I headed into San Francisco this morning for the meetings that had brought me out West, borrowing my mother’s car for the trip. On the way out the door, I grabbed a couple of CDs from my father’s collection – by and large, we have fairly similar musical tastes. Without looking, I threw the top CD in and turned up the volume. From the first strains, I new something wasn’t right – The Phantom of the Opera? I checked the pile – all musicals. Tossing down the CDs with disgust, I reached for the eject button. But something stopped me. The overture was vaguely soothing, I reasoned; I would just eject it at the end of the song. Or maybe the end of the next. By the third, I was singing along. I mean really singing along, belting it out like it was my job. I listened to The Music Man next, then Les Mis on the way back home.

Reason hit me as I walked back through the door of my parent’s house. I would just put back the CDs, return to New York, and never speak of it again. After all, what self-respecting guy likes musicals? And yet, apparently, I do. Bringing my masculinity into serious question as it may, I’m ready to own up to it: I like musicals. There should be a support group for this.