"Christmas Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer!" May the Ghost of Christmas Past ("Long past?" "No, your past.") remind you of happinesses that are no more but still linger in memory. May the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, ever mutable, reveal shadows of pleasures still to come. May the Ghost of Christmas Present see naught but cheer in your home and in your heart this sunny day -- and may those two frightful children who clutch at him, Want and Ignorance, diminish their presence in this world.

"And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:" Bill-the-Honeybear. Penny. Kathe and Neal and Alex. Nancy and Larry. Paul. Sherri. Charlie. Steve. Gordon. Mike and Lou and the Queen City Rollers. Skip and Alan. TJ and Jon. Kevin. Mindy. Marianne and Bob. Just the short list of my Christmas Presents who expand my life by being in it, and who for some improbable reason let me be in their lives.

Irwin, my first love. Mom and Dad. Martha. Andrea. Diane. Wendy. Grandma Baker. Grandma and Grandpa Neuner. Ralph. My Christmas Pasts who brought such joy to my life, and who still live in memory.

Sing a song of gladness and cheer
For the time of Christmas is here!
Look around about you and see
What a world of wonders this world can be!
Sing a Christmas carol, sing a Christmas carol,
Sing a Christmas carol like the children do!
And enjoy the beauty, all the joy and beauty
That a merry Christmas can bring to you!

"Pacific Overtures" is strikingly beautiful and on several levels disturbing -- but it's a Sondheim musical, so that's not saying anything new. The story is that of Commodore Perry's visit to Japan, which ended over two centuries of isolation and brought Japan -- forcefully -- into the modern world, and the changes made to Japan by that visit (displayed in the interlocking stories of a minor Japanese official who becomes Westernized and a fisherman who lived briefly in America and re-embraces the feudal ways). The backstory is that this is a Japanese creative team's (librettist and composer) attempt at fashioning a Broadway-like musical about an event in their country's history.

The current production (running through January) has been staged by Amon Miyamoto, who is himself Japanese and who staged a Japanese-language version of the show last summer at Lincoln Center. The result is visually stunning, although several plot holes remain in John Weidman's script.

This production, like the original Broadway production, employs a mostly-Asian cast. Major difference: in the original production, men played the women's parts in traditional Japanese dramatic style until the last number when women joined the cast; in this production, some female characters are played by women, others (usually the comic ones) are played by men. I prefer the new production in this regard.

Another similarity between the original production and this one is the problem of hearing Sondheim's lyrics -- the most clever on Broadway -- because of either the speed of the music or the inevitable mushiness that goes with chorus numbers. In one number, "Please Hello", you can with little loss stop trying so hard to hear the lyrics and enjoy the comedy of five cartoonish foreign ambassadors alternately confusing and terrorizing the hapless Shogun. But the other number is the climactic "Next!", which in one number represents 150 years of Japanese progress, the pupil learning all too well from its foreign teachers. Here the picture is of grimly proud citizens dressed all in black-with-studs -- sort of Japanese punk -- and the image (as Bill-the-Honeybear pointed out to me) is a subtle insult to the Japanese who gained progress at the cost of giving up their heritage and soul. But you can't hear what they're saying. (I wonder if that's not intentional as well?)

Overall, though, this is an excellent show. I recommend you get seats in the front mezzanine -- the Roundabout Theatre Company is presenting this show at Studio 54, and they have (I think) unwisely left the orchestra section in the tables-and-chairs setup used to stunning effect in their production of Cabaret. Also note that evening performances start at 7:00, an hour ahead of traditional Broadway show starting time, with the resulting effects on travel and dinner times. Mezzanine and balcony seats are large and comfortable, as they are in so many newer theatres -- a plus when you're plus-sized like me.

Minor nit: The Roundabout Theatre Company bought Studio 54 this past year. If there was ever a theatre that could stand to be renamed to reflect Broadway history, this one is it. So why don't they? My guess: They couldn't find a corporation or an individual with enough dough to pay to have the name changed. Feh.

The Advantages of Floating in the Middle of the Sea. A lovely title, and of the very first song in Stephen Sondheim's Pacific Overtures -- which Bill-the-Honeybear and I will be seeing tonight. Of course, this means we have to be at the theatre by 7:00 when the show starts (not 8:00 like most other shows). I'm hoping that three hours will be enough time to get from the house to the theatre by car in light rain. I saw the original Broadway production, so I'm very interested in seeing how an Asian director interprets this work. Bill is a Sondheim fan, so I'm betting he'll be in rapturous awe for the evening.

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And soft and sweet the words repeat
Of "peace on earth, good will to men".

And now I thought the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Would toll along the unbroken song
Of "peace on earth, good will to men".

And in despair I bowed my head.
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of 'peace on earth, good will to men'."

Then tolled the bells more strong and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men!"

Well, it's time. After avoiding buying almost anything (well, something for the nephew-by-friendship the last time I was in Florida), tonight's the night. I'm taking the plunge and going (gasp!) Christmas shopping. But I think I've got a workable plan. First, I go home from work and get the credit cards I'll need (I'm reserving three of them just for shopping purposes). Then I go to the local mall, Bridgewater Commons, and hit Eddie Bauer and Williams-Sonoma for gift cards, and Yankee Candle for small gifts. Then I head for Highland Park and meet Bill-the-Honeybear at Bloom's, a great store with lots of little (and some not-so-little) unique items for gift-giving. After that, dinner, probably at Charlie Brown's. Then home. Wrapping can wait until the 24th.

Then there's tomorrow. For a few people, I'll be getting gift cards for Barnes & Noble. The only reason I'm not doing it tonight is that going to B&N takes me in the opposite direction from all the other stores. But I can hit it tomorrow, between the chiropractor and bowling.

The power of the press. I've been asked if I would be interested in being the editor of the newsletter for a group I belong to. I've got quite a few questions about how the operation runs, and they have to be answered first before I decide. But I've been looking over the newsletter and thinking about ways to make it a more interesting read -- not in terms of graphics per se but in terms of content. Both need to be addressed, but I think for now improving content takes precedence over improving layout. Anyway, I'll have a chance to get my answers and put forth some of my ideas before the end of the year. All I have to do for now is suppress the rising excitement -- this is something I really want to do.

I don't usually go to comedy clubs. Not because I don't like stand-up comedy or improv -- I do, and there are many good and some great stand-up comics out there. (I did stand-up once at the San Francisco Improv...but that's a story for another time.) And Bill-the-Honeybear and I spent one fine evening at the Toronto branch of The Second City. But I don't normally seek out entertainment at comedy clubs.

But Bill-the-Honeybear got free admission to The Stress Factory, the comedy club in downtown New Brunswick, so last night off we went. The place serves food, which was all right but not whoopie-wow. The comedians were, shall we say, uneven -- of the three we saw, each had good spots in his act, but not consistently good acts. So it would have been an OK, average experience.

Except for the audience. Not all the audience, mind you -- most of them, like us, were interested in hearing what the comics had to say, and there was some good comic-audience interaction. But seated behind us was a group of around 20-25 people, all of whom worked for the local branch of the New York Health Club. Apparently they thought they were at home, watching Comedy Central, because each of the comics (and the emcee) had to ask them to keep quiet multiple times during the evening. It wasn't that they were talking, or talking constantly; it was that they were TALKING LOUDLY AND CONSTANTLY as though it was their God-given right to be disruptive drunks who would have probably had a better time at a private orgy, had it not been that this was some sort of company holiday event.

Cell phones going off during a show are an annoyance, but at least the people with the phones make the pretense of being embarrassed. These people had no embarrassment in them at all. If I had been the club manager, I would have thrown them out and instructed the reservation staff to refuse any future requests from NYHC to hold events there. The comics were all used to handling unruly audience members (although not, I'd bet, in such large numbers). This audience member was not used to handling them.

This had been my first visit to The Stress Factory. It was also my last, for a good long time.

An update on that election stuff that I posted a little while ago: My colleague on the election committee and I revised our election procedures. The election was held yesterday without major muss, fuss, or bother. Only one ballot was needed -- we had expected more, since there were three candidates for president and the winner needed a majority of votes. It's all over now. Life as we know it may now resume.

At least the one ballot election meant that my birthday wish came true -- my birthday being yesterday. (53, thank you, and feeling fine.)

Stuff I've learned this year (#348 in a series, collect them all): Writing out your hurt, your frustration, or your anger really does help get the poison out of your system.

The most wonderful time of the year: I generally try to take the last week of the year -- the one between Christmas and New Year's Day -- off. Often, I try to see as much theatre (as in Broadway) during this time as I can. (The days available run from Thursday, December 23rd through Sunday, January 2.) Right now, I'm trying to figure out which shows I really want to see, when I want to see them, hunt for discount tickets (both Playbill.com and TheaterMania.com have them -- you have to join to gain access, but the joining is free), check with Bill-the-Honeybear on which ones he'd like to see too. This is the type of planning I wouldn't mind doing more of. (On my like-to-see list so far: Twelve Angry Men, Gem of the Ocean, La Cage aux Folles, Hairspray, Pacific Overtures, and Rent (second time for me, first time for Bill). I wouldn't mind seeing Mamma Mia! or Wonderful Town (again) or Avenue Q (again) either.)

Thank you for not reading the previous post. I feel better now, as I usually do as the day goes by. Sunlight helps, as does food. Keeping busy so that I don't dwell on myself is also a plus. Bill-the-Honeybear loves me, as does my sister Penny and my nephew-by-friendship Alex. I have a small group of close friends and an army of acquaintances, buddies, colleagues, and pals. I have had great love in my past, particularly from my mother and father and my first (late) lover.

All I have to do is remember all of this when the small voice in my head starts telling me otherwise.

The Slough of Despond. This post is particularly ugly, and very difficult to write. I would suggest to everyone that they avoid reading it as though it were Medusa trying to stare them in the face.

Since I turned 50, three years ago, I have been experiencing more and more often the belief that I am, essentially, a useless person. The lives I touch are not better, and sometimes worse, for my being there. I make no difference to anyone. My actions make no difference to anyone. I serve no purpose. Were I to disappear tomorrow, it would not be noticed.

I don't know how I've gotten here. Other milestone birthdays have come and gone, and they've been just other December 13ths, neither regretted nor celebrated. But the 50th birthday was somehow different, and why this should be I have no idea.

I didn't want my life to be like this. I didn't want to be the sole support of my household. I didn't want to be in a job where I exist by means of year-to-year contracts. I didn't want to feel as though all I was good for was giving. Above all, I didn't want to feel as though wanting anything was futile, because I couldn't ever expect to get what I wanted or to have things turn out as I wanted them to. I don't want to feel like I have to live as though I was poor, or 19 again, or both. I don't want to feel that my magic has gone, possibly forever.

And yet I can't help but want. I want a house where I don't have to worry about taking care of the disrepair left by I-don't-know-how-many previous owners. I want a house where I don't have to walk around stacks of boxes and crates filled with unused things and old mouldering papers. I want a house with space and light, both of which I crave as an addict craves his fix. I want to be able to invite people into my home without feeling ashamed of the way it looks. I want to share my life with a partner, not a dependant. I want to live with someone who has a job and earns an income and shares the expenses of our home with me. I want to believe that I am a good man who is wanted and appreciated for what he has to offer, and for doing what he feels he has to do. I want to have my ailings and failings acknowledged and not used as the start of a comparison with those of other people. I want my emotions acknowledged as mine, to express when and how I see fit, and not seen as something wrong with me that people need to fix, or worse, something that has to be turned into a learning experience on the proper time and way to express my emotions.

But I won't get any of that. I put it out into the universe, and the response is silence. I can't make those around me change, or motivate them to want to change. Even when given the chance to express any of this, I'm blocked by considering what effect my words might have on other people's feelings, and blocked again by trying to choose the clearest words to express myself. It's easier to scream and rant when alone in my car. Worst of all, I'm blocked by the thought that I have led a charmed life, one of amazing privilege that many people cannot even aspire to, and therefore have no right to complain about or want any of these things.

It's not going to change. I don't expect it to, because I know it's not going to happen, and expectation will only bring disappointment and more sadness. I can't have and I can't hope. All that's left me is the maintenance of the external me, the role I once chose and am now assigned, the coping and protection that doesn't work as it once did.

And if you wonder: no, suicide is not and never will be an option.

I did some blog re-reading this evening, and I see I didn't say anything about my colonoscopy, which was done on Thursday. So here it is.

First, the preparation, which starts the day before. Since the procedure is being done at 9:30 a.m. Thursday, I have to stop eating solid food at 10:00 a.m. Wednesday. Only clear liquids after that -- coffee and tea (no sweetener or milk), clear broth, water, clear fruit juices (orange doesn't count), soda. Jell-O is allowed, provided it isn't red (which shows up during the procedure looking like blood) or green (which looks like feces). So, lots of yellow Jell-O, which Bill-the-Honeybear prepared for me earlier in the day. And only half-doses of my medications. I decided to take Wednesday afternoon off work, so I could lie around doing nothing. No bowling that night, either.

Thursday morning at 3:00 a.m. is when I have to stop taking anything by mouth -- no water, no medications, nothing. We get to the center in Hillsborough where the procedure will be done around 8:30 a.m. and they start prepping me around 9:00. First, off with all the clothes except my socks, and on with one of those lovely backless hospital gowns. Then onto a stretcher/bed, where a nurse and the anesthesiologist go through my medical history and tell me what's going to be going on. The anesthesiologist puts an IV line into my left hand and the nurse starts a saline drip. I'm hooked up to the standard monitors (blood pressure, respiration, oxygen level, heartbeat). Then they wheel me into the operating room.

More nurses, an anesthesiologist's assistant, and the doctor who will be performing the procedure. It's relatively simple, really -- they stick a TV camera up into my colon, snapping pictures and looking for anything out of place. If they find something like a polyp or an abnormal growth, they'll take a sample for further testing. The assistant helps get me on my left side, positions my arms and tubing and wires, and injects a liquid into my IV line to knock me out during the proce......

When I come to, it's around 11:00. I'm unhooked from the monitors after a few more checks, especially of my blood pressure. The IV is removed and a gauze pad taped over the site. I'm given my clothes and the curtains are drawn while I get dressed. Then it's out to the reception area, where Bill-the-Honeybear has been waiting all this time. He drives me to our usual Sunday morning diner (Felix #9, on Route 22) for my first solid food in over 24 hours, then takes me home.

They did find a polyp -- just one -- and removed it for testing. I have to schedule an appointment with the doctor for a month from now, and they'll call me in about a week with the results of the test on the polyp. I don't know why I was so worried about this procedure -- I postponed it twice and was really anxious right up until late Wednesday night -- since it was so relatively easy and painless. Oh, yes -- I get to do it all over again in three years.

I was told once, long ago, that the political battles in organizations where the officers had so little real-world power were the fiercest. Consequently, you'd think I wouldn't get involved in such battles. You'd be wrong.

There's a gay group I belong to which will be holding elections for officers soon. I volunteered to be on the election committee (there are two of us on the committee). The committee, according to the group's bylaws, is charged with running the election, preparing the ballots, receiving nominations -- the usual stuff involved. Most years, this job is a no-brainer, since there's usually only one person running for each office.

This year, there are three candidates for president, and two for one of the two vice-president seats. Normally, this is a healthy sign -- more candidates means more people with an interest in how the group is run. The flip side to this is that those who expected to run for office with no opposition now find themselves facing a campaign in which they might lose. And when three of the candidates mentioned above are also current members of the group's board, there's a potential for, shall we say, wanting to make sure the election is under control.

The election committee has found itself in a struggle with the board over election procedures -- those things that say just when and how the election will take place. The board feels that, in the absence of procedures in the bylaws, they must approve the procedures created by the election committee, making sure they conform to the bylaws and Robert's Rules of Order. Not a bad idea in and of itself -- except (1) the parliamentarian (the officer charged with interpreting the bylaws and Robert's Rules) is a candidate for office, and (2) the president (the officer upon whose request the parliamentarian does his work) is a candidate for office. The result is that some (but not all) of the candidates think they will be writing the rules for the election.

The election committee came up with a set of procedures and sent them to the board for comment -- but not approval. The board, through the president, sent back a set of comments. While the committee was working with the comments to alter the procedures, the president asked the parliamentarian to compare the procedures to Robert's Rules and list all discrepancies -- which he did, in a four-page report that failed to take into consideration (1) the bylaws (which trump Robert's Rules), and (2) items that did not fall under either the bylaws or Robert's Rules.

The election committee now has to decide what to do. The election is one week from tomorrow. Stay tuned...

My goodness. Or, put another way, terms that describe types of goodness. It was a topic of conversation with Bill-the-Honeybear yesterday during a coffee break amidst rounds of Saturday errands. My overly fertile mind came up with two types of goodness: lemony musical comedy goodness, which describes sensual pleasure (that is, pleasure gotten through the senses); and honey beary goodness, which describes pleasure derived from one's partner. Both of them describe pinnacles of goodness -- which I guess in this case should really be called bestness.

Something different with Christmas cards this year: Instead of purchasing new boxes of holiday cards (which means, with the different religious/holiday traditions of my friends, finding something that doesn't either look or sound Christmassy) or digging through the boxes looking for leftovers from prior years, I indulged myself. In New York, I bought two boxes of Playbill note cards -- blank inside, with the outside showing a scene from a Playbill of the 1920s or 1930s (on the front) and giving information about the show and the theatre (on the back). Then I wrote a simple "happy holidays and happy new year" message inside, signed them, sealed them, and stamped them. They'll certainly stand out in anyone's collection of cards this year -- and for those who know my love of theatre, they'll be cards that are unmistakeably Allen's.

I love the theatre. I love watching living, breathing actors perform on a brightly-lit stage to about 1,000 people sitting in a darkened auditorium. I love curtains going up, overtures, curtain calls. I love drama, comedy, and "the two most glorious words in the English language," musical comedy.

But, odd as it may sound, I love the physical structures called theatres, and none more so than the thirty-nine theatres clustered mostly from 41st Street to 54th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues known as "Broadway theatres". (There will be a fortieth theatre in about two years when construction is finished around Henry Miller's Theatre on 43rd Street.)

Even the names of theatres ring with history: Helen Hayes; Al Hirschfeld, the caricaturist; Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne; Ethel Barrymore; critics Brooks Atkinson and Walter Kerr; impresarios Sam Shubert and David Nederlander and David Belasco; Eugene O'Neill and Neil Simon; Richard Rodgers. The Palace, the grand dame of vaudeville. The New Amsterdam, "the House Beautiful", home of the legendary Ziegfeld Follies. When theatres are renamed, as sometimes they are, usually it's to honor someone of importance (Kerr and Rodgers are the most recent of this crop).

But there is the harsh commercial world to consider. Two of the restored 42nd Street theatres, the Selwyn and the Lyric, were renamed when they were refurbished in honor of corporate sponsors -- American Airlines and Ford, respectively (although the name "Ford Center for the Performing Arts" doesn't ring too falsely in the ear). And the venerable Winter Garden, home for too many years to "Cats", had a carmaker's name attached to it, becoming the Cadillac Winter Garden.

Now, the Ford Center is being renamed by its new owners (Clear Channel Communications) the Hilton Theatre. This, even though the 42nd Street Hilton recently announced plans to turn the old Liberty Theatre next door into a performance space. This is revolving door naming, all for the sake of a corporate sponsor's dollar. Even worse, two of the 45th Street theatres owned by the Shubert Organization -- the Plymouth and the Royale -- are going to be renamed, respectively, for those great theatrical names...Gerald Schoenfeld and Bernard Jacobs.

Who?

Schoenfeld is currently the chairman of the Shubert Organization. Jacobs was its president until his passing in 1996. Not that I have anything against either man -- after all, they kept the Shubert houses lit and in good repair through some hard decades for the theatre. And God knows their flagship theatre, the Shubert, is named after Sam S. Shubert, founder of the empire. But still...Sam's two brothers, Lee and J.J., for all their enormous egos, never dreamed of naming one of their Broadway houses after themselves. (They revered their older brother, who had the dream and the drive and died too young in a railroad accident.)

There are many people, living and dead, who could lay claim to the name of a Broadway theatre. Julie Harris. Stephen Sondheim. Oscar Hammerstein. Tennessee Williams. Ethel Merman. David Merrick. The list is seemingly endless. But Schoenfeld and Jacobs? Those are names, like John Cort and George Broadhurst, which will become lost in time and forgotten. Shame on the Shubert Organization for renaming these theatres. And shame on Gerald Schoenfeld, who for so long refused to rename any Shubert house, for agreeing to do this now.