Strindberg went right over his head. He had driven, in his black, GPS EV. I was sitting in the audience with him, watching my son perform in the university play; he was with my daughter, a film major at a different school, the one where I doggedly work, when I'm not writing doggerel. My wife sat on the other side. I had moments to explain the Strindberg--- hypocrisy symbolically exposed--- but my wife (we met in the theater) has a sticky personality and changes the subject every five seconds. I felt helpless and distant and old. But I drank the Strindberg and to hell with them! if they didn't get it! if they only wanted to gossip! I recalled my college theater youth when we were surrounded afterwards by actors and audience, waiting for my son to come out, there he is! flouncing men, tight groups of absolutely beautiful women; actor make-up and costume gone, the young people who had been on stage now appearing in the swirl, the superficial profundity of the theater like the warmest of brief baths. It was a loosening, though nothing happened, and, of course, evil and deceit continue, time marches on, and Strindberg is in his grave.