reproduction of the Fabian Society’s emblem, the wolf in sheep’s clothing, which was painted by Jackob’s husband Hugh. Mickey McGuire, the stage manager, is great to work with. He’s wonderfully professional and keeps everyone in the loop. While they are managing the lights and music, I sit down to revise the script the way Kim suggested. Everything goes so smoothly, that we finish four hours early. I ask if I can leave the giant suitcase in the theater, while I explore the city until my college friend gets home from work. Jackob suggests I go to MoMA for the naked people exhibit. Though there are few things I like better than art and the nudity of people other than myself, I haven’t the courage to attend.

So, instead, I grab a couple slices of pizza, and drag a half ton of clothing and exercise equipment to Queens. Arriving at my friend Mike’s place two hours early, I drag the suitcase, like some herculean hobo, to a pizza place down the street, where I have another slice of pizza. Finally Mike arrives and we have a wonderful time catching up, and are pleased to discover we are in the same camp politically. He is in the process of planting blueberries, raspberries, and clover in his front yard, and having beehives installed on his roof. I’m fascinated, but can’t help asking how his neighbors feel about it. For dinner, he suggests pizza and I do not refuse–but I eat no more of it for the rest of the week.

TUESDAY
Tech with actors and a run-through. Much of the show is little more than, “Lights up. Lights down.” So we are running the show from the start of rehearsal. Victoria (Jamee) Vance, who plays Beatrice, has come alive during this rehearsal after a conversation with Jackob. All four actors are working as a unit. I voice only one concern when a light cue doesn’t match the script. I mention to Jackob that it’s an important one for me, because I have never seen it the way I wrote it in the previous productions. Just this once, I’d like to see it my way. Jackob justifies the theatricality to the performer, has a small conversation with Mickey and the lighting designer, and the cue is rewritten to reflect the script. It works and is kept.

After a break, we tackle Act Two scene two, the letter-writing scene. “Finally!” Mickey exclaims, “I’ve been waiting for this day since the first rehearsal.” It’s a whirlwind of lights, music, words, and set changing. Jackob’s staging, along with the lights and Larry Spivack’s music, keep the scene constantly in motion. Jackob has solved the problem of that scene, and I cannot restrain my smiles. Again, we break early because everything looks tight and Jackob is worried about Claire’s health. She has had a cold for nearly two weeks.

I head back to Astoria after grabbing a drink with Jackob. Turns out Mike doesn’t have the YES Network, so I head off to an Irish sports bar to watch Yankees/Red Sox. It is perhaps the toughest bar I’ve ever entered, and I don’t think I’ve heard the F-bomb dropped so frequently since I did Glengarry Glen Ross in Amish country (Yes, I really did). Everyone there is a Mets fan, so I need to cheer surreptitiously to avoid fisticuffs. The bartender is drinking along with the patrons, and by the eighth inning I am his best friend and he’s offering me beers on the house.

WEDNESDAY
Warren compliments my outfit, which I consider high praise, since he is always impeccably dressed, wearing a tie. He also likes the way I lounge across the chairs, declaring it sexy. I don’t think the word sexy has ever been associated with my name, unless there was a giant “IS NOT” between them. Warren then pays me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received by asking why I’m not playing Shaw. Again, I am staggered by how pleasant and talented everyone is, particularly in light of every previous production of this play. Ordinarily, I wait for the disaster to occur, or to create one by worrying unnecessarily about what happens next; but this time I’ve decided–for once–to enjoy the moment. Dress rehearsal goes very smoothly and we break early.

I spend the evening with Mike and another college friend named JoAnn. We head to a sushi bar on 3rd Avenue and 27th Street, then sit on a park bench and talk until ten. JoAnn is a wonderful promoter of my work professionally, and I relish her sarcasm personally. The conversation is jovial and never lags.

THURSDAY
Invited dress. We run Act Two, scene two, a couple of times in the afternoon. I have dinner with Meg, an actress and scholar, who teaches at Brooklyn College. She is perhaps the most brilliant woman I know, aside from my wife, and I love talking theater with her because she not only knows the practice of it, but the history as well. She shows up at the restaurant with a carry-on bag, filled with research material for her doctoral dissertation.

As we walk toward the theater, Meg refuses to let me carry her bag. This frustrates me, because my manners are from a bygone era and I know I’d be in trouble with my wife if I didn’t at least offer. But it’s a beautiful evening and the sun is setting as we walk toward Times Square. I recognize Henry Winkler heading toward us, and we nod to each other. Meg and I head west to Ninth Avenue to avoid the tourists, still talking energetically about theater and Billy Joel. No one is on 36th Street as we turn onto it. Then, directly in front of us, a man steps out of a building with a bicycle. I recognize him as David Byrne, and he shyly turns away, riding past us.

The glance of David Byrne affects me like one of Stephen Dedalus’ epiphanies. I see myself from an outside vantage point: walking through New York on a golden evening, talking theater with a beautiful, intelligent woman, on the way to see a play of mine off-Broadway. It is a perfect moment. From a life I’ve dreamed of having since I was a kid. I get goose bumps and start babbling like a teenager about how amazing everything is. Meg laughs.

There are about thirty people at the dress rehearsal. The cast, again, is fantastic. There is lots of laughter, applause, and shaking of my hand by strangers. People exit the theater, tweeting their friends. Meg and I repair to a bar in Queens midway between her place and Mike’s. I am gratified by her response. She speaks about the way she would have directed certain scenes, delves for information about the future of Shaw and Charlotte’s relationship, and ends with stories about her personal past wherein she behaved or did not behave like Charlotte. We close the bar, and I stagger back to Mike’s around 1:30.

FRIDAY
First preview. I leave Mike’s place for a hotel in Manhattan, believing correctly that it will be a late night. My metrocard is bent and unusable, I break a wheel of my suitcase, and the stupid thing still weighs eighty pounds.

When I check in with the theater, I learn that the show is sold out. Obviously, the tweets from last night were positive, and had an effect. I am unbelievably nervous, almost nauseated. The audience, however, is very responsive, laughing in all the right places. But what is strange to me: they start cheering and booing the intellectual points each character makes as if it is a sporting event. When Charlotte proposes to Shaw, a woman in the audience loudly gasps. I’ve never seen reactions like this to a play. Clearly they are positive, but they are unexpected.

Seated behind me in the audience is a friend from my high school drama club, whom I’ve not seen since graduation–back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. It’s great to see him again, and to meet his wife. I sit beside a very good teacher friend from Maryland, and after the show the two of us duck into an Irish pub called The Playwright to talk shop until the wee hours. Around one, we walk through Times Square, which illuminates us like 1940’s atomic test observers in the New Mexico desert. She catches a cab to her friend’s place. It is another perfect evening.

SATURDAY
I skip the matinee of Engaging Shaw to see Christopher Walken in A Behanding In Spokane with a couple of actress friends from the DC area. The play is good, but not brilliant. It has a substantial structural flaw, which is easy to forgive; but the dialogue given to the African American character puts me instantly in mind of Hollywood Shuffle. It’s embarassing and a big mistake on McDonagh’s part. Walken, however, is riveting–but I can’t explain why. Everything he does is so strangely wrong: shambling around the stage aimlessly as he speaks, delivering almost every line directly to the audience. I don’t know how he gets away with it. And yet, he is compelling, and saves the show. The understudy filled in for Sam Rockwell, so I don’t know whether or not his performance would have improved the script for me.

After the show, I abandon my friends and zip down to Abingdon to meet some of my wife’s family just as Engaging Shaw gets out. It was another sold out house, which is virtually unheard of. No one sells out the second preview–the matinee! Despite the full house, I’m told the audience was very quiet, except for a cell phone that went off and a woman who insisted upon talking back to the actors. My wife’s cousins have only nice things to say, however, and insist upon taking a picture with me in front of the poster, to prove to my father-in-law that they were there.

I have trouble reconnecting with my friends–though I do spot Tony Shalhoub coming out of Lend Me A Tenor–so I have dinner with the cast. They tell me that the evening show is sold out as well. I will need to give up my seat to a paying customer. But four seats are empty as the show starts, and the house manager seats me in one of them. Unfortunately, the four empty seats belong to a college friend of mine, who later provides an e-mail account of his failed efforts to attend. I hope he is able to make it another night.

The evening performance feels off somehow. Warren is misplacing his props and changing blocking. Claire is stepping on laughs by coming in too early. And the audience isn’t so much laughing, as smiling warmly. The energy is low and I start to get depressed. I mention my concerns to Jackob during intermission, and he sits in for act two, which goes much better.

After the show, Warren introduces me to Peter Bennett, the director of the original Broadway production of Crimes Of The Heart. I’d met him before at SUNY Albany in 1988, but he doesn’t remember. We have many friends and colleagues in common, however, whose names we drop; and he pays me the compliment of being glad to “finally” meet me after hearing about me for so many years. I’m grateful, since I never believe anyone thinks of me unless they’re sticking pins in my effigy.

Some of us head to a bar next door, where we enjoy a horror movie trailer on Jackob’s iPhone, in which one of our table mates has a role. We cheer every time her face appears on the screen.

Though there was much to enjoy, this particular day feels awkward and dull to me. As I walk back to the hotel, I am overwhelmed with boredom and paranoia, and I’m ready to head home.

SUNDAY
I arise at seven, having not slept a wink and with an aching back. I grab a Diet Coke, wander the streets a bit, and drag my suitcase to Penn Station, bearing a small grievance against the cavalier gratitude of youth. On the train, Jackob texts that we had our fourth full house in a row for the matinee, and that the laughs were huge. He declares that there’s a buzz throughout midtown and it’s all about Shaw. I smile, believing it to be hyperbole. But I smile pretty smugly nonetheless.

Although we always credited the other, Danny and I rarely wrote sketches together. We would bring in separate material and tweak it together. I’m quite certain I wrote all three of these scenes. In looking them over, I was surprised to discover that I was writing literate and cerebral material even in my early twenties. I was also aghast at how overbearing I must have been, writing material that gave Danny very little to say or do.

1) Job Interview

2) Funerals R Us

3) The Reader’s Digest Version of Every Play Tom Stoppard Ever Wrote

The quality of the video is awful, but–despite the obvious influence of Monty Python–some of the material still makes me smile.

Anyway, without the monumental self-indulgence that is Facebook, I needed to find other avenues of vanity-wallowing, and hit paydirt.   I came across a review of the Stonewall’s Bust reading mounted by J.T. Burian Theatricals at the Kennedy Center Page to Stage Festival over Labor Day.  Here is the link.  I didn’t know DC Theatre Reviews covered Page to Stage.  Anyway, they were very kind and I’m grateful they attended.

Irish Authors Held Hostage
The Bodega at The Trading Post

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 25 @ 11 p.m.
Sunday, July 26 @ 2:15 p.m.

They say: “It’s back! The war on terror takes a hilarious turn as Irish authors from the ages are kidnapped by terrorists of every stripe. Expect no victims in this wicked romp that lampoons beloved writers and hated terrorists, or vice versa.”

Hilary’s take: Perhaps—given this show’s 2003 premiere at the Washington Theater Festival and its 2006 stint at the Warehouse Second Stage—it wouldn’t be fair to the newer, unvetted Fringe acts to hail J.T. Burian Theatricals’ IAHH as the most brilliant (in the ‘cross the pond exclamatory sense) production of 2009’s fest. But in an era held hostage by relics of Dubya’s terror-mongering, “fair” is so last century. Besides, Oscar Wilde (John Morogiello) had me at “I don’t care what you do to me so long as it’s BEAUUUUTIFUL!”

Playwright/actor Morogiello is a comic genius and IAHH the product of his literary sensibilities (okay, nerdiness) and disgusting talent. In less than 90 minutes, Morogiello crystallizes nine of Ireland’s most famous scribblers in caricatures based on astute textual interpretation. Ridiculous though Samuel Beckett or Frank McCourt (both skewered to perfection by Terence Aselford) may be onstage, Morogiello’s subjects are only as absurd as their scripture allows. I really wouldn’t put it past McCourt, author of interminably depressing memoir Angela’s Ashes, to get into a pissing contest with a Somali pirate over whose tortured childhood was indeed more torturous. Sorry Frank, but I think subsisting off half-eaten sandwiches left by documentary film crews beats gobbling garbage and sipping cabbage tea.

Don’t know diddly about James Joyce or Brendan Behan? Unfamiliarity with pub scrawlers is not a huge problem; in the best program I’ve ever read, J. Thaddeus Burian provides a brief, Swiftian rundown of the play’s authors for “the less intelligent members of our audience.” Such patrons may also find enjoyable “International Terrorism: The Game!” located just after the educational bits in the pamphlet. (Hint: The answer is “Power.”)

Sure, the hostage sketch done nine times over may sound like a bore, but Morogiello mixes it up with sub-plots and a recurring tormentor (played gamely by Terence Heffernan). Ninety minutes came and went, and only then did I realize I could hear the music from The Apothecary downstairs in the sweltering Bodega. Nothing else I’ve sampled at Fringe can touch IAHH’s the trifecta of lacerating wit, flawless delivery, and superb performances from the entire cast (Morogiello’s recurring Yeats was a highlight, as was Lori Boyd’s turn as Lady Gregory). You haven’t Fringed until you’ve seen Wilde clutch his chest at the sight of a “dark, rugged” jihadist bent over in prayer.

See it if: You have $15 and you’d love to know what really kept everyone waiting for Godot.

Skip it if: Belly laughing makes you nauseous.

Irish Authors Held Hostage
July 11, 2009 by Steven McKnight

Steven rates it: Five stars! A must-see!

In Irish Authors Held Hostage, Irish writers from throughout history have been kidnapped by terrorists and the outcome is invariably bad for the terrorists but great for the audiences viewing this clever work of inspired silliness.

Irish Authors Held Hostage involves eleven variations on the idea of terrorists taking authors hostage. The terrorist get more than they bargained for from authors who are capable of their own intellectual sympathizing and terrorizing. Author/cast member John Morogiello created an ideal work for a Fringe festival given its absurd premise, the twisted cerebral basis of much of the humor, and the quick-cutting comedic pacing.

An exemplary skit involves Oscar Wilde and Arab terrorists. After initially refusing to sit and be bound in an ugly chair, Wilde (Morogiello in a laughable wig) finally states “I don’t care what you do to me as long as it’s beautiful.” Wilde later is intrigued by a terrorist’s description of a post-martyrdom kiss from the Prophet and comfort from 72 virgins and flirts with him, creating confusion over the man’s sexual identity.

Irish Authors Held Hostage was last seen locally in a successful run during the 2006 Capital Fringe Festival. The original ensemble cast is back (Terrence Aselford, Lori Boyd, and Terence Heffernan join Morogiello) along with one new skit. Gone is the variation involving Sean Casey and a North Korean terrorist, replaced by a hilarious new scene when Frank and Malachy McCourt play “who had the worse childhood” with a Somali pirate (whose stories usually end with a local warload using his machete).

Given the experience of the cast, it’s no surprise that the ensemble moves quickly and confidently through the variations. All of the performers are skilled, although Terrence Heffernan’s Arab terrorist Achmed is especially memorable. Director Martin Blanco helps the cast keep the energy high and the caricatures lively.

At its best the humor rises to Monty Pythonesque heights. A few of the sketches are uneven, but the one-liners come so fast and furious that the fun never lags. Morogiello puts just enough information in the skits so an understanding of Irish literature is not necessary, but come early anyway to read the program’s funny background information. An added treat both pre-show and between scenes is live Irish music from a three person ensemble led by Music Director Tina Eck.

As a note to Fringe-goers, Morogiello is also the author of another work playing at this year’s festival, the revenge-comedy Jack the Ticket Ripper presented by The Georgetown Theatre Company. Given the success of Irish Authors Held Hostage, you might want to explore more fun from the playwright’s pen.

My only complaint about the performance is the fact that the musicians get to enjoy their Guinness in plain sight of the audience. As my old elementary school teacher said, “If you don’t being enough for the whole class to share …”

Irish Authors Held Hostage
by John Morogiello
Director by Martin Blanco
Producing by J. T. Burian Theatricals
Reviewed by Steven McKnight

The other play is Jack The Ticket Ripper, a comic revenge tragedy in one act. It is hilariously sick. No official word on the cast yet, but Catherine Aselford is directing the show. It is being produced by The Georgetown Theatre Company.

Below are the dates and times. Be sure to mark your calendars!

Irish Authors Held Hostage
presented by
J.T. Burian Theatricals
 

Venue

The Bodega – at The Corner Store
1013 7th ST NW, Washington DC 20001
 

Performance Times:

Friday July 10 @ 5pm
Sunday July 12 @ 5pm
Thursday July 16 @ 7pm
Saturday July 25 @ 11pm
Sunday July 26 @ 2:15
 

Jack the Ticket Ripper
presented by
The Georgetown Theatre Company

Venue

Goethe Institut – Gallery
812 7th Street NW, Washington DC 20001
 

Performance Times:

Saturday July 11 @ 9pm
Sunday July 12 @Noon
Thursday July 16 @ 6:30pm
Saturday July 18 @ 6pm
Sunday July 19 @2:30pm