I was expecting something magical, subtle, wonderful, hilarious. I guess I expected too much. I've admired Wallace Shawn's work as a screenwriter (My Dinner with Andre, The Designated Mourner), actor and essayist. What he chose to read on this occasion were parts of two hit-you-over-the-head essays, an excerpt from a friend's middling short story, an excerpt from a long John Ashberry poem. All tied together, sort of, with long apparently improv verbal meanders. A truly mediocre evening.