Tickets just went on sale – CLICK HERE.

“This is boring, let’s go, let’s go, I’m bored,” he kept saying. Finally, one of the characters said (and I paraphrase), “I heard from Helena,” and another said, “Helena who?” and the guy behind us said, “Helena Rigby!”

WHICH ISN’T EVEN THE NAME OF THE SONG.

Micah looked back at him, theater aficionado code for kindly shut up, you are not in your living room, and in response the guy said, “Faggot.” The air around us went dead. “What?” Micah asked, in disbelief. “You faggot,” the guy repeated, “turn and look at me again. Turn and look at me again and I’ll knock you out.”

Micah and I faced the stage, both in shock. Now, I’m terrible with confrontation. I much prefer an icy dinner party where, say, my uncle’s new girlfriend is being openly ignored by the entire family. Micah, on the other hand, fashions himself a gay sheriff and thrives on the thought of justice being served — I still chill at the memory of a heated interchange he had with the manager of a shady smoothie place – so I thought to myself, there’s going to be a fight, my glasses are going to get broken, and everyone in this theater is going to hear me scream for help and think an elderly woman’s husband needs a doctor.

The guy continued to rant to his girlfriend: “He takes it in the ass, but he turns and looks at me? Fuck that. Fuck that.” And he just kept going, emitting little angry blips every two minutes: “Fucking queer. (two minutes) Fucking snob.”

Finally they zipped up their coats and left. We allowed ourselves to breathe again and, for the first time in thirty minutes, paid attention to the play. We’d missed some really key contextual shading, and a whole new character was onstage (“Helena Rigby,” if you will), but to the production’s credit we were easily drawn back in. At intermission two adorable nearby straight guys informed us that they would’ve had our back had things escalated. Nice to know, and hopefully the girlfriends at their side, endeared by their mates’ modernity, rode them after with extra liberal arts vigor.

Two things in closing. First of all, taking it in the ass is extremely painful and therefore anyone who can withstand it is REALLY FUCKING TOUGH*. Second, I don’t know for a fact that one of the slurs he hurled was “snob.” It is, after all, a five-dollar word, and I’m pretty sure he spent his five dollars on tolls coming in through the Lincoln Tunnel.

* Except for me. I am not tough.

My parents, brother, and I were driving around with my grandmother in Ohio over the holiday. Hers being a town of staggering smallness, she knew the inhabitants of every house we passed. Invariably something horrible had happened to all of them. In that house on the right lived a couple who threw a barbecue one summer – their sons got too close to the fire, and the fire “got the boys.” Just down that road a ways was a young woman from Mexico who gave up everything she knew to live on her new husband’s farm – his tractor flipped over on him in a ditch. Next cornfield over belonged to a newly-retired couple who were trying to be more active in their third act – on one of the morning walks they were really starting to love, they were mowed down by three bicyclists from out of town who didn’t slow on their turns and didn’t see them, you know, over the corn.

We began to dread every new story. It was a census of fatal mishaps. Her eyes would catch sight of a house in the lessening distance, and she’d say, “Oh, you know who lives in that house? Ralph Lerner, from church,” and after a while we’d all shout, “No! Stop! Don’t tell us anything else about Ralph Lerner; we don’t want to get attached or start to care about him!”

Later in the trip, my grandmother said to me, “I never wanted to marry your grandfather, you know.” I was standing in her doorway, and we’d been talking about New York. She continued, “I wanted to move to the city and become a journalist. But Grandpa’s love was like God’s love. It took hold of me and my life.” Another night we were dropping her off at her retirement home, and as she got out of the car she said, “Sometimes I shake my fist up at heaven and I say, ’Darn you, Hal; you left me here!’” She hugged my mother and said to her, “I’m ready to go. I’m just ready to go, you know?” and we walked her to her door. I didn’t know what to say. I cannot imagine being ready to go. But there’s time for that, I suppose. It’s a life’s work.

omg you’re so gross dude

Just an out-of-the-blue, friendly memo that my face is gross. Amazing, and altruistic. I deleted Grindr, figuring I could do without that kind of energy in my life, at least for a few days. Apparently I deleted it just in time.

Photos: Alexis Buatti-Ramos

But! I do have entries coming — I’m writing them now. I appreciate those of you that nudged me. Stay tuned.

I’m off to the Middle of Nowhere, Ohio with my parents and brother to visit family, write my show, and count Bachmann bumper stickers. Maybe I’ll see a shirtless farmhand, and maybe he won’t beat me with a tire iron for taking a Hipstamatic picture of him with my phone. Safe and happy holidays to you all. Back in a week.

The MTA should have them on payroll — god knows they’ve got everyone else on. Also, swoon for the Alexander Skarsgård doppelgänger on saxophone.