Busy, busy me: I wish I could get paid for all the things I do outside of work. Alas, I don't, although the "jobs" I do at times could qualify for being full-time employment.

First, there's Challenge, the newsletter of the Gay Activist Alliance in Morris County (GAAMC). I've been the editor for just a year now. That means I get to pull together, ten times a year, articles from contributors (many of which I have to hunt down), advertisements, GLBT calendar notices, clip art, news at all levels, and promotions about upcoming GAAMC events, squeeze them all into a ten-page publication, get it printed, buy postage (and sometimes other mailing supplies), arrange for envelope stuffing, and take the completed product to the post office. I also get to go to GAAMC board meetings and remind the members that I have a contribution deadline (the 15th of every month) and that, if they want GAAMC events publicized, they need to get items in to me by that date -- and sometimes, even, remind them that certain events should be publicized.

My reward? Being told repeatedly and consistently how good it looks and what a pleasure it is to read. The downside? Having to give birth and watch my baby leave me, ten times a year, to toddle into a cold and heartless world .

Then, there's GaySIG. That's the Gay and Lesbian Special Interest Group of American Mensa, of which (since January) I've been chairman. I stepped into this position with my usual impeccable sense of timing -- this year, American Mensa hosts a World Gathering to mark Mensa's 60th anniversary. It also happens to be GaySIG's 30th anniversary, so on top of hosting our usual hospitality suite at the WG (which is in August at Walt Disney World) I'm in the middle of planning our anniversary celebration there, plus arranging the time and day for our shifts in main hospitality and at registration, plus figuring out the day for a "gay day" at one of the theme parks (right now, Epcot's the favorite), plus tying to find a place for our traditional SIG dinner on Saturday night. Oh, yes, and write a column for GaySIG's newsletter, LeGambit.

And speaking of the WG, I'm creating a guide to Walt Disney World for the attendees. Right now, it's a 20-page document. It's not meant to be a comprehensive guide to everything at WDW -- more like a "handy tips" and general overview guide. The full name of the guide is "The Pooka Guide (tm) to Walt Disney World". I've hired an intellectual property lawyer to draw up a licensing agreement between me and American Mensa for use of the work -- all they have to do is sign the agreement and pay me my licensing fee ($1.00) -- and we're set to go.

"Who or what is a Pooka?" I can hear you asking now. The "what" is a magical creature from Persian folklore. (If you ever saw the play or movie "Harvey", the title character -- an invisible six-foot rabbit -- is a pooka.) The "who" is -- was -- my first lover, Irwin, who was called "the pooka" by a mutual friend of ours, TJ. By the time the guide is distributed, it will have been 11 years since he passed away.

For those who'd be interested in my travel plans to the WG: The WG itself runs from August 8 thru August 13 (Tuesday thru Sunday). I leave Virginia on the Auto-Train August 6, arriving in Florida the next day. The SIG suite will be open the length of the WG, closing on Monday, August 14. I leave Florida on the Auto-Train August 15, arriving back home sometime in the afternoon on August 16.

I love the Auto-Train. (Well, I love trains, period.) I get my own little room, two meals, and a movie, in exchange for which I do not get to drive for 16 hours down to Florida. (It's five hours from home to the station in Virginia, and about 45 minutes from the station in Florida to Disney.) I also get to use my own minivan in Florida instead of renting a smaller car that I have to (and never quite) get used to driving -- which means I can transport supplies for my other friends, the Olivers, who are helping to run the kid's activities at the WG, and I can run out and get supplies for the GaySIG hospitality suite, and I can drive five other people to, well, wherever, if I choose. I love having those abilities. Which is why I love the Auto-Train.

So what have I been doing this past week? Last Sunday, the 12th, was a little nerve-irritating. One of the systems I support at work, LIMS, runs a backup every Sunday night starting at 5 pm and ending with a system reboot so that the system can be back up and running by 11 pm. For the prior two weeks, the backup has been running longer and longer, which means the 11 pm deadline has not been met -- which means lost production time since the system can't be used. My supervisor asked me to check on the backup, which I did. It was running at 5. It was still running at 10. It was still running at 11. And it was still, still running when I got to work at 7 am Monday morning.

Obviously, the fix that was put in to prevent this last week wasn't working. I contacted the regional offices, told them of the situation, and kept them informed of the system status until the backup and reboot finished -- at noon. The regional offices were understanding, the guy whose fix didn't work now claims to have a new fix in place, and I got praised for handling the situation.

But wait -- there's more! On that same Monday, another system I do backup support for, Hyperion, was also having problems. With some help from my predecessor in support (the primary support person was out that day), the problem was figured out: the archive files had run out of space, so the system refused to work. Long story short: files have been enlarged, problem has been averted, I get more praise for handling the situation.

Normally I don't pay attention to praise -- it's sorta "here today, gone tomorrow" as far as I'm concerned -- but this time it counts. Why? Because up until now I've been seen as "the mainframe support guy". But Ethicon is, glacially, weaning itself off mainframe processing, and these two systems (LIMS and Hyperion) are not mainframe systems. So I'm broadening my skills, making myself more useful to Ethicon -- which translates into extensions of my consulting contract into the indefinite future.

Valentine's Day: nothing special to report. Stayed home, exchanged gifts with Bill-the-honeybear, rested. Actually not a bad way to spend an evening with someone you love, no?

I go to court. No, I didn't get sued. I took Wednesday the 15th off to drive down to Trenton to the state Supreme Court. It was the day arguments were being heard in the case of seven same-sex couples seeking the right to marry under the state constitution's equal rights clause. So I haul my shapely butt out of bed at 5 a.m. to drive to Trenton for an 8:30 rally outside the court building. For our side, there were about 100-150 people there -- gay and straight, including clergypeople, a sizeable contingent from NOW, a PFLAG group from South Jersey/Philly -- plus TV coverage from New York, Philly, and New Jersey (for the record: NYC - ABC, CBS, NBC; Philly - ABC, CBS, FOX, NBC; NJ - New Jersey Network (PBS), News 12 (cable), CN8 (cable)). We stood in the shadow of the court building in freezing weather, but it was fun! Lots of cars and trucks going by, honking in support; and the camaraderie forged when a group of people are doing something for a cause they believe in. I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

Oh, the other side? Maybe 50 people, no more, holding a prayer vigil for the cameras, their leaders wailing about the sacred and unchanging nature of marriage (conveniently ignoring several thousands of years of changing attitudes), and of the expense of having same-sex marriages that will be borne by the taxpayers -- as if the monetary cost of something permits negation of human and civil rights; and anyway, is there any taxpayer anywhere who is totally satisfied with where their money goes?

Yesterday... I put Challenge together. The March issue had fewer articles than previous ones, mainly because we ran the first of two full-page ads (the other next issue) for Equality Forum in Philadelphia, which takes place the first week in May. This was a swap for their waving the rental fees for two movies GAAMC will be showing, one in May, the other in the fall. It took 5 1/2 hours from start to finish, but it's done. This morning it went to the printers, and tomorrow it will be collated, stuffed in envelopes, labeled, and stamped. Tuesday morning it will be in the mail. Wednesday morning I start all over again for April.

"We never closed": Speaking of tomorrow, Bill-the-Honeybear and I are taking in a matinee of the movie "Mrs. Henderson Presents". It's the story of a wealthy widow who, between the wars, finds she's inherited a West End (London, for those who don't know) theatre, the Windmill. She comes up with the idea of presenting -- gasp! -- naked young women on stage in artistic tableaux. The government, in the person of the Lord Chamberlain (who had to approve all stage shows), tried to shut it down; but they didn't, and all through the Blitz (and the rest of WWII as well) the Windmill Theatre stayed open, giving all those young soldiers and sailors a glimpse of what they were fighting for. Judi Dench plays Mrs. Henderson, and Bob Hoskins is Vivian Van Dam, her theatre manager. This is gonna be a corker, mate!

Seduction of the Innocent: For those old enough to remember, those four words put the final nails in the coffins of several comic book publishers in the early 1950's. It was the title of a book by Friedrich Wertheimer, who claimed that reading comic books, with their images of violence and death, caused kids to become juvenile delinquents, even criminals. When the smoke cleared, the only publishers left were DC (home to Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman); Timely (which would become Marvel, home to Spider-Man and Captain America); and MLJ (which renamed itself after its most popular character, Archie); and EC (which, after everything else they published was banned, was left with a little humor magazine called "Mad").

Comics -- actually, single-panel cartoons -- are at the heart of a political firestorm once again. A Danish newspaper -- Jyllands-Posten, only one of the many published in Denmark -- reported the story of a children's book writer who could not find a single artist to illustrate a book featuring Mohammed, the great prophet of Islam and author of the Koran. In response, they invited a dozen artists to draw cartoons about how difficult it was to draw Mohammed -- an act considered a taboo among Muslims, but not expressly forbidden by Islam. Some cartoons are innocuous, others provocative, but in a society like Denmark's where press freedom is enshrined in law and tradition, unremarkable.

This was done in September 2005. Fast-forward to February 2006. A group of Muslim clerics from Denmark journey to Egypt, carrying not only the twelve cartoons but three more which they faked and passed off as additional cartoons from the same paper. The result? There's rioting in the streets of cities in Muslim countries; there's demonstrations in the streets of European cities, many of which have sizeable Muslim populations; and the Egyptian ambassador to Denmark, after meeting with the Prime Minister, states that the government of Denmark must do something to appease the Muslim world.

This is even after the Prime Minister explained -- politely, I would hope -- that the Danish government couldn't censor the free expression of ideas, even if they offended the Muslim world. Freedom of the press, you understand. No government interference. The Muslim world -- at least that part of it whose voice is being reported by the mainstream media -- cannot understand why the Danish government will not step in and stop this outrage.

Since then, things have spiraled. Muslim countries are refusing to buy Danish products. Embassies of European countries (and of the EU itself) have been put to the torch. The editors of Jyllands-Posten, considered a controversy-stirring paper even before this, are under police guard because of threats against their lives.

I find the Egyptian ambassador's choice of words interesting. Denmark must "appease" the Muslim world. Those who have studied history -- even those who are still with us who were alive during World War II -- remember how appeasement worked with the Nazis. Austria vanished; Czechoslovakia was eaten piece by piece; and still there was war, long and bloody.

It took a long time for the concept of rights of the individual, as enshrined in the Bill of Rights, to spread throughout the rest of the world. We've been working on it for over 200 years ourselves, trying to get it right, trying to get all the kinks out. Some other countries have accepted the concept; others have not. What we are hearing today is the scream of outrage from some of those who have not, who believe in freedom of expression only if their own sensibilities are not offended.

The problem with freedom of expression is that it's a double-edged sword. Yes, you can say or write or express any and all opinions you have, with a reasonable expectation that no level of government will be coming after you to shut you up. But the other side of that is that everyone else has that same right, even if what they're saying offends or insults you. The freedom protects you both. Having it any other way means that it ultimately protects neither of you.

The ones who need to apologize, who need to appease if you will, are those who are screaming for deaths because a religious taboo has been spectacularly broken. First off, the original twelve cartoons were published five months ago. In this age of the Internet (and yes, it's in all those Muslim countries too), if these cartoons were truly offensive there would have been protests and marches the day after they were printed. A five-month lead time? Please. It's not like someone gets offended, then waits a half-year later to decide to protest.

Besides, death for printing a cartoon? It's offensive to even think that our actions have to be goverened by the most thin-skinned amongst us. Besides, even ignoring Christianity's doctrine of forebearance, one can go back to Judaism's doctrine of appropriate response -- you remember, the one that goes "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life"? The Bible is not superseded by the Koran in Islam, if I recall what I've read correctly. Jews, Christians, and Muslims are all "people of the Book", and Moses and Jesus are considered great prophets and teachers within Islam (not slighting Muhammed at all; he's considered the last prophet).

So where are the seduced innocents? They're the ones in the "Arab street", the ones screaming and burning flags and calling for death as the appropriate punishment for a cartoon. They've been seduced by their leaders, regardless if those leaders are the monarchs of Saudi Arabia, the increasingly less secular rulers of Egypt, the despots of Syria, or the theocrats of Iran, into thinking that their problems are all the fault of the non-Muslim world, and that by screaming loudly enough, by shooting off enough rifles in the air, by playing to the global audience enough, their problems will disappear as magically as if a genie were granting a wish.

The Muslim world was once one of great warriors and even greater scholars and rulers. At some point, it stopped seeking answers, stopped exploring the worlds without and within, stopped questioning their society and their faith, in a way that Christianity and Judaism never quite did, even in their darkest years. Islam stagnated, and no amount of street protests can undo that. But the "Arab street" is seduced into this belief, and its innocents are indeed being led astray.

Welcome to the 60's: Bill-the-Honeybear and I were given a Christmas gift last year -- two $100 gift certificates for Ticketmaster. There were some extremely minor strings attached: First, I had to promise to write a theatre review for Imprint, the newsletter of Northern New Jersey Mensa, of whatever I saw. And second, the certificates could only be redeemed at Ticketmaster locations -- not on the phone or online. Neither one a problem, or so I thought.

Then we tried to redeem one of the certificates. Since we were going to be in NYC, we went to the most convenient Ticketmaster location -- Tower Records, up by Lincoln Center. We got there at about quarter after nine in the evening, only to be told that the Ticketmaster closed at nine. So we came back two days later, only to find they didn't carry the show we wanted to see (Bridge & Tunnel), and they didn't have a list of the shows they did carry.

Then a few nights ago, we decided to try a Ticketmaster location in East Brunswick -- sort of a schlep for us, but closer than NYC. They still weren't carrying Bridge & Tunnel. Then we asked about Wicked. Nothing available through June. Finally we settled on Hairspray, which I had never seen and which Bill-the-Honeybear had only minimal interest in. (He even suggested that, if I could find someone else to go, he'd gladly stay home.)

So last night, in we went, in the driving rain, and me with the beginnings of the cold I'm nursing today. We had dinner at a nice place near where we park -- the Theatre Row Diner -- with very good food in very large portions at a very reasonable price. Then we walked the ten blocks up Ninth Avenue to the Neil Simon Theatre, where we found that there was a line you had to get in if you had tickets.

We went across the street and stood under the marquee for the defunct ballroom Roseland, watching as the line snaked down the block and almost around onto Broadway. We got on line about 20 minutes before the stated curtain time, and got in with about fifteen minutes to spare before the curtain went up (only ten minutes late).

Well...It was wonderful. I had the original cast album, which we both had heard, and that explained why Bill-the-Honeybear was indifferent at first. Hairspray is one of those shows where the cast album is OK, but seeing it performed made all the difference. Obviously, some three years into the run, the original cast was long gone, but the cast we saw (including the legendary Darlene Love) was superb. The sets were imaginative, the costumes colorful and evocative of the era. There was even a runway around the orchestra (which, since we were sitting in the second row, brought the show really close). And at the end, when the cast was singing a reprise of the last song ("You Can't Stop the Beat") and I was mouthing the words along with them, the actor playing Edna Turnblad noticed me -- and gave me a biiiig smile! Bill's only quibbles were with the sound design (the lead actress' voice seemed to disappear in choral numbers) and with a problem that afflicts many shows in long runs: the actors were reacting to lines just a split-second before the lines ended. It's a form of theatrical shorthand that, if overdone, makes performances look mechanical. A touch-up rehearsal with the director usually takes care of it.

Then the ten-block walk (the rain having stopped) down Eighth Avenue, where we saw the building that once contained Barrymore's (the big front windows all boarded up, and the name sign taken off the facade to leave a large differently-colored rectangle behind). Dessert and coffee at a little place called EuroPan, then back to the car, then home. All in all, a nearly perfect Saturday.

They always come in threes: At least that's what my mother always used to say. Recently, we lost playwright Wendy Wasserstein (for whom the lights of Broadway were dimmed on January 31) and Coretta Scott King, of blessed memory. Now today comes news that actor Al Lewis, who played the irascible Grandpa on "The Munsters", died Friday. To my surprise, I learned in the obituary that Lewis had also been a basketball scout, a restaurateur, a political candidate (most recently for governor of New York on the Green Party ticket), and a radio personality (on WBAI). An odd collection, to be sure. But they always come in threes...

"I stink on ice." I got that phrase from my accordion teacher when I was a boy (only he would say "you stink on ice"). It means that whatever you were doing, you were doing it just so badly that not even ice would preserve you. Well, it applies to me this evening. I went bowling for the first time in three weeks, and my scores could charitably be called abysmal. The only thin thread of hope I can cling to is that at least my score in each of my three games was over 100.

Why am I bowling for the first time in three weeks? Because four weeks ago, I was out shopping at Staples, carrying around one of those red plastic baskets that you use when you're not going to buy enough to justify using a cart. I put one black ink cartridge and three reams of computer paper, with the basket on the floor. Then I picked up the basket -- quickly. Yes, I felt the strain in my arm, and I said to myself "damn!" But the pain went away, and I didn't think anything of it.

Until the bruise appeared. In glorious Technicolor -- purple, green, and some odd in-between shades of the two. Just appeared one fine morning, a week later. So I went to the doctor. She felt around, asking if I felt any pain (which I didn't). She bent my hand backward and forward, had me press against her hand, had me make a fist. She found the pulse, good and strong. And I had had my quarterly blood tests not long before, and nothing looked suspicious there. Then she asked me if I had picked up anything heavy recently. Bingo!

She explained that I had probably popped something in my arm that started some bleeding, but it was so far within my arm that the bruise didn't appear until now. Having ruled out everything else, she concluded that the bruise would go away in time, but if I felt any pain or had any motion problems, I should come back.

Now this was Tuesday, and I bowl on Wednesdays. I figured it wasn't a good idea to go bowling and put strain on the bruised arm, so I stayed home. The bruise wasn't gone by the following Wednesday -- it was slightly smaller, but still colorful -- so I stayed home again. But the bruise disappeared over the weekend, so tonight I was back bowling.

Maybe I should have done a few practice games first. Next time -- if there is a next time -- I will.

They're dimming the lights tonight on Broadway. Wendy Wasserstein, the playwright who chronicled the hopes and despairs of a generation of women, and in so doing won every top award the theatre has to offer, died yesterday at the age of 55. She had been battling lymphoma for a while, the obituaries say, yet that didn't stop her from shepherding her last play, Third, through its off-Broadway run at Lincoln Center. She first came to the attention of the theatrical world when the play she wrote as her college thesis -- Uncommon Women and Others -- was optioned and produced off-Broadway. After that came a succession of hits: Isn't It Romantic; An American Daughter; and the play that won her the Tony Award and the Pulitzer Prize, The Heidi Chronicles. She also wrote for the screen, and at the time of her death was working on a musicalization of her chidren's book Pamela's First Musical. She leaves behind her body of work; her daughter, Lucy Jane, born when Wasserstein was 48; her surviving family members; and a Broadway that will surely, and sorely, miss all the plays she had still within her.

Coretta Scott King. Just saying the name evokes the image of the strong woman who endured her husband's assassination almost 40 years ago, raised their four children, made sure his legacy and his name would never be forgotten -- and in so doing, became the "first lady of the human rights movement". I will remember her as one of the few leaders of the black civil rights community who stood up and openly declared that gays and lesbians and bisexuals and the transgendered also had civil rights that had to be fought for. She put her reputation and her name on the line to support us time and again. Her loss leaves a hole almost as big -- no, I'll say bigger -- than that left at her husband's death.

Happiness is...: Taking the train into New York City. Walking around the Lincoln Square area in a light rain -- enough to get your coat wet, but not enough to turn you into one of the orphans of the storm. Discovering a crowded little restaurant with nice hot coffee and chocolate cake and apple pie with crumbs on top. Finding a store called "The Sensuous Bean" and walking into a wonderland of coffees (does anything smell better than coffee?) and imported honeys and chocolates and caramels and teas. Being with someone you love while doing all of this.

Happiness is not...: Yesterday was the last day of operation for Barrymore's, my favorite theatre district restaurant. I've been going there for over 35 years. I've taken all four of my lovers there, plus assorted friends, plus my sister. The food was good (especially the chicken pot pie), the prices were moderate (well, for NYC), the staff without exception friendly and welcoming and dedicated to good service (and getting you out in time to make that curtain). Bill-the-honeybear and I were there this past Friday for dinner, and to say the joint was jumpin' doesn't begin to tell you what it was like. I had already decided that I would be there for one last time on the day it was closing, for one last meal, one last good-bye.

Mistake. We walked in to find the place empty. Only one waitperson who was doubling as bartender. The only food available was open roast beef sandwiches (without french fries!) or eggs. No beer at the bar, either. All the menus had been taken (or stolen, depending on who you talked to). The remaining contents of the place would be sold at auction on Tuesday. We walked out, took a picture or two of the exterior, then went around the corner and had lunch. I'm gonna pretend I wasn't there on Sunday. Friday will be my last memory of Barrymore's -- a wonderful place that has no place anymore in the redeveloping theatre district.

Oh, it's a long, long time... Especially since I last posted, over a year ago. So much has been going on that I just haven't had time to tell you about, so I'll be making up for it now.

Listen to the rain on the roof: The first Big House Thing to get done this year was the replacement of the roof and gutters. The gutters should have been done when we first moved in -- they were decrepit, with missing sections and ends that just, well, ended without going anywhere (which doesn't help the basement stay dry or the water stop dripping on you when you walk down the front steps). We now have a beautiful blue roof that won't need to be looked at again for, oh, 30 years or so. Note to self: hire gutter cleaners each year.

But when hunger comes a rat-tat-a-tat at the windows: Well, there's no denying it -- the windows in this house are strictly from hunger. We redid eight of them this year: the three in the living room, the two at the top and bottom of the stairs, and the three in the dining room. Six were replaced outright, while two in the dining room were removed and replaced with a huge garden window. Now all the plants are out of the kitchen (thankyewJeezus), and the bonus in extra light and space in the dining room is an unexpected pleasure -- we never knew the view out the back was so good before! The next ones to get done will be the ten windows in the sun room, sometime during this year (hopefully in the summer and not the fall -- don't know why, but our window replacements have always been in October, and we always just beat the onslaught of bad weather).

Our house is a very very very fine house: At least that's what a bunch of carpenter ants thought. When measurements for the windows were being done, damage was spotted along one dining room window and wall (facing the left side of the house). We called in an exterminator recommended by friends of ours, and the verdict was carpenter ants (not termites, thank God). The exterminator said that because the walls were wet with rain (those damn gutters, remember?) not only did the ants feel welcome, the interior walls sustained some damage too. Anyway, the house was treated, the carpenter ants are gone, and the wall will be first on our repair list this year, hopefully in the spring.

When you're racing with the clock: This was my first year editing Challenge, the newsletter of the Gay Activist Alliance in Morris County (or GAAMC). My last editing job, in junior high school, resulted in a year in which no school newspaper was printed -- which didn't exactly bolster my confidence in handling anything of an editorial nature. Still, I volunteered for the job -- and whaddaya know, I made it happen, ten times this year, on time and in the mail to the members before the start of the new month! Along the way I learned more about editing (including the fine art of editing other people's work without having them kill you), practically everything about working with a printer (the always-helpful folks at FedExKinko's), and a lot about mailing and distribution. I also created editorial policy from scratch, including the "house style" and rules for submission and complimentary subscriptions. The February issue, which was mailed off last Monday, marked the end of my first year. To say I'm proud of myself for doing this is an understatement. To say that other people are proud of me (including Bill-the-Honeybear, who gets to see everything as it's coming together) and telling me how good the newsletter is, is only relaying what I'm being told.

I think I'm smart: Well, at least I'm in Mensa. This month marked the start of my term as Chairman of the Gay and Lesbian Special Interest Group (or GaySIG), one of the largest SIGs in Mensa. As Chairman, one of my duties is to write a column for the SIG newsletter, LeGambit. Which means while I'm cracking the whip over deadlines with Challenge, there's another editor cracking the deadline whip over me! (grumble, grumble, growl) It's also one of my duties to run the SIG Hospitality Suite at the Annual Gatherings. This year should be fun, since we're going to be at Walt Disney World in Orlando -- in August. The world's smartest people, and we're meeting in bloody humid central Florida. Go figure.

Bit by bit, putting it together: I've volunteered to put together a guide to Disney for the Mensans attending the AG (actually WG, for World Gathering, since this year marks the 60th anniversary of Mensa worldwide). I have been working with an intellectual property lawyer to draw up a licensing contract for Mensa to use my work, which I have copyrighted, including the work's name, which I have trademarked: The Pooka Guide. For those who don't know, "the Pooka" was a nickname given to my first (now deceased) lover, a magical sort of man -- and a Pooka is a magical sort of creature. (The giant invisible rabbit in "Harvey" was a Pooka.) I should have a contract sent off to American Mensa by the beginning of February. Oh, yes, the consideration (what I'm asking to be paid for all this)? One dollar.

Another openin', another show: Well, only the latest ones. On Broadway for the last week in December, I saw: Fiddler on the Roof, the revival, with Harvey Fierstein and Rosie O'Donnell as Tevye and his wife Golde. Yes, the original show about traditional family values, with a gay man and a lesbian in the leads. And they were wonderful, as was the entire production. The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee is a riot -- yes, it's a musical, and yes, it's about a spelling bee, and yes, they take four volunteers from the audience to join in the fun on stage, and yes, it's probably the funniest and most touching thing you'll see. It's not in the "hock your grandmother and buy tickets" category, but it comes close. Chita Rivera: The Dancer's Life was the disappointment. Yes, she's 72, so she ain't doing those high kicks and high energy routines, but she still can move (watching her demonstrate different choreographers' styles is a master class in stage dancing). But the show's book -- Chita reminscing about her life -- falls flat, which is a pity considering all the shows she's done (including the original West Side Story and Bye Bye Birdie, and her last big hit, Kiss of the Spider Woman) and all the people she's known and worked with. But the rest of the audience adored it. The revival of Sweeney Todd was weird, strange, and mesmerizing. A cast of only 10 playing all the parts, led by Patti LuPone and Michael Cerveris, which also doubled as the orchestra -- and they carried it off, with a minimum of scenery and props. A good, scary, musical night in the theatre.

Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys: Brokeback Mountain. It deserves all the awards it's getting. It's a powerful movie about how harsh love can sometimes be, especially when it's being denied. Do not wait until it comes out on DVD. The Montana countryside has to be seen on a large screen, in all its harsh beauty. So does this story.

I never make resolutions, but... I do need to blog here more regularly. Thanks to all of you who have read my stuff from last year (meaning 2004-2005). I'll try not to disappoint you again by waiting so long to write.