The Tonys. Father’s Day. The two most awaited events since Hunter’s confirmation.

The Tony Awards — as exciting as multi-wed Lopez telling Ben Affleck to get dressed and get out. Shows now cost more than when Fanny was a girl’s name.

Today you can’t get into hits unless you were born there — or your diaper came with a dowry.

And floppolas?

Nobody stays in seats anymore unless they passed on during intermission. To get tough tickets, there’s the scalper — a k a scalpel.

The attitude is: “Really? She wants I should just hand her tickets to a hit?” Well, what else!

For a flop who needs him. Ticket sellers at any SRO play remember their past six turkeys in a row with understudies taking over and coughers filling the orchestra.

Seeing you he thinks, “Well, where were you when we needed you?”

And always somehow somebody with pleurisy coughs on my neck. Or, within the first 15 minutes, fidgets about wrong seating.

I’ve seen performances while an usher’s shining her flashlight at me as they fight.

At hits, it’s aggravation about wrong seating. At flops large behinds — with backpacks — are always in the proper place. And smokers cough throughout intermission, so they can clear their throats during Act 2.

But: It’s June. When all good wives go to the country and all bad husbands go to their girlfriends. There’s summertime theater.

Even in places like, maybe, Up Yours, Montana. Just never ask in advance, “Is the place air-conditioned.”

I mean, please.

Winter it’s just a plain cattle barn and cows rarely need to run summertime to a one-bedroom condo in Delray. Summer stock’s an education.

One years-ago season, I had five roles and seven affairs. I wasn’t their best actress — but I was their happiest.

You start as an apprentice — making scenery, painting flats.

So talented I could’ve landed a job immediately — as a cabinetmaker. Listen, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen “Hamlet” on the road in Pittsburgh — or Tennessee Williams in a tent in Polish.

Actresses sometimes hear that a maybe semi-luminary — like an out-of-work theater critic — is visiting their summer barn. It’s her chance, she figures.

Actually, it’s her figure that’s her chance. She connives to play the lead in their production of “Rain.”

However, happens this part-time theater critic is hibernating for the summer. He’s locked into Jack Daniel’s, writing his own Broadway show.

So her “Rain” becomes a drizzle.

I mostly accept the country because it’s necessary to go through it to reach the city. It’s birds and bees and bores.

Last July, I actually went to a summer theater. The setting was lovely. The acting wasn’t.

It’s the only barn I’ve ever been to that smelled worse without livestock. Also, the ingénue looked older than the history of New England.

But, nobody else has Broadway.

I can bitch because I love NYC and those who live life upon the wicked stage.

I love saying hello to Herald Square.

And as you read this I’ll be back saying hello to the gang on 42nd Street and telling them I will soon be there.

Hey, it’s only in New York, kids, only in New York.