Dead girls’ skulls.

We just finished the run of RICHIE, which went far more smoothly than any modern adaptation of Richard II staged as a spoiled starlets’ pub crawl through downtown Durham with nineteen actors, four designers, and five security personnel had ANY BLOODY RIGHT TO.

No hiccups. No drama. And only one night of rain, which stopped after we performed three scenes with umbrellas. It was like a test by the theatre gods who wanted to see if we would, in fact, carry on; and once they saw we were continuing the sacred rites, they sent us clear skies and a warm night. And we oversold almost every show—on closing night, we had to turn thirty people away.

Sometimes it’s nice to be popular.

I played The Bishop. I wore a red satin dress, a white stole, and a feather miter, and I got to unleash hell on the traitors, including the choice line, “Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny shall here inhabit, and this land be called the field of Golgotha and DEAD GIRLS’ SKULLS!”

Oh, for a stage on which to play, and for playmates ingenious.

Thank you all.