George Hunka writes over at Superfluities Redux of some confusion over the title HOW THEATER FAILED AMERICA.
(I also don't really understand the question involved, that theatre is supposed to serve or fail that bizarre idea of "America" in some way, whatever "America" is, not to mention China, or Australia, or Mozambique, and whether theatre is failing them, too; it scrapes against the intimation that art, by its nature, doesn't possess explicit cultural utility, but touches the individual instead; the idea itself smacks of that curious contemporary Western pragmatism that castrates theatre's possibilities; but I've been obtuse before and will be again.)
I believe the title is perfectly suited to the monologue it accompanies, and I suspect will make sense to Mr. Hunka, but the proof of this is a bit long and will have to wait for another day—there's been enough already this week.
In more urgent news, my best friend had a baby this morning, which means his new daughter is born on that sacred day between worlds that I wrote about in my mailing—I couldn't be more pleased for John and Jenny. I look forward to a long life of very few birthdays (but triumphant ones when they happen!) for this new creature.