Out and proud Olympic athlete Gus Kenworthy has graced these pages before, in his first Hunk of the Day post as well as this gratuitous entry where he bares his well-toned butt. Here he is in some fun and funky underwear, and the shots are practically wholesome (especially when compared to some of the smut we peddle here). There’s something to be said for restraint. And shirtless athletes in their polka-dotted underwear. How refreshing to see that they aren’t mutually exclusive.
One of my favorite trees is currently coming into (bract) bloom – the Chinese dogwood. Unlike its American cousin, this species sets its flowers on display after the foliage has leafed out. Here are charms to both, though I happen to prefer the later blooming period of these as the weather is usually (ahem) nicer by this point in the year. Clearly that’s not the case this year.
Rain or shine, the blooms are coming on, and after a reasonably mild winter they are happily intact. (Especially frigid seasons will diminish the blooms, which are set by the fall.) I’ve noticed that in the splendid rhododendron plants in the neighborhood too – a mild winter makes for a spectacular floral show.
Listen. There are very few fads or trends that I haven’t slapped on my body over the years, and even those to come have probably already been draped across my frame in some way, shape or form. Case in point: the male romper. Man Romper. Bromper. Onesie. Jumpsuit. Whatever you want to call it, I’ve already done it. Circa 1994. Straight (so to speak) out of the International Male catalog (or maybe I’d moved on to Undergear by then). Regardless, been there, done that. [See photo.]
I happen to think it’s a perfectly fine look for pajamas or pool garb. Would I wear it in public at this point? Yes, but only in the abstract sense that I’ll wear just about anything in public. Should anyone do so? That’s not for me to say.
Yet despite the tons of hate being heaped upon this item of clothing, I don’t feel the same stomach-churning angst about it as I do about a pair of crocs or pleated khakis.
It does require a rather perfect body to pull off, however. The slightest paunch is going to be accentuated and framed, front and center. My tummy can’t take such scrutiny right now. But if you’ve got a washboard above your belly button, romp it up. I’m all for a ridiculous trend that you’ll regret in photos twenty years from now. [See also photo.]
I love Campari. It’s a bit of an acquired taste – its bitterness is not instantly user-friendly, especially to a generation of drinkers weened on appletinis and other such nonsense. For the adults, a bit of Campari adds sophistication and flair to many cocktails. My favorite is the negroni, but simpler delights call to me when the weather turns lighter and brighter. For instance, this Campari spritzer – the simplest thing on earth. Just some Campari and club soda on chipped ice. When spring verges on summer, the simpler that things get, the better.
It’s difficult to be good when you’re human, but impossible to be great if you’re not. When we think back on the origin of this country, we tend to idolize our Founding Fathers as demi-gods. They came up with one of the most perfect systems of a democratic government, one that will hopefully withstand the current attack from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and the sheer genius of it instills all involved with a certain magical power. We forget that they were human. ‘Hamilton’ reminds us that being human means wanting freedom. It also means wanting a certain glory ~ whether that’s as a politician, a President, a father, a sister, a son or a mother.
To be honest, I had little to no interest in seeing this one. History and hip-hop never held much of an allure, and when a musical is hyped-up as much as ‘Hamilton’ has been there is little chance it will live up to expectations. Happily, I was mistaken in my reluctance. ‘Hamilton’ soars, and sings, and moves the audience so profoundly that you feel the world, and your experience in it, shift slightly after you’ve seen it.
The great historical panoply of the founding of our nation plays out amid the personal trials and tribulations of Alexander Hamilton, and it’s interesting to note that with all of the great, and oft forgotten, acts that he accomplished, his personal story here is what may be the most moving. The complexity of his relationships with women (the Schuyler sisters, both of whom he seemed to love, and only one of whom became his wife) and his tender yet tricky relationship with his son form the emotional heft even as the drama of the birth of America takes center stage. Aaron Burr’s ambivalent and ultimately ruinous relationship with Hamilton illustrates what can happen when two soon-to-be-legendary characters clash, and the delicate balance between competitive friends is a golden thread that runs throughout the show ~ shining, tarnishing, and tempting as the glory each of them seeks.
For anyone expecting a dry and dull re-telling of the American revolution, you will be pleasantly surprised. From the revolutionary colorblind casting to the infusion of rap and hip-hop into a traditional musical, the storied phenomenon is rightly justified. Its timeless message of inclusion and acceptance is more profound than ever. Opening with a quick dramatic vamp that recalls ‘Sweet Charity’ or ‘Gypsy‘, this is the sort of game-changing musical that relies on the tried and true construct of the art form, while giving it glorious new life. You’ll learn something in the quick cadence of words, but it will entertain at every turn, and when combined and intertwined with the song-writing brilliance of Lin-Manuel Miranda, this musical hybrid becomes something wonderful.
The Chicago cast does justice to the powerful material, and there’s not a weak link in the bunch. The hilarious turns from the King of England are the stuff of musical comedy magic. ‘You’ll Be Back’ begins his trio of crowd-pleasing numbers, and the dead-pan upper-crust delivery belies the deadly aim of his intentions. The moving turn of Hamilton’s wife Eliza brings a graceful purity and steely conviction to a situation that requests of her the most difficult task of all: forgiveness. Her fiery rendition of ‘Burn’ is stunningly-spine-tingling in its damnation, but it is her grace at the very end that completes the story. No one here is one-dimensional, with the possible exception of the King of England ~ but he’s so funny and tuneful it doesn’t matter.
Hamilton’s search for greatness, and his unyielding belief in his country, is at once heroic and damning, and his journey ~ fraught with heartache, pain, loss, love, weakness and redemption ~ transcends the story of America into one of universal truth. Near the end of the production, Hamilton poses a question and the proposal of an answer: “What is a legacy?… It’s planting seeds… in a garden you never get to see.”
This may be Miranda’s greatest legacy as well ~ a piece that has electrified Broadway, and now the rest of the world. The cost of being a good father and husband is weighed against the cost of being a great leader, and everyone pays dearly for both, in the best and worst ways. Yet that is the human experience: brilliant and brutal and beautiful even in its failings. It’s a profoundly American experience too, and the theatrical world can add this to its own history.
At the end, the question of what remains when the tree of history is shaken gets poignant examination as the cast ponders, “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” The quiet ones may not get the glory, but they often get the final word. They are the ones writing it. Eliza tells the last part of this tale, proof that history does not end with the death of those who changed it, but lives on in the rest of us. ‘Hamilton’ is a work of art that will do the same.
All plants bow down to the rain – it is their life-giver and maker, their source of sustenance and survival, their path to beauty and fulfillment. Only with a steady supply can they realize their destiny. Thus, they depend on it above all else. That’s how I look at the storms we’ve had of late, and it’s how I keep my own head high when they take down the iris and the peonies and the early bloomers with the heaviness of water and the weight of the wind.
Some choose not to grow certain plants because of it. Iris especially are prone to a quick felling by a late spring storm. Peonies stand a better chance, with stems that bend and sway, and the mass-support of other stems around them. An iris is a solitary flower for the most part, a skyscraper with only a single stem of support, and nothing else around them to break the onslaught of rain and wind.
Peonies, even with their heavier blooms, are slightly better equipped at withstanding the spring-to-summer onslaught. Ours have a better chance, as I stake them from the beginning. These are such long-lived and reliable plants that I simply leave the support system in place year-round, and the plants grow right up through them.
As always, preventative maintenance saves a lot of heartache down the line. Healthier plants are stronger and better at standing up through the storms. A little extra work and care in the beginning makes for a happier ending. These blooms, still standing in the spring rain, are the pretty proof of that.
A bed of peonies is the second-best kind of bed in which to be on a rainy day.
We hardly ever get to see the first peony bloom. In the fifteen or so years after planting this specimen in the front yard, we’ve only ever been around to see it open up once or twice. Usually we are on vacation in Ogunquit, Maine, when the peony parade begins. It happens like clockwork on Memorial Day weekend, no matter what kind of winter we’ve had, and no matter how screwy the rest of the seasonal line-up is behaving. We were scheduled to be in Maine again this year, but Andy’s Dad was in the hospital and not doing well, so we had to stay home. This is the consolation prize. The silver lining. And it was the best decision anyway, because time with loved ones is more valuable than anything else.
Had we gone, we would have missed out on all this beauty. I find their fragrance most potent when they first open. It’s pretty powerful at any point, but that first whiff after a whole year of being away from the authentic scent of peonies is a soul-enriching experience.
It is the scent of promise ~ the promise of summer.
It is the scent of memory ~ the memory of my childhood. A neighbor’s bed of peonies behind a chain link fence. The Ko garden filled with nodding peony heads after a heavy rain. Our living room scented with a bouquet in the cool stillness of early afternoon.
It is the scent of happiness ~ the happiness of holding a white peony to my nose in the Boston Public Garden and smiling on a sunny, perfect day.
For now, it is the scent of the present. We will return to Ogunquit this summer. At this moment, our hearts are here, and even in the rain the peonies are blooming.
Andy told me about them first. As is the case these days, I listened and then shoved it from my mind. There is too much sadness to think about it all right now. After a few minutes, the ploy worked: the story was gone from my head. His harrowing tale, more sad than frightening, was successfully purged, and in short order too. Thinking nothing of it, I hopped in the car and drove away, singing along to ‘Hamilton’ (the King of England’s trio of songs are my jams!)
Just as I rounded the turn, mastering my snooty British accent in song no less, I saw them. One dead, one alive. A pair of mourning doves on the road.
Andy had told me he had seen them. A flattened bird, and its partner, refusing to leave its side. Immediately, I burst into tears, as much for the sad lonely bird as anything else that’s been happening lately, and in my rear view window I watched the forlorn dove walk in a little circle. I cannot fathom the frantic desperation of death. My heart cannot stand it.
I returned home and tried to be kinder to Andy. That is all I know how to do when faced with suffering.
The world turned upside down.
When I visited the desert earlier this year, I fell in love with the landscape and the plants and the wildlife that was so vastly different from anything I’d experienced in upstate New York, or any of the Northeast for that matter. It was almost surreal, like landing on another planet with an array of unknown plant life. Yes, I’d seen things in greenhouses and in photographs, but it doesn’t compare with visiting in real life, and immersing oneself entirely in the atmosphere of the desert. It is a spiritual experience, one that haunts far long after the visit is done.
In order to bring some of that desert life back with me, I eyed the succulent gardens on sale at the airport, but wisely decided against carrying a platter of prickly cacti onto various connecting flights. (Strange how one can wield a column of needles but not a bottle of water through security check-points.) Instead, I waited until I was back home, then made a trip to the local greenhouse to find a few specimens for a desert garden.
It’s weird the way life returns us to our origins. One of the very first houseplants I ever had was a spiky little Haworthia. Soon after it arrived on my windowsill, it sent up a flower spike five times its original height which soon bloomed with delicate white flowers not unlike the airy blossoms of a spider plant. All that glory sapped the plant’s energy and it never recovered, but by then I’d moved onto other plants. Since then, succulents and cacti haven’t been on my growing list – until my desert visit. In seeing all the varied forms and architectural aspects of those hardy survivors, I was once again enamored of their breadth and variety.
Here, a small collection loosely recreates the desert landscape. A bit of Sonoran magic in an upstate New York window.
The main news of this past week was the culmination and finale of The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star. I had planned to put it to rest in Ogunquit, Maine, one of my favorite places in the world – though plans changed. That’s not all that happened. Let’s go back a bit…
There was perfume in the air.
There was passion, too.
There was the Solomon’s Seal.
There was fruit salad.
There was sexiness.
There was a boy… before there was a man.
Finally, there were Hunks of the Day, including Parry Glasspool, Lucas Steele, Colt Prattes & Jared North.
From this point forward, this page will serve as the final repository for all the entries of The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star. As such, it needs no real introduction, as there are links enough to provide all the meat you need. Without further ado, I give you all of my delusions, one last time:
01) Intro/Curtain Part One, Part Two, Part Three
02) Sunset Pool Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
03) On The Road Hotel Part One, Part Two, Part Three
04) Rock Star Addict Part One, Part Two, Part Three
05) Animal Demons Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
06) Steam Punk Birdcage Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
07) Red Riding Wood – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
08) Winter Top Hat – Part One, Part Two
09) Warrior Retribution – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight
10) Cologne Glamour Fashion – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
11) Samsara Healing Water – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
12) Spring Thaw Salvation – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
13) Flower Bomb Balm – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9
The Very Last Entry.
Happily, it is filled with my favorite people.
They have made all of this possible.
They are the reason all of this madness began in the first place.
And they will be the reason for everything I do from this point forward.
The End.
“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and along those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and come back to us as effects.” ~ Herman Melville
We have arrived at the penultimate entry of The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book.
This is the big reveal.
The happy/sad revelation.
The ending that took two decades to write.
The destination that took two decades to find.
The journey that took two decades to complete.
There was no other way.
Looking back, we are almost right where we began.
Almost.
The places and faces may be familiar, but we have changed.
For far too long I’ve fought against that. Strange, for someone so attuned and stimulated by change. In my heart, it seems it’s always frightened me. And so I embraced it. Now it’s time to let that go.
We have arrived at the end.
The final three entries of The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book.
(And the last one doesn’t really count since it’s only the credits.)
I will keep the prose to a minimum, and allow the images and their corresponding quotes to speak for themselves. The best endings are the quiet ones.
“The source of all misery in the world lies in thinking of oneself; the source of all happiness lies in thinking of others.” ~ Santideva
