As I’ve mentioned, the Gay Gotham Chorus, with which I sing, has a big concert this Saturday night at 8:00 pm on the Upper West Side. I’d love it if you’d come. Just keep in mind that my family will be there. My parents, my aunt, my brother, his girlfriend.

I don’t think my Jewish parents ever imagined the day would come when they’d watch me sing Christmas carols with a bunch of gay men.

(FYI, less than half the music is Christmas music, if you happen to be against that sort of thing.)

We had our penultimate rehearsal last night. For the first time, we sang all the music on our program. And you know what? I never realized how many double entendres our music has.

“You must sit down, said Love, and taste my meat.”

“Step we gaily, off we go.”

“Plenty herring, plenty meal, plenty peat to fill her creel.”

“Shiny tops to play with.” (From a dreidel song.)

“By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts.”

Et cetera.

The first time we ever sang most of these lines, many of us laughed our heads off. Myself included, of course.

The thing is, I sang with a primarily straight men’s chorus for five years, and that group’s reaction would have been exactly the same. Well, OK, the straights wouldn’t have caught “shiny tops to play with,” but other than that, it would have been the same.

This shows that men really are all alike. Gay, straight, or in between, no matter how old you are, it doesn’t matter; on the inside, we’re all just a bunch of dirty-minded adolescents.

So, um, come see my concert!

Yesterday I saw “Taboo.” I enjoyed it. I feel guilty about that.

One of the eight million things I want to do with my life is be a theater critic. I’d love to be able to see every show, for free, and then get to write about all of them. But I have doubts about whether I’d be good at it. First, I don’t know if I’m an observant enough theatergoer. Second, I don’t know if I’m knowledgeable enough. Third, I don’t know if I’m mean enough.

What is a theater critic’s job? Is it to evaluate a show as Art? Is it to try to encourage the creation of better shows? Is it just to give one’s personal opinion of a show? Is it to give potential audiences some idea of a show so that they can decide whether they want to see it? Or some combination of these?

What if you don’t think a show is a great, groundbreaking piece of art but you still enjoyed it? Because that’s how I feel about “Taboo.” I think I need to expand my theater-review reading beyond the New York Times; my idea of theater criticism has been influenced by both Frank Rich and Ben Brantley, both of whom have been occasionally grouchy critics (Brantley especially) with very high standards, often more concerned with what’s wrong with a show than with what’s right about it. As an aspiring writer, I’m empathetic with artists who have a hard enough time getting their work shown and produced without then having to watch it get hammered to pieces by those who enjoy taking potshots.

“Taboo” has problems — way too much amplification, several unmemorable songs, and an unfocused plot. There are two stories going on at once — the story of Boy George and the story of Leigh Bowery, a club impresario. While George O’Dowd (the real Boy George) gives a moving, funny performance as Leigh, I didn’t care about the love triangle created around him. I wanted more of Boy George (the character).

But there were some good things: terrific costumes, some beautiful ballads (generously spread among five different characters), and some creative sets. (This may be the first Broadway musical with a set that includes urinals; not even “Urinetown” has that.)

There were also some very good performances, although two of the main parts were played by understudies. I’m beginning to think that Raul Esparza doesn’t actually exist, because this is the second show I’ve seen in which he was replaced by an understudy. (The first was “Tick, Tick… Boom!” a couple of years ago. Now, if I were a professional theater critic, I wouldn’t have to see understudies.)

As I said, I was more interested in Boy George’s story than in Leigh Bowery’s. The actor playing George gave a touching performance, and toward the end of Act One, we hear two familiar songs: “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” and “Karma Chameleon.” I’d forgotten how catchy they both are and how much I used to enjoy them. I kept thinking about one of my favorite movies, “Edge of 17,” about a gay Midwestern teenager in 1984 who slowly comes out of the closet and begins to dress like the famous pop star.

The similarities of this show to “The Boy From Oz” are uncanny. They’re both biographical stories about a popular music star who deals with his sexuality, and they both include a character who dies of AIDS. And — going in, I didn’t think I’d say this, but — I preferred “Taboo.” Without Hugh Jackman, “The Boy From Oz” is pretty much unoriginal pablum. “Taboo” may have several flaws, but at least it tries.

Despite buying our tickets at the TKTS booth five minutes before showtime, we sat on the side of the orchestra, only about ten rows back, and they were pretty good seats. There were, sadly, rows and rows of empty seats behind us. One of the characters makes a reference to the balcony early on, and from up there, I think I really did hear the sound of one hand clapping. I don’t know if it’s the mixed reviews that have kept audiences away or if people associate the show with Rosie O’Donnell and just don’t like her.

Would I have paid a hundred bucks to see “Taboo”? No. Fifty was probably even a little too much. Does “Taboo” redefine the Broadway musical? No. Is it a breakthrough? No. But I’m still glad I saw it.

I wonder if Ben Brantley can say as much.

I’ve decided that spending all night and all the next day in your apartment during a snowstorm is really nice and cozy when you’ve got someone good there with you.