Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Jessie and Lina are neighbors. Both have newborns. Jessie spots Lina at the grocery store, and invites her over. There is no patio furniture so they must share a slide for toddlers. Each carries one of those remote nanny gadgets, ear cocked for the first peep. Lina’s particularly skilled at calming her son from a distance. The two discuss strategies for dealing with regular squalls, and Jessie mentions her doctor, who says: “Let them cry it out.” Lina is appalled that anyone would leave a baby, to weep alone in the dark, till it realizes no one’s coming. She adds that unless Jessie’s doctor has a vagina, he should mind his own business.

Even though it’s plain that Lina is blue collar and Jessie comes from privilege, they bond almost immediately. They share very personal details, finding they have much in common. One day, Mitchell just shows up in the backyard, groping for the words to explain who he is, and what he’s doing there. Apologetically, he tells them he’s concerned for his wife, a new mother herself. She seems profoundly detached and distant. Understanding he’s coming from out of the blue, he asks if Adrienne might join them. He leaves his card, before they can say, “No.” After some rumination, Jessie consents. When Adrienne comes over, she spends all her time answering email. When she speaks at all, she’s brusque and petulant. She storms off, spouting invective. When Jessie expresses genuine sympathy, Lina is aghast.

Playwright Molly Smith Metzler has crafted a cunning, very moving story, comparing the lives of three women, dealing with demands of motherhood. Each comes from a different economic background, with different men, and different aspirations. Cry It Out considers the systemic trap that women must endure, when living in a patriarchy. Certain tropes of female subjugation are so ingrained in our culture, they’re nearly intuitive. Lina deals with these frustrations as best she can. Adrienne is overcome with rage. Jessie is resigned and terribly, terribly sad. Metzler offers a microcosm of American hierarchy without referencing these ideas in so many words. Speaking as an inveterate feminist, diatribe is sometimes appropriate. But what makes this drama so effective, so sophisticated, is how seamlessly, how indelibly Metzler depicts the predicament of three women, who would just settle for some crust of happiness. Certainly the plot stands without further rumination, but the subtext is nearly as salient.

Across the board, the actors (Shea McMillan, Danielle Elliot, Eddy Herring, Haley Ewertz) are impeccable, delivering poised, dedicated, touching performances. Director Carol Rice orchestrates a pitch perfect show, that balances tone, content, pace with intelligence and mastery. This is a powerful, compelling piece. Let it be next on your list.

Rover Dramawerks presents: Cry it Out, playing June 17th-26th, 2021. The Core Theatre: 518 West Arapaho Road, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-849-0358. www.roverdramawerks.com

Ginger (aka Gingy) opens Love, Loss and What I Wore with one of her drawings, projected on a screen. It’s the outfit she wore on her first day of school. She draws every piece she needs to remember. She goes into detail, describing the components, her expectations, and other emotions tied to the event. And that’s the premise of Love, Loss…each dress, suit, bra, boots and other articles of clothing trigger an important memory for the women who share their anecdotes. Often we are provided cultural and historic context for a particular piece, though some “speak” for themselves. In addition to the narrator, there is an ensemble cast of four other women. Mostly they deliver monologues, and occasionally, a group commenting on a particular subject, just to mix things up.

Adapted from the book by Ilene Beckerman, sisters Nora and Delia Ephron premiered Love, Loss and What I Wore in 2008, at Guild Hall in East Hampton New York. The play seems to turn on the idea of fetishes, that is to say, how a profound incident fuses with an object. Cigarette pants with her first night in Paris. Boots with an excruciating episode, and defiance. A tuxedo and family conflict resolved. Like In White America or Spoon River Anthology, it tells a story by weaving personal accounts (from the lives of women). From teen to young woman to woman to elder. From celebration to ordeal to epiphany to resignation.

The key to any successful writing, I think, is an intersection between the unique and universal. We may not know the stories before the curtain rises, but there’s just something about each one, that feels familiar. I am going to speculate here, that Ms. Beckerman and the Ephron Sisters were aiming to evince one aspect of the female experience. By producing these “tokens” from each vignette, we learn something from what it means to be a cis-gendered woman in American society. Not that these authors don’t push the envelope, here and there.

In a departure from their delectably silly comedies, Pocket Sandwich Theatre has gone with a show that’s reflective, wry, heartbreaking, and always authentic. The cast (Sherry Etzel, Rose Anne Holman, Araceli Radillo, Angela Vaughn, and Kim Winnubst) is nuanced, avid, invested and poised. Rose Anne Holman demonstrates her director’s chops, striking a balance between sentience and the strange realm of recollection. I wondered when I attended, if I might feel I was peering into a window. This certainly would have been enough, but Ms. Holman manages to preserve accuracy while finding the enchanted touchstone we call empathy. And that’s a miracle in woefully short supply, lately. Don’t miss this marvelous, sophisticated, unsophisticated show.

Pocket Sandwich Theatre presents: Love, Loss and What I Wore playing Tuesdays and Wednesdays: June 15, 16, 22, 23, 29 & 30 at 7:30 p.m. 5400 East Mockingbird Lane, Suite 119. Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-821-1860. pst@dallas.net

 

Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler is a thwarted soul, smothering in the effete existence of academic aristocracy. She bemoans her marriage to adoring husband George, all loftiness and no intensity. She tolerates George and his Aunt Julia, for the sake of economic security, barely concealing contempt for the concessions she’s endured. Indeed contempt seems to be her stock in trade. She aches for the tempestuous affaire de ceour she left behind when she broke off with Eilert. The bellicose emotions he triggered in Hedda, self-actualized and exhilarated her. Something about the chemistry between them ignited repressed rage, creating a special bond.

When Thea (an erstwhile school friend) shows up on Hedda’s doorstep, she’s surprised to discover that Thea’s left her husband, to pursue a connection to Eilert. It seems both Thea and Hedda are stuck in dissatisfying, loveless marriages. When he tutored her children, Thea and Eilert gradually became closer. Thea has nurtured his better angels, facilitating a successful novel, and his recovery from alcohol addiction. Through all this, Hedda feigns sympathy and encouragement. She’s seething with jealousy, but forgets the choices no one forced her to make.

Hedda, compelled to survive a culture that stifles women with powerful, reckless feelings, will nonetheless sabotage those who have managed to deal. When anger shoves her to extreme measures, we see her prolonged struggle with that decision. In some sense, her pride has been wounded. She can’t bear to see someone she loves so passionately, succeed with another woman. Hedda Gabler feels like a paean to Hedda’s shadow. When inevitable attempts to validate her darkest impulses are thwarted, she finds solace in capitulation. She would rather check–out than subsist in a world that refuses to comply. 

It will be a relief, I think, when we can leave virtual theatre in the margins. Local troupes like The Undermain have vigorously risen to the occasion, with their recent production of Hedda Gabler. Blake Hackler’s adaptation is effective and expedient, though there were times when I wondered if it made the melodrama a bit too salient. At the risk of sounding like a bible-thumper, perhaps Hackler’s more contemporary turn on Ibsen’s dialogue (“Way to stick to your guns.”) loses some nuance and lyricism along the way. That being said, Undermain’s Hedda Gabler is captivating and articulate: clarifying complex themes, showcasing phenomenal performances  and cunning execution.

Undermain presents Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, adapted and directed by Blake Hackler, streaming May 26th-June 13^th, 2021. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, TX 75226. 214-747- 5515.  www.undermain.org.

Set in the Arizona Territory, in the late 1800’s, Drac in the Saddle Again begins on a train. Momma Farmer and her brother, Norman, are headed back to the ranch, when a strange fog rolls in. An antagonistic bat comes from nowhere. Then a mysterious stranger turns up, and joins them. After some congenial conversation, he strikes without mercy. Loud, prolonged booing ensues. (As it should.) Snatching a locket from Mama Farmer’s throat, Dracula (yes, it’s him!) concocts a scheme to pose as Fannie Farmer’s Uncle Norman and wreak havoc on their erstwhile, reasonably contented lives. After successfully convincing his naive “niece”, he conspires with the housekeeper, Consuela del Frankenstein (??!!) to enact an onslaught of mayhem and treachery on Fannie and her boyfriend: The Guy with No Name. Little does Dracula suspect he must match wits with Sheriff Arnold Schnetvinger and his wife, Dr. Hilde Schnetvinger.

I am (as they say in the UK) chuffed to bits that Pocket Sandwich Theatre has reopened its doors, ever mindful (naturally) of the responsible steps required for a safe and glorious evening of comedy. There may be others who try to emulate their technique, but to quote the philosopher Carly Simon, “Nobody does it better.” PST’s tongue-in cheek, fabulously ridiculous, over-the-top, goofy brand of hilarity, is a balm to the soul. Drac in the Saddle Again rarely misses an opportunity for a blue pun, wisecrack, silly reference, scene-gobbling outburst or meticulously placed non sequitur. “Nobody talks that way about my Fannie.” …. “Did you order a Bloody Mary? No, but I will.”…etc…There’s nothing better than a show that elicits helpless laughter: the result of excellent timing, masterful mugging, scimitar sharp banter and disingenuousness (or is it?) that would make Gracie Allen proud.

It isn’t just Pandemic Deprivation speaking when I say that Pocket Sandwich makes the extraordinary effort to be welcoming and hospitable. It was a joy to be in the midst of such a merry throng of performers and of course, audience members. If you can’t boo you-know-who or cheer our real-life-heroes in person, for Christ’s sake do it at PST!

Pocket Sandwich Theatre presents: Drac in the Saddle Again playing April 30^th through June 19^th, 2021. 5400 E. Mockingbird Lane, Suite 119, Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-821-1860.

Drac in the Saddle Again was written by Steve Lovett and directed by Michael Speck. Starring: Kayla Anderson (Fannie Farmer) Bryan Brooks (The Guy With No Name) Kelly Moore Clarkson (Momma Farmer) Matt Doden (Dracula) April 30th-May 30^th.   Sherry Etzel (Consuela de Frankenstein) May 13th-June 19^th.   Kenneth Fulenwider (Uncle Norman) Jake Shanahan (Dracula) June 10-19th.   Alex Wade (Black Bart) Aidan Wright (Chap-Chap) Trista Wyly (Consuela de Frankenstein) April 30th-May 9^th.

P.S. Michael, I apologize. I know you’re not Richard. I’m a fool.

 

 

Scam Likely lives in a well-kept, upbeat apartment. He’s dapper, with a jaunty sense of fashion. He’s fastidiously groomed, certainly gregarious. The only thing that seems peculiar is all the phones he’s got. They’re landlines. There’s quite a collection (all over the place) and they’re all connected. Each time a different one rings, he answers. He hears the voice, he replies, but they can’t hear him. Some of the callers are friends. Such is the premise in our hero’s ordeal in Idle Spirit. Written and performed by Justin Locklear, part four of Ochre House’s Ghosts in the Kitchen series, this piece is a cunning depiction of a man in existential crisis. He has an urgent need for connection, any connection to another human being. Nothing else seems extraordinary in his life, that is to say, nothing to explain why his need to simply talk with another person on the phone is repeatedly thwarted.

Idle Spirit is comical, absurd and often sad. We couldn’t really say that Scam is desperate. His behavior doesn’t seem irrational considering the strange situation he’s subjected to. From time to time we get hints of the concealed engine that propels the story. The cigarette that unrolls to reveal a token or metaphor. A phone conversation from the past, when his callers had his number by mistake. Mr. Locklear would seem to be reflecting on the nature of authentic connection. The attempt to genuinely communicate and intersect with another human being. Another soul. Scam reminisces: When I was a kid, I could make friends with anyone. No doubt this is a useful and appropriate gift in social gatherings, but how many of these exchanges (by the nature of humanity) are cursory? Not to say simpatico is only a theory, but strong relationships usually take time.

The play seems to take a turn, when Scam places a call and winds up calling himself. (I apologize for the spoiler.) This (what might be called) enacted koan, a revelation wrapped in a quandary, points to what Scam may be missing in his interior life. He is so overcome, so confounded, he can think of nothing to say after: Who is this? And hangs up. In Dream Song # 14, John Berryman says: I conclude now I have no / inner resources…. Scam definitely has inner resources, that he’s yet to tap. Why else would he want to fly? It’s hard not to wonder if all the shows in Ochre House’s Ghosts in the Kitchen Series are not inspired by the pandemic and subsequent, prolonged, isolation. Scam’s predicament is easy to understand. We learn to manage the quarantine, because we have no choice. But it’s a skill. Sometimes insipid catchphrases like: “Let’s pull together, apart!”and fist bumps don’t help.

Ochre House presents: Ghosts In The Kitchen Virtual Theatre Series: Idle Spirit, written and performed by Justin Locklear. Location: online at: www.ochrehousetheater.org. Dates: Streaming: May 6-16th, 2021. Time: Thursday – Sunday / 12pm-12pm each day. Admission: Pay Online: www.ochrehousetheater.org /$10 Reservations: Online: www.ochrehousetheater.org or for assistance: (214) 826-6273

As the lights come up on Key to a Dark and Lonely Night we see a haggard fellow taking a slug from a bottle of Jack Daniels. He has a bristly beard, rumpled clothes. He seems highly agitated. He keeps looking out the kitchen window, which is boarded up. The refrigerator is pushed up against the door. Someone bangs on it from time to time. Our hero talks about the past, addressing perhaps a guy named Dave, or himself, or the audience. Perhaps all three. He has fond memories of their halcyon days, going camping at Roaring Springs. Like countless teenage boys, they brought numerous controlled substances so they could kick back and get messed up. He chuckles when he remembers driving off all the campers, when their rowdy celebration got too loud.

There are several black flags to signal us that something’s off. He keeps boxing his head as if his memory (or brain) is malfunctioning. Sometimes he stands in the corner, facing away. He keeps coming back to the same last pill, the same drink, the same empty cigarette pack, over and again. He seems to return repeatedly to one particular night when a third guy, Eric, gets so drunk, he must grab the axe away before Eric mutilates himself. Our narrator seems to be defending himself to someone we can’t see, or perhaps reach a point of clarity.

Kenneth Grammer’s piece is at once deeply troubling, confounding, mysterious and sad. There is something frantic about the narrator. Something that suggests he’s actually trapped by circumstances, not a catastrophe of his own making. Pretty early we realize something terrible’s happened, though his explanation circles back and forth, without naming it. When he repeats the crazy behavior of he and Dave (and sometimes Eric) indeed it seems no different than the kind if mischief teenage boys have gotten into for centuries. Our heart breaks for him. There’s little (if anything) to suggest sociopathy or rage or intense alienation. There’s something almost childlike about his behavior. Scared, ashamed,

lost. When Dark and Lonely Night reaches its shocking conclusion, we are not sure it happened before or after the scene we’ve just witnessed. Suddenly we must rethink the story we’ve just seen. This is cunning drama of the first order.

Ochre House presents: Ghosts In The Kitchen Virtual Theatre Series: Key to a Dark and Lonely Night: written and performed by Kevin Grammer. Online at: www.ochrehousetheater.org. Admission: Pay Online: $10. For assistance: (214) 826-6273.

A one-act, performance length monologue, David Rabe’s Suffocation Theory sneaks up on us. Adapted from his short story, published in The New Yorker, it tells the story of a middle-aged guy who returns to his apartment, only to find that his wife, Amanda, is moving them, roughly 5 blocks away. His protests fall on deaf ears, the moving men are on the way. When they arrive, the new neighborhood is “chaotic and desolate”, but Amanda runs from room to room, shouting: “I love it! I love it!” Reed, their new, contentious roommate, locks horns with him, early on. Reed is a schmuck, wielding a pistol and trailing water from the bathroom. We later discover he is also Amanda’s paramour. At a party he meets the prophetess Cassandra, doomed to forecast true predictions, but never believed. Meanwhile, Amanda and Reed continue to diminish his existence, acting as if he is invisible.

At the outset, our hero gives us a litany of the state of the world. If it feels somewhat prolonged, it is certainly appropriate to our present day tribulations, and the ordeal we have endured since 2016. He describes his addiction to the news, one horrible event after another, bombings, spree killings, destructive weather, seemingly endless catastrophes, commented upon by experts; who try to help him navigate the atrocities that pummel us. Night and day. It doesn’t take long to see Rabe is addressing current, profoundly disturbing events that have besieged us, with little or no relief. They are detailed, but not enough to point to particular items. He meets a group of suits (at the aforementioned party) proclaiming they must help the president. Who knows more about anything than anybody else. Who is in trouble. A president who needs to be understood and liked.

It is fairly astonishing that Rabe has found a way to dramatize and comprehensively interpret an onslaught, that might easily presage the end of days. He has a gift for imbuing violence with of a kind of poetry, but more than that, revealing the forces driving ubiquitous adversity and viral suffering. An inspired metaphor depicts our hero struggling with the dilemma to either embrace or surrender empathy. Suffocation Theory begins grounded in verisimilitude, but gradually takes on the disjointed narrative of a fever dream. Visions hysterical and (gratefully) absurd come one after the other, sadly held together by the glue of the recognizable. Grim though it may be Suffocation Theory offers some clarity during these days of despondency and disappointment, placing them in the context of history, satire, pathos, fable and the surreal.

Undermain Theatre has done a remarkable job, bringing Suffocation Theory to the virtual platform. With direction by Jake Nice, camera work by Marc Rouse, performance by Bruce DuBose, et al, they have created a memorable and poignant experience in a genre still stumbling through its baby steps.

Part of Undermain’s Virtual Whither Thou Goest America Festival, David Rabe’s Suffocation Theory plays April 7th-May 2^nd, 2021. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, TX 75226. 214-747-5515. www.undermain.org

Supernova Leftovers, written and performed by Carla Parker, is part of Ochre House’s Ghosts in the Kitchen Virtual Theatre Series, involving a woman (who may be named Janie) cooking and conversing with herself, as folks who find themselves alone, often do. Even if they cohabitate. There are vegetables on the kitchen table, she pulls more from the refrigerator, she sets a stockpot on the stove, in preparation to make soup or perhaps a stew. The kitchen is brightly colored, pictures on the walls, warm hues, very chipper and encouraging. She opens a pack of smokes and that’s when her internal dialogue becomes clear. Words spoken aloud are relatively few. It seems to be a tug of war or persistent struggle between the self that fails, despite good intentions, and the self that constantly admonishes her. Tragically, there seems to be nothing morally wrong with her, other than resentment for pushing an enormous boulder up a mountain every day, only to watch it roll back down again. Sound familiar?

It’s not unusual to wrestle with our desire to be transcendent, devoted human beings that belong to a community guided by altruistic values. Help the destitute, heal the ailing, love each other, despite our flaws. But Janie’s pathology has dragged her into realms of self-loathing and hysteria. She aches to fulfill her best qualities, but despises herself for falling short. Her self-deprecating side feels more like self-sabotage than ongoing vigilance to confront shortcomings. She is quite beautiful, obviously intelligent and gifted, yet this internal tormentor won’t let her love herself. Disassociative behavior: dancing frenetically in a cloud of pink tulle is profoundly unsettling, negating her calm, if subtly neurotic exterior. When she starts addressing a butternut squash as if it were an infant, it seems amusing at first. Then it seems more plausible she’s trying to bandage early abuse.

Supernova Leftovers explores an otherwise lovely life, marred by the grotesque folly of unabated self- persecution. What might at first appear to be unflinching self- examination, becomes a vehicle for self-torment. Nobody’s expected to coast through life without self-awareness, but Janie’s misery lies (excuse the expression) in letting the perfect be the enemy of the good. A supernova might be an exploding star a billion times brighter than the sun, or a celebrity who abruptly bursts onto the scene. Who among us hasn’t been held in thrall by remarkable joy bestowed by a benevolent deity? Janie’s impossible self-expectations seem too phenomenally overwrought to be of her own making, though the origins are barely detectable. Ms. Parker’s piece is a masterfully realized, complex depiction of a caring soul, destroyed by a culture driven by abstraction and draconian consequences.

Ochre House presents: Ghosts In The Kitchen Virtual Theatre Series: Supernova Leftovers, written and performed by Carla Parker.

Location: online at: www.ochrehousetheater.org.

Dates: Streaming: April 8 – April 18, 2021. Time: Thursday – Sunday / 12pm-12pm each day

Admission: Pay Online: www.ochrehousetheater.org /$10

Reservations: Online: www.ochrehousetheater.org

or for assistance: (214) 826-6273

 

Ghosts in the Kitchen : The Romantic Night encourages ambivalence. Maybe 20 minutes in, you either want to reach for the bottle or you never want to touch another drop. Our unnamed protagonist launches into a monologue, after rooting through the fridge for sliced cheese and luncheon meat and stuffing it into his mouth. He then locates a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shotglass, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He is (to put it kindly) disheveled. Unshaven, unwashed (I’m thinking) rumpled clothes, drooping eyelids. A mess. He is trying to find his way back to the events of the previous evening. He needs to cut through a blackout. He will take a shot immediately, followed by numerous others, throughout the piece. Very possibly to find the cerebral geography of the night before. He is, surprisingly, fairly focused. You’d expect him to keel over in the twinkling of a bloodshot eye.

He keeps going back to the details of his odyssey from the bar, till he made his intrepid way home, on foot. It might be his social drinking hijinks, or his collapses, or the busy streets, or the cops, or the gaze inside the window of a mansion, where all is posh and urbane. This opulence he will never enjoy, is excruciating, and follows him long after he’s returned to his own humble hearth. Farts and belches. Pain and rumination. Vertigo and dread. A swim through the black river of loss and despondency and a thousand bruises. Alcohol has a way of ramping things up. Everything is in your face or impossible to reach. Possibly both.

I have spoken before about Ochre House Theater: The Palace of Dreams and Nightmares. You would be hard-pressed to find a playwright with the chops and imaginative verve of Matthew Posey. Like Shakespeare, The Romantic Night overflows with dense, exquisite language. One image after another, muscular verbs, phantasmagoria and turpitude and swoony metaphors. In contemporary American English. I do not say this lightly: if this piece isn’t legit poetry, it’s very, very close. We are submerged in the profoundly disturbing world of our hero’s inebriation. We get the feeling he’s never sober. (His bloodtype could be Nazi From Hell.) The language is so gorgeous you don’t want to miss a word, yet we’re held hostage to nerve-wracking content. Posey (and Ochre House) create this grotesquely glorious experience, marrying hedonism, torture and oblivion. Matthew Posey also plays our protagonist and directs. I cannot say strongly enough, you will never find a comparable performance in another theater.

Ochre House Theater presents: Ghosts in the Kitchen : The Romantic Night, written directed and performed by Matthew Posey. www.ochrehousetheater.org

 

T-Bone and Weasel are best buds. They are also car thieves, driving through the backroads of South Carolina, in a stolen Buick. T-Bone (Kenne Earle) is African American and Weasel (Travis Cook) is white. T-Bone is “the brains of the operation”, and Weasel might have been dropped on his head as an infant. During their non-heroic odyssey, they encounter a liquor store owner, a cantankerous car lot proprietor, a redneck sheriff, a corrupt politician, a sex-starved cougar, a crazy guy living under a bridge, all played by Carter Frost. Early in the show, T-Bone decides a liquor store will be easy pickings. The two go inside and between unbelievably bad luck, and a litany of Weasel’s missed opportunities, the heist is a dismal failure. Subsequent eventualities only add to their ordeal. An insatiable dowager. A pathological hobo. A politician media whore. Or was that a pathological politician and a media whore hobo?

T-Bone and Weasel plays like a fusion of Dukes of Hazzard and In the Heat of the Night. Playwright Jon Klein exploits Bible Belt tropes, but resists the temptation to to use them only for cheap laffs. (A second cousin of Flannery O’Connor, if you will.) Each encounter aims a magnifying glass on the darker side Southern Christianity and hospitality. Klein takes the time to set caricatures aside for better realized characters. He injects ethical quandaries into the mix, giving us a deeper understanding of T-Bone and Weasel’s better and less admirable qualities. As we might expect, he explores racism and the choices this demands of the two friends. He doesn’t settle for compromise or derivation or stock routines. He gives us time and space for reflection and appreciation of detail. The exigencies of human frailty.

There is nothing quite like The Pocket Sandwich Theatre experience. The cast and crew go out of their way to make us comfortable and welcome. The minimal sets and curtain speeches only enhance our pleasure and enjoyment. PST gives us triple helpings of merriment and glee, all while maintaining wise precautions. T-Bone and Weasel is a surprising piece of theatre, contemplation in goofy comedy clothes. The cast is dedicated, agile and ready to play. Special nod to Carter Frost for his acrobatic acting skills.

The Pocket Sandwich Theatre presents T-Bone and Weasel playing March 5th-April 17^th, 2021. 5400 East Mockingbird Lane, Suite 119, Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-821-1860. www.pocketsandwich.com