I don't remember the play. But I was about 12 and I living with my parents in New York, and they decided to take me to the theater, or as my dad preferred to say: "expose me" to the theater. I wore a white turtleneck, itchy gray pants, and a blue blazer. I never liked blazers, with their doubloon-like brass buttons. Even the word--blazer--rubbed me raw. But there I was, flanked by my parents and wearing my blazer. Entering the upper tier, the first thing I noticed about the structure was its profound gravity, the way the stairs clambered up each balcony, stepping over each other to keep from being sucked down into the orchestra pit. Once seated (and past the initial sense of vertigo), I looked down at the people, milling about, finding their seats, and then up at the ornate trim, paint, and plaster work of the ceiling. Then I slipped into the type of meaningless idle daydreaming that only yields anxiety and sadness. Did I leave such-and-such textbook at school? Why doesn't so-and-so girl like me? Then the lights dimmed to near blackness, the murmur of the crowd stilled, and the play began. Thinking back on it now, all I can remember is how silly and fake it all seemed. The actors shouting their lines, mincing around the stage, the characters too self-absorbed to see that the nature of their problems lay within themselves. By the second act I had this nearly overwhelming urge to climb down to the stage and solve their problems for them. Realizing that would be problematic, and likely involve the police, I went back to daydreams. I can't say my view of the theater has changed much over the four ensuing decades. I still have the urge to climb on stage and tell everyone what's what. It's clearly a mental defect of mine. So for everyone's benefit, I'll stick with movies.