Red.
Color of passion, color of zest, color of warning, color of life.
Spring.
Season of birth, season of hope, season of renewal, season of fashion.
When they get together it’s dynamic.
Fire and heat and sparks and sizzle.
Scarlet pizzazz.
It can be found in a flower or a shoe.
Beauty does not discriminate.
A confession: as much as I loved ‘Will & Grace’ when it aired, I stopped watching before the last season, and never really got back into it until the finale. I returned for that episode, and realized I was going to miss it, just a little bit. It wasn’t the same way i felt when ‘Ugly Betty’ was prematurely canceled, but it was a small emptiness, especially as I only watch two of three shows a year. Well, that ache is about to be eased, as W&G is returning. I only hope it’s as good as when it left. God knows I’m not.
PS – Bonus for the major ‘Sunset Boulevard‘ feature!
The madness of May comes as I wind down The Delusional Grandeur Tour, and this past weekend in New York City with my Mom will be documented as soon as I have a moment to breathe. That is not now, so here’s your regularly-scheduled look back at the week before.
It began with Darren Criss in a Speedo, a very good way to begin.
Spring has spring with a new cologne by Atelier.
And our wedding anniversary in Boston: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, and Part Nine.
A single peony, a multitude of looks.
Are you ready for Hedwig in Schenectady?
Hunks of the Day included Steven Wenslawski, Josh Groan, & Euan Morton.
Having seen the original off-Broadway sensation, and the even-more-sensational Broadway turn by Neil Patrick Harris, it’s going to take a lot to wow me with this week’s performance of ‘Hedwig and the Angry inch’ at Proctor’s Theatre. I’m not too concerned though, as it’s being helmed by Euan Morton, recent Hunk of the Day, and a powerhouse musical theater performer whom I still lovingly recall from his ‘Taboo’ stint. He should make a fine Hedwig, as he understands the soul of that character like no one else.
As a character, Hedwig is the ultimate outsider – one hell-bent on proving that she doesn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone, and one who will stop at nothing to achieve the success she so fervently believes is her right and destiny. That her talent is stolen from her only makes her more of an intriguing mess, and the sacrifices she makes – for freedom, for love, for art – give her a compelling structure from which to hang her “internationally-ignored†persona. She’s brash and grating, vulnerable and endearing, and straddled smack in the middle of so many extremes that she places herself completely outside of the box.
Ultimately, it is her resilient spirit and desire to connect, and to love, that allows her to survive her journey. By the end she’s a little tattered and bruised, stripped of her wigs and costumes, and the only reminders of her fabulousness are the rivulets of glitter and mascara running down her sorrowful face, but she has made her utterly ridiculous and singular tale one of universal redemption. All of us misfits and losers looking to be rescued by rock ‘n roll find our salvation there.
At the time that this is scheduled to be posted, my Mom and I will have hopefully finished up our Mother’s Day brunch in New York City, and will soon be on our way back home from a Broadway weekend. This post is a wish that she enjoys her special day, as well as a wish to all my friends who are mothers – and there are more than a few. (One year I tried to name them all on FaceBook, which went about as well as you can imagine.)
Mothers make the world go around, so there should really be more than just a day to honor them. Happy Mother’s Day to all of you!
I’ll do a more in-depth chronicle of our recent anniversary in Boston a little later – for now just a tantalizing glimpse of how beautiful the city can be at this time of the year, even when it rains. These petals had to come from somewhere…
There’s something magical that happens when Pietro Boselli strips down to a pair of white briefs, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Scroll down for some GIFs that clearly exhibit that magic. And then try this link, and this link, and this link to witness even more.
As Andy and I decompress from a fun, if wet, anniversary weekend in Boston (more on that to come), here’s a quick recap of the week that came before. It’s a cool Monday morning in May, and we wait for the temperatures to match our spirits.
Our annual Broadway tradition is almost in motion, and Mom and I are ready to The Towers at Lotte New York Palace.
The Met Gala is always about Madonna for me.
Naked bedlam, white sheets.
An amazing production of ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ at the SpeakEasy Stage Company.
Hunks of the Day included Nathaniel Buzolic, Matt Adlard, and Christiaan Smith.
This is the first (and last) tour that documented my wanderings more or less as they happened. It was a rare mix of present and past, as I posted what was in the Tour Book, then followed it up with where I had been in real time. That’s a lot of work, and I don’t get paid for this, but it was a labor of love for one’s last tour. The final delusions must be honored. Respect must be paid. Now, as I wind down one more time, a look back at the places I’ve been.
Everything kicked off at The Illuminati Party in August of 2015. That same month I made the first tour stop to Cape Cod, to visit JoAnn and the Cape Crew, along with the visiting Brits for a weekend of fun introductions. My 40th birthday was part of this tour, and I spent it at the Judy Garland suite of the Lenox Hotel in Boston. It was a definite highlight, and I still have the stuffed lion who greeted us with a bottle of champagne. (The champagne is long since gone.)
The next month brought the first major air jaunt of the tour, as I made my way west to Seattle, and my first return there since the late 90’s. It was better than I remembered it – more verdant, more delicious, more beautiful, more everything. And I got to see the whales.
At the end of September, Suzie and I made our way to Boston for Madonna’s Rebel Heart Tour. Some things are meant to be, as when Andy and I closed out the 2015 season in Ogunquit, Maine. By November, Chris and I were living it up at the Standard High Line in New York.
Knowing that this tour would be a long and extended one, I deliberately took it easy travel-wise for the winter, and aside from a few trips to Boston, there was no real movement until I flew to Washington, DC for a long weekend in April 2016. The following month my Mom and I made our annual trek to Broadway to see a few shows (one, two, three), and the next week Andy and I returned to Ogunquit to start the spring/summer season all over again. Skip and I made it to see another Red Sox game in Boston, and I got back to Albany in time to dazzle at the GLSEN Pride Gala.
My birthday last year was spent traveling to Rehoboth Beach, which turned out to be a spectacular trip for us, and another tour highlight. I’d forgotten the simple wonders and pull of the beach. In September 2016 I was back in Washington, DC before Chris was slated to move to Detroit (where I enjoyed a favorite watering hole and some sweet solitude), and then in Boston and Ogunquit for weekends in the fall. When winter arrived again, the tour stayed relatively stationary between Albany and Boston, but I was merely gearing up for its grand finale.
A lifelong dream of visiting the desert came true at the tail end of winter, as I visited Tucson, Arizona and the wonder of the Sonoran Desert and its Saguaro National Park. Words can’t convey the might and majesty of it. There was enchantment, there was magic, there was wonder, and there was peace. As we turned the page to spring, I returned to ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in New York, and closed a circle in brilliant fashion (with a little help from Glenn Close). In other full-circle moments, a return to Chicago was rife with drama and denouements, and a fitting near-finale to the entire essence of my touring years.
That brings us to this moment. Stops in Boston, New York City, and Ogunquit will complete this journey, and while part of me is sad to see the delusions end (we find our safest comfort in the wilderness of our imagination) I am more than ready to let it go. It’s time. In some ways it feels like I’ve been running since my very first tour in 1995. I’m tired. But more than that, I want to start something new. Something real. Something provocative. Something true.
Until then, may all our delusions be grand…
{THE DELUSIONAL GRANDEUR TOUR: LAST STAND OF A ROCK STAR wraps up its run at the end of May.}
There’s a reason hotels use white sheets for their bedding, and it’s not merely a matter of simplifying design decisions. Studies have shown that sleeping on a cloud of white bedding produces a more peaceful and happy night of sleep. Being that such sleep is the main goal of our home, I’ve switched out our winter sheet set for a crisp, cool white collection just in time for the warmer seasons. Whether it’s a psychosomatic trick of the mind, or the phenomenon is a real one, I already feel a bit better about the bedroom. It’s brighter. Cleaner. Softer. All the things you want a bed to be.
One of the most invigorating things you can do for a domicile is switch up the bedding. In Boston we have various sets depending on season and whim, but I’ve neglected to invest in such things in upstate New York for the past few years. We’ve found a winning combination this time around, however, so we should be set for a while. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to rest easy and go back to bed.
One of my most favorite moments of the past few months was not a crazy jaunt across the world, or a last minute second-row ticket to ‘Hamilton’ – it was a simple snippet of time that happened in the most unlikely of places: my own bedroom. (Calm down, perverts.)
I had spent the day working outside. Somehow the dirt manages to be partly muddy, and partly dry – making for the worst of all worlds – mucky stuff on my shoes and hands, and a dusty layer of airborne soil in my hair and on my clothes. My nose was running, and sweat was carrying dirt to all sorts of fun places. (Mostly my eyes; sorry again, perverts.) The day was cool and breezy, but after spreading cow manure and grappling with patches of pachysandra that have somehow persisted for over a decade, I was a sorry sight. After a winter of relative stagnancy, the stretches involved in preparing the yard for another spring season were a re-awakening of things that had assumed I’d given up on ever stretching again. My body felt sore, my hands and arms were scraped with the cuts and bruises of stubborn plants and incorrigible tools, and my allergies were just beginning to win the battle of pushing me back inside. You would not know it to look at me, but I was happy as a hooker eyeing a vessel docking for shore leave.
My runny nose ran me to the shower, and I let the hot water and soap work their magic in removing the grime of a day from every crevice of my aching body. This was the good kind of pain – the sort that nodded its acknowledgement of a day of work well done. I scrubbed my skin until it glowed like a ‘Peace’ rose, then dried off and combed my hair before sliding into a white terry-cloth robe. I padded barefoot into the bedroom and laid down for a moment, looking out the window where the sun was still shining on the backyard.
That, right then and there, was the moment of happiness and contentment that had eluded me all winter. The comfort after the exertion, the softness after the strife – it was blissful. I promptly fell asleep, which was not my intent, but that was ok too.
It was the sort of simplicity that I so often try to orchestrate, but never quite achieve – and here it was, without even trying.
Another gift of spring.
On this first of May, as we begin one of my favorite months, a look back as is our Monday tradition. The Delusional Grandeur Tour culminates this month with its final flourish. I closed out April in Boston, and we shall return a couple more times before the end is at hand. For now, the week in review:
It began in the Windy City, where beauty and forgiveness found a way, and an artful lunch proved a formidable balm.
A very pretty post of Bryce Thompson.
Sexy blokes, Round one.
Sexy blokes, Round two.
Hunks of the Day included Francois Imbeau Dulac, Aaron Renfree, Frankie Cammarata, Dan Murphy & Charlie Carver.
The most exciting news, however, happened in the dark of night, on a blissfully warm evening: the first swim of the season.
The day started off rainy and cool, but steadily warmed as the hours ticked on. Andy had begun heating the pool as soon as we heard the weather report was calling for the possibility of fine weather. It paid off as the water reached a perfect 87 degrees, and the outside flirted with the 70’s. I slipped in for the first swim of the year, and it felt divine.
The scent of a wood fire carried over the water – someone in the neighborhood was burning for heat or atmosphere, and it smelled both of fall coziness and a spring night. Torn deliciously between seasonal worlds, I floated in the deep end, momentarily free from the usual gravitational burden of walking through life. April hadn’t even ended, and I was already in the pool. I savored the moment quietly, not wanting to tempt the fates with hubris.
Is it “morning dove†or “mourning dove� I’m literally too lazy to type a few words into Google to research this for you, so have at it and leave condescending comments on my FaceBook or Twitter feeds. I love that so much. This is the antidote for that other bird post, the one that didn’t have such a happy ending. Here, a bird sits on its offspring (which had poked its head up just for a moment before the photo was taken).
The nest resides in the upper branches of a climbing hydrangea, against a brick chimney, and I didn’t notice it until the fledgling was already hatched. Unlike the robins, these birds made no sound and gave no attacks, even though I’d been working beneath them clearing debris and pruning the branches of the very vine in which their home rested. Had this been a robin’s nest, we would have been pummeled and driven off by a scene straight out of Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ – and I am NOT in a Tippi mood.
