Tag: June

Show Buzz

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Nine days ago, I wasn’t sure I would be well enough to take the stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus for our fabulous Broadway Lights show June 27 and 28 at Tempe Center for the Arts.

I contracted some sort of viral infection (not Covid) that pounded my head, ravaged my gut, kept me queasy, and spurred me to take a quick Saturday visit with my husband to an urgent care facility in south Scottsdale.

This all happened while my chorus mates sang and danced their way through an all-day Saturday rehearsal.

But, remarkably, after plenty of fluids and rest, I reemerged a week ago more like myself, five pounds lighter, and ready to embrace another dazzling concert experience.

There is something mysterious about the process of coming together with a group of friends to create a great show. You endure the frustrating moments when the energy isn’t quite there. When the mics aren’t working properly. When the entrances are slow. When you turn the wrong way or sing the wrong note.

But eventually if you work long and hard enough–and all goes well enough–the magic appears. The doubts fade away. The voices and spirits rise. The lights come up and the audience appears in large numbers. They applaud, laugh and cry when they are supposed to. They even stand up and cheer with abandon.

In those moments, as you gaze into the throngs from the top riser you are reminded again why you love to sing. Why you love live theatre. Why you are thankful for Being Alive (a Stephen Sondheim number we performed from his musical, Company).

In addition to singing in this concert, I co-wrote the libretto for Broadway Lights and coached nine storytellers. They channeled their acting chops to fuse the swells of Broadway music with stories that illuminated the joys and heartaches of our LGBTQ+ lives … angsting about a first date, obsessing over a “crush”, remembering a beloved uncle who died of AIDS, returning home for a grandparent’s birthday as the person you were meant to be, celebrating a joyous wedding day, standing up against the injustices of life, and embracing the beacon of Broadway music that soars through our souls.

It’s a lot of work, but a labor of love. Love for the music. Love for the singing. Love for the community of people I perform with. Love for the audience who probably needed to be there to hear beautiful, powerful voices that transcend the ever-present noise of our American lives.

***

A few years ago, our chorus tried something new. For a small donation to the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, we invited our loyal patrons to write a few words of encouragement on a “Bravo” notecard to be delivered backstage to someone in the chorus they love, or know, or simply want to support.

I was honored to receive several “Bravo” messages over the weekend. The loving, handwritten words from my husband, chosen family, community friends, and new acquaintances touched me deeply.

Today, tomorrow, and beyond I will treasure them and the memory of standing and singing once more … side-by-side … with my chorus friends. My chosen family.

Reflections on Fatherhood

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In the metaphoric scrapbook of life, fatherhood is a life-long accumulation, an amalgamation of significant and insignificant moments, encounters and touchstones.

The day-to-day physical and financial responsibilities of fatherhood are long gone for me. That equates to a mix of heavy lifting, unconditional love, sincere relief, treasured memories, heartfelt celebrations, and a few episodes of painful regrets.

But that is all in the rearview mirror now. At this age (just a few weeks from my sixty-ninth birthday), my moments of fatherhood with my sons–Nick is forty-two, Kirk is thirty-seven–have morphed into fewer-but-sweeter encounters. A few shared dinners here with Nick. An exchange of “check-in” text messages with Kirk there, punctuated by bi-monthly, thirty-minute phone conversations.

It makes me happy to see how Nick and Kirk have built independent lives with meaningful relationships and sustaining jobs. My constant availability is no longer essential to their lives, but my love for them only continues to grow … and their love and appreciation for me and my life experiences does, too.

***

In June 2019, as Father’s Day approached, I wrote a piece about a conversation I had with Jacob. He was a new father and EKG technician who cared for me in Barnes-Jewish Hospital in 2017 in St. Louis, as I reclined on a gurney and dealt with the pain and uncertainty of a mild heart attack.

I remember how I provided encouragement for Jacob’s new status as a young dad as he attended to me. It took my mind off the trauma of those moments. So, in a sense, we helped each other navigate unchartered waters.

Our paths haven’t crossed since that inauspicious July day. But by now Jacob’s son is nine years old. I wonder how he and his dad are faring.

If I could speak with Jacob again, my advice–listed below in italics and pulled directly from my June 2019 essay–would include the same ten unsolicited bits of advice from seven years ago, but with a few additions.

***

1. Love your son … and tell him you do.

2. Listen to and validate his dreams.

3. Provide him with an honest and safe home.

4. Buy him nutritious food and encourage him to exercise.

5. Cheer him on when he succeeds. Encourage him when he fails.

6. Don’t spend a lot of money buying him new things. Spend it on shared experiences instead.

7. Teach him the importance of learning and saving for a rainy day.

8. Show him what it means to respect animals, nature, and diverse people.

9. Explain to him that it’s a sign of strength for a man to ask questions and show vulnerability.

10. Love your son no matter who he loves. Remind him that you will always be his dad.

***

Of course, the world has changed dramatically in the past seven years. It’s a more fearful place.

I still cling to hope that our country will find its way out of the abyss. For that to happen, the onus will be on dads (and moms) to give more of themselves. So, I have added these five caveats to my list:

11. Teach your son to honor equality and respect the past and present contributions of women and minorities.

12. Always seek the truth and beware of false idols.

13. Own your mistakes and learn from them.

14. Be a good neighbor and kind citizen.

15. Do the right thing. Stand up for your convictions. Your son is watching.

Too Darn Hot

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“But when the thermometer goes way up and the weather is sizzlin’ hot, mister man with a plan is not. ‘Cause it’s too, too, too darn hot.”

***

As the heat rolls into the Valley of the Sun this week–100-plus high temperatures through Saturday–this snappy tune, which Cole Porter wrote in 1948 for his Broadway show Kiss Me Kate, repeats through my brain.

It’s certainly “Too Darn Hot” to hike outside in June here, unless you do it early in the day. That’s what I–and a young woman walking her Boston terrier–did Monday around 9 a.m. Nobody else was on the Papago Park trail near my home.

This morning I opted for swimming thirty lengths in the relative cool of Chapparal Pool. How I’ve missed submerging myself underwater (thanks to a couple of dermatological procedures that kept me at bay).

In the afternoons, you’re better off holding up in the Scottsdale Public Library to escape the heat. That’s where Tom and I have sequestered ourselves today, along with a few dozen others, strategically stationed at square wooden tables, hovering over their books and laptops.

Other than the heat references, why would I be channeling an old Broadway tune? Because my next choral concert with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–“Broadway Lights”– is fast approaching: June 27 (2 p.m. and 7 p.m.) and June 28 (2 p.m.) at Tempe Center for the Arts.

As described in our promotional materials, “It will be a spectacular celebration of some of Broadway’s most beloved musicals. From the soaring melodies of Wicked and The Sound of Music, to the show-stopping energy of Hamilton, Moulin Rouge!, Hairspray, Into the Woods, The Book of Mormon, The Wiz, and The Greatest Showman, this season finale is packed with music that has captivated audiences around the world.”

Coincidentally, “Too Darn Hot”–timed beautifully with the inevitable onset of our desert heat–is the closing number for Act One.

If you live in the Phoenix metropolitan area, step into one of the coolest concert venues around: the Tempe Center for the Arts. Get your tickets at http://www.phxgmc.org.

You may be wondering “Since it is Pride month, is there a LGBTQ Pride element to this concert?” The answer is a resounding “YES!”

My chorus mate August and I have teamed up to write the libretto for the concert. It features nine storytellers, who will describe how Broadway music has served as a beacon for the LGBTQ+ community in happy and sad times.

Together–the music, the stories, and a slate of hot dance numbers–will combine to create a full theatrical production, which our loyal audience has come to expect.

This will mark the completion of my ninth season (singing and writing for) with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

I still recall auditioning for the chorus in August 2017. Tom and I had just moved to Arizona from the Chicago area.

I was depressed and anxious, desperately trying to regain my health, to uncover an unobstructed view after surviving a heart attack on the way west in July 2017 on our sixtieth birthday.

Finding the chorus, nurturing new friendships, and reigniting my passion for singing has been a key element in my recovery. It helped me lighten my mood and smile again.

When I step onto the stage again on June 27, I know I will feel grateful for the music and the nine years of creative discovery. But also, for this safe haven. This supportive community of people.

They have helped me to realize I still have a lot to give. I still have a lot to say. I still have the ability to stand on a stage and raise my voice, especially now as we cling to the hope that–maybe someday–our democracy can be salvaged.

Home

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On June 2, 2025–as Tom and I returned to Arizona on an American Airlines flight after a blissful five days with family in the Chicago area–I closed my eyes in the semi-comfort of my aisle seat.

I leaned into my husband and said, “It feels good to be heading home.” I was referring to Scottsdale, Arizona. That is where we live … in a kitschy, mid-century condo community. It has been our home now for nearly eight years.

I’m not sure this is the life I dreamed of as a youngster in St. Louis. Or a middle-aged-man in the Chicago suburbs, who earned a good wage, raised two sons, and was fortunate enough to meet a man I would love and one day marry.

Let’s just say it is a warmer, lighter, literary life, which I had hoped for but didn’t imagine I would realize.

***

On June 30, 2017, we had just sold our three-bedroom home in Mount Prospect, Illinois. Handed over the keys to a pleasant couple and their young son.

As Tom and I approached our sixtieth birthday, we were excited about the prospects of creating a new life in the Grand Canyon State. But Illinois still felt like home.

Looking back, I suppose I underestimated the significance of this change … the loss of familiarity even when it wasn’t necessarily positive and growth producing.

If you follow me, you know how difficult our shared sixtieth birthday would be. If not, you should read about our harrowing journey and personal detour in St. Louis. It was great fodder for my third book, An Unobstructed View.

Once we finally arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, on July 12, 2017, we both needed time to recuperate.

Our two-bedroom condo (which had once been Tom’s grandparents’ home starting in the early 1970s) was comfortable enough … especially after our new air conditioning unit, windows, and exterior doors were installed.

But we decided not to make too many dramatic interior changes right away. That really wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a reasonable one.

Soon we made new friends in our community: through our yoga class in Scottsdale and my chorus connections in Phoenix. With time there were other creative ripples before, during and after Covid.

We each wrote and published books. I wrote three librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. Tom’s film classes materialized and compounded magically. Spurred by his passion for classic cinema and a library contact from our friend Glenn, that seed has grown into a legitimate, bountiful following.

Somewhere in that mix, we crossed over the tipping point of flux … knowing that we had truly found our new home. Feeling that we had become full-fledged, full-time Arizona residents and advocates.

And now–in June 2025, eight years after we said goodbye to our first home together and spent the past three months painting and remodeling–the interior of our Arizona home is finally a reflection of the color, comfort, and humanity we imagined.

It is–like we are–fully transformed. It is our desert lodge with a decent splash of soft apricot, western warmth, and comfy chairs.

It is our refuge with and without family and friends. It is our nesting place away from triple-digit heat and authoritarian regimes.

It is our home.

Protests and Poetry

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“Are you guys going to the protests this Saturday?” Nick wondered last Wednesday via a text.

“No. We aren’t planning to. It’s just too hot,” I responded to my son.

But as the week wore on, I began to regain my energy following three phenomenal concerts with my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus pals.

On Friday, I reconsidered Nick’s question. I told him Tom and I would do it. A few of our chorus friends wanted to join us too at a No Kings protest in Scottsdale.

I should tell you that I don’t consider myself an activist, though I have marched for various causes on several occasions in my life. I prefer to share my voice and perspective through my writing.

But I also recognize the dire state of our democracy. I decided if my World War II veteran father (he defended democracy in Europe with the allied forces during the Battle of the Bulge in late 1944) could endure frozen feet in foxholes with his buddies and risk his life as an army sergeant, I could certainly endure the 90-plus desert temperatures in Arizona for two hours, wave my American flag and “We the People” sign, and join forces with family and friends to raise my voice. To make sure it was heard.

So, Saturday came, and we did it … Mark, Tom, Nick, Kim, Dougal, George and one to two thousand others represented democracy in Old Town Scottsdale. We were a dot in a map of some five million in the U.S. and abroad who took to the streets in big cities and small towns. All of us deeply concerned.

Locally, it was an inspiring and peaceful No Kings protest consisting of angry but well-behaved women and men. Young and old. A few children with parents and grandparents. Couples. Singles. Straight. Gay. Multi-cultural. Dogs, too. Dare I say diverse?

At one point, Tom and I chatted with a fifty-something mother from San Diego. She was visiting her daughter who lives in Scottsdale. They took turns chanting “No Kings” while cradling their adorable, slightly overwhelmed dachshund.

The dog’s benevolent eyes seemed to say, “what are we all doing here?” All I could do was shrug and smile. There is no explaining all we have endured in this country over the past six months. Not to mention the previous eight or nine years.

A short while later, I turned to discover a man holding a profoundly-funny-and-literary sign. A parody of American poet Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. I imagine Frost would have loved it, if he had been alive and standing beside me.

I asked the man if I could take his picture. I told him it spoke to my wordsmithing sensibilities. He surprised me by saying he was a math guy.

I’ll likely never cross paths with him again. He’ll never know that my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed, was inspired by my love for Robert Frost’s verses. But on June 14, 2025, we stood on the same page … on the same street corner … on the same shared path.

Together–close friends, like-minded acquaintances, and distant strangers–we proclaimed our desire and hope to rescue American democracy from the clutches of fascism.

Unpacking

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In my late sixties, I am more aware of what remains in my gas tank.

Not the fuel gauge on our 2012 Hyundai Sonata. I’m talking about the physical and mental energy needed to maneuver life … while keeping a little extra for the seminal moments.

In the span of one week, I am celebrating Kirk’s and Jen’s (my younger son and future-daughter-in-law) engagement with family in Illinois (it already happened June 1) and taking the stage with my chosen Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus family (June 6 and 7 is our raucous Rhinestone Rodeo show) at Tempe Center for the Arts in Arizona.

Both are deeply personal and rewarding.

Seeing my thirty-six-year-old son and his future bride beaming and greeting loved ones on the second floor of a popular neighborhood eatery on Chicago’s northwest side touched me. But there was more to it than that.

Because, there was a culmination of lives … past, present, and future.

Like Tom and me, my older son Nick and his girlfriend Anastasia flew in from Arizona for the festivities … and my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve were there, too.

Though they live in the Chicago area, they each have difficulty managing stairs. Even so, diligently, they found a way to make the climb to a private dining room inside Zia’s Social. One small step at a time for the sake of a milestone moment with family.

There was another significant emotional layer to the event for me.

Jean, my ex, planned the party. Over the past few decades, we have been in the same room just a few times. At my mother’s funeral. At Kirk’s graduation. Our communication has been sparse at best.

But, at this stage of life, it feels life much of the animosity that existed between us after our divorce in 1992 has dissipated. We have both moved on. We have found vastly different lives with our respective husbands. Ironically, both of them are named Tom.

Bottom line, this engagement party was a joyous and healing experience for me … and I suspect others. There will be another one on August 29, 2026, at Kirk’s and Jen’s wedding. Also, in Chicago.

Now that my Tom and I are back in Scottsdale, I have been rehearsing each night this week. Conserving my energy while putting the smoothing touches on our music.

More than thirty of our Arizona friends–many of them straight allies–will be in the audience this weekend. They will fill the seats you see here alongside hundreds of others.

Smiling. Cheering. Laughing. Crying. Phenomenal music has a way of spurring it all. Touching our hearts and souls in ways we … gay or straight … never imagined.

Make no mistake. The nearly 1,500 who attend our shows this weekend will be entertained by our mix of past and present country western hits … coalescing with our brand of giant gay swirls thrown in for good measure.

Naturally, the pink fringe vest and new black boots I’ve bought for the shows … and will be wearing … will be made for more than walking and singing.

They’ll be carrying me through the two-steppin’ choralography … anchoring me on the top riser (through Pink Pony Club, Ya’ll Means All, Texas Hold ‘Em and much more) with love, gratitude, and pride for a week in June 2025 that will always be dear to me.

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.

Smaller and Taller

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The smaller one opened the door for me this morning … sometimes it’s the taller one. That made me happy … they were happy, too … I needed to feel the cool tile on my parched paws.

I was hungry … I didn’t catch a bird or a rat yesterday. Today I twirled around the taller one’s legs … the smaller one’s legs, too. They gave me something fishy and yummy … a little crunchy, too.

The taller one watched me as I ate … said something about a gold-framed mirror (I think) from his mom (I think)? He was happy he and the smaller one kept it when they came here 7 years ago … I guess, like me, they came from some other place.

They were opening lots of bottles … taking lots of pills … washing them down with water … their voices were scratchy … I think the smaller one and the taller one like each other.

I heard the taller one say that he was happy with the success (I think) of his concerts (I think) … but that it sucks (I think) that both of them (the taller one and smaller one) have to fight off Covid (I think) … again.

Hmmm, what is Covid?

The smaller one said it was like having a vacation (I think) at home together … that doesn’t sound so bad.

The smaller one and the taller one are nice to me every morning … and they keep feeding me. So, I want them to always be here when I stretch out on their mat … or under their bench while I eye the birds.

I want them … the smaller one and the taller one … to never go away.

I will keep coming back as long as they … the smaller one and the taller one … are here to rub my back and feed me.

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.

Unhinged

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Don’t look at me. It wasn’t my fault.

I have no idea what happened.

Sure, I’m a free spirit with time to kill

and now a better view of the butte,

but you wouldn’t dare blame me.

I’m not unhinged … not in this life.