Pineapple. Grilled pineapple. A few years ago it would have been unthinkable, but having finally come around to the beauty and deliciousness of properly grilled foods, I’m a convert, and a grilling fiend. If it can be eaten, it can be grilled. (We’ve even done an excellent grilled cabbage – a whole head cut into wedges and coated in butter, salt and pepper – that fell apart in the mouth and tantalized in a way that no other method of preparation could have produced.)
In this instance, we have a few rings of pineapple, seared for the sweet finale following a grilled dinner of chicken, until the caramelization has begun, and the fruit has slightly broken down, leaving a soft and juicy body with only the merest accents of smokiness. It was heavenly, and the perfect ending to a grilled meal, when I’m often puzzled as to a seamless conclusion (grilled ice cream has proven impossible.)
What is it about homos and superheroes? Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve had an affinity to them. Granted, at first it was Wonder Woman, but I was also enchanted by Spiderman and Batman. It’s not just me – many gay guys and gals are enamored of those with special powers. Like the mutants of the X-Men, we have long been outsiders. Those who are different, even in ways not always outwardly seen, often have a bigger cross to bear, and perhaps we recognize in others who struggle with such difference a resonant thread of loneliness.
It wasn’t just about their bulging biceps, bulging thighs, or bulging, well, bulges, but their double identities: Batman was Bruce Wayne, Superman was Clark Kent, Spiderman was Peter Parker, and Wonder Woman was Diana Prince. They were normal working-class people except for when the situation called for something more.
In many ways, being gay is both boon and albatross. It hinders in some aspects, in its isolating way of separating us from heterosexuals – while helping in others, in the way it makes us stronger. We’re good at going to battle, and winning, because we’ve had no other choice. When you’re consistently attacked or others have tried to repeatedly make you feel less than equal, you buck up and develop whatever special powers you can, or you die. Straight people simply don’t have the same kind of struggles. (They have different ones, of course, but they don’t usually know what it’s like to walk into a room and feel like the odd man, or woman, out.)
Some of the unlikely art that managed to disguise its homoerotic undertones while putting it right in the hands of teenage boys, was to be found in superhero comic books. One such illustrator of said work is J.C. Etheredge, an artist whose virtues I extolled in this essay, and who continues to produce artwork that straddles the line between art and commerce, popularity and pornography. His focus on Superheroes has resulted in superb work, and some might say a healthy dose of magic (based on how he can make even a scrawny guy like me look big and buff and built). Etheredge understands what it’s like to be an outsider, and what it means to be different, but rather than run from it or hide, he’s put it all out there. That’s a special kind of superpower: the ability to so completely be yourself – and it’s something that eludes most of us, gay or straight or choose-your-own-adventure.
PS – I’ve achieved Cheesecake Boy status before, but I’ve never been a Superhero… until now. Thanks J.C.!
It is decidedly uncool among certain snobby circles to salivate over anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Over the years, I fell prey to this tendency (perhaps it was the soundtrack playing incessantly over the sound system of The Venetian in Las Vegas) but upon revisiting the reinvented touring version of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’, I’ve come around again to the music of the night. Perhaps it is the pop-opera aspirations (mostly met) of Sir Andrew’s orchestrations, or the reinvigorated energy of this new production, but as I sat in the front row of the Boston Opera House and watched the dark gorgeousness unfold again, I realized why this is the longest-running show in Broadway history.
This revamping wisely does not mess with the music, though it changes up the classic staging in ways that largely work for a touring show. What it loses on the epic scale (the endless set of steps of the original staging of ‘Masquerade’ or the expansive candlelit lake that rose out of the ground for the title track) it makes up for in intimate grandeur – an ingenious set of stairs that leads down to the Phantom’s lair and the jewel box design of interior rooms and backstage vignettes. While there are pyrotechnics and spectacular costumes, along with enough smoke to obscure the orchestra’s sheet music, it is the energy and vigor of the performers that keeps this Phantom so fresh.
The three leads are powerfully adept at helping this new production, which manages to deliver the over-the-top drama with moments of genuine wonder and tenderness. Julia Udine is the soaring soprano who brings Christine Daae to fragile yet steely life. Her voice is pristine, and she brings tremulous torment to the apex of the triangle grounded by a father-figure Phantom and childhood-love Raoul. The latter is played winningly by Ben Jacoby, with marquee handsomeness and equally-fine vocal prowess. Every production of the musical depends on the titular character, and Cooper Grodin as the Phantom lends the proper gravitas and fiery passion, tamed by a vulnerability that makes Christine’s dilemma believable. Mr. Grodin channels echoes of Lou Chaney in posture and menace, giving his portrayal a darker edge, and adding layers of complexity to a fascinatingly flawed creature.
With a solid supporting cast, this reborn Phantom is worth another look. As the chandelier rose above us, I was reminded of the first time I saw the show – the enchantment, the magic, and the promise of a journey to another world. That’s been forgotten a bit in this cynical age, and it’s easy to dismiss such histrionics as a singing masked man. Yet the heart of the angel of music still beats, and, if you allow yourself, it’s still possible to be swept away in the romance and the mystery of the Phantom.
When you perennially perform well, after a while it gets to be old-hat and expected, and such stalwart show-stoppers, appreciated and fawned upon in their early years don’t often get the recognition after they’ve done it for a while. This is unfortunate, as some stellar plants tend to go unheralded simply for their ease of cultivation. They also tend to get put into impossible situations, where such hardiness is abused in punishing locations.
Case in point is the hosta. Known and celebrated primarily for its foliage, it also offers these lovely lily-like blooms at this time of the year. Some are subtly fragrant, particularly on warm summer nights, adding to the enchantment at work amongst its gorgeous leaves.
When given less-than-ideal places in which to grow, they will usually do all right, but if coddled in their preferred environment, they will be spectacular after a few years. Rich soil, dappled light, and even moisture, coupled with a decent layer of mulch and a vigilant look-out for slugs will result in specimens that are as exotic and elegant as they are hardy. They will also reach their maximum size, which in most cases is much larger than the mass mall-plantings seen in many public spaces. A little pampering almost always works wonders.
There’s not much to say when the weather is fine and the living is easy, so I’ll keep this recap brief and to the point, filling it with eye candy over cumbersome words. My attention must turn to the gardens – mostly keeping them watered and well, which in 90 degree weather is a perpetual job, but a good one. There’s nothing more fulfilling than taking care of a plant and seeing it respond in kind. Here I am droning on about things when I promised something brief. I hear you. Here we go…
It’s a reminder of the primal building blocks of this world, the basic requirements for life. There is play involved whenever water and light get together, and it’s a happy meeting, always.
The mad rush of giddy molecules in the way water follows water, and the undeterred path of light, not bothered or broken by such transparency, conspire to make the most grumpy soul smile and laugh with pleasure.
The best male models make looking nerdy look so damn good, and Jose Pena, our Hunk of the Day, is illustrative evidence of this. Mr Pena, a native of New York who sometimes goes by the nickname Jay if you want to seek out other photos, is a six foot-two inch tall glass of water currently storming the international modeling stage.
He had invited me earlier in the year, when the winter raged, and thoughts of the garden were all that kept me sane. In his lovely way, he asked me to visit him “when the roses bloomed” and then he included his address and contact information. His name was Lee Bailey, and he was the man who wrote my gardening bible, ‘Country Flowers’ – the first book I ever read on the subject. I’d written him a fan letter when I was only eleven or twelve, and he’d written back then, pleasantly surprised by my age and interest. I thought nothing of it until a decade or so later, when I wrote him another fan letter, and he responded with the invitation to see him in the city.
I didn’t make it down until the end of June or early July, passed the point of the first flush of roses, at the height of heat and the nastiness that accompanies summer in New York. At the Chelsea Pines Hotel, in some starlet-themed room of garish and gaudy excess, I stood before the raging air conditioner, cooling down before my meeting with Mr. Bailey. ‘Poses’ by Rufus Wainwright was playing in my mind, its references to Fifth Avenue and flip-flops an apt correlation to my time there.
Out on the street, the heat was instantly intense. It was only a few blocks to his penthouse, but I knew they would be grueling. Taking it slowly, I stayed in the shade, waiting in vain for a breeze that never arrived. Normally I’d have slipped into shorts and, yes, flip-flops, but for this meeting – for the first face-to-face with an idol – I donned khakis out of respect, and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, with few buttons undone in deference to the heat. Something told me, in the friendly and casual way he had of writing, that Mr. Bailey wouldn’t stand on ceremony when it came to clothing or attitude.
On this sunny summer day, on a sticky and somewhat stinky sidewalk of New York, I made my way to my hero. Writers and artists and gardeners were always more impressive than Batman or Superman (but perhaps not Wonder Woman.) Suddenly I was very nervous about meeting him. In some ways, it was a moment that was a decade and a half in the making. He was someone who’d been with me since I was a child. Even if he had no idea, he was there guiding my choices, aiding in my decisions. Mostly it was in garden matters, of course, but there were other lessons cloaked in the guide of caretaking and tending to plants and flowers.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel like picking up roses
In the lobby of his building, I paused, trying to cool down before going up in the elevator. I had never been in anyone’s NYC penthouse, and as the doors opened and deposited me in the hallway of his place, I felt wholly removed from New York, and almost everything I’d ever known. I’d seen similar things before, and had spent time in several mansions and the occasional Senator’s home, but it always impressed me to see how the other half lives. There was an ease to it, a grace you don’t always feel when you’re struggling, even if I knew that such wealth and comfort had its own sets of problems and worries. So much was simply relative.
His assistant brought me into the main living room, flanked on two ends by French doors that were open to the wrap-around balcony. That would be where the roses bloomed, I surmised. She offered me a glass of water and I accepted. Shortly after, Lee Bailey entered his living room. Walking with a cane, he exhibited the passing years since ‘Country Flowers’ had been published, but the spark was still there, and the wit and charm that seeped through his prose were still in evidence now that he stood before me in person. We sat across from each other, on parallel couches, and shared a lovely chat.
I don’t recall the specifics. Mostly, I just marveled at the pinnacle of a journey that began in the winter nights of my childhood, when I pored over the photographs of his flowers, imagining the expanse of his gardens, and drifting to sleep with the hardcover by my side. I explained, in slightly faltering form, how much he had influenced me, but it’s never easy to get across how much it had meant.
We talked of things other than gardening, too: men and boyfriends and his friend Elaine Stritch. He knew several other celebrities whom I would later see at one of his parties – Joel Schumacher, Liz Smith, Hal Prince – but they were merely his contemporaries, people who populated his past like Suzie or Chris populated mine. Though it seemed like my silly life had paled in comparison to his, he treated me as an equal, and such gracious respect would be one of his great lessons.
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel as pretty as princes
The green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus singing
All these poses oh how can you blame me
Life is a game and true love is a trophy
And you said
Watch my head about it…
Our waters done, and sweating on a pair of coasters, we rose and I helped him toward the balcony. He apologized that the roses were done blooming for the moment – and recounted their beauty from a few weeks ago. Here was where the breeze lived – cool and refreshing and so very far from the sidewalk down below. We walked once around the entire length of the balcony, and then I sensed it was time to go.
He promised an invitation to his holiday party – a promise he kept, and a party I would attend right before Christmas – the first of a couple, and I was honored to be included. On that day, we parted quietly, easily, as if we’d known each other all our lives, and for one of us that was kind of true.
Back on the street, the heat had not abated, and I undid another button of my shirt. Mr. Wainwright came back to my head, and a gently meandering piano line plotted my return to the Chelsea Pines Hotel. I’d met my idol. The day was filled with promise and sparkle, with a melancholic undertow that scored all things bright and beautiful.
Reclined amongst these packs of reasons
For to smokes the days away into the evenings
All these poses of classical torture
Ruined my mind like a snake in the orchard
I did go from wanting to be someone now
I’m drunk and wearing flip – flops on Fifth Avenue
In the green autumnal parks conducting
All the city streets a wondrous chorus
Singing all these poses now no longer boyish
Made me a man, but who cares what that is?
Up until now, I’ve never given much thought to filler, particularly of the floral kind, though I realize its importance. Particularly in larger pots of mixed plantings, where contrast and scale can be skillfully manipulated to create illusions of grandeur, the use of tiny trailing plants like these is of the utmost importance. Bigger blooms and brighter blossoms may get all the initial notice, but it’s the one that draws you nearer that is remembered.
Like quieter voices or more nuanced shades, these little flowers command a closer look, demanding that one approach for further examination. It’s a trick that often works.
Though more demure in their request, they still ask to be noticed.
Even in the floral realm, a whisper can yield more than a shout.
The world seemed a lot bigger back in 1990. It was my first time out of the continental United States, and I was part of a People-to-People program visiting then then-Soviet Union. It was also my first time being away from home for such a duration (three weeks) but after first night jitters, I had settled into the group and began to enjoy myself. In many ways, it was the first time I realized that I could charm and impress, because I never quite felt that way growing up. Here, surrounded by people outside my family (aside from Suzie and her Dad) I could blossom in a way that had gone unnoticed at best, downright trampled at worst.
The first thing I noticed upon touching down was that everything was in full-color. It was a novice’s awareness of the obvious. Russia would not be in black and white or sepia tones as I’d always seen on historical news reports and textbooks. It was a living, breathing country, with trees just as green as the ones back home. I don’t know why that was so innocently jarring for me, but it portended a few weeks of eye-opening experiences and badly-needed growth. We traveled the country, with stops in Moscow and Leningrad (Saint Petersburg) and on the way we had a few opportunities to meet and interact with other kids our age. These moments found us forging bonds between different nations, and different worlds, and while it shrunk my conception of the earth, it also expanded my horizons. There was one person I remember to this day, and I still can’t fully explain why.
They called him Rat. A tall but agile boy, he was the unofficial leader of the pack. We were visiting a summer camp of sorts, and he was one of the shining stars whom the counselors nodded at, and who commanded the respect and adulations of everyone around him. Maybe it was that magnetism that drew us all to him, or maybe he needed us as much as we needed him.
Certain people, and it’s true of kids as much as adults, are born to take the lead. Their charisma, their attitude, and sometimes their hunger places them in such positions. In the case of Rat, it was a role he seemed to relish, and also take very seriously. The others clearly deferred to him. I just thought he was a nice guy. Too often, people in power could be mean or condescending to others. He never appeared that way. He defended the defenseless, and fought for what was fair. In the limited interactions I had with him I saw that.
Breaking free from our role-models-of-America poses, we were left alone with him and some other kids, and reverted to how young we really were (about 14). We escaped the confines of the rooms in which we were supposed to stay, and went outside for a walk. When there was danger of exposure or being caught, Rat took us through a back passage-way, ducking behind foliage and creating one of the more exciting moments of that trip. It was a minor infraction of being where we weren’t supposed to be, but I trusted him when others hesitated, and went ahead when others stayed behind.
Nothing came of it – we simply had some time with kids our own age and no adult supervision, and when we returned at the end of the day just a little bit later than everyone else, no one was the wiser, and no one got into any trouble. It was Rat’s protective stance of us that stayed with me. A bit of transparent affection that was at odds with the emotional armor I wore at all times.
Before we left, we sat in a circle talking with him. He was inclusive of everyone, and we were all under his spell. He waved goodbye as we took our leave, smiling and surrounded by his minions. Out of all the people I met in the Soviet Union that summer, he’s one of the few who still haunts my heart. I wonder what became of him, what he went on to do with his life, if he still had it.
When I returned to the States, the radio was playing this Roxette song. Though I was in no way in love or even remotely attracted to him, it reminded me of Rat, and of that summer. He had unlocked something, and I carefully lifted the lid with reverence and reserve. As the bus neared my hometown, I noticed that the fields of corn had grown tall. Soon I would see that the hollyhocks in our backyard stretched to the sky, higher than my head, but I had grown a little as well. Or maybe the world wasn’t as big as I thought it was.
Some of the first plants I ever grew were the tuberous begonias. Unlike the common begonia that was available for mass planting, these were larger and more temperamental plants. They demanded dappled light and coaxing from their tubers before they would reward with rich blooms such as the ones seen here. The foliage was just as handsome, and together they made a powerful punch. Yet for all of that, their form never quite appealed to me. It was slightly erratic, as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind to be upright or trailing. I don’t like that kind of indecision.
This year, I gave them another try, and though the color and beauty of the flower form remains enchanting, and the leaves are as pretty as I remember them, the form still irks me. I keep expecting the taller portions to flop over, debating a stake before letting nature decide if and when it should fall. Too many things in gardening are ungovernable – I don’t need another. So enjoy these luscious flowers for now; their time is limited and their tubers will not be saved.
(Ok, they call it the Body Issue, but it’s really the Naked Issue.) It would seem that there’s not much of a difference between donning a Speedo and donning a birthday suit, but Michael Phelps and his tan lines prove otherwise. The difference is profound, and sexy, and folks looking to see Mr. Phelps in all his glory need only pick up the latest ‘Naked Issue’ of ESPN Magazine.
The 4th of July came and went without much notice here, which doesn’t mean I’m a bad American, it just means that I hold it closer to my heart and away from this blog. Instead, the most patriotic thing some of us can do is revel in who we are, and where we came from. For me, that’s my family, a living embodiment of the American Dream – and the last week was filled with a look back at our first family vacation in almost two decades.
