I distinctly remember the first time I picked up a Gregory Maguire book. It was in a Chicago bookstore, at the very end of my first serious adult relationship. In the beginning of Winter, I thumbed through the first edition volume of Wicked, poring over the map of Oz and wishing with all my might that it would take me out of my misery and melancholy. In the past, when grieving or trying to get over someone or something, I would turn to books. They eased the sleepless nights, taking me out of the moment and occupying my mind with the fictional troubles of made-up people.

That particular winter, I needed to escape from myself more than ever, and Mr. Maguire painted a world of wonder with carefully chosen words and painstakingly-crafted images. It was a work of grotesque beauty, chilling philosophy, and the crushing potency of love. It posited questions of power, morality, and loyalty, over the bonds of friendship, family, and romance. The epic tale of the woman who would become the Wicked Witch of the West touched me and many others in ways both powerful and profound, and it was then that I discovered the healing power of art. We all share the same pain, the book seemed to plead, and Maguire’s voice soared timelessly over the magical lands, cleverly revealing the inner-workings of the universal heart.

I found sanctuary in his words, and in Elphaba’s fierce solitude. Her ultimate heartbreak mirrored my own desolation, and Maguire’s rendering of the terror of despondency clanged like the bitter toll of the bells of shared sympathy. Some books are bound to the time in our lives when we read them, inextricably knotted into the fabric of that moment, and for that difficult Chicago winter, far from friends and family and home, Wicked was my only companion.

Mr. Maguire has written the final chapter of the Oz saga, in his forth Volume of the Wicked years, with Out of Oz, which is out this week. Once again, I am looking for escape, for rest, for peace – and based on the first few pages alone, it seems I have found it. Get ready to fly…

It was a Russian weekend in New York City, as Andy and I took the train down to see the return of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake at the City Center. Hotel rooms are insanely priced these days, and even with the combined bidding wars of Priceline, Expedia, Hotwire, and Kayak, the best I could do was $275 for a night at the Essex House on Central Park South. It actually worked out for the best though, as the hotel was in close proximity to the theater.

The Essex wasn’t bad, and the flowers in the lobby were certainly nothing to sneeze at (unless you’re allergic to that sort of thing).

I wore the tree-of-life pendant that Andy got for me in Ogunquit this past summer. (I don’t know why this merits mention, other than for the photo below that I snapped in the bathroom, and the bartender at the Oak Room who complimented me on it.)

In keeping with the Russian theme, we had dinner reservations at the Russian Tea Room.

I had eaten there many years ago with my parents, and the chicken kiev had been something to behold. They then shut down for a while, but re-opened, so we decided to try it (plus the online cocktail menu looked like heaven).

We probably should have stopped at the cocktails, because while dinner was passable, the prices were a bit on the ridiculous side. Also, after asking the wait-person for their smoothest Russian vodka (she recommended the Jewel Of Russia), I had a martini that was rather rocky going down.

The chicken kiev did still burst with butter, and the decor is as red-gold-and-green as ever, so we’ll leave it at that.

After dinner we walked around the block and looked in the windows of closed shops and galleries while waiting for showtime to approach.

The above one reminded me eerily of the movie A.I. And then it was time for the show to begin.

Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake joins the small pantheon of shows that my husband and I have seen together on Broadway. It began with Wicked (and that original, incomparable pairing of Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel), and continued with Grey Gardens (and the uncanny and amazing Christine Ebersole), and now we have the return of Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. On their own, these shows were each great – seeing them with someone I love just made them that much more special and memorable.

I still recall the early November night we saw Wicked when it first opened (yes, I wore green that first time, though I’m a pink girl at heart) as well as the bitter cold of January’s Grey Gardens with a dinner at Gallagher’s steakhouse (that included a warming Manhattan and a seat by the gargantuan wood stove).

Swan Lake itself was spectacular. I knew I would like it; I did not know that I would absolutely fall in love with it. Having seen the DVD of the production a number of years ago, I knew the gist and the gimmick – but to see it in person gives it a life that can never be reproduced on screen.

It’s basically a gay fantasy brought to thrilling, and disturbing, life. I can only imagine what my own life might have been like had I seen this production as a young boy. How different would my journey have been, and what would it have meant? I will never know. That it exists today is a blessing, and an unforgettable night of theater. Seeing two men dance together is just as potent and powerful now as when it first opened over a decade ago – mostly because I just don’t get to see that very often – and partly because the world hasn’t changed all that much. As the curtain came down on the crushing final scene, I did not want it to end.

But there will be other curtains, and other shows, and yes, Suzie, even other swan umbrellas, so have faith (and I’ll describe where this pair is currently co-mingling.)

After the show, we stopped for a bit of pre-packaged sustenance to see us through the night.

The next morning we headed out for a brief (Andy would say interminable) shopping excursion, and then it was time to depart (without the $100 hotel robe).

The train ride along the Hudson in the late afternoon sunlight was a peaceful journey of decompression.

We returned to a city that smelled sourly of burnt rubber, and news of the devastating Albany fire that had shut Northbound train service down. Albany was the last stop for everyone.

This is my friend Skip, looking unrecognizably professional, who apparently wants to be known as AJ when it comes to the follicularly-challenged ramblings of his new blog, the catchily-titled Hair and Back Again – A Hair Loss and Regrowth Blog – My Journey of Hair Loss… and Redemption. He is one of my favorite people in the world. Mostly it’s because his wife is even more favored, and he benefits from proximity, but he’s got some winning attributes of his own.

It’s no secret that I don’t have many straight male friends, so the ones I do have I hold near and dear. It takes an especially confident straight guy to accept the wacky-tacky gayness of my life. Skip’s one of the rare men who likes Lady Gaga and Wicked as much as he enjoys golfing and the Red Sox, and that’s the kind of guy I admire. He manages to mix the long-lost art of chivalry with a modern-day take on acceptance and equality, treating everyone with dignity and respect, defending the honor of his friends and loved ones (even if it means a few ridiculous fight scenes). I’ve seen him escort ladies to the restroom just to be polite, and read a few FaceBook posts where he unabashedly extols the virtues of his wife and daughter.

There are but a few select people in this world whom I would trust when the chips are down. When I think about those friends in my life, I sometimes wonder which ones I would want on my side if I was cornered by goons in a back alley or threatened by the police (fashion or otherwise). Skip is one of those friends.

He’s also been instrumental in the behind-the-scenes set-up and functioning of this website. A jack of many trades, and master of a few, he’s my go-to guy for many computer issues, as well as iPhone advice, and the latest technological advances.

His new blog deals with the drama of going bald, and the preventative steps he’s taken to stop the hair-drop, and while a balding blog is the last thing I would normally want to read, he’s actually made it compelling enough to drop by on a daily basis. Of course there’s a lot of product talk (he does work for the company after all), but it’s surprisingly readable, and there are unexpected moments of wit and humor that shine through the most mind-numbingly dull passages on scalp exploration. You can visit it here to join him on the journey to a well-thatched roof.

I met Andy before I got my first digital camera (he’s actually the one who gave it to me).

I met Andy before the World Trade Center was attacked.

I met Andy before he lost his Mom.

I met Andy before I lost my Uncle and Grandmother.

I met Andy before I got my first cel phone.

I met Andy before George W. Bush became President.

I met Andy before I met any friends (or anyone for that matter) in Albany (he introduced me to many of them).

I met Andy before the Red Sox ended their World Series drought.

I met Andy before I had a car.

I met Andy before ‘N Sync and the Backstreet Boys had disbanded, back when they were selling millions of albums.

I met Andy before you could send photos on your cell phone.

I met Andy before the iPod was released.

I met Andy before YouTube was created.

I met Andy before American Idol began airing.

I met Andy before Wicked debuted on Broadway.

I met Andy before any of my friends got married.

I met Andy before any of my friends had children.

I met Andy before Madonna released Music in 2000.

Last night’s 1st Friday exhibition at the Romaine Brooks Gallery went splendidly, and I was glad to see so many friendly and familiar faces. Now it’s back to the weekend wedding grind, as I begin to churn out a bazillion intricately-detailed wedding invitation packages. There may or may not be tulle involved – I haven’t decided yet.

Andy has managed to come up with amazing seats for Spring Awakening when it comes to Proctor’s this month. (I think we’re fifth row center – after Wicked we decided front row at that theater was sorrowfully over-rated.) I actually purchased the Spring Awakening soundtrack when it debuted on Broadway a few years ago, but after one or two half-hearted (and half-heard) spins in the CD player it went onto the rack and never surfaced until this morning. I was pleasantly surprised (and relieved) by how much more I liked it this time around. It’s just further commentary on second chances, first impressions, and blah, blah, cliched blah.

Next weekend I’ll be back on the road, resuming the 21st Century Renaissance Tour down in New York City with Suzie and Chris. Until then, it’s all work and little to no play.

There was snow in the sky last night, but it turned to rain before we had to head into Amsterdam for a family dinner. This Thursday we’re taking my parents to see ‘Wicked’ at Proctor’s Theater. Somehow Andy managed to score front-row tickets for the four of us. (I know, it’s not the best show for front row, but I’ve already had the good fortune to see it twice on Broadway with the original cast, so this will present a new view - namely up Elphaba’s dress when she takes flight.)

So if you care to find me, look to the Western sky!