Dionysis lives — and we ignore His power at our peril.
Adam Lambert lies back on the cover of Rolling Stone, lips parted, his gaze somehow both lazy and challenging. A thick green snake twines up his black-clad leg. A few weeks earlier, he'd come in second on American Idol, much to the chagrin of his devoted fans who'd followed this shape-shifting, gender-bending hero as he transformed everything from emo-ballads to heavy-metal screamfests. He was the king that should have been, a wanderer whose life of performance and partying somehow culminated in his epiphany as the kind of twisted god who could drive women (and not a few men) mad.1