Playwrite Frank Gagliano


I'll tell you, Harold: There's no question! You're now Numero Uno in my life—Because my mother always said—and I quote, "Henna, if you must have a man—and I'd advise you to rethink that bit of propaganda—but if you really must—then it's a smart daughter's job to get one who knows what he's running from and to, and has the where-with-all to get there!—with you along for the
ride! Just look at what your not-swift Mum wound up with," she'd sob and say. "Your stupid bum-of-a-dad; shanghaied on the Garbage Barge Fleet; sailing around—like some friggin' flying Kraut—without landing, for a year, because no place would allow the barge to dock and dump. And then one day, dumb dad does decide to act—decides to get to shore himself—sees what he thinks is a magical silver escape raft floating by, and leaps onto what turns out to be a million used condoms, which, like some senile seal, he chokes on, and drowns in. —Don't settle, Henna! Search! Search!”
End, Mum's quote.
So I, Henna, have, indeed, been searching for a running from/slash/to man who—even if blind—could smell used condoms a mile away—and could take me with him to the promised land.  . . .And you, Mr. Harold Icarus Hubris, are that man.  . . .BOTTOM LINE: I said before that I admire your erotic fingernails. And I mean it! I mean, you could probably strum and plink-plunk a lady's south central uvula like nobody's business. And even as I speak, my south central uvula is now plink-plunking away—and without the actual strumming of your erotic fingernails. Though! I fully expect to deal with their diddle, as soon as we reach . . . "Safe Place."

Let's go!

Says horny Harold.