Recommended by Scott Sickles

As Bob's Brother-in-ADHD, I feel hugged.

While I don't experience hallucinations (THAT I KNOW OF...), there's a phenomenon with ADHD called maladaptive daydreaming. It's like living with one foot in the world and the other on a holodeck with upsetting arguments and conversations on repeat. It's quite similar to this protagonist's dilemma (or is the protagonist the dog?) but I have the luxury of knowing it's, well, a daydream.

Not so with poor Sean. LeBlanc keeps us guessing as to the reality of the talking dog until the very end, then sticks the landing. A joy!

I need to take this person's attitude every time I get into an argument online.

Gorgeously paced, delightfully funny, with dialogue that zings with the vim of a Gene Krupa drum solo, this play takes evasion and exasperations to delirious new heights.

Also, Socrates would be proud.

If I understood boxing better this recommendation would be full of pugilistic references about fancy footwork, dodges and jabs, and what a knockout! And they would all be appropriate... and enthusiastic!

Cook turns a no-risk boxing exhibition match into a study of toxic masculinity, righteous anger, humiliation, and redemption. The story takes great turns. Accusations are hurled! Lies are perpetrated! A challenge is issued! But the situation is never simple and the emotional impact for each our of fighters emerges from deeply held truths ingrained in their beliefs.

It's a helluva match! Got one in!

Duncan Pflaster's Men in Tights! (Which is more than they often wear.)

While the play is about trapeze artists, Pflaster has written a gorgeous high-wire act! Setting it in the 1930s, when pretending your lover was your brother was one way to share a bed without raising eyebrows and marrying a convincing young woman helped lower them, sends the stakes higher the big top itself! Broad comedy is balanced by tremendous yearning, for love, acceptance, and better lives all around.

Best of all, it feels like it was written in the era its set. Which means it's inherently a classic!

Mr. DeVita should demand a full refund from his therapist! Clearly, they did not do their job!

Lucky us!

You can tell something is just a little bit off at the start. The unease steadily escalates as more is revealed (in ways made clear to the audience yet skillfully obfuscated from our protagonist Charlie) until this deliciously queer neo-noir launches itself over the top into the realm of the outrageous!

Operating at a breakneck pace with meaty roles from top to bottom, especially duplicitous, devious and deviant Diana!

Hunt down this GODDESS before she finds you!

As Salieri is the Patron Saint of Mediocrity, so I am the Patron Saint of Straight Crushes. As such, I can attest with absolute authority: Sam Heyman gets it right!

Even when the straight guy knows and can deal, as Shawn does with Lee, there's plenty of mutual drama, strife, and emotion. This brought back vivid memories of listening to my heterosexual objects of affection waxing about their heterosexual objects of affection. (I could practically smell the beer in the carpet.)

The culminations are powerful and honest. The affection, frustrations, and revelations are unique and surprising. Lovely stuff.

I want more. I want more of Brynn and Justice and their history with Grandpa and their family and Mr. Pinecone. I want to know more about their world and giant rats.

Leaving your audience wanting more is a very good sign you've given them exactly enough.

Weeks doesn't force these characters to tell us things they themselves already know. In so doing, they've build a fascinating mystery world just on the other side of normal. One that's deeply relatable, steeped in family history and contemporary technology, and somehow adorably unsettling.

A riveting concoction of lightness and dark.

I remember David Hasselhoff singing on the Berlin Wall. I don't remember it well. I was not a fan. I was busy with college. I'm sure I rolled my eyes.

Those same eyes have been reopened by the gift of retrospect provided by Bob LeBlanc. I haven't viewed the event as the harbinger of a new age.

I stand enlightened.

FALLOUT is an exquisitely detailed personification of a forgotten generation so used to doomsday at our door we've been inured to petty offense. We know was a real fucking threat is.

And most of us do not miss disco.

And my now heart is in a million pieces.

There's an inheritance men pass down to their sons -- where any sign of weakness is failure and strength is everything. That there's nothing worse than crying.

Not every son receives this bequest. Many reject it, especially boys who understand poetry and know to call it an "amphibious vehicle." (Though Julian probably got the terminology from his dad.) This legacy is not meant to harm but to protect, toughen, to make a man out of you.

The tragedy of Julian is that he's received it. It literally lives in his skin.

Zosha bursts off the page like a trailer park Blanche DuBois! But her history, even in her 20s, is far more troubled and tragic. She never had far to fall in the first place, yet still fell further than the ground. Her life is a crater.

Wyndham gives Zosha infinite humanity and as much dignity as her choices and circumstances allow. She's proof it's not what drags you down, but that you could claw your way back at all. Even it's just for today.

Zosha is full of brass and nuance. Give her a chance. She's worked hard for it!