When I was a teenager, I would pace back and forth waiting for the Tony nominations to come out each spring. I’d walk to the gas station on the corner and pick up a copy of The New York Times, sit down on a bench outside the… um… establishment (next to the cranky old lady who sat there every day chain smoking), and immediately tear through the balance of the paper to find that coveted list. I’d begin imagining what type of telecast it would prove to be, asking the question “Will this year’s nominees add up to a decent night of entertainment?”