By Michael Hartigan (From the Literary Traveler Archive)
I am not an original Groundling. Nor could I ever be, what with widespread theatrical ambivalence, modern day health codes and a personal dislike for sloshing through human waste.
However, had I been a child of the 60s (the 1560s), I might’ve felt right at home on the wrong side of the Thames, amongst the bawdy bards and applauding proletariat. Right there, on the floor, standing room only at Shakespeare's Globe, ankle deep in mud, stale ale and whatever that steaming liquid over there in the corner might be – reveling in revelry w...
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