"A familiar problem at birthdays is what to give the celebrant who has everything. The problem with reviewing "[TITLE OF SHOW],'' a vest-pocket and sweaty-collar musical, is what to say about a show that has nothing.

"[TITLE OF SHOW]'' went from off-off-Broadway to off- Broadway to Broadway (now at the Lyceum Theatre) in an unchecked progression -- proving that if you have a feel for the lowest common denominator, you can scale unmerited heights.

Whether you can maintain yourself there remains -- as demonstrated by the recent fiasco of "Passing Strange'' -- a moot point.

Hunter Bell and Jeff Bowen, who upon dubious credentials fancy themselves book-and-song writers, decide to write a musical about two self-proclaimed gay men trying to write a musical. They enlist the help of "all our friends'' (two, actually): the equally unappealing Susan Blackwell and Heidi Blickenstaff (everyone here uses real names on stage). Together they proceed to the parturition of 90 minutes' worth of unremitting torture for anyone with a shred of good taste, discernment and normal eardrums.

Perhaps a checklist is called for in place of a standard review:

Talent: 0.
Charm: 0.
Looks: 0 to minus 10.
Show-queen savvy: 100 percent.
Wit: Sample: "Did you brainstorm?'' "If by brainstorm you mean masturbate and watch `Hollywood Doc,' then yes, I brainstormed.''
Melody: 1 for effort
Lyrics: Sample: "Maybe one day our effort will get a theater .../ TV actors in our show, what could be swee-a-ter??
Scenery: A bedraggled, barely furnished room. Ugly.
Costumes: What the cat dragged in. Paltry.
Orchestra: Larry Pressgrove, doing his best on a solitary keyboard.
Direction and choreography: The gifted Michael Berresse, doing his best with four goofballs.

There remains one unanswered question: Why did a preview audience carry on with hoots, hollers, thunderclaps and a standing ovation? Hypotheses: family and friends, free tickets, zero taste."

¶ 7:00 PM