The word “America” means many different things to different people, but it always conjures up a strong reaction. Some hold images of America as being unfailingly brilliant, bold, and brave; for others, it suggests something evil, predatory, or simply profane.

And yet the most interesting, and perhaps accurate, interpretations of this strange nation are those that take a more nuanced viewpoint and recognize the complexities of America’s story.

I’m on a plane as I write this – San Jose, Costa Rica, to Denver, Colorado – and I’m trying to stay awake. I’ve just finished a week long trip to Central America. I thought of you often. Maybe it was the crazy heat in Costa Rica – but at night this week you were in my dreams, and I’d wake up in a daze, consumed with thoughts of you.

Two days before Valentine’s Day, a ballet all about love was an interesting choice for a chronically-single gay man such as myself to attend.

Last night, I went to Ballet Nouveau Colorado’s original production, Love. an internal affair., without considering that the audience would be a venerable parade of heterosexual couples. Normally one wouldn’t see a huge quantity of straight men at the ballet (at least not outside of Manhattan), but two days before Cupid’s arrows were to be shot, there were plenty men willing to bite the bullet in an attempt to please their girlfriends or wives.

Nevertheless, there was plenty for this young homo to enjoy. After all, the two reasons I love contemporary ballet are that, firstly, and like all contemporary art forms, it isn’t as locked to heteronormativity as are more traditional styles of art; and secondly, there are lots of beautiful men (and women) upon which to marvel.

When I first arrived in Denver, I was surprised to find that the so-called “theatre district” was not a cluster of aging performance halls that had spread like a cancer over the decades, but rather a series of venues all arranged in the same building. The term seems to be referring, most or less, to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, an enormous complex with a distinctly Coloradan open-air quality.

Set in my East Coast ways, I had initially laughed at the term “theatre district” having been invoked. But it turns out that a performing arts hub that isn’t ancient has its benefits.

A note to readers: today I turn another year older. As the passage of time continues to rather morbidly remind me of mortality, I have decided – after about 17 months of working for TNG – to take an break indefinitely from the grind of weekly writing and publishing. I hope to be back soon, perhaps not a younger man, but at least with some newly-born ideas. Until then, take care.

A little math and a little mayhem make up this week’s LBB.

My weekend routine.

It’s either here or the art museum. This being a long weekend, I did both. The museum yesterday, the mall today

Before, there had been dancing, dining, a resort… The half-forgotten problems of the those nights – something involving a fat man and a sauna? – were now stripped of their serious façade and revealed, alas, to be but trivial bumps in what was once an easy road.

After the disaster, my aunt’s semi-Southern home had turned into a shelter of sorts where people gathered to piece together the remains of their lives. My family did not seem to be greatly affected, but countless others were, and she opened her doors to them (though only proverbially, as we stayed steadfastly outside).

Upon the announcement of their engagement, we all kind of said, “Huh?” Not because – you know – but just because we didn’t think they were the marrying type.

She said a YouTube video changed her mind. Welcome to romance in the digital age.

As I packed to head home to the east coast, I questioned whether I should bring a jacket from what I call my “vintage collection” – the clothing I still own from before I came out.

It is strange returning to things that we’ve left.