I don't go to the theater as often as I should. I'd go more often, but my long-term memory works fine. Two or three months, I find, is just long enough to forget how much I hate spending a couple of hours in an uncomfortable seat rubbing my arms and legs against a stranger.

Last night's stranger was at a performance of "Abraham Lincoln's Big Gay Dance Party." It's very funny but serious too, an odd amalgam of silly comedy and Gay History 101. It's what the Carol Burnett show would have been like if its writers were in ACT UP.

Before the show starts, a randomly-chosen audience member selects the ordering of the three acts. It's engaging but a bit self-defeating, I think. Imagine Madame Bovary shooting herself during Act One and you can guess the problem.

Still, the writing is first-rate, and the cast is incredibly talented. The time flies by, even when your neighbor reeks of alcohol, nose-whistles when he breathes, and keeps his legs together about as well as your average Palin.