Category: Singing

O Christmas Tree

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What I share here always comes from my heart and the firing (sometimes misfiring) synapses of my brain.

Lately, I have been drawn to writing more poetry. It helps me to process the pain–personal and national–which I have been wearing like a cape that shrouds my best impulses and intentions.

Today, as Christmas and the end of the year approach, I am taking a different path.

Before I take the stage next weekend for my holiday concert with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, I want to reflect on bright-and-shiny moments–present and past–which have been tempered by devastating-and-unavoidable losses in 2024.

***

Tom and I are among the dwindling few, who continue to send Christmas cards in the mail to our closest friends and loved ones.

It’s something that brings both of us joy, and in my book that means it’s something worth doing–no matter what other Americans do.

I know that practice places us in the minority (rather like the disastrous outcome of our presidential election), but I don’t care.

Since childhood, I have always identified as “different” or–more specifically–as an outsider. Maybe it was my brain’s subconscious attempt at preparing me for the obstacles I would face as a gay man.

At any rate, conformity is for the faint of heart. It takes courage to stand by your differences, and I have a feeling I will need to muster a boatload of courage as we head into 2025.

Maybe that approaching storm is why I have taken comfort recently in an old Christmas memory.

For several years in the late 1950s and early 1960s, before Dad had his first heart attack, he took Diane (my sister) and me in our old, green Plymouth to search for our family Christmas tree.

We didn’t have much money, so he usually drove us to a tree lot adjacent to a Site filling station. Strangely, I remember the price of gas was 29 cents a gallon on the sign that swayed in winter’s wind.

Dad was a tall man–six feet, two inches. One day I would reach that same stature, but going back sixty-five years, I was a little tyke with a wool stocking cap covering my crew cut.

Dad wanted to select a natural tree (usually balsam, because they were cheaper than Scotch Pine) that was at least his height, so when it was placed in a tree stand all of us (he, Mom, Diane, and I) could gaze up at the beauty of its lights, ornaments, and tinsel hanging on every branch.

In the cold and damp St. Louis air, it usually took us several rounds up and down the aisles of the tree lot to find the best shaped tree. But we always found one to our liking and–with heavy twine–somehow tied it to the roof of our sedan.

When we got home on December 4 or 5, our family practice was to cut a small notch off the bottom of the tree trunk, then deposit it into a metal bucket of water to keep it fresh.

Inevitably, the water in the bucket froze, but with a little heat from the Midwestern sun, around the middle of December we were able to pry it out of the bucket, screw it into our stand, and decorate our family Christmas tree in our living room.

***

Back to reality. We lost a few friends in 2024. Peggy’s passing in mid-November is the most recent.

I was touched and honored when Glenn–our dear friend, neighbor and one of the kindest and most dependable people I know–asked me to write his wife’s obituary.

Peggy’s memorial service last week was a beautiful reflection on her meaningful life as a teacher, wife, mother, grandmother, animal-lover, and upstanding citizen. I will miss her.

In general, I am aware of the “shrinkage” (and greater vulnerability) that comes with age–the loss of friends and family one by one, the institutions that close their doors, the connections that fray (literal or otherwise), the visits to the dentist to replace crowns and teeth that wear down and require repairs.

I experienced all of those in 2024. But there were inspiring moments, too.

Tom and I traveled to Minneapolis in July for the quadrennial GALA chorus festival. The singing, listening, bonding, and carousing with other LGBTQ friends and chorus members filled our cups and our hearts.

It was also a privilege to share England and Scotland with my husband in late September. That week-long tour–from London, to Bath, to Lake Windermere, to Shakespeare’s home, to Liverpool, and the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh–was our tenth wedding anniversary gift to each other.

And 2024 was the year I began to teach again. I had fun in October and November coaching a dozen aspiring and diverse writers in my first memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. I will do it again in January 2025 with a new batch of students.

***

It feels like the best way to end this meandering post is on a high note. So, why not share a photo of the pre-lit artificial Christmas tree Tom and I decorated and adore in our Arizona home?

On Christmas Eve, we will sit together in front of our tree, open our presents, and give thanks for the love we share and the diverse branches of family and friends in our lives who adorn our world.

For me, one of those branches is sharing ideas and stories with all of you.

Happy Holidays!

***

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

Not only green in summer’s heat,

But also winter’s snow and sleet.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

Recycle the Fruitcake

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My mother loved fruitcake. I think making and eating it reminded her of her Carolina roots.

As a teenager and young adult, I remember seeing her and many of my older relatives consume fruitcake.

The thought of munching that dark, rich, moist, nutty, fruity, and rummy consistency repulsed me.

Anyway, she liked having fruitcake around during the holidays. I didn’t.

In the early 1980s, when Jean (my ex) and I lived in the Chicago suburbs, Mom hadn’t caught on to my fruitcake aversion.

Every December, she ordered a rather expensive variety of fruitcake, made by the Trappist monks of the Assumption Abbey, and had it delivered to us.

(Assumption Abbey is a monastery tucked in the foothills of the Missouri Ozarks.)

Jean and I didn’t have the heart to tell Mom to stop sending us fruitcakes. So, every year, we received another tin of it, which sat unopened on the bottom shelf of our refrigerator.

We never found a way to recycle or share it with others, because no one else we knew liked fruitcake either.

Inevitably, year after year–sometime in May, June, or July long after the last presents were unwrapped–Jean or I extricated the fruitcake from the back of our fridge and dumped it in the garbage.

***

If you follow my blog, you know I sing second tenor with a gay chorus–to be precise, the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC)–and have written several librettos for PHXGMC.

For the uninitiated, we are a joyous, talented, and rambunctious LGBTQ-plus organization, comprised of more than one hundred singers and musicians (who also wear multiple hats as artistic consultants, dancers, actors, writers, marketers, costume designers, stagehands, sound technicians, and lighting crew).

At times, the switching of hats from one day, week, or number to the next is a dizzying process. But when you volunteer for an arts’ organization you believe in, it comes with the territory.

As I write this, we are entering the heavy lifting phase of Lights, Camera, Elves!, our holiday show coming December 21 and 22 to the Herberger Theatre in Phoenix.

Anyway, as I swam laps on Tuesday and considered what to write this week, thoughts of my mother’s love of fruitcake and a coincidental plotline in our concert popped into my head.

You see, like my mother, Rudy–a character in our concert–adores fruitcake. He can’t get enough of it, and that obsession leads him into trouble and a terrible trap. 

In fact, Act One ends with a hysterical, rousing number–Recycle the Fruitcake.

In the mix, I should back up and tell you that Scott, our choreographer, has asked me to play a bit role in the fruitcake number.

For about 15 seconds, I’ll be crossing the stage wearing an orange hazmat suit, while carrying a toxic fruitcake in this holiday tin. Meanwhile, the chorus will be singing this lyrical line:

“A fruitcake can be wide, a fruitcake can be thin, a fruitcake can be toxic, so they keep it in a tin. So, when you get a fruitcake, never let it touch your skin, ’cause you never really know where fruitcakes might have been.”

Brandon and Mike (two other chorus members) and I had loads of fun co-creating the libretto for Lights,  Camera, Elves! … and we are coaching the cast as they prepare for our performances.

The show is a story of redemption, featuring Santa’s love for holiday movies, a misfit security guard named Rudy, and three recalled-and-mischievous elves (Spike, Ginger, and Eddie) … all told against the backdrop of gorgeous and fun holiday music.

We’re excited, because we are expecting full houses for all three of our holiday shows.

Though my mother has been gone for nearly twelve years and was never able to see me perform in any of the fifteen holiday concerts I’ve appeared in since 2010, I know she would have loved the spirit and beautiful music in this show … along with my creative impulse to recycle my fruitcake memories. 

In Summer’s Flurry

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In summer’s flurry of joyful singing, record-breaking heat, Covid resurgence, political revelations, and Olympics coverage, June is gone. July is close behind.

Until now, my Covid recovery, birthday revelry, and travels to and from Minneapolis for the 2024 GALA Festival prevented me from posting highlights from Encore, our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert in late June.

Suffice it to say Encore was a musical review of favorite chorus moments and tunes (A Million Dreams, Some Nights, What Was I Made For?, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Proud, I’m Still Standing, For Me and ten more.)

Beyond that, it was also a reflective celebration of Marc Gaston’s twenty-two years as our artistic director–laced with storytelling vignettes (I wrote), LGBTQ anthems, and dazzling dance routines.

As a singer and one of several storytellers, I couldn’t be prouder of the program we created and performed for three exuberant audiences at Tempe Center for the Arts.

I will leave you with a snippet of dialogue … along with four images from the concert … that represents the joy, energy, rainbow colors, and love, which reverberated in the room away from the summer heat.

“When I sing with this chorus–these amazing people–and I absorb all the music and camaraderie, it feels like the sky is the limit. It feels like I could rule the world.” Mark Johnson, Storyteller #1, in Encore.

From Longing to Belonging

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I’m back home. Inside the furnace, better known as the Valley of the Sun.

I have begun to reemerge from an affirming, magical, inspiring five days of LGBTQ bonding and music with my chosen family at the 2024 GALA Festival in Minneapolis.

From July 10-14, 7,000 singers (representing nearly 300 choruses and presenters from around the world) inhabited the Twin Cities.

We owned the stages. Occupied the hotels. Flooded the restaurants, bars, shops and streets with gaiety and glee.

But it was more than the magnitude of this quadrennial event that has left an indelible imprint on my creativity and identity. It was the sense of joy, kindness, support, and human possibilities that dazzled me most.

At a time in this country and our world where so much hatred abounds, I was reminded that when love is present–when people truly come together to care for one another and cheer each other on–we can be that Bridge Over Troubled Water (one of the songs my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus mates and I performed) of hope for one another.

This was my third GALA. I shared all of them with my husband Tom: 2012 and 2016 in Denver; 2024 in Minneapolis. Each one has nurtured me, deepened my sense of artistry and compassion, and reinforced the importance of rekindling/kindling old and new relationships.

In this 2024 installment, over a five-day period I was able to reconnect and celebrate with friends from Chicago (who perform with the Windy City Gay Chorus and the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus), Washington, Seattle, and–of course–Phoenix.

A friend and ex-colleague (from my past consulting career) who lives in the Minneapolis area, also surprised and delighted me by attending our performance on July 12. It was a treat seeing her again.

If you follow my blog, you know I have written five books. One is a book of poetry; the other four are memoirs or creative nonfiction. I’ve also written lyrics and librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Already, I have begun to scribble ideas in a spiral notebook that were sparked by my latest GALA experience. Who knows? This may lead me to a stream of poems or lyrics I have yet to compose.

For now, I will leave you with an idea and image that captured my attention on Saturday as Tom and I watched a series of choruses perform inside the auditorium of the Minneapolis Convention Center.

A few rows in front of us, a couple neither of us knows relaxed and leaned in. Away from the heat and fire in the world, they rested their heads against one another. They held each other. They listened to beautiful music in a safe space.

Many of us in the LGBTQ community have spent large portions of our lives searching for answers, longing for love and understanding.

The beauty of the GALA Festival is that–through the power of music, relationships, and community–we can move from longing to belonging.

Moving beyond this amazing and affirming five days in the upper Midwest, we will continue to raise our voices inside our choruses and be our authentic selves outside in the everyday world.

Truly, we are much more than a large collection of singers. Together, we represent a movement of kind, talented, and diverse humans with the power to change hearts, minds, and attitudes.

I’m Still Standing

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It may or may not surprise you to learn that I’m sipping hot herbal tea–lemon and ginger–as I write this.

Ordinarily, that would feel counterintuitive to surviving the summer desert heat. (We are expecting 115-degree temperatures in the Phoenix area again today.)

But I am determined to eradicate the nagging remnants of Covid congestion. Plenty of rest, fluids, hot tea, Sudafed, and throat lozenges are helping me slay this beast. (I am no longer Covid positive or contagious.)

I want to be clear-headed for my sixty-seventh birthday on July 6th. (Actually, it’s OUR sixty-seventh birthday. In a gift from the cosmos, Tom and I are exactly the same age. I’m no mathematician, but what are the odds of that?!)

We will celebrate by seeing a production of Fiddler on the Roof at the Phoenix Theater–it’s getting rave reviews–followed by dinner at a Phoenix restaurant.

Then, early next week, Tom and I will travel to Minneapolis for the quadrennial GALA choral festival. 7,000 LGBTQ singers (representing hundreds of choruses from the US and around the world) will be participating in this massive community choral event.

It will be more than five days of non-stop music, singing, listening, cheering, and applauding. It will be a giant uplifting and affirming dose of camaraderie, which all of us in the LGBTQ community–the entire world really–need right now.

If you aren’t familiar with GALA, it’s a phenomenal program–gay music camp, of sorts–which happens only once every four years. Of course, the 2020 program was Covid-cancelled.

Therefore, GALA 2016 in Denver was the most recent festival. I still have fond memories of standing on stage with my mates from the Windy City Gay Chorus.

We were asked to perform the song I Love You More from Tyler’s Suite at the closing ceremonies in front of 3,000 people. It is a positive moment seared in my memory … and it happened on my 59th birthday.

Evidently, the GALA 2024 organizers were able to repurpose countless stacks of 2020 lanyards, which someone must have purchased four years ago. Look closely, and you’ll understand what I mean.

Anyway, on Friday, July 12th, at 12:30 p.m. (Central Time) I will perform with my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus mates on the Minneapolis Convention Center auditorium stage.

We will sing six songs: Bridge Over Troubled Water, You Are Enough, Proud, For Me, I’m Still Standing, and Sing to the World Our Light.

For more information, go to http://www.galachoruses.org. If you love choral music, you can purchase a live stream pass for $35 and see any/all of the chorus performances you like.

Trust me. No matter where you live, the quality, scope, magnitude, magic, and healing power of the music at this exhibition will dazzle you.

Awe and Pride

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In the 1960s–when the San Francisco Giants appeared at Busch Memorial Stadium in St. Louis to play the Cardinals–the bleachers were a heavenly place for Dad and me to be.

Because, on many hot summer days and nights, in addition to watching our beloved Cardinals’ legends perform on the field (especially Bob Gibson and Lou Brock), we saw Willie Mays patrol centerfield.

Simply put, there was no one better–before or since–at chasing down line drives and long fly balls. Securing the ball in his mitt with his patented basket catch. Smiling at fans who gravitated to his magnetic personality.

Willie was the face of major league baseball in those days. His affable presence and disarming charm seemed to neutralize the racial prejudice that haunted many other black athletes when they traveled from town to town.

We ALL observed Willie’s greatness and humanity with awe and pride. He was a hero to black and white fans alike.

I won’t recite all of Willie’s remarkable batting statistics and records. I’ll leave that to the experts. Suffice it to say, his lifetime batting average of .301, 660 home runs, 3,293 hits, 1,909 runs batted in, and 339 stolen bases made his election to the Hall of Fame in 1979 a no-brainer.

Willie brought exuberance, fun, and a boatload of hitting and fielding talent to every game he played over more than two decades.

He was a legend off the field, too. For instance, he spent many hours playing stick ball with kids on the streets of New York before the Giants moved their franchise to San Francisco in the late 1950s.

I cried when I learned of Willie’s death on Tuesday at age 93.

Truly, there will never be another Willie Mays.

***

Beyond past ballfields (and my continued propensity to root for the St. Louis Cardinals as I approach my 67th birthday in the scorching summer heat of Arizona), my personal sense of awe and pride lives and breathes in a far different venue: on stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

This weekend we will be performing our Encore show at the Tempe Center of the Arts. I’m proud of the libretto I’ve written for the show.

Five storytellers–I’m one of them–will connect the music with tales of reflection concerning who and what our chorus is. More than that, what it means to us in 2024.

For the audience and us performers, it will be a high-energy, emotional rollercoaster of favorite musical and choral moments, punctuated with dazzling choreography.

For added emphasis, this will be the final performance for our artistic director, Marc. He will pass the conducting baton to our new director, Antonio, who will usher in a new era of awe and pride for the Phoenix-area LGBTQ community and all our avid supporters and music lovers.

Libretto #3

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My friend Randy–baritone section leader for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–surprised me at rehearsal on Tuesday night. He handed me this descriptive name plate, which–four years ago in the depths of Covid–felt unlikely and unreachable.

As background, this unforeseen opportunity in my writing journey emerged in 2022, when I wrote lyrics for a few original songs for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC).

Shortly after, PHXGMC’s artistic director Marc asked if I would have an interest in crafting a libretto for Born to Be Brave, the June 2023 performance.

Quickly, that led to libretto #2–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–performed in December 2023. Remarkably, what began as a novelty developed into a creative trend.

Over the past few months, I’ve been “noodling” and “angsting” over libretto #3. Marc, Scott (our choreographer) and I met a few times this winter to select the music and brainstorm creative approaches for Encore, our June 22-23 concert at Tempe Center for the Arts.

Randy knows I’ve been working on this behind the scenes. But what he doesn’t know (until he reads this) is I finished drafting libretto #3 on the same day he smiled and handed me his gift.

A beautiful arrangement of A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman will open the show. That’s ironic, because–in my wildest dreams–I never imagined seeing the word “librettist” attached to my identity.

Son, student, graduate, husband, father, writer, gay man, friend, consultant, author, tenor, teacher, mentor, citizen, democrat, neighbor, dreamer, idealist, survivor, poet … yes. But lyricist and librettist? No.

I think this is one of life’s lessons. That the person you ultimately become at 65 or beyond may not reveal itself at 20, 30, 40 or 50.

But if you hang around long enough, and allow yourself to explore outside your comfort zone, you might discover you are capable of creating something meaningful you never dreamed of.

Ten Things I’ve Learned This Year

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From time to time, it’s important to take stock of where we’ve been and how we’ve grown. In that spirit, as December’s light wanes, I look back over the fence at 2023.

Here are ten important things–in no particular order–I’ve learned (or been reminded of) this year. Each is connected to one or more blog posts I wrote in the past twelve months.

***

#1: Creative opportunities are rare butterflies; grab them when they appear.

#2: Music transforms the human heart with joy and hope.

#3: Cats are resourceful, cuddly, and conniving characters.

#4: Losing someone you love to suicide is devastating.

#5: Trees keep us rooted to the places we love most.

#6: Good poetry simply IS; no explanations are required.

#7: My husband is a sweet guy, who really knows his movies.

#8: Carol Burnett is a national treasure and a kind human being.

#9: You can’t replace your mother or father, but you can remember them fondly.

#10: We all need a sense of community to connect and nourish our souls.

***

Join me on my blogging adventure in 2024. Just fill out the information on my Contact Me page. I will be sure to add your email address to my subscriber list.

That After-Concert Feelin’

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My friend Adele Singer captured this glorious musical moment during the second act of Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol, on Saturday afternoon, December 16, 2023.

Today I find myself straddling two worlds: the joy of what was (three fabulous, sold-out holiday concerts last weekend with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus) and the reality of what is (a post-concert malaise and head cold).

Minus the minor illness, this is a feeling I’ve become accustomed to as a writer and performer. You work tirelessly to tell your story, edit it, publish it, and wave goodbye as it bobs on the waves of readership.

Or, in the case of a stage performance, there are the weekly (and then daily) rehearsals that crescendo on opening night–and all the behind-the-scenes machinations of memorizing notes, lyrics, and choralography at home in your robe or underwear.

Then, standing on stage with your chorus mates. All of you wearing black accented with a sparkly, sequined, rainbow-colored vest–mine was blue–waiting with anticipation for the curtain to rise before the opening number–That Christmas Morning Feelin’–and the applause of a full house that followed.

Then, ninety-minutes later, realizing the show is over. Making your way to the lobby to hug and thank loyal friends and family who attended and (based on their enthusiastic response) were most-definitely entertained.

Even listening–as a total stranger who smiles through her tears–grabs you, looks directly into your eyes, and tells you how moved she was by the music and the transformative holiday tale.

She told me it was something she and her partner desperately needed to experience–see, hear, and feel–away from this frightening world.

For me, there is also the added component of savoring my libretto. Remembering when it was a kernel of an idea. Developing characters (three flamboyant-and-visionary Celestials who would visit one lost-and-misguided protagonist).

Then, writing lines of humorous and topical dialogue–that cascade like a string of colorful Christmas lights connecting the branches of each song–in July and August when it was 115 degrees outside in the Phoenix area.

These are the memories I savor on a post-concert Wednesday, five days before Christmas.

***

It rained in Scottsdale early this morning. Heavily. That’s a novelty in the Valley of the Sun, but we’ll take the moisture whenever it comes. More is expected Friday.

As Tom and I sipped our coffee in our den, I read an article Making Space, written by poet and author Christopher Soto, in the November/December issue of Poets & Writers.

In it, he artfully acknowledges the act of fully embracing the process of letting go, once your creative work has landed. In his case, he traveled to Joshua Tree and the desert of Southern California for a farewell ritual for his debut book of poems, Diaries of a Terrorist.

After considering the success of his book, he pulled out his journal and began to write something new.

I haven’t read his book. Maybe I will in 2024. However, his story certainly resonated with me–now that this latest libretto/performance–and my five books that preceded it–has sailed away.

The best thing all of us writers can do as 2024 approaches is to set our sights on writing another story, essay, poem, or libretto.

After all, the world–especially now–needs its artists to step forward and paint a picture of what the world is and what we hope it will become.

***

P.S. I’ll be taking a break until early January. To join me on my blogging adventure in 2024, send a message via my Contact Me page and I will add your email address to my subscriber list. Happy Holidays!!

Tom snapped this photo of me outside the Herberger Theater in Phoenix after our final performance of Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol on Sunday, December 17, 2023.

One Less Hateful Human

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Gifts come in small, medium, and large packages.

When the gift is musical theater–when the right notes, lyrics, blend, dialogue, choreography, and staging surround and transport the spirits of the audience and performers in a positive, fun, and meaningful way–its dimensions, ripple effects, and entertainment value can’t be measured or quantified.

That’s the transformative mission of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus this weekend at the Herberger Theatre. We will perform our holiday show–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–twice Saturday, December 16, and once Sunday, December 17.

What’s my involvement in the concert? I’ll be singing second tenor alongside about eighty of my mates. I also wore a second hat in preparation for the shows. I wrote the libretto for the program and am proud to report that all three performances are sold out.

To say that I am fully vested in the outcome of this program–and brimming with excitement–is an understatement.

My journalistic impulses prompt me to preview the show for you, since few of you reading this will be in the room. Here’s the scoop.

Our concert will be a parody of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol with an array of significant topical and cultural differences.

As the curtain opens, the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus is busy in their holiday workshop. Their mission is to select, influence, and transform one person–Lance, a fictional, homophobic sports figure and Scrooge-like character–into “one less hateful human.”

In the first number, That Christmas Morning Feeling, the audience meets a trio of divine spirits called Celestials: Starina (with their magic wand); Dione (with their rainbow fan); and Stella (with their shiny tiara).

Over the course of the next ninety-minutes, these wacky, playful and somewhat visionary Celestials and the spirit of Dirk (Lance’s Marley-like, ex-publicist colleague) visit Lance.

They lead him on a part-serious-part-campy personal journey of discovery through his past, present, and future holidays.

By sharing scenes of his life, told through music and images, they shine a light on the mistakes he’s made and encourage him to take a more productive path.

Ultimately, they help Lance realize the positive “ripple” effect he can have on the world by opening his heart and mind, correcting the error of his ways, loving himself and his gay identity, and embracing the cultural diversity of his community.

In the process, he repairs an important lost relationship, and even ends up committing to “doing a little good” in the world.

That’s a lot to accomplish in less than two hours, but I believe those in attendance will be moved, inspired, and maybe even dazzled this weekend.

Now, in order for that to happen, I need to get some rest. So, it’s time to take a power nap to recharge my battery between last night’s four-hour rehearsal and tonight’s reprise.

You won’t be surprised to learn that my energy-recouping strategy includes naps Thursday and Friday before our technical and dress rehearsals. Then, I will break a leg (or two) this weekend.

Look for a recap story next week–long after I recover from whatever happens on stage and Sunday night’s cast party.