I'd rather be locked in the bathroom, for two hours, with nothing to read

Can I adequately convey how strongly I'll resist the big screen adaptation of "Rent?"

I know this is supposed to the cinematic event of the year for my people, but, God help me, I'd rather endure Kevin Costner's Cajuan drawl in "JFK" a second time than re-live that magical era when AIDS was but a lad.

Admittedly, I've never seen the stage version of "Rent." But I've done my time. I briefly dated an aspiring actor (in, of all places, Los Angeles) who had just lost out on a major role in the L.A. production of "Fame: 1996" (too harsh?). One of the leads. He was certain the role was his, but star power can be an overwhelming force.

To hear him tell it, Doogie Howser stole the part. Mr. Big Shot Neil Patrick Harris. He would bitch about it constantly, even during "private" moments. Nothing's more attractive than persistent whining.

When he wasn't ranting over Doogie, he would play the "Rent" soundtrack, singing along to every song. Every line mimicked. With feeling. Each selection followed the theme: I may be broke, I may have AIDS, but, dammit, I still have my dreams!

So I'd sit there, trying to maintain that Stepford smile, which just happens to be my least convincing face. Mr. X was beginning to discover my secret, and he was obviously taken aback: "This freak is gay and he hates musicals. Even 'Rent'!"

Fortunately, I endured the theatrics long enough to land in Kate Jackson's bed. When not getting screwed by Neil Patrick Harris, my poorly matched mate worked as Ms. Jackson's assistant. One night, while housesitting, Mr. X invited me over for a late night swim in the boss' pool.

Now there some's gay cred. I've slept in the bed of an orignal Charlie's Angel. I won't ever see "Rent," but I'll always be Scarecrow to Mrs. King.