Sometimes I feel like the end of the world is right the fuck around the corner.  Like it's tomorrow.  Like I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all be gone.  Just ash.  Corpses.  Putrid pools of vomit and blood.  Like I won't even wake up tomorrow.

Chris is sick of his life at 25.  His resignation letter is a virus in his company's computer system.  He gets in his car and leaves New York, headed for who knows where, someplace better, something more.

Chris lands at an old dance club, rotting with neglect.  Here he finds three strange women, whose past is unclear, who may or may not have been sitting in front of the club for eight years, who may or may not have been subsisting entirely on pizza.

Chris needs time to think.  Medea, Leda, and Harmonia have their own, stranger problems.  They're pregnant with the babies of a man they only remember from dreams, and they're getting the idea that they have last names, and histories.

Desperate for guidance, Chris and the women descend into the darkness of their dreams and nightmares.  The primal forces they summon from within are disturbing and terrifying, but they point a direction forward, the path back to reality, back to the world outside the club.

The Connoisseur of Chaos began as an exercise in a class with Carey Perloff at NYU in early 1991. A twelve-minute play called Apocalypse was read at the Hangar Theatre in Ithaca, New York in August, 1991. Fuller versions were read in 1992, 1993, 1994, and 1996. The Connoisseur of Chaos was first produced in the Olympic Ballroom, Dublin, Ireland, in November, 1997, as part of the Dublin Fringe Festival. The play has not yet been produced in North America.