On punching the guy next to you, and why it is okay.

I feel my elbow bend and the muscles tense like my cat when she is about to pounce her brother. And then it springs: one swift punch to his temple. I feel his consciousness crack. He's out. I catch his head and quickly balance his chin on his chest. His date doesn't even notice. Thinks he has simply fallen asleep. The play isn't that entertaining, so it is plausible.

It is this plausibility that may be the culprit: the play isn't that entertaining, and the gentleman beside me (seat F2) is letting the surrounding patrons know this with his exaggerated sighs. Exhaling: hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. He has a little bit of mucus in his throat. A little cold maybe. So every third or fourth hhhhhhhhhhh ends in a chunky cough.

Counting the three New Stages staged-readings, this production of Sondheim's Passion -- hhhhhhhhhhhh -- is the sixth show I am seeing in five days. This number is also counting Pat McCurdy's genius set at the Beat Kitchen which he performs almost every Monday night, which might be a little unfair. Pat is on a level all his own. And one can drink beer in the dark back room of a bar while singing along to hilarious songs. But of the five playz: one was great (definition: well-crafted, well-executed, intelligent, pleasing), one was fun (definition: silly, entertaining, maybe would have paid for it if I had to and if tickets were cheap), one was pleasant (definition: glad I saw it; gladder it was free), and two were chores (definition: chores).

Some plays are chores. And you go. And you feel older when you leave. You want those hours of your life back so you can do something more worthwhile such as pretty much anything else you can think of. But, like your mama taught you, your chores need to get done. And your chores are someone else's pleasant experience. Your pleasant experience may be some one else's great. And I found Passion pleasant.

And so I feel my elbow coil and the tension build. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I try to remember that place on the neck that you can karate chop someone so that it knocks their adam's apple just so. hhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I begin to wish I had watched Star Trek so that I would know how to execute the Vulcan pinch. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

But of course I do nothing.

I think maybe people become playwrights because they are too cowardly to enact some of their more socially-unacceptable, morally-ambiguous, physically-improbable fantasies, like walking over to that asshole over there who decided not to turn his cell phone off -- even though he is in a theatre and even though he was reminded by the usher and by the house manager -- and taking said cell phone from his hand and, raising it high like the Spartans lifted their unwanted babies skyward before hurling them off Mount Taygeto, snapping it in half for all to see.

But then maybe that is why people go to the theatre as well.

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. POW! BAM!