Originally, I had planned to train up to the city and return to Maryland in the same day, but the cost is prohibitive and the timing inconvenient, so I opt for a hotel room at a dreadful place in Long Island City. I enter the room like Barton Fink.

Back in Manhattan I spy Tommy Hilfiger. I assume that there is some sort of fashion shindig nearby since the sidewalks are teeming with girls who appear to be fashioned from pipe cleaners. I later learn that the girls are here to see a Taylor Swift concert at Madison Square Garden.

I have dinner with Ava’s daughter, Raine. Ava, you may recall, is the president and only member of my west coast fan club. Raine is now in New York working as an intern and actress. We talk about the difficulty of starting out and I compliment her courage, coming directly to New York after college. When I was her age, my fear of New York drove me to New Haven, which I suppose, in retrospect, is even more frightening.

The lobby is beginning to fill as I arrive at the theater. Jackob and I shout a quick hello to the cast through the dressing room doors. There are only eight empty seats, but two of the men in the back row are nodding off before the show even begins. It will be a quiet night. The cast give a good performance, though Anne dries in a couple places. The show is greeted with smiles rather than laughter. We don’t lose anyone at intermission, but only half the crowd remains for the talkback. They are quiet, asking only two questions. But that does not stop me from blithering ceaselessly. If you put me in front of an audience, I will not be silenced without the force of armed goons. I talk for nearly twenty dull, quiet minutes, granting everyone else no more than three sentences. Thank God I’m leaving in the morning. After tonight, the critics start coming.

I grab a drink with the artistic director of Athena Theatre, a small company with roots in both New York and L.A., looking to fill their upcoming season. I pitch Stonewall’s Bust and Jack The Ticket Ripper.

THURSDAY, FRIDAY, and SATURDAY–I return to Maryland, happy to receive a couple of script requests for Beckett, a book to critique for Washington Independent Review of Books, and an offer to publish Jack The Ticket Ripper, the last of which I need to discuss with my agent. Mark’s stage manager reports indicate that the houses were either small (Thursday and the Saturday matinee) or quiet (Friday). Knowing that critics are basing their reviews upon these performances rekindles my intuitions of doom.

I am also aware of two slights which I had not expected: The New Yorker is not listing the show in its “Goings On” section, and the Times has not requested a copy of the script, which they usually do prior to a review. I assumed that the success of Engaging Shaw in New York, California, and potentially in Europe next spring would have generated at least a mention. Plus Ben Brantley had just written an article describing his love of theater about theater. Why doesn’t our show count? I am reminded of the critical silence that greeted Gianni Schicchi in Washington last year. All theater is a lesson in humility.

SUNDAY–Betsy and I leave the boys alone and drive up to New York for opening night. We are staying at the Hotel Pennsylvania and, because of this, I can’t get Pennsylvania 6-5000 out of my head. As we emerge from the Lincoln Tunnel, the sidewalks flow with costumed geeks babbling toward the Comic-con.

I scribble notes of thanks and congratulations to the cast before heading out with Betsy for a pre-show drink. We are meeting Jack DePalma, who was the chief advocate for Engaging Shaw at Old Globe before striking out on his own. As we await Jack, I notice Fred Armisen strolling up 8th Avenue. I text my sons about the sighting and they respond jadedly, “Of course you did.” Jack and Betsy hit it off well. I’m very happy she is here. I mention that Henry and I hope to develop Comedy Of Venice and Jack expresses interest in the play’s premise.

Energy is high at the theater. Jackob tells me that last night’s show was packed, with a very responsive audience. We expect the same tonight. I have a few friends present including my agent and a pair of poets from Baltimore, whose luggage we store in the dressing room. I ask Kim about critics but he is circumspect and evasive. Jan whispers that she’s having trouble getting the Times. Frustrating.

The show itself goes off without a hitch. No lines are dropped. Everyone is focused. And the laughter is prevalent. If any critics saw this performance, they saw the one we set out to present.

I am surrounded by well-wishers at the party and don’t get to speak with everyone I see. Jack is complimentary, declaring the play a workplace comedy that could be developed into a sitcom, like Slings And Arrows. He offers to read anything I care to send him. My agent is all smiles, observing that he didn’t see anywhere a critic could “nail us.” Amanda, the box office manager, keeps slipping me extra drink tickets. Kim and Betsy take pictures. Jan appears emotional as she presents the cake. Warren is gloriously loopy from a single wine spritzer and kisses all the men. Everyone is asking Jackob and me “what’s next?”

I hadn’t thought of that. The question lurks all night within the shadows of my mind, nurtured by ego and avarice. Betsy and I leave the party to get dinner at an Irish pub on 9th Avenue.

MONDAY–Jackob calls as Betsy and I are having breakfast. The first review is out, from Theatermania, and it’s a rave. With the Times not in the picture yet, Theatermania is perhaps the highest profile review we will receive this week. Jackob calls twice more during the drive home to read more positive press. My imagination turns to the question of last night: “What’s next?” I feel the contentment from last year’s success of Engaging Shaw transform into ambition for greater successes now. Greed stirs and I create a silent litany of long-dormant, professional desires–the “I want” list.

Back home, I google the title and discover two negative reviews Jackob had withheld from me. In both, the script is blamed for the production’s failure. Rather than cooling the “I want,” these pans make the feeling burn hotter, fueling it with petulant hubris. Delving deeper into the search results, I come across a review from a site I don’t recognize. Upon clicking the link, I see that it is not a review at all but a blog entry. An audience member is writing about the show. And what she writes stirs me deeply.

She dissects the play, quoting from it, applying it to her own life, and advocating for it with the struggling artist’s desperate fervor against the silence of an empty hall. “Nobody reads this,” she concludes, “but if they did, I’d tell them to see this show.”

My wants dissolve. I don’t care anymore about the Times ignoring me or the sanction of lesser critics. All that matters is having touched this one person so profoundly. If I am to continue in this career, my focus needs to shift from “What more can I get?” to “What more can I give?”

I’m guessing the answer is probably, “Not much.” But until now, I’d never felt the responsibility to try.

David, the sound designer, has been recording the scene change vignettes using the talents of Nancy Opel, currently appearing in Memphis on Broadway, Abingdon artistic director Jan Buttram and an actor we liked from the auditions but couldn’t use named John Biles. Kim is concerned about how properly to credit these actors since the program has already gone to print. I suggest we put their names on the mock theater posters that will decorate the set. Jackob asks me to record the remaining voices, the three requiring accents, when I return to New York for tech week.

MONDAY–The lights and set are being loaded as I enter the theater. The designers have a long day and evening ahead of them so they pay me little heed. They are kind enough to store my suitcase in the dressing room while I grab lunch. David has scheduled me to record the remaining vignettes at 6:30 this evening, but Jackob and I hope to convince him to do it earlier. Unfortunately, David hasn’t arrived.

Jackob and I talk candidly in the dressing room about the entire process, some of which he prefaces with, “This is not to be blogged.” But nothing he says is in any way defamatory or upsetting, we’re in good shape. We both confess to being nervous. Is this play–a nervy indictment of contemporary dramaturgy and office politics–an adequate follow-up to Engaging Shaw? With Shaw, an audience knew where it stood: safely within the confines of romantic comedy and Shavian structure. But what genre is Blame It On Beckett? Comedy? Drama? Diatribe? Maybe it’s all three: a Diadramedy! We’ve put the best available elements together. But we won’t know what we have until an audience sees it.

The designers tell us that David isn’t expected until 5:00. He has two other shows opening this week. I grab an early dinner with Jackob and his partner Hugh. David calls Jackob to say he needs to push my recording back to 9:00 p.m. I can’t do this. I walk to the theater to tell David directly, suggesting that perhaps we could record it at the theater now or reschedule for tomorrow morning. David declares tomorrow to be impossible, but asks me, “Is John here? Tell me, do I have John tonight?” I glance furtively at the other designers before confessing to be the John in question. Pause. “Of course you are!” We grab a cab to David’s studio and record the voices.

I take the subway to Astoria, where I’m staying with an old college friend. On the train, a fifty-five year old woman in a mini skirt and large, expensive jewelry smiles at me. I smile politely back. As she leaves the train, she touches my arm and says goodbye. I have no idea what she expects from me, carrying as I am a large suitcase and a wedding ring. I accept the encounter as further evidence that I’m a magnet for loonies.

I enjoy catching up with Mike, the college friend, who arrives with an armful of my two favorite foods: Diet Coke and beer. Since last I saw him, Mike has installed beehives on his roof and is putting the resultant honey in jars. He tells me a wonderful story about an apiary war between New York’s two rival beekeeping societies. It reminds me of Bill Forsyth’s film Comfort And Joy, about the rival ice cream companies, and I start thinking of a Pythonesque sketch that could be written from it.

TUESDAY–On the way to the theater, as the R train stops at Queens Plaza, I see an E train pull up on the opposite track. Doing quick mental math I dash from one train to the other, sparing myself a walk of six blocks. I’m as proud as a toddler who just learned to put a cylinder through a round hole.

The dry tech is my first opportunity to hear the scene change vignettes. They are funny and effective, with one embarrassing exception: my attempt at a British accent barely reaches the level of Dick Van Dyke. Andrew, the set designer, shows me delightful computer images of the mock theater posters that will hang upstage. I make one small suggestion, which he readily incorporates.

The actors arrive late afternoon for the cue to cue. I give them many hugs and a few revisions. Anne suggests a further cut, upon which we compromise. Jackob is concerned about the end of each act, two crucial moments in the show. He asks the actors to run through them for my benefit. Rehearsing end of act one, Warren is made so nervous by my presence that he can’t get a single word out. During a second effort, he and Lori are wonderful. Lori is so youthfully strident I explode with laughter. She reminds me of Peter Pan exhorting the lost boys to fight Captain Hook. I am pleased by their choices and give only one note.

End of act two, however, I understand Jackob’s concern. The scene, as written, is a tough one, containing maybe five major reversals in the span of six pages. None of the reversals are overtly stated. The inferences must all be conveyed through the performers’ gestures and reactions, and some of them are not quite clear yet. I make a small revision and a suggestion to help Lori. But Anne has made a unique choice which she considers intrinsic to her character that runs the risk of transforming a dynamic moment of onstage creativity and discovery into dictation. It’s not a bad choice–it works for her character and is justified in the script–but there’s a possibility that it might take the focus and urgency off the story. Over dinner, I suggest that Jackob find a way to direct around the choice, so that Anne gets what she needs and the audience gets what they need too. That will be tomorrow’s project. Tonight we will run the show with tech.

Jan and Kim are in the house for the run-through. While the actors are getting in costume I talk shop with Jan, who is developing her own script for the next slot in Abingdon’s season. During the run I sit beside Bill, the casting director, who laughs at the scene change vignettes and the inside theater jokes. The cast bring a good deal of energy to act one. It’s the first time in twelve years that I’ve been able to sit through it without cringing. At intermission Bill remarks that the story isn’t really about life backstage, it’s about four passionate people relating to each other in a highly fraught environment. Everyone shines in act two. Big Mark made a crucial discovery about his character before dinner and we see it blossom in the first scene. Warren’s breakdown in scene two is heart-wrenching. Lori is almost never offstage and rides her character’s emotional roller coaster beautifully. And Anne, with no direction from Jackob or me, makes a small but crucial change to the focus of her final monologue which solves much of the difficulty I spotted earlier. I compliment the choice effusively and Anne confesses that she had noted my concern and made adjustments. I love working with good people. Jan gives me a strong line note, which I immediately pass along to the cast.

I drag in around midnight. Mike is still up. He tells me about a fascinating beekeeper in Hong Kong who gathers honey with no protective gear or gloves.

WEDNESDAY–The set is finished, with the posters hung and mountains of scripts from Abingdon’s own literary office stacked in the corners. I look for Stonewall’s Bust and Irish Authors Held Hostage among them, but my two plays are mere needles in this dramaturgical haystack. The props master has created an astonishingly realistic cover for The Complete Plays of Hrosvitha of Gandersheim, with a medieval drawing of faded ink and worn gilt.

Warren, after a long conversation with Jan and Kim, feels that Jim (his character) is forgiving the character of Heidi too quickly and easily in the penultimate scene. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that this is a problem. I offer to create a new line, but Warren and Jackob feel that it’s an interpretation issue. We present the new interpretation to Lori and she agrees. We rework the crucial moment in the final scene when Heidi learns that Jim is going to New York in her place, breaking down Lori’s reaction into three distinct emotions over the course of three separate words. It’s a tough job for an actor, but Lori handles it adroitly, eliciting from me a devastated sigh. At Kim’s suggestion, we switch the order of two of the scene change vignettes and rework those transitions. A run-through is planned for after dinner.

The designers, staff, Jackob, and I decide to sit in various front row “stress” seats, the places where an audience member’s feet could cause a problem for the actors, just to give them a better idea of how little space they will actually have. I love the intimacy of the theater, but it can be a distracting challenge at times. I worry that someone will kick Anne in the head when she lies down on the stage.

The run goes smoothly and Jackob’s notes are mostly positive. Big Mark expresses dissatisfaction with his performance, but I reassure him that he’s doing an excellent job. Tomorrow there will be an invited audience. Jackob gives a pep talk. He invites Kim to do the same. And then me. I’m not really a pep talk guy and I’m a dreadful impromptu speaker, but I manage to stammer out expressions of joy and gratitude to be working at this theater, and with these people again, on a script I’d abandoned as never to be produced. No one appreciates better than I the luck that led me here.

As rehearsal breaks, Kim asks Jackob and me to look deeper at the forgiveness aspect of the penultimate scene. It’s still happening too quickly. I offer to cut a particularly poignant line, one of my favorites. Kim is reluctant to suggest the cut, declaring the line to be beautifully written. I counter that it is only beautiful so far as it serves the action. As I always do, I quote my dramaturgy professor Cynthia Jenner: “Kill your babies.” The line goes.

Back in Queens, Mike tells me about a lecture from a honey sommelier who advocates artisanal, single flower honeys, like pumpkin and bamboo. He disagrees with her, preferring the complex flavors of multi-flower. I talk about beer, which is about the limit of my conversational powers.

THURSDAY–Andrew has added homely, little props to the set to make the office appear lived in: an envelope stuffed with delivery menus, packets of duck sauce in the desk drawers, boxes of scripts labeled “keeper” and “crapper” as Jim divides them in the dialogue. He even provides a small bust of Shakespeare as an ironic comment. I ask if Shakespeare could have a blindfold. Andrew laughs and provides one within five minutes.

Warren and Lori work with Jackob on the forgiveness section, instituting the new cut. The cut makes a huge difference and leads us to more. By the end we’ve cut ten lines from the scene, changing the tone significantly for the better without affecting the plot. After photo call we break for dinner to prepare for the final dress rehearsal in front of invited guests.

I meet my friend Meg at a Cajun place on restaurant row. The faux New Orleans architecture reminds her of Disney World. I’m nervous about Meg seeing the show because I wrote the role of Heidi for her. I can’t believe she has never read it or seen a reading of it over the past twelve years.

The number of guests is small–about eighteen–and the atmosphere is informal. Meg and I sit with Mike in the front row. Big Mark drops a few lines out of first-audience jitters and I spot a section in scene two that could use the knife, but overall the performance appears to be successful. Meg laughs hard at all of the obscure, academic theater jokes, which pleases me to no end. She is impressed with Warren’s performance in particular. But though she does identify with the character of Heidi, she doesn’t think the script has any life outside of a university. We repair to The Brick in Astoria and discuss the contentment that comes with job security and middle age. As we separate, Meg checks her iPhone to tell me that the Yankees lost game five to the Tigers. I’m having too much fun to be upset.

FRIDAY–Mike has early morning bee business (collecting honey) and the only way to the roof is through the closet of the room where I’m staying. Last night, I assured him that, without my hearing aid, I would sleep through it all, which proves to be true. Mike is done by the time I awake, the only evidence of his late presence being two honeybees, who crawl along the carpet beside my bed in desolate confusion.

First preview–or as Jackob says: the first paying audience–is tonight, so I have the afternoon off to relax. I head to a Times Square movie theater to catch Moneyball, perhaps the best movie for absolute baseball geeks I’ve ever seen. I construct an analogy worthy of the SAT. Moneyball is to non-baseball nerds as Blame It On Beckett is to non-theater nerds. The nerds will pick up more inside references to their specialization, but that doesn’t mean the anti-nerds won’t enjoy it too. Or so I hope.

Anxiety provokes me to silly behavior at the theater. As the audience files in, I stand beside Veronique, the ticket taker, and tell every patron that their seats are the best. My agent is in attendance, slightly worried by the cagey responses he has been receiving from Warren and me. We don’t quite know what we have here. The audience will tell us.

And they do. The packed house explodes with laughter at the first scene. Warren has them in the palm of his hand. The script adjustment to the second scene is effective, but now I’m spotting an issue in scene three which I can’t quite fathom. Big Mark has a monologue in that scene about theater and the American political divide that has never ceased to get big laughs in previous readings of the show. Tonight it is greeted by silence. Is it the script? The direction? The performance? Or is it a joke specific to Washington that doesn’t play in New York? I mention it to Jackob as a red flag.

Warren and I grab a drink at Cooper’s Tavern with our agent, who is beaming. The show is so tight, he can’t believe it is only the first preview. He teases us about frightening him with cautious emails. On the subway back, I stand in the empty car because the bench is covered with blood.

SATURDAY–I’ve been invited to this morning’s meeting of the Abingdon playwright’s group. At their request, I bring thirteen pages of something new I’m writing for Rod Brogan, who played Shaw in San Diego. I am hoping to blend into the background, at this meeting, but Kim begins it by introducing me as a special guest and asks me to talk about the rehearsal process. I blither vapidly, ending with, “You’re playwrights, you know how it is.” One by one we share our work and discuss it. They are a talented group and very respectful of each other’s work. Kim moderates wonderfully. I know my play is a verbal minefield and hope to use an actress in the room who is doing a good job with everyone else’s material. But she needs to leave before my turn and I am denied permission to play the Rod Brogan role myself. Even special guests must abide by the rules. It does not play well. Disappointing, yes, but highly instructive.

I sit behind Abingdon’s Executive Director Sam Bellinger during the matinee. He observes that the show is much funnier on stage than on the page. It’s another packed and responsive house. A few people stand at curtain call, including the woman beside Sam. She shakes my hand and compliments the play with the magic words we’ve been hoping for: “I know nothing about the theater, but I loved it.” But I’m not happy. Big Mark’s political monologue still isn’t landing. I tell Jackob I don’t want to cut it, since it’s one of my favorite moments in the show, but I will need to cut it if we can’t make it work. Jackob assures me he will talk to Big Mark between shows. If it doesn’t land tonight, it’s gone.

I have dinner at a Thai place on 9th Avenue with my college friend JoAnn, whose birthday it is, and a group including JoAnn’s sister, the sister’s co-worker, and a pair of actors who at one point were interested in producing A Thing For Redheads. JoAnn tells me about a friend of Mike’s, whose bees made red honey from maraschino cherry syrup which looked, when cut from the comb, like raw flesh. Other friends await me at the theater, including Mike and Mare, the wife of a good actor friend who is currently performing in Newsies. Mare is starting a company of her own and I gave her permission to produce the Oscar Wilde scene from Irish Authors Held Hostage at Houndstooth on 15 October.

The show is sold out. Warren flubs a number of lines, which I know is killing him. Overall, however, the performance is strong. The big breakthrough comes from Big Mark. He considerably brightens his approach to act one. The result is laughter during the political monologue and a significantly more interesting character on stage. Big Mark walks with Mike and me toward the subway. He feels better about the scene and declares the show a hit.

SUNDAY–I lunch with three very dear friends from college whom I’ve not seen since graduation in 1987. Back in the time, we hung out, studied, worked, and essentially lived with each other every day. Sharing our post-college stories we immediately fall back into the rhythm of younger days. Seeing them now, I am all the more grateful for the years we spent at Stony Brook. I confess to having used one of their names for a character in Blame It On Beckett. She and her husband are touched. We exchange high fives.

Another sell-out. I am forced to give up my seat to a paying customer. I remember from 2010 that selling out the preview weekend is uncommon. So why is everyone here? During intermission a couple shake my hand, saying that they saw Engaging Shaw last year and had to come see this one too.  Another couple tell me that they read this blog.  I cannot wrap my mind around the idea of having fans.  Either it’s laughable or it’s terrifying.

The actors give their best performance so far. Warren clearly spent some time going over his lines, which he delivers with greater clarity. Big Mark solidifies his new character choice, and Lori and Anne are delicious. Jan and Kim are all smiles as we head into the day off.

I grab a drink with Anne and marvel at the stunning success of this first weekend. We discuss strategies for extending the run or finding people to move the show, because there won’t be any tickets left for producers if the critics enjoy the show as much as the audience. Somehow, this abandoned script from twelve years ago–which was once called during a talkback after a reading “the most uncommercial play ever seen”–has been transformed into an entertaining evening for which tickets are scarce. When this happened to Engaging Shaw I felt joy and vindication. With this play, it is disbelief.

We’ve made offers to people for three of the roles, so we are only looking for one person and perhaps some back-up actors–just in case Mr. Spielberg calls one of the people already cast. Bill (the casting director), Jackob (the director), and I are essentially in agreement as the cruel process begins. We are assisted by a volunteer named Hannah, who is tremendously efficient. A number of friends audition. It is a joy to see them, but I’d much rather be sitting with them over a drink than assessing their ability to emote under pressure. Toward the end, Jan and Kim (Abingdon’s bigwigs) sit in, along with a regiment of interns. Happily, there is little discussion or horse trading in the end; everyone is on the same page. Bill makes offers to the cast we want, and, after some negotiation, that is the cast we get.

Jackob and I grab a beer at a nearby pub and talk about the cast, the script, my first week of rehearsals at Old Globe, and an upcoming performance of one of Jackob’s plays at the Samuel French Festival. I’m pleased to be working with him again and excited for his success.

Amtrak at rush hour is prohibitively expensive, so my return trip isn’t until 10:00 p.m. I spend the time at Houndstooth Pub with my friend Meg, who is about to start a full-time professorship at Brooklyn College. I fall asleep on the train, nearly missing my stop, and collapse at home around 2:30 in the morning.

MONDAY
The first rehearsal isn’t until tomorrow, but I plan to save money by riding the discount bus from Bethesda this time. One of Abingdon’s board members has very graciously offered me the use of a spare apartment in Manhattan this week, another way of saving money. All the board member asks in exchange is that I never mention him or her in this blog. (Done.)

I’m the first person in line waiting for the bus, but soon I am joined by a man carrying a rug and an accent, both of them heavy. He tells me of his conspiracy theories regarding the JFK assassination and how they are related to Obama’s inability to cross America’s corporate power brokers. As we board the bus, he asks me my profession, which leads to a monologue about favorite actors. Around exit six of the Jersey Turnpike, he shifts the topic to the ability of comedians to “get a lot of women.” He refers to Peter Sellers and Johnny Carson, and asks me if I know how many women Jerry Seinfeld gets. I admit to ignorance. He asks me what kind of plays I write, and when I say “comedies” there is but the slightest of pauses before he asks me if I get as many women as Jerry Seinfeld. Quite happily married, I confess to being the exception that proves the rule.

Throughout this one-sided exchange, the man has been sitting behind me. My head has been turned backwards for most of the ride and I leave the bus feeling queasy. Safely stowed in the apartment, I call Jackob to learn the schedule for the rest of the week. He tells me that we will be rehearsing at night. I could have taken a bus tomorrow.

I have dinner with Meg at a wine bar near the Brooklyn Academy of Music and squander the rest of the evening at a pub near Columbus Circle, watching the Yankees crush the Mariners. An eccentric woman with a Russian accent is trying to win the attention of two businessmen, who move away from her. After yelling at them she grabs my arm, saying, “Tell me something. Would you talk to me?” It’s not an invitation to conversation; it’s a survey question. I say, “Sure,” and she leaves the bar angrily, cursing the businessmen again for good measure. It has been a trying day for the accented community.

TUESDAY
I arrive at the theater about half an hour before my scheduled meeting with Jackob to say hello to the Abingdon staff. I give Kim some revised pages for distribution later at rehearsal. Jan and I share a fun colloquy outside the elevator.

I spot Jackob on 36th Street and we repair to Houndstooth for lunch. I am doing my best not to show what a nervous wreck I am. Despite how comfortable I feel with Abingdon, Jackob, and the cast, I am crawling out of my skin with anxiety over this production. When Engaging Shaw arrived in New York, it had four readings and two productions already under its belt. The play was a known quantity. But Blame It On Beckett will premiere here, and I have no idea how it will be received. The ingredients for a humiliating “sophomore slump” have been laid out neatly on the kitchen counter. It’s my job to put those ingredients away before the chef arrives.

We are joined by Mark, the stage manager, and discuss all aspects of the show before heading to a production meeting in the theater. At the production meeting, I get my first glimpse of where the designers are and am pleased. The set will look like a dreadful, old office. The costumes are appropriate. And the sound designer relishes the vignettes I’ve written to cover the scene changes. About a week ago Jackob suggested that I write short snippets of comic dialogue to mask the scene changes, rather than using music. The dialogue would be recorded as radio plays and would run the gamut from a Tony Award speech to a scholar lecturing about Beckett. Jackob’s plan is to use Abingdon board members with recognizable voices (perhaps Austin Pendleton or Tyne Daly) to perform the vignettes. Kim is on board with the idea, but does not hesitate to tell us how difficult it will be to secure celebrities for something like this.

The actors file in for the first rehearsal and pandemonium ensues. It’s like a family reunion. I know Warren (playing Jim) very well from Engaging Shaw. I know Mark Doherty (playing Mike) from the reading earlier in the year. And I know Lori both from the reading and from the benefit performance of Shaw, when we sat at the same table. The newcomer is Anne Newhall (playing Tina), who I notice feels a little overwhelmed by the familiarity on display from everyone else. Also present are Jan, Kim, a number of other staff, and a board member. After an hour or so of equity business and introductions, we read the script for the first time. I prepare for the worst.

But I have nothing to worry about. Three lines into the play we’re already laughing. I am lucky to have this cast. Warren’s take on Jim is a tour de force of wit, posturing, decayed elegance, and shockingly heartfelt emotion. He is not only the Jim I always envisioned on the page, he is better. He gives the character a competence and dignity that I had not envisioned, but can no longer do without. Lori and Mark (who I will call Big Mark, to differentiate him from the stage manager) share a wonderful chemistry. Lori proves a worthy stage adversary for Warren and I can imagine no one but Big Mark playing Mike. Anne gives the character of Tina a marvelous directness, that hides the character’s overwhelming loneliness or emotional hole.

After the applause and congratulations, the designers and staff leave us to work. Warren and Anne are smart, dedicated actors and have many insightful questions about certain moments in the script. We spend nearly half an hour discussing one page at the top of act two, which I scramble to edit to their satisfaction. Big Mark declares that particular page to be the crux of Jim’s character, which leads to a discussion about themes and repeated actions throughout the play. I’m less comfortable when the talk waxes complimentary than when we’re fixing problems. Jackob asks me to perform the scene change vignettes for everyone, and I have much too much fun doing the different voices and accents. The largest laughter comes from a vignette in which Beckett pitches his plays to a Hollywood producer in an elevator.

With rehearsal done, we repair to Houndstooth, where Warren buys a round for everyone. I talk almost exclusively to Anne, who tells wonderful stories about Circle Rep in the seventies and eighties, working with Lanford Wilson and Albert Innaurato.

WEDNESDAY
It’s a beautiful day. I choose to walk rather than take the subway. As I head down Eighth Avenue, I spy John Turturro heading toward me, talking theater with someone. As they pass, I text my sons: “Just spotted John Turturro. I thought he was a toad.” Both boys respond, “Hahaha! That’s awesome.” Continuing toward Abingdon, I discern John Turturro’s voice close behind me. They’ve turned around and are now walking in my direction. As we wait for a walk signal, I surreptitiously grab a Blame It On Beckett postcard from my briefcase. Discovering a period at the end of one of their sentences, I hand John Turturro the postcard discreetly saying, “Excuse me, I’m the author of this.” He smiles at the title of the play and exclaims, “You certainly gave it to the right person!” I thank him, declaring truthfully that I’m a huge fan, and continue on my way.

Jackob calls and asks me to meet him on the High Line to discuss revisions. I’ve never heard of the High Line, but I follow Jackob’s directions to an old, abandoned elevated train track which now serves as a park and walking trail, two stories above Tenth Avenue. This city never ceases to amaze me: what was once an eyesore requiring demolition has been transformed into a unique and beautiful public space. I present Jackob with a few suggested cuts, to some of which he agrees.

At the theater, we offer the changes to the actors and–strangely to me–they argue for the cut lines to be reinstated. Something is wrong with the world when a playwright wants to make cuts and the director and actors don’t! Anne and Warren again have many questions and concerns, all of them salient, which I address happily with changes. Anne keys into one line in her first scene that, she feels, isn’t written in Tina’s voice. I try to listen to actors who tell me things like that, because they know the characters better than I. They live with the character. I am merely a visitor. After a long, involved discussion, I offer a new line that meets with her approval, as well as Jackob’s, and which significantly strengthens Mike’s motivation over the course of the entire show. Big Mark expresses sincere thanks to Anne for giving him more to play.

I leave rehearsal early to have dinner with Henry Wishcamper, who directed Engaging Shaw in San Diego. We discuss development opportunities for Comedy Of Venice. I’m excited that he is interested in the piece. He tells me about a hilarious Moliere play he wants to direct someday, and about preparing to direct a new Conor McPherson script at the Guthrie. I tell him that his Red Sox are in second place to my Yankees.

I head uptown to see a friend sing at a club on 54th Street, but I’m too late. I duck into a bar to catch the Yankees game, hoping to see Mariano Rivera tie Trevor Hoffman’s saves record. The game is exciting and low-scoring. As it heads into extra innings, some guy sits beside me and loudly proclaims to the bartender and everyone else within earshot that he just got a job. I congratulate him and return to the game. He asks me in a dreadful New York accent if the game is live. I say yes, and he seizes upon that as an opportunity to tell me everything he doesn’t know about baseball.

I do my best to ignore him until he tells me he is writing a play. Seeing that my interest is piqued, he asks condescendingly if I am interested in theater. I answer that I’m a playwright too. I ask what his play is about and he can’t describe it. He explains that it’s a ninety minute one-act that’s only fifty pages long. I don’t see how this is possible, but remain mute. Not only will this play win the Pulitzer Prize, he boasts, but it will deserve it, unlike some of the recent winners. I mention that I remember the scandal when The Kentucky Cycle won without having yet been produced in New York. I was house manager when it was in development at the Long Wharf.

He shouts, “Long Wharf, you know that’s where O’Neill got his start.”

“No.” I answer, “O’Neill got his start at Provincetown.”

“No, it was Long Wharf. O’Neill was from Connecticut.”

“He was from the Groton/New London area, not New Haven.”

“But Long Wharf was where he got his start. They did all of his plays.”

I want this idiotic conversation to end, so I just say: “You’re wrong.”

“Wanna bet?”

Arrogance and ignorance are a dangerous admixture. And yet, I like to think that even the arrogant and ignorant have a place in this world. That place is called “Texas.” It’s not “beside me during a Yankees game in extra innings.”

“If I were to accept your bet,” I seethe, “I would take every penny you own. I worked at Long Wharf. It was founded in 1965. O’Neill was quite dead.”

Pause.

“I’m gonna see your play. Will you see mine?”

“I live in Maryland.”

“I’m gonna get it produced there too. I’m bringing it down there. I’m getting it done all over the world. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

I turn to the game. He then begins to harangue the back of my head with a diatribe about O’Neill–a man who won three Pulitzer Prizes and the Nobel Prize for literature–saying he was unappreciated during his lifetime. I am not a violent man, but if this guy doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to staple his tongue to the ceiling fan. I want to pummel him until he oozes. With dark thoughts, I pay my tab and exit the bar before the game ends. The Yankees lose.

THURSDAY
I am staying at Jackob’s apartment this evening, so I am between places during the day. I drag my suitcase down to the theater and Kim sets me up with internet in the box office. He declares that he enjoyed overhearing our rehearsal discussion last night. We were addressing an important weak spot in the motivation of the action.

The is a depth and intensity to the script work and discussions this evening at rehearsal. The plan is to get through the entire play, answering every concern tonight since I won’t be back again until tech. Again, Warren and Anne take the lead and I appreciate their individual approaches. Warren raises questions in a desperate need to understand. He likes verbs, always inquiring about what his character hopes to accomplish with each line or word. It is up to Jackob and me to determine whether or not Warren’s concern requires direction or revision. Anne, on the other hand, always wants a specific cut or change, but the way she asks for it has evolved since Tuesday. Initially, she treated me with kid gloves, taking a long circumlocutory path to her goal either out of respect or delicacy. By now she’s realized that I require no delicacy and asks directly for cuts and changes, which I readily supply. I’m glad to see Lori speaking up more, specifically addressing the ricocheting plot reversals her character undergoes in act two.

I express one small disagreement with Big Mark and Jackob over the notebook Mike gives to Heidi in scene two. My stage direction indicates premeditation on Mike’s part, but Big Mark and Jackob want Mike to discover the idea and the notebook over the course of the scene. I explain my reasons for keeping it my way but Big Mark respectfully disagrees, telling me a fascinating story about a job he once had in pharmaceutical sales using a strategy called “getting past the gatekeeper.” The character of Mike, according to Big Mark, sees Heidi as the gatekeeper; and he will employ every form of manipulation in his power, observing every photo and book on her desk, absorbing her every weakness in his efforts to get past her. Big Mark’s explanation is compelling and justified in the dialogue. It makes the character of Mike an even bigger shark than I thought him to be. I acquiesce to the change, again grateful for a cast with such intelligence and fire.

Rehearsal breaks happily and with great hope for the production. We achieved the objective of getting through the entire script; it hums now. Everyone is on the same page, professionally and personally, and confident about our journey. I say goodbye to Warren and Big Mark, and Anne treats the rest of us to a round at Houndstooth. Lori and Jackob dominate the conversation, generating much laughter and good fellowship. Safely conveyed to Jackob’s apartment, he and I yak until two a.m.

Great work this week. I am eager to see how they make it their own in my absence.

Now I am writing from San Diego, where rehearsals for a new production of Engaging Shaw at the Old Globe Theatre are about to start. I plan to keep a diary of the rehearsal process, but don’t want to skip an entire year of productions, some of which were successful. So first let me recount how I got here, play by play, and in the present tense:

ENGAGING SHAW: Shortly after the production of Shaw at Abingdon Theatre closes, I receive a number of unsolicited requests for the script. Two of these requests result in future productions. The first is Old Globe, currently in rehearsal, and the other is from the English Theatre of Vienna in Austria, scheduled for April 2012. I direct my agent to approach the theaters in Washington and Baltimore about producing Engaging Shaw since I’m local, but not one DC area theater even asks to read the script. The dramaturg at Center Stage, where I’d worked for many years to promote their Young Playwrights Festival, jokes to my agent that they don’t need to see my script because they prefer plays written by my son, a three time winner at YPF. After 21 years of banging on doors in the DC/Baltimore area, I’ve had enough.

A THING FOR REDHEADS: With visions of international success dancing in my head, I dive headlong into a disaster at home. A Thing For Redheads at the 2010 Capital Fringe Festival is the most frustrating theatrical experience I’ve had in sixteen years. And the blame is entirely mine. I wrote Redheads in only three days to satisfy a grant deadline in 2009, but that’s not an excuse. I had more than a year to revise it and did not avail myself of the opportunity. From the script, to the casting, to the direction, to the set design, to the marketing campaign, if I was not directly responsible for their failure I am certainly responsible for not intervening to prevent the failure that clearly awaited. The only joyful moment in the show is the part with which I had nothing to do, the song that Lori Boyd wrote for the obligatory scene.

One critic writes that the script “would not go as far as Morogiello’s others.” Ironically, later in the year, a scene from the play is selected for publication in The Best Women’s Stage Monologues And Scenes 2011, which is a trade book publication. Therefore it is farther than any of my other plays have gone. Excited by the possibilities of further life for the play once a portion is published, I revisit the script. But after two pages, I can’t bear it. Too many bad memories bubble to the surface.

Productions like this are good to have once in awhile. They keep me honest and humble. Perhaps the strangest part of that particular fringe festival is being recognized by two total strangers. One asks for me by name. The other asks if I am “the Irish Authors guy.” Funny how you never realize you have a fan base until you alienate them.

GIANNI SCHICCHI: Post-Shaw and Pre-Redheads, I complete the first draft of a play called Comedy Of Venice. Giving it a quick glance, I realize that on an unconscious level the play is about me saying goodbye to the theater community in Washington, DC. But on a more deeply unconscious level what I have really done is rewritten a play I first constructed in my twenties, an adaptation of Puccini’s opera Gianni Schicchi. Unhappy with Comedy Of Venice and recalling many happy memories of Schicchi, I decide to bid Washington farewell by self-producing the latter play in the fall of 2010 with myself in the title role.

I am pleased with the cast we put together, particularly Terence Aselford, who is one of my favorite actors both to work with and to watch. I also enjoy Rachel Meloan’s performance of “O Mio Babbino Caro” during the curtain call. The script, I think, is in its strongest shape yet, after some significant cuts to the prologue and epilogue. It’s funny how items with which I swore never to part when I was 27 are discarded so easily nearly two decades later. I am happy to play a role I always intended for myself, but I suspect I am the darkest Schicchi the script has ever seen. The aspect of the production I most enjoy is being able to work closely with my wife, who designs the costumes and manages the house.

We receive a lot of preview press from the county weekly and from the Italian American community but for some reason the major newspapers choose to ignore us, despite how brazenly we try to sell them on the recent additions to my resume. The result is four weeks of empty houses. The few who attend react positively and the internet reviews mostly follow suit. Though none of them are outright raves, not a single review criticizes the script. Probably because of its production history, all of the critics accept the script as a finished product. Somehow, it has crossed through the mystic portal from the savage land of “new script” to the civilized kingdom of “established play.”

THE MATCHMAKER’S GUIDE TO CONTROLLING THE UNIVERSE: Running simultaneously with Schicchi, but way up in the Finger Lakes, is this one-act. There, Bob Frame, who is a great guy and a wonderful supporter of my work, runs Harlequin Productions for the students at Cayuga Community College in Auburn, New York. I’ve always loved this script. It’s light, it’s silly, and it’s incredibly easy to produce. I renovate it for the production, updating the references and incorporating revisions I’d made for the film version, but I am unable to attend the production because of Schicchi. They send me a DVD, which is a lot of fun. Bob and the cast hit just the right combination of romance and petulance.

COMEDY OF VENICE: Done with Schicchi, I attempt to salvage this play about the rivalry between Goldoni and Gozzi, two 18th Century Venetian playwrights. By January I have a draft that almost seems serviceable. But a serviceable script no longer strikes me as good enough. If I am to continue in this business, I need to match or exceed the quality of Engaging Shaw, not suffer through another Redheads. To test the script’s quality, I decide to host a private reading at my house, using a few close actor friends around whom I’m not afraid to fail. Though I miscast one of the roles, the reading goes well. Again, Terence Aselford makes me laugh harder than anyone. And yet, I’m still insecure about the script. Afterwards, Misty Demory, the actress playing Smeraldina, tells me that Constellation Theatre, a company in DC to which she belongs, is doing a Gozzi play in the spring. Would I be willing to let them mount a reading of Comedy Of Venice to coincide with the production?

Of course I would.

Constellation insists that only company members perform in the reading, so I am unable to use Terence. But I am very impressed with the comic abilities of the cast and director, Rex Daugherty. In particular, I have no idea Gozzi is funny until I hear John Michael MacDonald’s interpretation. During the reading, I sit beside Constellation’s Artistic Director, Allison Stockman, and add a joke to the play specifically for her benefit, advertising her production of The Green Bird. About thirty people attend, laughing more than I anticipated. I cannot determine if the laughter is due to the performers, the script, or to the friendliness of the house. But I am pleased in any case.

YOUNG TURG: In early spring 2011, I get a call from Kim Sharp, asking to mount a reading of Young Turg at Abingdon Theatre Company in New York. He suggests Jackob Hofmann as director, since we worked so well together during Shaw the previous year. I happily agree to both the reading and Jackob.

Young Turg is the script I wrote directly before Shaw. It’s a bitterly comic indictment of office politics in a regional theater’s literary office. I like the script, but I confess to being surprised that Abingdon made the offer since I’d been told it’s not the sort of play that appeals to them. Naturally, I am happy to be wrong.

Jackob and I both agree to ask Jan Buttram, the Artistic Director, to read one of the roles and she readily agrees. Rehearsing with Jackob in the Abingdon space conjures many pleasant and comfortable memories of the Engaging Shaw production. Having most of the Shaw cast in the audience to support me only adds to my delight. Between the rehearsal and the performance, I have dinner with Henry Wishcamper, who will be directing Shaw at Old Globe. After dinner, Henry accompanies me to the reading of Young Turg, and sits beside Old Globe’s former director of new play development, who happens to be in town. Suddenly it feels as though a lot is at stake. And as the reading begins, I am struck with horror by how obvious are the script’s flaws. With every line, I squirm and wince and beg for death. A college friend of mine leaves during intermission. Henry leaves before the talkback. I assume a brave face and take the stage, fully expecting the vitriol of a multitude at the small of my back.

But it’s wonderful. Not only are there more positive comments than I expected, but the criticisms, questions, and suggestions are universally sound and supportive. As always, Kim Sharp has one thing to say which goes to the heart of what needs to be fixed. I take copious notes.

Afterwards, Jackob, his partner Hugh, and I repair to the Houndstooth Pub with Shaw alumnae Claire Warden & Victoria Vance, and a dear friend of mine from college named JoAnn. Everyone provides me with an unending parade of ideas to spark revision, but Claire commands my attention. She recalls specific lines–and words within lines–despite never having read the script before. She directs me to changes I’d not considered and directs me away from changes others had suggested. That and a later conversation with Jackob solidify in my mind what the script needs.

I overhaul the script like I’d never done before. Entire scenes are cut. Others are added. Plot points that were only implied are now fully explored. I send the new script to Jackob and he is effusive with his praise. He recommends it strongly to Abingdon and they agree, offering me the opening slot in their upcoming season. The only problem: Nobody likes the title.

I’m sad to confess that I don’t write good titles. If they’re not outright dull, they’re so obscure nobody cares. So I make a list of possible alternatives and email friends, asking them which ones they like. No consensus results.

Then I discover a quote by an author referred to in the play, which I think is perfect. My agent agrees, so I post the new title as a fait accompli on Facebook. Within minutes, I get a call from Jan at Abingdon. They hate the new title even more than Young Turg. Implicit in the conversation is a threat that if I stick with my new title, they will rescind the production offer. Desperate, I call Jackob. He suggests a cute reworking of one of my lines: Blame It On Beckett. Perhaps I think it is brilliant or perhaps I am overstressed, but I laugh immoderately and directly concur. I will maintain a diary of that production too, when it rehearses.

But not now. This entry is much longer than I hoped it would be. I am now nearing the end of the first week of Shaw rehearsals at Old Globe. I will recount that experience soon.

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.

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.