Not "goodbye" but "see you" to Dublin and this year's festival

Why do I feel like I'm at church? Well, the cross-shaped "altar" with the awards...the lectern that sent me back to the days of "This is a reading from the Acts of the Apostles." Though we didn't have a giant rainbow-colored bottle of vodka stage left of the altar, and it wasn't Oscar Wilde with a green carnation in his mouth looking down on us all. Except if you are in Dublin!

We gathered at the Button Factory, a large venue often used for concerts and dances, just off Temple Bar early Sunday evening. I'd spent the day re-packing, writing a little, and preparing a little party at my suite for the EAT/TOSOS gang and our friends. What's the good of having a full kitchen & living room if you don't use it? I wandered up George St. to the Dunnes Store, and picked up wine, pate, baguettes, a really cool chocolate cake, hummus, and sparkling juice. On my way back, I realized I hadn't had a pint of Guinness the whole week! To remedy that, I stepped into the Auld Dubliner on Temple Bar (yes, it's touristy, but locals go there as well), and sat down to enjoy the stylings of the guitar player. Across from me were two young nuns, one tall and skinny, the other small and energetic. They waved their cups of tea as he sang, and one of them picked up their two spoons and clapped them together. They finished their tea, and danced out the door.

The guitar player seemed to have a "one everyone can sing to" and "one I like" system, which worked for me. I was surprised/appalled at the reception of "Sweet Caroline," which has had a long and apparently immortal life in pop music. I blame the Red Sox fans. He also sang "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," which I think can be called a true folk song. Brought tears to my eyes.

Then back to the hotel and to quote Hedwig: Put on some makeup/turned on the 8-track (well actually the "on demand music system" in the flatscreen), and had a little glass of wine. The party came in around 6 o'clock, dressed in glad rags and bearing more food. The customer service manager of the Morgan swung by and took me on a quick tour of the hotel, including the amazing duplex penthouse with grand piano and stairs up to the roof, on which there is an actual retro-fitted period Airstream trailer, and a propane barbecue. Glamor!

I was happy enough in my apartment on the third floor, and soon rejoined the guests, and we toasted a time or two more, and then made our way down the block to the gala.

I'd also been asked to present an award, and was told to present myself backstage at the interval. The Pig Tale boys were also presenting the Mama Truth scene in the gala, and Adventures of was the last selection. So we sat back and enjoyed the first half, which included scenes from plays I'd seen (and ones I wished I'd seen) interspersed with the awards. The winners and nominees are listed here. A lot of the nominees came from the first week; I wish I'd had the time/money/superpowers to come for the whole festival. (That would include the superpowers of flying and turning back time, also needing no sleep).

At the interval, I went downstairs and all the actors were getting ready for their scenes, running lines, and practicing their staging, changing from dresses and dress pants into their costumes. I love being backstage when I'm actually supposed to be there, and watching as the transformation is prepared. Sometimes what goes on backstage is more interesting than what you see out front. (But not with any of the shows in this festival, she hastened to add).

I got to present the Eva Gore Booth award for Best Actress; Eva Gore Booth (as we learned last year) was an Irish lesbian, who with her partner, Esther Roper, were lesbian/feminist activities in the early 20th century, and even published the first lesbian magazine. Eva's sister was the Constance, the Countess Markewicz, who was imprisoned for her part in the 1916 revolution. Carolyn Gage's "The Countess and the Lesbians," was written after her first visit to the festival, and was done by an Irish company last year. That's Constance and Eva to the right...at the opening of a creamery. Which would seem to be the reason they are dressed in such milkmaid-inspired costumes. As I stood backstage with Brian and John, one whispered to me: of course you'll say a few words. And I knew it was "pull it out my ass" time. In blue velour. I commented that I was probably Facebook friends with half the people in the room, which got a laugh, but is also true. And is one of the reasons why word spreads about this festival, and who ought to go to it, and how well they treat you. I mentioned how wonderful it was for us all to see shows from England and Ireland and New York and Indiana and Poland and Russia, and even more next year. And I said I'd see them all right back here next year. And the award went to Diane Wilson, from Careful, the lovely South African actress who was in Fiona Coyne's two-hander. (And dear Elizabeth Whitney was also nominated for Wonder Woman).

Then I got to go and sit down again and watch the rest of the thing (whew!) We were thrilled when the stunningly fit Mr. Hunter Gilmore was nominated for Best Actor, the Micheal Mac Liammoir Award, for both his parts in Break and Adventures of... Deb and I and J. exchanged terrorist fist bumps, and shrieked. Ooh! Look at Hunter on the red carpet! May it be the first of many trips to awards ceremonies for him. Looks like all those vegetables were worth it.

Of the stuff I got glimpses of, but didn't actually see, I wish I'd been able to go to Two Boys in a Bed, from which Scott Cunningham did a powerful monologue. (They're doing it this summer at the Arthouse in P-town!), and Silenciados, the performance piece from Madrid that won the "Aspect of Production" award (and they all look like Almadovar heroes). Also in the first week was Broken Nails, a Polish production with a puppet Marlene Dietrich; I Love You Bro, from Australia, Lord Arthur's Bed from London, and Minor Gods from Washington, DC, and Walnuts Remind me of my Mother, from Ireland. And a production everyone raved about, The Bird Sanctuary by Frank McGuinness. I'm also going to catch up with Dan Bernitt on this side of the ocean; his Phi Alpha Gamma is nominated for a Lambda Literary Award, and I'm going to the ceremony next week.

While we'd played to sellout houses all week in the Shorts, there were lots of people who hadn't been able to see the shows (those with other 8 o'clock performances, for example!) So it was a pleasure and an honor to be able to show them all the great things about EAT: the actors, the directors, the overall quality of our company in NYC. The boys, as usual, adjusted to the new space. Jamie projected into the large space with the very last of her voice. (J. took the wonderful pictures of me at the podium, of Hunter, and the one of "The Adventures of" below).
The crowd got every bit of it, and roared at the denouement. (Or the "payoff" as my fellow Ambassador of Love, Roy Gardner, called it).

Then they called all the volunteers up on stage, and everyone held hands and sang "Seasons of Love," and there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got fabulous goodie bags on the way out (with chocolate and liqueur, and a calendar of handsome men), and proceeded across the street to the Front Lounge, which was not nearly as crowded on a Sunday night as it had been the previous night, which was a comfort. I got myself a cosmo, and circulated among all the people I hadn't had a chance to talk to yet, for this was the last night.

Fiona Coyne (playwright of Careful), Chris Weikel and I bonded instantly, joined by Roy Gardner (we exchanged kisses as each hemisphere's Ambassador of Love). And made the Irish kids promise to come over to New York as soon as they absolutely could, and told the Indy kids to GRADUATE and come to NYC, and the "Dog Called Redemption" folks to get their asses to NY because their play will rule, and so on and so on...

You don't really care how late you stay out on the last night, because you know you can sleep on the plane (maybe) the next day. And you keep wanting to stretch the good feeling just...a...little...bit...more.

I cleaned up the remains of the party back at my room. Finished the pate, left the unopened wine & beer for the housekeeping staff. Went to sleep knowing it had been a good festival, and knew that even though I'd said to myself before I left: well, I really shouldn't go every year. That's a lot of time and effort for a short play...and I should probably check out some of the other...HA! I know I'm coming back. The folks in Dublin are family, and I'm the loopy foreign cousin they welcome with open arms each year.

I'll carry out my ambassadorial duties by scouting out new talent for the next festival, and the next one, and make sure they are the Right Sort (and if they ever act the diva or insult our hosts, I will get all New York City on their asses).

So I've accomplished, in some way, what I set out to do with this blog: track my experience of the festival (and finish it within a week after I got back). This bodes well for a very full summer I think. With more writing (got to figure out what to bring next year!) and activism and enjoying the good weather and WNBA basketball. (I am a woman of many interests).

One thing I particularly love about Dublin is that wherever you go, there seems to be music; younger people and older people, playing guitars, harps, drums, flutes, horns, you name it. Playing trad and pop, stuff of their own. Singing and singing and playing and playing. I don't know if there's that much music left in New York City these days...carefully penned off as official subway music, or in monitored free festivals. In Dublin, if there's a wide spot in the street, someone has a guitar case open and is singing Bob Dylan. On my last day, coming down Bewley Street, I saw three guitar players, who broke into a beautiful harmony on "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," in the wet morning. The woman's voice took the lead, and the guys chimed in. It was their lives. It was so beautiful, it made me want to cry. It's a good memory to carry around for a year. Or forever.

Who am I, where am I, what the hell am I doing?

I was once in a community theater production of Annie, and the director, trying to get her large & varied cast into character, suddenly wheeled on one young ingenue and said: WHO are you, WHERE are you and WHAT are you doing? The ingenue helpfully replied: "I'm Rhonda Jane, I'm in Town Theater, and we're rehearsing Annie."

I ask these questions of myself quite often, out of the necessity of reminding myself which life I happen to be in at the moment, and lately, which time zone and country.

We're back since Monday, and I've had a very full week. But there's a part of me that has post-show homesickness, and I look at my watch and think "it's curtain time in Dublin" and "I wonder what those kids from Indiana are doing."

I still have to write up a bunch of stuff for the Frommer's website, and I'd like to do it before it gets too stale in my mind. I curated my reading series, Drunken! Careening! Writers! last night, and was thrilled with the writers. I've gone through the copyedited files of my New York City book. I wrote a short play which was due to a festival today. I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to schedule our next meeting of the EAT Playwrights Circle. I have a play reading of a full-length next Saturday, May 30!

So it's not like I'm napping here. In fact, I would prefer a little time to cogitate, to simmer, to let things take root, but that's not going to happen. Fortunately, we've got the three-day weekend, and I'm determined to get to the end of my stay in Dublin before it's a week since we came home.

Ahem. (Or, a ham, as the case may be).

Saturday (May 17) was a good and bittersweet day. It was the last day of our show; Deb, our director, was coming in to see it, and whatever else she could in her 2 days in town. We'd coordinated via email to meet at the Mermaid Cafe at 1.

I'd arrived at the last hotel of my stay, The Morgan, which would host me for two nights. The Morgan, along with The Morrison (of the legendary bathroom) and The Clarence (owned by Bono, where I stayed in a suite last year), is considered one of the hippest hotels in Dublin (if not Europe). While my room was being prepared, I sat in the lobby and gazed out the front window where they seemed to be shooting a short film out on Temple Bar. A pretty woman walked down the street in front of The Morgan. She did it again. And again.
And soon my room was ready, and I went up in the Mona Lisa elevator (pictured at the top of this post). They'd put me in what they call an "apartment," that is a nice suite with a full kitchen and living room, the bedroom separated from the living area by a clear glass wall and doors with the word "DREAM" inscribed on them. We later opined that the words are there so people don't walk into the walls. I bet they still have to clean faceprints off of them.

The room faced the back, a blessing in a Temple Bar hotel. Staying in a Temple Bar hotel on the weekend is rather like staying on Bourbon St. in New Orleans any night of the week. You'd better have double- or triple-paned windows, or a room at the back.

I got settled in and headed out to the Mermaid Cafe, on Dame Street, just a few blocks from The Morgan. I realized I looked rumpled, because I was well into the "recycling" part of my wardrobe, which I had carefully rolled and packed, but never unpacked because I was staying in a different hotel every night. I like the Mermaid Cafe (and wrote about it last year). I said that if I lived in Dublin, it would be my Zuni, though Jamie pointed out that it doesn't have a full bar. It's awfully pretty, though, and has a great menu. The "stunningly fit" Hunter Gilmore decided he'd allow himself to eat more than fruit and vegetables at lunch; playing the part of a strung-out junkie, he'd been stricter about diet and exercise than Jillian Michaels. Hunter talked about the great meal he'd have when he didn't have to take off his shirt every night. I'd had my usual massive Irish breakfast a few hours before, and ordered the best seafood chowder I've had. Well, maybe as good in Provincetown, but it was very, very close. It was a good, fast lunch (because lots of us had tickets to matinees), and we savored the moment. I was the only one at the table who'd been able to catch any of the other shows, and I reported on them. This was the cast and Terra's rare chance to see another show, and they went through the program to decide which new friends to visit.

I was going off-campus, so to speak. I'd been seeing posters for a show called "Only an Apple," by Tom MacIntyre, directed by Selina Cartmell, at the Abbey, in their Peacock Theatre (the downstairs one that generally does new works). On their website, the play was described as follows:

"Only an Apple is a lusty and disquieting tale of an ailing playboy Taoiseach. On the brink of being overthrown by upstart Government Chief Whip McPhrunty, the Taoiseach must act fast. Enter surprise guests - Queen Elizabeth the First and Grace O’Malley. The brazen administrations of these fantasy creatures wreak havoc among the men. Are these women sexual playthings or more sinister messengers of fate." I knew that Taoiseach is the title used by the Irish Prime Minister, and that Grace O'Malley was a pirate (and not just because there was a terrible Broadway musical about her). I wanted to see a play that was Irish in Ireland. (There was a production of All My Sons on at the Olympia, but I wasn't going to see an Arthur Miller play in Ireland. If I'd had the time, I would also have gone to see Michael Collins, the musical). So I dashed across the Liffey, and found the Abbey easily. The Peacock space is, I'm sure, considered their "second" space at the Abbey, Ireland's National Theatre. (Why can't WE have a national theater, mommy? Mr. President? Can you do something about that, Mr. Landesman?) The Peacock is also a space a lot of Off-Broadway companies would cherish, and which would send any off-off company into paroxysms of unbelieving happiness. The set was shiny and well-built; huge portraits hung out on the walls, extending from the "reception room" on stage, past the edge of the stage, out into the house.

A young man in tails came out and made the cellphone announcement, welcoming us in Gaelic. He turned out to be one of the cast, in a non-speaking role. There were at least 2 or 3 guys who did nothing but come on and move things, and take them off, and join in the musical number (yes, there was a musical number). There were two actors who appeared in only one scene. A play with a cast larger than four and an actual set! Be still my heart!

The language was English, but it didn't fit my ear. When the butler spoke, I couldn't make out what he was saying. The Taoiseach himself had a grand accent that seemed like it must have been upper class. In addition to the language, the structure of the play was mysterious. It was like a dream, and characters entered and exited in clouds of smoke, doors and windows opened of their own accord, and wolfhounds, peacocks and horses prowled the grounds just outside the massive windows.

At the end of the first act, Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley sang a song called "Pussy Drives the Train." Yes, THAT kind of pussy. As they sang, the other cast members emerged from the doors and windows, masked as peacocks or dogs, and performed intricate dance moves, singing along with the Queen and the Pirate.

At intermission, I bought a copy of the play, so I could read what had just happened.

I love that I can buy a copy of the play I am seeing (with everyone's bios and information about the designers) in the lobby. As I perused it for the finer points of the plot, I got some of the cultural references, and understood why the butler talked like that (he was from Cavan, apparently). I'd also looked up the reviews online, and they were mixed. The critics didn't understand a lot of it either, but I didn't care. The actors were flinging themselves about the stage as if their lives depended on it, and the design and directorial touches were enough to make me fan myself over their beauty. There was even a bit of snogging between Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley, which was a pleasant lagniappe.

Afterward, my mind was a tumult of language and ideas, and I was almost glad I hadn't gone to see the play with anyone, so I could just think about it on the way back to the hotel. I laid down to nap, and even dreamed of it. I didn't hit a second matinee because I was planning on staying to see the cabaret after our show; four shows in a day would have been a record for me, but it'll have to wait until I am better rested.

So I made it to the Cobalt Cafe to find that we were sold out, which was great, but I might not be able to see the show, which was not. Deb had bought a ticket, as had Zeke, Jason's partner. So they got to sit down. I wedged myself in the back, and sat on a barstool. J. wasn't feeling well, and not up for standing for the length of the show, so he peeled off back to the hotel. The Fraulein started the evening off again, though she'd changed her act completely since the first night; she'd added a long monologue and "backstory" for her character, and I didn't think it worked. In fact, it was kind of a buzzkill. That's something I've seen performers do on occasion: they play something well, and it gets a good response, then they immediately do something different, instead of expanding on the parts that got a good reaction.

It's one thing to make wholesale changes from night to night if you're doing your own evening, but if you're fronting an evening of short work, you have to think how it will flow into the next piece, and what kind of energy you want people to take from the start of the evening.

The audience stayed with it, though it was a very quiet group. I saw Brian Merriman beforehand (he produced/appeared in the "Singing Out Six" cabaret act that followed the shorts Friday/Saturay). Brian told me he'd like us to perform "The Adventures of..." at the gala the next night: the entire play! I was touched, and thrilled. Hunter was also thrilled, as it meant he could start eating again a day early. (He leaves his shirt on for "The Adventures of...")

Deb and our cast hung around for the singing, and the Cobalt is a great space for cabaret. Brian complained of a bout with sinus and lung trouble, and said he'd asked several friends to join him: there was our buddy Rian, and some other guys (no program!) including one fellow, Eoin Cannon, who arrived late...he'd just finished his evening's performance in Michael Collins, in the lead role! That's him at the left. Mmmm. He sang a hysterical song called "Skanky Ho," which he delivered with a Broadway-level gleam and legit voice. Rian rocked us with selections from "Legally Blonde" and "Altar Boyz," (he is totally an Altar Boy). And so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby...

They closed with "Seasons of Love," and everyone sang along. And then it was off to the bar, at well after midnight, but the spirit was definitely willing, and the music at the Front Lounge was excellent, and Chris Weikel had found himself a devout fan who looooooooved Pig Tale, and we all had a fine time until they played, "Dueling Banjos," which Rian opined was so we'd all go away. And we did.

...until tomorrow, and the big gala.

Everybody's working for the weekend...

...at least I am, since it's already Wednesday and I'm only up to last Thursday in Ireland. However, I'll make a last push today (or tomorrow at latest) to finish up the trip.

On Thursday night (that is LAST Thursday night, May 14ish), after a few drinks with friends in the suite at the Morrison, I did use the Best Bathroom in the World (double Jacuzzi, massive shower, votive candles, lots of pretty-smelling stuff) and if I were a complete sensualist (I'm too lapsed-Catholic to be one), I'd say the bath was the highlight of the trip. And I LOVE theater.

(Speaking of theater, that fabulous picture to the right is of Jamie Heinlein, Jason Alan Griffin and Hunter Gilmore in this production of "The Adventures of..." It was taken on opening night by J. Stephen Brantley, and perfectly captures the play._

Friday morning brought the familiar wheeling of the suitcase out the door, after yet another filling Irish breakfast (all the rooms included that whopper of a meal, and it cut down considerably on my food expenses because if you have a full Irish breakfast, you really don't need to eat until the far end of the day). I tell you what I miss most this week at breakfast: mushrooms. I do love Irish sausage, and smoked salmon, and fried eggs and beans and a nice grilled tomato. But what I most looked forward to was the giant pan of sauteed mushrooms in each of the buffets, fancy, hip or humble. It's a custom I'd love to see take hold in the U.S. Hey mushroom marketing board, get cracking on that "Mushrooms: breakfast of champions" campaign. It'll confuse the druggies.

(End of breakfast fantasy).

Friday saw me headed out a bit to Ballsbridge, where I stayed at the Grand Canal Hotel. It was a smart, pleasant place, in an actual neighborhood. And I love Central Dublin...but staying there and thinking it's what Dublin is, is probably a lot like staying in the Theatre District in Manhattan and thinking that's what New York City is. It's certainly a part of the big picture, but it's also the part that makes visitors say: oh, I don't see how you can live here. (And we don't. We live in the boroughs or uptown or downtown, mostly).

So there were hardware stores and laundries, and attached houses with small, well-kept lawns. The pub/restaurant at the hotel seemed to be some people's "local." (And at 4 euro a pint I can see why! It's 5-6 euro closer in). I had an appointment at the Four Seasons at 2pm, and at the desk they gave me a map and I walked into Ballsbridge proper, where I mailed my postcards, saw the only Cuban restaurant I'd seen in Ireland, and then down the road with the 50 euro B&Bs on one side, and the high-end hotels on the other. I wasn't able to stay at the Four Seasons this time out, but they'd kindly offered me and a friend a spa treatment and high tea. (If this ever happens to you, just say "yes, please" and show up on time). So I met up with Jamie in the lobby, and they took us in at the spa for a massage (me) and a facial (Jamie).

Afterwards, we went up to have a traditional tea at a table facing the outdoor fountain, and raise a toast to a lovely friendship. I first met Jamie back when we were both fetuses in an acting class taught by Mirror Rep founder Sabra Jones. I worked for Sabra, and Jamie auditioned for and got into the Apprentice Company one summer when the Mirror went to Bar Harbor to do Stage Door and The Seagull. Jamie and I were both in the Kaufman/Ferber play, and while that was toward the end of my acting career, it was an early success for Ms. Heinlein as a thespian. With a "th."

We stayed in touch through the many phases of life in New York City (anger, bargaining, denial and acceptance...oh wait...those are different phases...) and I saw her in a bunch of shows while I realized over the course of a decade or so I was best suited for the page, rather than the stage (I realized some other things, too, which is why I'm at a gay festival).

I went to see Jamie in a reading of Chris Weikel's Penny Penniworth (Coming this fall! Off-Broadway) a few years ago, and barged up to Chris and introduced myself, as I am wont to do in the presence of talent I admire. Start of a beautiful friendship there, too. And Jamie was in the reading of The Audience at TOSOS, which became the production of Rock the Line at EAT, (that's a shot of Jamie and Noelle Holly in the production above), and has done readings of my plays, and shows up at the ones she's not in, which is always appreciated.

A couple years ago, I pulled her name out of the hat for a 24-hour festival at Wings Theatre, as well as the setting "Atlantis: One Million Years B.C."and the words "obstinate" "gymnastics" and "birthday cake" and a play was born. I wrote it to fit her voice, and knew as soon as it was done that it was a great match for her. That picture at the right was taken by J. Stephen Brantley on opening night, and perfectly captures the play. You're all going to see Penny Penniworth this fall at EAT aren't you? Jamie portrays the title character! Of course you are. Even if you are reading this in Ireland, Indiana, South Africa or LA, you know how low the fares are at the moment. Book it RIGHT NOW.

Speaking of Indiana...(how'd you like that segue?) after we finished our high tea (with the bonbons we couldn't finish packed in a box to take with), we parted ways: I had tickets to the Picture of Dorian Gray and Jamie had a show to do in a few hours. I rested a bit and took a nice, leisurely walk back to Temple Bar. Staying in a lot of hotels can be a bit exhausting, but I really like having the chance to see the different neighborhoods, and how they change from block to block, and get to know a city the best way: on the ground, walking. And I also began to feel the germ of an idea forming for a play, and wanted to jar it loose with fresh air and interesting scenery.

I arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time, and Chris was also there, and we settled in to see the deconstruction of Picture of Dorian Gray. Is structure was simple: three actors are putting on a play about the novel, and they address each other by their real names (Hanna, Miles and Lawrence). They take turns portraying all the characters, as they tell the story chapter by chapter and there's some intersitial stuff (pop-culture based) in which they recap and re-enact the structure of the book's chapters/story, and their own lives seem to follow the patterns laid out in the book. All of them play Dorian...and all of them play Basil, and Lord Henry, and many other characters. It was really well done, and 2/3 of the cast isn't even old enough to drink (in the U.S.)! It was one of the hits of the festival, as audiences younger than even Dorian's picture poured in. The piece was created by Neal Utterbuck, directed by Jonathan Courtemanche assisted by Ryan Gohsman. I think it would go over quite well in the Fringe in New York, and by next summer, most of the kids will be at least 21. I kid because I wish I had been that talented and focused at that age.

After, I headed across the Liffey and swung by Pantibar, Chris went on to the "Sing Out Six" cabaret performance up at the Cobalt, and I stuck around...found a seat, which makes all the difference, and had a chance to catch up with Elizabeth Whitney & her wife Lea Robinson, as well as Jeffrey Solomon, whose one-man show Santa Claus is Coming Out was also at the Outhouse. (He's from Jackson Heights! Queens represent! And by "Queens" I mean the borough!)

It's funny how you can live in the same town, and not run across or be able to spend time with people...and you end up bonding thousands of miles away from home. It was a pleasant night all the way round, and I ended up grabbing a cab back to Ballsbridge (how many times can I say that in one post?) and ready to move for the last time on Saturday morning.

In a futile attempt to time-travel back to the past...

...forging ahead with recollections of the previous week before they disappear like so many half-remembered dreams. (I had a dream on the plane that my sweetie came to pick us up at the airport and we got lost on the way home).

I'm heading back to work today, and part of what I need to do is begin to convert the raw material of last week's travels into the finished product of articles online and reviews in books. I have notes from my interview with the genealogy butler at the Shelbourne which must be written up, a pile of press packets and other information I was given, and brochures and flyers that I picked up and put into my pockets (always travel with a jacket that has pockets; a now very dirty, wrinkled jacket. Back to the cleaners for the second time in two weeks!) I have already had some followup correspondence about the hotels I stayed in, and on the plane, I wrote up about five pages of notes for my Ireland author. I took a copy of Frommer's Ireland 2009 with me, and found that it is in very good order; the files for the 2010 edition will be on my desk in less than 2 weeks, and a good portion of my summer will be spent editing it. This week, my work includes books on Boston, Washington DC, and New York (fuckin) City. Also on my desk: The Cayman Islands.

You'll also see the results of my work on the "Behind the Guides" blog on Frommers.com. (I haven't posted about Ireland yet...my most recent posts are recaps of The Amazing Race...which I didn't even finish because I was in Ireland for the finale! And for the Prison Break finale, and The Biggest Loser and Hell's Kitchen. I do not regret it.)

Anyway...back to last Thursday (screen goes wavy, flashback music): came up from Dun Laoghrie on the train (it was raining, the staff at the Royal Marine went into their lost & found and came out with a much-needed umbrella) back to Tara Street, and pulled my wheelie suitcase down the quays to The Morrison Hotel. As I crossed a street near the hotel, a truck wanted to make a turn. The driver leaned out the window and yelled at me C'MON! C'MON! C'MON! and I instictively yelled back, OKAY ASSHOLE! and he looked quite startled. I just don't think of myself as a tourist, even when pulling a wheelie suitcase. I'm crossing the STREET here, okay? Cities are cities, and I think you have to take a little New York with you when you go traveling.

And arrived at The Morrison Hotel (yes, named after the Doors album). That photo at the start of the post is a self-portrait I took of "me with camera reflected in mirror in lobby." That's how fabulous it is. It's like living in a piece of art; there are high ceilings, lots of glass (doors, walls), and many, many mirrors. Original art is everywhere. I was given the penthouse suite, which looks out over the Liffey and across to Temple Bar. I could see the flags for the festival flying by the river. There's teak flooring, and a Mac mini (most of the rooms come equipped with Macs), but what floored me was the best bathroom ever: a 2-person Jacuzzi, with a rainforest showerhead above; attached was a HUGE separate shower, which had a bench on which you c0uld conceivably lie down while the water poured over you (I did). Votive, scented candles ringed the deck of the Jacuzzi, and later I lit them as I bubbled merrily away.
As beautiful as the suite was (and it was!) I went out to make sure I had my tickets for the night; I'd been told the shows were selling better than ever, and I found that out, as I couldn't book a ticket for Picture of Dorian Gray that night; I settled for Friday, and also picked up a ticket for Chris. I added tickets for A Dog Called Redemption at the Theatre Project and Goodnight, Alice at Smock Alley. I knew I'd be back at the Cobalt for the shorts on Saturday.

From the most expensive hotel suite in Dublin, I sallied forth looking for a cheap dinner. Dublin's still an expensive city: less expensive than last year, when the dollar was taking a pounding from the euro. (It still is, but not as much of one). The recession has caused bargains to spring up everywhere: slightly lower prices and deals galore at restaurants and hotels, but it's still New York expensive, if you know what I mean.

And I have a fondness for the Spar and Londis chains of stores: they are roughly the equivalent of 7-11s or Wawa, with much better food. And I found one on Dame Street that has fresh-made crepes and to-order stir fries, and a little dining area. I had a nice portion of stir-fried noodles with duck breast and vegetables, a big bottle of spring water and a Cadbury caramel bar for less than six euro! I'm sure I was quite annoying boasting about my cheap dinner for the next two days. But they were good noodles, and I'd had a dinner at a restaurant practically across the street from there last year that cost more than 3 times as much.

A Dog Called Redemption is a two-hander from England, featuring a young drug-addicted homeless guy, and the mentally ill man who crosses his path, and how they end up affecting each others' lives. It's a laugh riot. But seriously, it has some dark, dark humor in it, as the two men struggle to get by for several days: the younger one has been living on the streets for some time, the older one seems to have wandered away from a group home and stopped taking his pills.

The language was dense and colloquial; between the accent and the slang, sometimes I just got the gist of what was going on, but the physicality was there for both characters, and their stories were quite clear. Matthew Landers, the writer, also played the young man, and Graham Newell was the bi-polar man (the characters don't have names...just Man 1 and Man 2). The production succeeded all the way around: sharp direction, a minimal but atmospheric set, and two dynamite performances. If they can find a way to get this one to New York, New York will "get" it. (Provided a handy glossary or supertitles are used! I kid!)

I had to run to get to the next performance, about 3 blocks away, the 9:30 show of Goodnight, Alice, by Suzanne Lakes. I saw the genesis of the play last year in the shorts, a 10-minute piece called "Mammy's Boy." She expanded it into a full-length this year, using the same characters. A woman after my own heart.

The Smock Alley is where Corpus Christi was shown last year, and is probably one of the oldest theaters I've ever been in: the Vikings were there first (though apparently they didn't build theaters), and later on there was a sort of Viking-themed attraction there that Brian Merriman once managed. But in the 1700s, Sheridan (yes, that Sheridan) ran a theater there, then it was a church, then it wasn't, and then actors playing Vikings ran around in it. (I think I have a career as a historian, don't you?)

The crowd was quite Irish; Kaolin and I might have been the only Americans there. (And of course, it was the night Ireland competed for the Eurovision song title, so most of the country was at home, rooting for Sinead and Black Daisy). The story of the play is simple: Rose and Alice are sisters and best friends. Rose's son, Tim, has been left with an infant daughter to take care of by his now-gone girlfriend. (Tim's clearly gay). They are poor/working class Dublin folks who get by the best they can with a sense of humor and a few (well, many) well-chosen curses. Alice gets some bad news that changes the course of the play, and the hard-won humor takes a dark turn as Rose must prepare to lose her best friend, and Tim finally comes out to his family (only to find out they've known all along). Some of the culture, and the jokes, were clearly local, and yet I got most of what was going on. The speech was MUCH easier for me to understand that the heavy accents of the play I'd just seen. It's a piece I suspect could only have been done in Ireland, at this festival. And I really need to get ready for work now!

More anon...

A-pear-antly, one must embrace the pear...

I seem to have left my pants somewhere...

...which is one of the downsides of staying in many, many lovely hotels. They are probably at the Grand Canal Hotel in Ballsbridge...or at the Morrison, where I stayed the night before. I hope they turn up...before we left, I ordered a pair of jeans in a tall size from L.L. Bean, and they told me they don't make the tall ones in my size anymore. In a recession, it's always the tall people who suffer...

It was Sunday when I started this post, and I've spent the day shopping and preparing for tonight's gala. And in Blogland, it's still Wednesday. Worse than jet lag.

Wednesday was the day in Dún Laoghaire; I posted that picture of the Royal Marine Hotel earlier. Chris and Jamie came down with me on the train, and we had just the sort of outside/relaxing day we needed. I do love the hurlyburly of the city, with the crowded streets and stores and restaurants, and careening down the sidewalk. I'm like that in NYC, too. But it's good for the soul (I must frequently be reminded) to remove yourself from these things to a place a little more natural.
Down at the coast, you have the taste of the sea on your lips and the sound of a foghorn as the mist rolls in. The day was spitty/rainy; never quite pouring, but quite moist. We went down to the tourist office, where the gate was mostly lowered, but we could see the rack of brochures, and discussed whether it would be okay to reach under and grab some; at which point the staffer said: oh, let me limbo under the gate! She was supposed to be on lunch, but couldn't resist the opportunity to pass on info about the town. We saw the brochures for the festival on her rack (ubiquitous, yay!) and mentioned we were involved in it. She asked if we knew Elizabeth Whitney, whom she'd heard on the radio the night before. We could (truthfully) say we DO know her, and agreed that she's brilliant.

The staff lady went on about how playwrights are literary geniuses; Chris and I didn't disagree. She gave us a map of the town, and various suggestions for places to eat, and things to see, and told us to head out to the martello tower where James Joyce conceived the idea for Ulysses, and which is now a museum and monument.

So we wandered slowly through the town, enjoying the Georgian, Victorian, and Edwardian architecture, stopping at a small cafe that overlooked the main street, and into the People's Park, rife with fountains and gazebos, and patches of flowers well in bloom. We went down by the sea, which crashes up against the Marine walk, and peered down the stairs that went down even further down right to the sea. Chris demonstrated the hazards of not being careful when descending the steps to the sea.

Even though it was a damp, overcast day, we passed a beach where dozens of people were happily jumping off rocks, and leaping through the waves. Little kids! Some still in their school uniforms! And one local headed up from the beach, clad only in trunks and we marvelled that they were bathing in the sea in this weather, and he said: oh, you get used to it.


And then Jamie and Chris headed back into Central Dublin, and I grabbed a nap, and caught the train back a bit later, making sure I knew when the LAST train headed back (11:30) because I figured it would be at least a 50 euro ride back in a taxi, if I missed the train.

Chris and I had arranged to meet at the New Theatre, where we were going to see if we could get into Picture of Dorian Gray, an experimental theatre piece being done by an exceedingly young group from Indiana. I mean, undergraduates! Oh the things these teenagers get into these days. With their Oscar Wilde and the post-modern deconstruction of classic novels interspersed with the pop culture references and movement and meta and the treating of a classic as a living work. Those wacky kids! Unfortunately, we couldn't get in (it seemed like entire high school/college classes were pouring in), so we decided to head up to the Outhouse (the Dublin LGBT community center) for the 9:30 show of Elizabeth's Wonder Woman: the Musical. We still had time before the show, so we stepped into a pub and had a whiskey. Chris went up to order it, and they said "ice?" and I said GOD, NO! and they nodded in approval. The whiskey went down well, and the show even better.

Elizabeth's show was also close to sold out, and the audience embraced it instantly. I'd seen it in a slightly earlier incarnation when TOSOS presented it at the Duplex, and it's continued to grow and become even stronger. The Irish got the conceit of the show instantly: Diana Prince, aka Wonder Woman, is on her "Magic Lasso Comeback tour" and doing a lounge act which recounts the REAL story of her career. We laughed and sang along, and were under her spell...even without magic lasso. The festival's artistic director, Brian Merriman was at the show, and marveled how the show had appeal to both gays and lesbians, as well as people who just love pop culture and can appreciate commentary on it. Elizabeth played to excellent houses all week, and ended up with a nomination for the Eva Gore Booth (Best Actress) award at the gala. And I made the last train, not to Clarkesville, but to Dun Laoghrie.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes? (I sure don't...)

Very early Thursday morning here...(actually Wednesday night when I started this post; as you can see, I'm finishing it Saturday morning. BAD blogger!) and it's been several evenings, day and evening of gogogo in Dublin. And I have to catch you up from Tuesday already!

Tuesday was actually a "work" day for me...that is, work that isn't based here: all kinds of deadlines and emails and things from the world that doesn't stop for me to have fun (but I still find ways).

It was also Mark Finley's last night in town. (He has a real life/real job, too!) But it wasn't to be...the place doesn't open until 6, but the fine concierges at the Westin (Tuesday's hotel), reserved space for us at the Trocadero, a few blocks away (and also a Festival supporter). It's a theatre restaurant from its headshot-lined walls to the framed playbills and posters in the lower level. I got lost on the way from the toilets back to my table. I managed to get lost 3 times in the Shelbourne on Monday. Older, labyrinthine buildings are a highlight of Dublin, and also a bete noire for me.

The meal at the Troc was a great success, and we headed for an evening of theater. I went up to the Teachers Club to see Pig Tale; the first time I'd seen this version, revised and edited since the New York run last September. The changes reinforced for me how sweet and beautiful the story is, and a very appreciative crowd was with it all the way. We stayed through the very quick changeover for Fiona Coyne's Careful. This two-hander was brought to Dublin by the Artscape folks from South Africa; the ones who did Dalliances last year...we shared the Teacher's Club space with them, and marveled at the quality of the work. This year brought another winner: the story of an older actress (Diane Wilson) who is cast as a lesbian in a new play, and a theatre critic (Deirdre Wolhuter), who is "the only dyke I know" to the older actress. It's a very well-crafted comedy, and the two actors drive it home. I watched it with Chris Weikel and Mark Finley, and by the end, we were casting it from the actors we know.

At the Front Lounge, we caught up a bit with some of the now-familiar faces, introduced ourselves to new ones, and did a lap of the room, as my sister says, hearing about the other shows, and how their audiences were; and making the kind of connections that lead to having a place to stay in another city some time in the future.

I keep an eye out for the people from the shows I've seen at the festival bar (it varies this year between the Front Lounge and Pantibar). This is where grand ideas spring forth (some of which are even feasible when you wake up the next day). Friendships made...information exchanged...and the next thing you know, you're having dinner at Zuni with someone from LA that you met in Dublin, or walking up the street and hearing dialogue from a new play that you know would be just perfect for one of the actors you've met.

And I got up Wednesday and started this post and now it's Saturday morning, the last weekend of the festival, and we leave on Monday. Where did the week go? (I started asking myself that around Tuesday morning).

Today (Saturday) is my last hotel move (two nights in the Morgan!) and I'll be leaving from the lovely Grand Canal Hotel in Ballsbridge to head into Temple Bar, just down the street from the closing gala (The Closing Gala? How the heck is that happening just tomorrow?)


And I'm not even up to Wednesday's hotel & how we spent the day...am I making you seasick with the zigging and the zagging?

But Wednesday morning saw me heading down the coast to Dun Laoghaire, only 7 miles from Central Dublin, but in a whole different mindset. Jamie and Chris rode down on the train with me (about 20 minutes on the DART from Tara Street Station), and we decided to spend the afternoon exploring what's ostensibly a neighborhood/suburb of Dublin, but more like a seaside resort town. I was staying at the Royal Marine Hotel ; Queen Victoria ate breakfast there! At one point, I looked down from my sea-view room across a vast expanse of green lawn that runs almost down to the sea and saw people in white uniforms playing lawn bowling. A gentle rain fell, and a foghorn blew, and if it hadn't been for the broadband connection on my laptop, I might have felt like a character in an E.M. Forster novel.

The first time I came to Ireland was via Dun Laoghrie; back in my just-after-college backpack and Eurailpass days, I took the train from London to Holyhead and got on the ferry to Ireland. It was an overnight trip, and I propped myself up on a bench and drowsed and dozed about as well as I do on overnight plane trips. I took the train up from the ferry into Dublin, which was a much poorer and smaller city then. As I wandered the streets looking for the 2-pound a night hostel recommended by Let's Go, I noticed that many of the shops and stores seemed to have their speakers pointed out in the streets, and they were playing music. Beatles music. John Lennon music. "They sure must love the Beatles," I thought. Then I saw a newspaper stand and all the papers had big headlines saying John Lennon had been shot in New York. I didn't live in New York in those days, and I remember thinking "What kind of a city is it where they shoot a Beatle?" And I bought a paper, and I found Bewley's and had tea and pastries from a cart, and read about the news I'd missed.

Autobiographia Literaria
by Frank O'Hara

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out "I am
an orphan."

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

...and I'll continue on about looking for James Joyce in Dun Laoghrie, and all the rest (Oscar Wilde and the New Theatre and a Jamesons in a pub) after I move hotel for the last time (this time).

Just can't stay away from Dublin

Tales from Opening Night...the man who flew across the ocean; 

the 49 euro bed; and that guy from Provincetown.

As the playwright, I get to spend the day of Opening Night doing such important things as buying presents for the cast and getting my hair cut. It continued lovely in Dublin, and I changed hotels from the Fitzwilliam 'round the corner to the Shelbourne. The Fitzwilliam was a modern hotel, with little touches like votive candles on handy nooks and shelves to provide a little "mood" lighting, and a feel both cool and comfortable.

The Shelbourne is a true grand dame; at nearly 200 years old (and just off a major renovation), it's seen history outside its front door (literally), as well as inside. Troops in the 1916 rebellion camped outside on St. Stephen's Green, and the British garrisoned soldiers inside. In 1922, the new Irish constitution was signed. THAT kind of hotel. With a suite named for Grace Kelly, who stayed there, and for Irish heroes, politicans and artists.

There's a mural in the lobby of Vladimir and Estragon, waiting for Godot.

They also welcome you with cake and fresh lemonade, gingerbread or brownies! 

After settling in, I made my way down Grafton Street to get presents. At Avoca, where they sell handmade clothes and handmade food, I found what I was looking for. The actors are being careful about what they eat, so I got them stuff to eat later...pots of homemade jam and tea; the playwrights and techie can eat NOW, so I got the other company members caramels and waffle cookies. More exploring, with a purpose. That's actually my favorite kind of wandering in a city: give myself a task or two, and then set out to accomplish it (or not). 

My journey took me down to Temple Bar, and up Great George St., and to a hair salon where I was cut & styled by a cutter with one sleeve of tattoos, and a good eye for how my hair should frame my face. Postcards, t-shirts, birthday presents. Business calls, noting that the lines in the Tourist Office were considerably shorter than this time last year. 

More time at the 'puter checking in on various work and theater-related projects. Like telecommuting from a very, very long way away. With a fruit plate in a hotel suite. So make no mistake...there are no complaints at this end.

And finally to the Cobalt Cafe, where a strangely familiar face popped out from around a corner and...hey...I know that tall guy. It's Kaolin Bass, fellow EAT member, and a member of the troupe that traveled to Dublin for last year's festival. He just couldn't stay away. So he got on a plane, flew overnight and surprised us all. As someone who's done that a time or two myself, I can appreciate & applaud the effort. Well played, Mr. Bass!

So Kaolin was immediately put to work announcing the evening's order, as J. Stephen and I sat in the front row for the programme. (I love to sit in the front row, as the casts of all my plays have found out). It's such a small house that I think that may be the closest I've ever been to an actor onstage without being in the play myself!

It was a good audience; close to sold out, and they were very "live." They got all the jokes and roared with approval at things they particularly liked. 

And...we got our first review! I say we have this guy replace Brantley or Isherwood. Or both.

The Pig Tale folks had their opening night as well, and a couple of them swung by after their show was over and listened in the lobby. We made plans to head back to their apartment, then hit the Pantibar. (I mean, only in Dublin can you hit the Pantibar). The Pig boys had had their own exciting day: the bed they needed for Weikel's play just wasn't the right one for Pigboy Jesse May to hop up and down on during the show; as Weikel & director Mark Finley traipsed Capel St., they spotted a bed in a furniture shop, and decided it was the perfect one; and it went onstage a couple hours later. (Last year, I picked up a same-day prop on Capel St. as well...a hammer for one of my leading ladies in Some Are People.) Capel St. is a veritable gold mine of props! (As well as the home of Pantibar).

Honorary EATer Rian Corrigan came along to the Pig Tale apartment with us after our show finished, and took the photos as the New Yorkers crowded in for a picture (and that's not even all the TOSOS/EAT folk in Dublin! We have Elizabeth Whitney [TOSOS] in town as well).

We saw Elizabeth & her partner Lea just a short time later at the bar; can't wait to see her Wonder Woman: The Musical again. And, I was looking at this guy, and he remembered me first (I'm bad at that, I confess it). and He said: KATHLEEN! It's SCOTT! Scott from Provincetown. And indeed it was. The last time I saw him was in Massachusetts, in January, at the Universal Theatre Festival. He's with "Two Boys in a Bed," which played last week, and  was able to stay over a bit. 

Pantibar is this year's festival bar, along with the Front Lounge, and the two of them were my favorites last year. Panti's reminds me of an East Village Bar, back in the days before everything got so gentrified. There's a "Meow Mix" quality to it. And of course, Panti herself...I didn't get a picture (because I was enjoying my beer), but she came up and spoke briefly in all her blonde glory. I like a bar with picture of a haloe'd Dolly Parton on the wall.

And walked back up Grafton St. with Elizabeth and Lea, talking about where we'd been and what we'd done and what we'd like to know...I know I'll never get to it all. Today is Tuesday, and I've spent the whole day doing business/work. However, there's dinner later at the Mermaid Cafe, and two shows tonight!

Tomorrow is a day at the beach (literally) and Thursday a massage awaits.

Hotel tour starts shortly, and I have to write up my interview with the Genealogy Butler at the Shelbourne (which you'll be able to read on Frommers.com sooner rather than later!)

EatinIreland 2009 version

...and we're back!

It's either the end of one very long day, or the start of the second day of the journey. We're here at the Absolut Dublin International Gay Theatre Festival.

After last year's successful visit with three plays (Some Are People, Tom Cruise Get off the Couch, and Emily Breathes), we applied again with two plays. J. Stephen Brantley's Break and my own The Adventures of... Both are already peripatetic pieces: Break's been done in Provincetown, New Orleans, and twice in NYC; Adventures has been seen at Wings, EAT and the Sam French Festival, and is currently gracing the pages of Best Short Plays for 3 actors, 2008 (Smith & Kraus).

So, you know, we're sending the good stuff.

To the left is the fine J. Stephen Brantley, posing next to a gay trashcan. That is, as soon as you get off the plane in Dublin, you start to see advertisements for the festival everywhere! So the first thing everyone does when they arrive is take a picture of the trashcan. It's becoming a tradition.

J., Jamie Heinlein, stage manager Terra Vetter and I flew from New York last night (Saturday), and arrived early this morning in Dublin. I didn't sleep much, well, really at all, because it was a packed plane, and I had an exit row seat (great for leg room, not so great for the seat going back).

Our other actors (Hunter Gilmore and Jason Alan Griffin) also made their way to Dublin...we trusted they'd be at tech rehearsal, which began at 11:30 at the Cobalt Cafe.

We made our way into town from the airport, and I checked in at my hotel, while the rest of the outfit left their bags at the Grafton Capital Hotel (just off Grafton St., notably closer to all the venues than last year's lodging).

Because I straddle at least two worlds at all times, I went to the Fitzwilliam and checked in; I'm editing Frommer's Ireland this year, and any trip here falls under the definition of research. Lovely, wonderful research.

And met the gang at the head of Grafton St. Over breakfast at Bewley's Cafe, I remarked that Nanci Griffith has a song called "On Grafton Street," which references Bewley's. J. remembered the song, and we talked about how much we love Nanci Griffith, which is another point of contact between the two of us!

Here's a link to Nanci performing On Grafton Street.

We made it to tech up on North George St. afterward, and it was lovely to walk around Dublin on a Sunday morningm before the crowds began to swarm, and when the streets and the air still smelled fresh and moist.

The Cobalt's a lovely performance space: it's an old Georgian mansion which is also an art gallery and a bar, and living space for its owners. There's a parrot that never stops calling and singing upstairs, and a patio in the back that called for drowsy sitting on a Sunday morning.

We marked both shows, and since the lighting and sound were minimal, it didn't take long to work through them. Everything is about sight lines in this space: there's no rake whatsoever, and the audience sits in chairs that begin just beyond the archway of a living room. They close the shutters on the streetside windows, and there are a few red velvet drapes on stage right wall, and the back between the windows. There's a fireplace stage left. I expect the playing space isn't much larger than the original Caffe Cino, and you know they got a lot done there.

We finished surprisingly quickly, for a tech, thanks in large part to Vickey Curtis, who is managing the venue (and who wrote one of the plays, and is acting in it!). We first met her last year, when she was one of the Irish playwrights in the shorts programme (in Ireland, I use the Irish spelling), and she introduced us to Moritz (yes, like Moritz in Spring Awakening), who would be running the lights.

We finished up just as Chris Weikel arrived...Weikel, of course, is the author of the play Pig Tale, which is here under the auspices of TOSOS, with even more of our friends, following its successful run at Wings late last year. We did an invited dress with the Pig Tale boys last Monday, and it was good to see us all playing in a different space, and all the actors on their toes figuring out how to best use it.

We followed Weikel around the corner and went up to the furnished apartment he's sharing with some of his crew, and then back up Grafton St. for lunch; and I peeled off and went back to the lovely hotel with Mark Finley (TOSOS Artistic Director) where we checked in with the rest of the world and talked theater, here today and what we're hoping to do the rest of the year.

On Grafton St., we saw a sand sculptor putting the finishing touches on a statue of a pig, which I figured was a good omen for the TOSOS guys, and Mark threw a euro in the hat. (Though as you will note below, it is a GIRL pig).


And then I put in a wakeup call for 4:30(pm), because we had to be back at the theater at 5:30 for a runthrough...and answered the call and went back to sleep.

Leaping out of the hotel AT 5:30, I grabbed a cab uptown (Just like New York!) and got to the venue well, close enough to when I was supposed to be there.

We got a first look at the other plays that we will be sharing the bill with, starting with a one-woman mini-musical that will start the show in a suitably decadent manner; Fraulein von...something something (I don't have a program with me, and I'm not even going to attempt to pronounce it! Which may get me a spanking come tomorrow night).

Then Break breaks the ice for EAT, followed by a play called Seamus & Seamus (set in heaven), Vickey's Two Girls and a Ring; Brian Merriman's Seventy, and Adventures (there's one more show on the bill, which is going to be last, because the people performing are performing a full length that starts at 8pm several blocks away. Good luck fellas! You're going to need it!)

And we managed to finish up the runthrough at an entirely reasonable 8-ish pm. Dinner beckoned, and we headed back across the Liffey to Temple Bar, accompanied by the delicious Rian Corrigan (who was also in the shorts program last year, and is practically an honorary Irish member of EAT), and another actress (names...I'm terrible with names...) who is appearing in a production of Michael Collins. (Interestingly, two other shows running at major venues in Dublin are All My Sons and a stage version of The Shawshank Redemption). I suggested (nudged) us in the direction of the Bad Ass Cafe, which is one of my favorite tacky joints anywhere. The author of the Ireland book and I go back and forth on it, because I think you need a tacky joint (or three) in a book, and she is looking for stuff that's a little more authentic. I argue that it's authentic kitsch.

There are little trolleys that run on cables near the ceiling (at least in some parts of the room), and they clip the orders to them and send them over to the kitchen. So I tucked into a plate of bangers and mash....(mmmm. Mash). and everyone else likewise got something hearty. Burgers, soups, salads, pizzas: all recommendable. It stays in the book.

And the beautiful weather is still holding late of an evening, and I got back to the room, and tried to catch up a little (helped somewhat by the Manhattan I ordered at the bar and brought up to the room with me).

But now, the spirit is willing (it's almost always willing), but the body is saying: SLEEEEEEP!

The lovely bed calls me (really, I am so tired I can hear voices):
Pretty, isn't it?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz