Susanna Phillips as Musetta (Photo courtesty of the Metropolitan Opera)

It was the evening after Christmas in 1900 when the Metropolitan Opera Company, on tour in Los Angeles, premiered La Bohème. It was years before Giacomo Puccini's opera became widely acknowledged as the masterpiece it is, and, just four years old at the time, it was by no means an immediate success, still requiring the star power of soprano Nellie Melba. Ms. Melba, encouraged by the applause, as well as the box office, would return after the final curtain call to sing the grueling “Mad Scene” from Lucia di Lammermoore. These days, La Bohème remains one of the only operas that doesn't require such gimmicks to keep the house full, as proved by its triumphant return to the Met this fall.

With Puccini's talent for interweaving dream-like lyricism and dramatic storytelling in a way that still manages to tug on our heartstrings over a century later, it's no wonder that La Bohème, along with Madama Butterfly, Turandot and Tosca, remains one of the most popular operas. Since its California debut, La Bohème has been omitted from only six of the Met's 111 seasons, a testament to its long-standing demand. Franco Zeffirelli's production, which has been impressing audiences with its 19^th century Parisian street scenes and snowy landscapes since 1981 was, per usual, well-received during the six-show run conducted by Louis Langrèe. The talented cast most notably featured Russian soprano Hibla Gerzmava in her Metropolitan Opera debut as the ailing Mimi, and Dimitri Pittas as an incredibly suave Rodolfo.

Based on the play Scènes de la vie de bohème by the French author Henri Murger, the tale follows two pairs of star-crossed lovers and their impoverished friends who mirthfully attempt to keep food on the table of their shabby atelier in the Latin Quarter of Paris. What was especially striking about this production was the palpable chemistry between cast members, who were not only equipped with excellent voices, but equally gifted in dramatic prowess. Ms. Gerzmava, for example, unleashed her powerful instrument capable of producing everything from saccharine pianos to charming giggles at the end of “Mi chiamano Mimi.”

While effectively portraying heavy emotions amidst ill-fated circumstances, the characters were practically carried off of the stage and into the hearts of the receptive audience, who could be heard uttering many a' “Brava” throughout the evening's performance. While opera is certainly not the most realistic of performance genres, on Friday night there was a sincerity present that allowed audience members to truly connect with the characters on stage. As Musetta's “Quando m'en vo” rang throughout the theater, a woman sitting in front of us nudged her husband excitedly and whispered, “This is one of my favorite songs.”

In this particular production, Rodolfo and Mimi were portrayed as young lovers, quick to give into delirious desires and inflated infatuations, particularly in Act I when Mr. Pittas’ Rodolfo urges Mimi to stay home with him, caressing her shoulders as if they had known each other for more than ten minutes. “Sarebbe così dolce restar qui,” (“Wouldn't it be so nice to stay here?”) he sings sweetly in his expressive legato, the promise of indecency as brazen as Ms. Gerzmava's low cut dress. Shorty afterwards, during the spectacular Parisian street scene in Act II, Musetta (a captivating Susanna Phillips) and Marcello (the formidable Alexey Markov) bicker like true lovers at odds in front of a glowing Cafè Momus. But it was during the third act that we were overwhelmed with emotion when Gerzmava and Pittas' voices blended so perfectly in “Addio dolce svegliare,” the believability of the characters combined with a score deftly negotiated by Mr.Langrèe's orchestra bringing The Observer to near tears.

As an opera that has kept the house seats warm, always an evening of enjoyment to both the opera cognoscenti and ignoranti, we await next year when we’re once again charmed by la vie bohème.

Well, we rendezvoused at an Italian place downtown on Thompson Street that Alan had suggested. Lunch was a disaster. For one thing, the food was awful. The tre colore salad was soggy, and the little Italian flag that they'd planted in the middle of it didn't help. Plus, the waiters only spoke Korean. Then there was the conversation. All Alan could talk about was trying to start a Mahjong league in Bahrain. After a few minutes, we just stared at each other. We finally found a common subject and talked with relief about how to adjust our Facebook privacy settings. And that was it. I was furious. On top of everything else, I had rescheduled a doctor's appointment to meet Alan.

I was fuming about wasting my time and money like that until a few days ago. That was when the audience at the 92nd Street Y rebelled during a conversation between journalist Deborah Solomon and comedian Steve Martin. That was when history was made.

Ms. Solomon does the Q&A for The New York Times Magazine, but she is also an art critic. Mr. Martin is also an art collector who has just published a novel about the art world. The two friends thought they'd make art the subject of the evening. But the audience had expected Ms. Solomon to ask Mr. Martin entertaining questions about his career as a comedian and movie actor. Not only that, but the people who were watching them on closed-circuit television in synagogues and theaters across the country had come expecting the same thing. You can imagine the letdown.

The people watching on closed-circuit began sending emails imploring the staff at the 92nd Street Y to intercede and press Ms. Solomon to ask snappier questions. Not questions about kvelling over Rembrandt, but about what it was like to work with Goldie Hawn. Back in New York, the members of the audience began to murmur their disapproval. After a few minutes, someone from the Y stepped out onto the stage and passed an index card to Ms. Solomon. It was a note demanding that she talk to Mr. Martin about his career. This defiant message will be remembered the way Americans remember the first shot fired at Concord. Ms. Solomon promptly began accepting questions from the floor. As a result of the general disappointment, the Y decided to give refunds to everyone in the audience.

Messrs. Solomon and Martin, welcome to the age of the Internet! Welcome to the new participatory culture, where the paying audience determines the content of its cultural experience, not elitist gatekeepers and their flunkies. The passive discontent of the spectator has given way to the active control of the consumer. Aux armes, customers!

I read an account of the Solomon/Martin imbroglio and excitedly banged out an email to Alan. According to the receipt, my share of lunch was $38.62. With tip, the whole thing came to $46. Make it a money order, I wrote, just to be on the safe side.

That night, I slept like a baby. Thanks to the heroes of the 92nd Street Y, I had discovered IIR. Immediate Interactive Response.

I shot off a few more IIR's the next day. First to Facebook, thanks to which I'm out 46 bucks. They shouldn't pay? Then, to my health care company to dispute a charge. My doctor had told me that rather than suffering from the touch of bronchitis I thought I had, I had developed asthma. Asthma? Me? I had not made the trip to his office on a beautiful fall day, humming "How High the Moon" to myself on the train, to hear disrespectful news. I don't like to think of myself as asthmatic.

A few days later, I thought I'd get out of the house and treat myself to some opera. I went to a small opera company downtown to see a matinee of their new production of La Bohème. Now, I'm quite the opera buff, but for the life of me, I can't remember plots. Some people are no good with names; I'm no good with plots. So imagine my distress at having to watch Mimi lie there struggling to breathe. I pay $60 for an orchestra seat to lighten myself up after some doctor gives me an inconsiderate diagnosis of asthma, and now I have to watch someone wheeze to death. I jumped out of my seat, found an usher and whispered into her ear, "Give Mimi an inhaler." "What?" she said. The impudent colt. I said, "For heaven's sake, this is the year 2010. We don't sit around drinking absinthe and coughing. We have medication. Give her some Albuterol, and let's end this thing on a happy note." 

It was one big IIR week, let me tell you. I sent off a certified letter to Jonathan Franzen's publisher asking for a refund of the money I'd paid for Mr. Franzen's new novel, Freedom. A prominent critic in a major newspaper had written that Mr. Franzen had composed "an indelible portrait" of how we live now. Well, it isn't how I live. The prominent critic got an invoice from me, too. And her major newspaper. Next, a note to President Obama, who owes me for six "Yes We Can" coffee mugs and twenty-three "We Are The Ones We Have Been Waiting For" T-shirts.

Finally, an angry email to the producers of a recent production of "King Lear." Talk about a letdown. I had taken my young son with me to see the play because, somehow, with all the holiday bustle, I had confused Shakespeare's downer with The Swiss Family Robinson. So I made a mistake. So sue me. No, actually, I'll sue you. We left in the middle of the third act, the poor little kid shaking like a leaf. If they're going to put on a play like that during Chanukah, they should lighten the script.

To make a long story short, the refunds have started coming in. The gatekeepers are nervous. They'd better be. People will look back at the revolutionaries of the 92nd Street Y and see the beginning of one of the greatest protest movements in American history. The Matzoh Ball Party. Power to the paying people! You should just see the nice note Mr. Obama sent with his check.

lsiegel@observer.com