They bloomed later this year thanks to our lingering winter weather. They didn’t need to be so accommodating, as we stayed home on the Memorial Day weekend when they’d usually burst forth into full bloom all at once. I like the later bloom period. It slows things down. Let us rush madly through the end of fall and all of winter, but let the spring stay as long as she can. Let the beauty remain. As long as possible…
I spent the early-afternoons of many a summer in front of the television, watching the NBC soap opera line-up of ‘Days of Our Lives’, ‘Another World’ and ‘Santa Barbara’. My grandmother had gotten me into ‘Days’ ~ the rest just naturally followed suit. They appealed to my ingrained love for all things dramatic. It also offered a cool respite from the hottest part of the day, and even as a kid I could appreciate the luxury of lounging in air-conditioned splendor, sipping languidly from a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, popping in a raspberry flavored piece of hard candy in-between sips.
These days, I’ve switched from soap operas to Real Housewives, from iced tea to prosecco, but the general idea of summer freedom remains. I paired this bit of bubbly stuff with a bowl of cherries, and it’s my new favorite thing. Sitting by the pool, lazily turning the pages of a book, and letting the day pass blissfully by…
Contrary to what many people might expect, I’m not high maintenance when it comes to a hotel room in New York City. What I want, more than a trendy hotel bar, billion-thread-count sheets or chocolates on the pillow is a simple respite from the street. A room, ideally with a view, that provides a comfort in a city that can be wild and crazy in the best and worst ways.
Fulfilling that for this weekend will be the Kimpton Hotel Eventi, which will be host to Andy and I while we attend a Betty Buckley concert, as it’s slightly closer to the venue than our usual Muse. The latter has always been wonderful, especially when seeing a show on Broadway, but it’s good to expand our accommodation knowledge, and Kimpton knows how to do hospitality right.
Whether it’s the Muse in Manhattan or the jewel of the Topaz in DC, Kimpton properties have consistently provided charm and a unique verve that sets them apart from other hotels. There’s nothing cookie-cutter about them, which makes each property a singular work of art. Best of all, their customer service has been impeccable.
Before the summer, and often during, rain is what keeps the gardens and the lawns and the trees alive. We do not mourn it or curse it just yet. Our summer has not yet begun. On with the last week…
A bouquet of lily of the valley.
May departs in a flurry of petals.
Theater review: a brilliant production of ‘The Boys in the Band’.
The magnificent Betty Buckley.
Following the wisdom of Coco Chanel.
An enchanting find: Jack-in-the-pulpit.
A little bloom in a hue of blue.
Your next must-read book: ‘The Summer That Melted Everything’.
What is the summer movie of 2018?
Hunks of the day included Igor Kolomiyets, Zachary Quinto, Sam Hunt and Dan Slater.
Nobody wants to stand over a hot stove for anything more than ten or fifteen minutes during the warmer months, and that;s about the length of prep and cooking time for this easy summer pasta dish. I’m not going to bother with specifics – you can probably find it online, or Crotchety Carl can figure it out for you. This is just some olive oil, chopped onion, asparagus spears, a dose of prosecco, fresh parsley, then butter and freshly grated parmesan. It’s light, but surprisingly rich. Elegant and decadent. The very best parts of a coming summer.
(Important recipe note: it is mandatory to drink a glass or two of the prosecco while cooking. It won’t taste as good if you don’t.)
What is this summer’s popcorn movie? I’ve been out of the loop and ignoring the pop culture landscape of late. I think ‘Infinity War’ came too soon to be a proper summer movie. I’m looking for the next sleeper hit – like ‘The Others’ or some similar, off-kilter fare. Of course, I’m also willing to make-do with the return of Jurassic World, but the previews look too cheesy to be any good. (A dinosaur at the foot of a child’s bed? There’s just so much belief I can suspend.)
I’m looking for something new…
It’s been a while since I’ve been this excited about a book, but Tiffany McDaniel’s ‘The Summer That Melted Everything’ is going to be a favorite for years to come, with pages already dog-eared for all the passages I want and need to remember. Even better, it’s a timely summer read, and, like certain songs, there’s something about the summer that makes it mean a little bit more.
“Why, upon hearing the word devil, did I just imagine the monster? Why did I fail to see a lake? A flower growing by that lake? A mantis praying on the very top of a rock? A foolish mistake, it is, to expect the beast, because sometimes, sometimes, it is the flower’s turn to own the name.” ~ Tiffany McDaniel
The summer of 1984 finds a small Ohio town besieged by both a heat wave and a little boy portending to be the devil. Such is the start of this exquisite novel, which and the promise of a powerful summer read is suddenly fulfilled. Reminiscent of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ in the best possible ways, this is an updated take on morality and humanity, one that posits the impossible questions of what makes a person good and what truly constitutes evil. In addition to that eternal power play, there is McDaniel’s uncanny use of time, as she weaves tales within tales, shifting perspective and time frame in a way that never feels jarring. Even the smallest fragments of fables – such as the brief recounting of what the devil himself may have seen over his years – are powerful ruminations on what the world does to us, and what we in turn do to each other.
“I was once told writing in a journal could help me. Something about putting the pain on the page. So I got one and finished it in a day. I looked back to see what I’d written. Nothing but little lines, swooping and curving. Not one word. And yet didn’t it say everything? The way their smiles did? All the dark, all the hurt, scooped up, carried by curve.” ~ Tiffany McDaniel
I’m not going to delve into any more specifics about plotline or character, because it’s so much better if you read it yourself and enjoy each and every revelation. Then be sure to spread the good word. McDaniel says everything better than I ever could, so I’ll leave you with one of my favorite passages:
“Being the devil made him a target, but it also meant he had a power he didn’t have when he was just a boy. People looked at him, listened to what he said. Being the devil made him important. Made him visible. And isn’t that the biggest tragedy of all? When a boy has to be the devil to be significant?” ~ Tiffany McDaniel
This exquisite little scilla got lost in the rush of spring blooms, but I found the photos before too much time has passed and am posting them now because they’re pretty. Such beauty, coming as it does at such a desperate time of the year, is not to be wasted. These hardy souls fight through late snows and dire spring storms to bloom, usually with petals torn and tattered, spotted with mud and chewed up by rodents, but each year they come back for more. A hunger for life, and for putting on a show no matter how small, is commendable.
I didn’t mean to come upon them. That’s always when you find the best things. They were huddled together in a little clump, rising out of the brown expanse of a leaf-littered forest floor. My eyes picked them out of the forest because back then I could do such things. A single lobelia in a mile-wide meadow was the one thing I would see; a lone lupine on the side of the Thruway as we sped by at 60 miles per hour stuck out like a sore thumb. I’m digressing, moving further away from the memory I want to record here.
It was early June. The end of the school year was upon us, which meant that final exams were at hand too. In those days I didn’t stress much about final exams. If you paid attention and did your work during the year, what more could you do? I usually did well on them. Still, the older I got, the less I seemed to retain, so a look-back was a good idea, even as it pained me. Studying notebooks from the entire year is a big chore, and there’s a point when you can’t do it anymore, when your brain is going to hold all that it’s going to hold, a saturation point that simply won’t allow anything else inside. When I hit that point I stopped and looked out at what remained of the day.
The sun was still slanting through the trees behind our house. It was my favorite time to be out walking in the woods. I hurried down the bank, past the emerging patches of Japanese knotweed, then across a street to another wooded area, up that bank, then down into a slight ravine.
There, in the belly of the forest, in the midst of all the fallen oak leaves, was a nice-sized clump of jack-in-the-pulpit plants. They were part of my childhood lore, when Suzie’s family had them growing happily in front of their house. Each summer I’d study them, fascinated as much by their form as for their endangered status. There were even whispers that they had spread to the point that someone had dug a bunch out and threw them down the bank behind the house.
Now, in the wild, was a tiny collection of them, happily unnoticed by most eyes. I was grateful that I happened upon them. Given their endangered status at the time, I left them alone, content to keep the secret of their location while enjoying the visage they made against the otherwise brown forest floor. It was the perfect study break. Nothing clears the head as well as a brush with the sublime.
The jack-in-the-pulpit plant is a fascinating woodland native. It sends up spikes that unfurl into handsome three-segmented leaves, followed by the ‘flower’ which is a hooded spathe enclosing the ‘jack’ in a cloak of green. If left alone, it will develop a stalk of bright red berries. The specimen shown here was purchased on a whim, in one of those mass-produced plastic bags that contains a sad little dried-up root or rhizome that rarely if ever comes back to life, so I planted it in a shady nook and promptly forgot about it. Other plants took over; a carpet of sweet woodruff, a lacy dicentra, and a hellebore stole the focus, and so the unobtrusive leaves went unnoticed. A couple of years later the spikes emerged and I was pleasantly reminded that it was there. Now it’s a sight to which I eagerly look forward, coming as it does with such pleasant early-summer memories.
The legendary Coco Chanel had a sage pearl of dressing wisdom: take off the last thing you put on. When heading out for a dressy event, I follow this advice faithfully. In my case, most of my last-minute additions are made in a final moment of insecurity, when in the doubt and excitement of that moment I scramble for one extra bit of sparkle. Taking off that final piece has saved me countless embarrassing get-ups.
For instance, the silly necklace seen here, in all its frivolous glory, was a last-minute addition to a floral suit jacket that was, in itself, more than enough. (Some would consider it too much.) I clasped it, felt the heaviness around my neck, and on the way out heard the voice of Ms. Chanel whispering her words of wisdom. I quickly removed it and hung it around a doorknob for another day. And it worked out splendidly. The jacket was enough.
As in so many other aspects of life, sometimes less is more; elegance is a result of discerned and disciplined editing. Knowing when to stop is an art form of its own.
There aren’t enough accolades or hyphenates to properly convey the wide-ranging brilliance of Betty Buckley. Carving out the start of a rare third act, impressive for anyone in any industry – much more-so for a talented woman navigating the finicky and unforgiving landscape of entertainment – Ms. Buckley has been basically everywhere for the past year – on the big screen in ‘Split’, on the small screen in ‘Supergirl’ and ‘Preacher’, on stage from ‘Cats’ to ‘Sunset Boulevard’ and on countless albums such as ‘Story Songs‘ and the upcoming ‘Hope’. Next week marks her return to Joe’s Pub in a series of shows to highlight the release of her new ‘Hope’ album. I’m still blissfully enchanted by her double-CD of ‘Story Songs’ so this feels like a very happy bonus, and proof that Ms. Buckley has never been one to rest on her laurels; she remains a potent and prolific force, capable of startling transformation and evolution, imbued with a sense of survival rooted in her Texas home and childhood and honed through decades in the entertainment world.
I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing her live a few times – several visits to her iconic residence at ‘Sunset Boulevard‘ and one Andrew Lloyd Webber musical tour in which she was clearly the star, bringing the house down with her extraordinary instrument. In place of that, I’ve feasted on YouTube videos and live recordings that come as close as possible to capturing her magnificent gifts.
Capable of ranging from the softest coo of a heartbroken meadowlark to the imperious belt of a demanding diva, her voice is divinity transmitted through sound. Lately her music has taken on greater import. Perhaps more than ever, the music that Buckley makes is of vital necessity. In a world darkened by division, where the worst of humanity seems to have been unleashed, her voice and her sentiments present a steely conviction emboldened by beauty, the heart of a survivor tempered by the soul of an artist. Through her remarkable interpretations, she reveals the power of a song to act as a balm upon our collective hurt, hitting some primal chord of how we connect to one another, through empathy, through understanding, through pain and love. The excited trill of a girlish laugh, the throaty growl of a demon-like fury, or the clear, sanguine tone of a note held so pure that it brings tears to the eyes of the lucky listener ~ these are the fertile fields where Buckley’s artistic merits find fruition.
This is a crazy time to be alive, and it sometimes feels like a very sad time as well – but when you need a reminder of all that we can be, the very best that human nature can convey, I listen to Ms. Buckley’s voice, and no matter how tattered and broken we may be, I always find a little bit of hope there.
Several weeks ago I saw a local production of ‘The Boys in the Band’ and left sorely unimpressed with it. I’d managed to avoid the movie version all my life based on the roundly negative perception that had been gleaned in the ensuing years of gay evolution, but I didn’t want to go in to the current revival wholly unprepared, so I watched a local troupe do the best that they could.
It felt so dated, so acerbic, so harsh – I didn’t recognize the joy I’ve mostly felt when surrounded by my gay friends. Yet was it the play that was problematic? Or was it my anger and issue with the fact that it was, at its time, an accurate reflection of how gay men lived and were perceived? Or was it my discomfort that some of those very same themes and issues still held true to this day? Whatever the reasons, I went into the current revival – staged fifty years after its landmark premiere – with these doubts hovering in my mind.
Back on Broadway with a thousand-watt cast and pedigreed director, ‘The Boys in the Band’ is one of the hottest tickets in town. The questions that bothered me on first viewing were still in effect, but director Joe Mantello (who lately has been averaging about two directorial pieces per season, and whose previous work includes ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!‘ and ‘Wicked‘) and that perfectly-assembled stellar cast managed to pull off a brilliant feat: bringing back a piece of the past, keeping it faithful to the original material and era, yet somehow making it completely of-the-moment and eerily relevant. (If anyone thinks that our fight was over when marriage equality became the law of the land, check out the vitriol on any number of social media sites. Hatred comes as much from the outside as it does from within.)
Brilliantly-lit and designed, the set is all about surface and reflection – mirrors and glass work to obscure and reveal. As the evening progresses, it gradually gets ravaged, and by the end it’s as messy as all the emotions that have been spilled. The main draw of this production is the cast, and at first I wondered whose star might shine brightest; the good news, and what makes this show work so well, is that they all do. Mantello has insured that each gets a little star turn, but it’s the ensemble work that propels these boys to a greater glory. Working together in finely-tuned nuance and dexterity, they seamlessly weave their own individual tales among the birthday proceedings at hand, flawlessly executing the cadence of the gay world as it exited the 60’s and charged into the 70’s. The sexual freedom on hand portends the arrival of AIDS in the 80’s, which makes this time capsule of gay history especially poignant in a way the original production could not have achieved.
Jim Parsons elicits the complexity and tightly-coiled danger of the evening’s host Michael, gradually coming undone as the night wears on, ending a brief bout of sobriety and giving in to his own demons. His is the rough, wounded heart around which the show delicately revolves. A former one-time paramour, Donald, endearingly played by Matt Bomer, is the first to arrive and set his mind at relative ease. Providing a sweeter foil to the perfectly prickly Parsons, Bomer provides both a calmer presence and some swoon-worthy eye candy (if you want to see him in briefs and briefly naked, it’s worth the price of admission).
Robin de Jesus sparkles and almost steals the show as Emory, deftly devouring the scenery in moments that run from the highest camp to the most lowly pathos, while somehow managing to steer clear of a grating stereotype. Michael Benjamin Washington brings a subdued elegance to his role as Bernard, even as he leaves in tears and regret. The catalyst that provides all the immediate drama is the arrival of Michael’s college friend Alan, the sole straight person in the story, whose overt posturing and derogatory comments belie past secrets operating on multiple levels. Brought to anguished life by Brian Hutchison, Alan may be the most conflicted of them all, a rather stunning reversal of the expected standard order. Birthday boy Harold appears half-way into the evening, but makes perhaps the biggest impression. Masterfully brought to life by a wickedly unrecognizable Zachary Quinto, his feathery, deliberately-cadenced delivery is as delicious as it is diabolical. Wit and sharpness have helped him survive, and all the vitriol that Michael throws at him falls away like so many broken arrows.
As mentioned, each character gets an indelible moment to show-off, and no one is one-note accent, which is quite an achievement. Even the Cowboy (Charlie Carver, in an almost-silent role) makes the most of his few words; his emoting, with the slightest switch in expression in a room of sharper wits, manages to convey innocence, exuberance and earnestness in a performance that is sweeter than it deserves to be.
Portraying a couple perpetually on the verge of a break-up or break-down, Andrew Rannells and Tuc Watkins inhabit Larry and Hank in realistically antagonistic fashion, yet despite the seeming precariousness of their relationship, they ultimately provide the evening’s singular moment of hope and sentiment. In a world that once openly hated us, and in some circumstances still does, the tortured yet honest way they navigate their lives is, in a warped way, one example of how gay people worked to forge their romantic relationships. That’s indicative of this play on a broader scale, and if we don’t see ourselves as readily in these characters, perhaps that’s the best sign of how far we’ve come. Taken as such, the work becomes a celebration. What might outwardly be seen as a sad little birthday party becomes a glorious revelry, thanks largely to the compelling performers who breathe life into a world that has, for better or worse, faded away.
The last day of May is too soon at hand, and with it goes the last full month of spring. That means summer fun is right around the corner, as well as a long-desired break from this blog (for you and me both). Things are moving swiftly in the garden right now, with flower after flower quickly blooming then moving on to the next species. This is the problem with warming up so fast after being cold for so long: plants will rush to make up for lost time, getting it over with sooner than we’d like. Nature likes to keep her appointments.
Case in point was this Kwanzan cherry tree, which had a banner year of blooms. They put on a show for almost a week before being ripped from their branches in a single morning of rain and wind. The petals poured down like a heavy snow, littering the pool and ground with an enchanting layer of pink.
Before they went, however, I captured these shots, freezing them forever at the height of their glory. It’s the only way we have of keeping them. That and these words. Both have power.
Mere memory is fallible.
Next Thursday, June 1, marks the Semi-Formal event for this year’s Pride festivities in Albany, NY: the GLSEN Gala. It is one of my favorite events, and this year there is a Roaring 20’s Gatsby Theme (which we’ve done a number of times but still isn’t quite old). I love a dressy event, especially one that does so much good in the world. Here’s the info – hope to see you there:
GLSEN-NYCR is proud to present our Roaring 20th Annivsery GLSEN Gala! The black tie is entirely optional but Feather Boas & headbands are strongly encouraged!
Come celebrate a “roaring” 20 years with us, as we continue to fund the Safe Schools Advocacy & Bullying Prevention Work of GLSEN NYCR, right here in the Capital Region of Upstate NY.
Our mission is to ensure that every member of every school community is valued and respected regardless of sexual orientation, gender identity or gender expression.
Please purchase tickets here, all ticket funds go to GLSEN-NYCR! –> https://donate-newyorkcapitalregion.glsen.org/page/contribute/roaring-twentieth-anniversary
Lee Bailey was right, as he so often was: it takes a lot of lily-of-the-valley blooms to make a semi-decent bouquet. Fortunately for us (for the most part, with the minor exception of where they’re escaping into the lawn and garden) we have several semi-wild patches of these that have naturalized themselves to the point where we have hundreds of blooms to utilize. To be honest, they’ve proliferated to the point of being a nuisance, but they’re a beautiful nuisance, and at this time of the year they fill the yard with their intoxicating perfume. It was a favorite of my grandmother’s, and they always remind me of her.
I picked these while they were nearing their finish; it will actually divert energy into the root system. Rather than work on setting seed, they will spread by rhizome, popping up through the smallest cracks in a make-do patio. If you want to get a good, healthy clump started, pile on the manure in the fall or winter. They adore it. Leave it out if you want them less robust. One cow’s shit is a lily’s supper. Or, eat shit and prosper. A happy garden is a dirty business.
After amassing all the stems in a simple glass vase, something still felt off. I tried adjusting their placement, but there’s really only so much one can do in this situation, and I’m not quite evolved enough to bunch them in one section as seems to be all the rage in the florist business these days. I realized it was just too formal and monotonous, so I went back outside and plucked a few sets of leaves. It made all the difference.
