Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Wordsmith and Rebel

My books are available on Amazon here or for an inscribed copy, write to [email protected]. Enjoy all of my low-priced books:

A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories

Lillian in Love (a novel)

Lillian's Last Affair and other stories.

I'm available for interviews, readings, visits to book clubs, being the entertainment at your party, talking about senior sex at your senior center, talking about love in senior housing, and any other creative ways to get the word out about my work.

Some of these stories are 5,000 words long, some of them are 100 words exactly. Some protagonists are old and some aren’t.  Several stories feature gay men or lesbians, while several do not. So what unifies this collection? It is the interplay of heart and smart, facing off against the dangers of a viral wedding smooch, a scary staircase, a runaway supermarket cart, a disastrous online date, and a stolen sausage. Of course, you'll also learn about the raisin that falls where it shouldn’t.

Lillian’s life at 84 is tumultuous. She is moving to Manor House to be near Sarah, abandoning the demands of her own home, which has been colonized by her children. How will she and Sarah deal with the reactions of relatives, ex’s, and neighbors to their romance? How do two old women negotiate new love? Will slow-dancing, vibrators, and pot brownies help smooth the way?

 

“If I’m going to go after one more affair of the heart at 84, I’d better get my ass in gear,” says Lillian, speaking for all the characters in these six stories.

Ruby has a run-in with a waterbed and Catherine tokes her first joint in the bathtub with Victor. Elegant Anna’s introduction to kinky sex is bittersweet. And then there’s the neighbor with the strange attachment to the grocery cart. Sue Katz’s hilarious, tender, and impeccably written stories confirm that age fails to erode our eccentricities or dull our ardor.

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"Nyad" review in 100 words

Nyad is boring and repetitive, lacking the exciting tension of a good sports flick. Diana Nyad is portrayed as an egotistical narcissist who somehow convinces 40 people to abandon their lives for $0 in order to support her attempted swims from Cuba. So much swimming, swimming, but few glimpses of beautiful sea life. Poor Annette Bening must’ve suffered through rehearsals, while Jodie Foster plays her usual purse-lipped, muscle-shirted self. I didn’t buy their bestie connection. As for Nyad’s lesbianism, I caught some mumbled flirting at the beginning and a rainbow flag in the welcoming crowd at the end. Not recommended.

The Palestinian Garden in 100 words

This piece is exactly 100 words and within that restriction I tried to express what I am feeling, as an American Jew who lived in Israel for 14 years, about the Israeli destruction of Gaza and the mass murder of Palestinians and the American support of this crime.

The Palestinian Garden in 100 words

By Sue Katz

Nabila wanted children, although her husband was reluctant, living as they did with all the deprivations that accompanied life in Gaza. Medical care was limited to emergencies in the best of times, so pregnancy complications were feared. “I want to give life,” Nabila cried many times, “I want to water the Palestinian garden.” In the midst of a dreadful bombing, she began to have cramps she could not handle. As they approached the hospital in their old car, the front of the building exploded. A stone flew through the windshield into her temple and the garden shriveled into barren desert.

Boston Ballet dances a masterpiece

My review of a quite astounding Boston Ballet program, including a masterpiece, Vertical Road. I experienced one of those epiphanies great art gifts us. Click here to read about it.

Here is a taste of Vertical Road.

"Edward Hopper & Cape Ann:" The exhibit didn't spark joy

Edward Hopper & Cape Ann: Illuminating an American Landscape (until Oct 16)
Cape Ann Museum, Gloucester, MA

I am sorry to say that the Hopper exhibition did not spark joy. I found myself interested, but never felt the thrill so many other artists provide. For example, I was dazzled by Gio Swaby at the Peabody Essex and awed to view Hakim Raquib’s photos at the AAMARP (African American Master Artists in Residency Program). But this Hopper collection of both watercolors and oils, focusing on buildings and scenes in Gloucester, was dulled for me by the parallel mentions and pieces of Josephine N. Hopper (nee Nivison).

She was a rising watercolor star and after she hooked up with Hopper, she convinced curators to include him in shows, leading to his first sale in a decade. Once married, she abandoned her own name – a move that is incomprehensible to me for a professional woman – and began to concentrate on motivating Hopper, promoting his work, and becoming wifey. Her own output slowed to a crawl as he became increasingly prominent. He treated her with disrespect, but she took care of him and his legacy until and after his death in 1967.

The paintings and drawings at this exhibit lack the inclusion of many human figures – lack the loneliness and stillness we see in his later, more famous work. There are single houses, boats, and streets. The early work is a bit bland, but we can see him grow as time goes on.

Finally, hats off to the small Cape Ann Museum which has been overwhelmed by the massive demand to see this show. Our many small Massachusetts museums are treasures which we should support. Yesterday, though, was uncomfortably crowded, despite timed entry tickets, and the explanatory plaques were done in a small grey-ish font under lighting that was too dim. As a result, no matter what angle I could squeeze myself into among the others, it was very hard to read them.

Vancouver West Coast Swing Celebrates Pride

Even though my legs are still injured from the ebike assault I suffered a few days ago (see previous blog), there was no way I was going to miss the Vancouver Pride West Coast Swing dance which the organizer, Dalynne Roberts (at left), had invited me to weeks ago. We have been Facebook friends for some time and were looking forward to meeting in real time when it turned out that my vacation overlapped with her event.

The studio belongs to well-known professionals Tessa Cunningham Munroe (at left below) and Myles Munroe. I’ve met these champions pre-Covid at Summer Hummer, a weekend dance event that used to be organized by my former teachers.

I arrived at their gorgeous air-conditioned studio (although it involved a difficult staircase to the second floor) in time to see the end of the special Pride workshop for beginners. What a crowd! The many dozen students totally jammed the beautiful studio with its sprung wooden floor as Dalynne and Tessa taught basic figures.

When social dancing began, I popped a couple of acetaminophens, put my cane aside, and started to dance. There were many contrasts with my home dance base in Boston, but three things stuck out:
1. Myles was the evening’s DJ and he played real swing music – every song had an actual beat.
2. Not a single other dancer questioned why/how/if I was a leader.
3. And finally, and most amazingly, the upper-level dancers danced with everyone. No one seemed to sit out a single dance. It was astonishing to watch the seamless integration of beginners, intermediates, and high-ranking dancers, the mix and match, the enjoyment the better dancers got from encouraging the newbies. Almost all the top dancers asked me to dance. Likewise, many beginners, even people after their first lesson, asked me to dance.

West Coast Swing gives a lot of lip service to the principle of mixed level dancing, but I see very little of it in practice. I have danced in the same room for years without a single dance with those (mostly young) dancers who are coming up the competitive ranks. They don’t even say hello to me, unless they’re at the door taking money, let alone consider dancing with me. Some have even turned down repeated invitations. It’s not personal – although yes, I’m an elder dyke – because every other non-competing but committed dancer I know tells the same story. The exceptions are young, beautiful newcomers – often welcomed warmly by their hetero advanced counterparts. These ambitious dancers colonize the front of the dance floor and dance exclusively with each other. Three-quarters of the floor is left to us plebeians – an area these top dancers never deign to traverse or visit.

Another Boston venue has instituted a fresh, new tradition in which some advanced dancers volunteer to spend the first period of the social dance asking newbies to dance. Alli Reese deserves congratulations for attempting to change the culture and foster cross-level introductions. But many of the advanced dancers have a corner of that space where they congregate all night to emphasize their exclusivity.

Congratulations to Tessa, Myles, and Dalynne for creating such a democratic dance culture, for living up to the principle of cross-level dancing, and for having such a grand Pride dance just when I am visiting Vancouver for the first time! As I have seen throughout my time here, people are simply nice. Especially to strangers.

A Nuclear Family Takes Me Down in Stanley Park, Vancouver

I was taken down and injured by a nuclear family in Stanley Park (Vancouver) this week. Let me set the scene. There is a good reason why, in 2014, “Stanley Park was named ‘top park in the entire world’ by Tripadvisor, based on reviews submitted” (Wiki). It is a magnificent mix of six miles of accessible bike and walking trails, fabulous landscapes, and resources galore. At 20% bigger (1,000+ acres) than NYC’s Central Park. Although it is a peninsula, it also borders on a bunch of Vancouver’s neighborhoods. Rather than being designed by a landscape architect, it evolved organically in response to the natural geography and the peoples’ usage.

Together with Barry and David, I rent an ebike to explore. I had already done a test drive in Boston thanks to the bike shop Wheelworks, and fell totally in love with ebiking and with the thin, small, swift model they provided. However, the rental shops near Stanley Park offer “one-size-fits-all” (and we know whose size that is) step-through ebikes, with handlebars wider than twice my comfortable arm span. As the bike shop person on the phone said, “Our bikes are made for 6’ German men.” Luckily David was able to adjust my seat so that I could be reasonably comfy.

I speed ahead of the two men, who prefer a leisurely pace. It is tourist season so the trail is packed with bikers and ebikers of varied abilities and attitudes. As people pass each other, they say, “On your left” – a seemingly universal method of giving a heads up.

I am about half-way around the trail which follows the waters of Burrard Inlet and English Bay when I sense someone coming up on my right. It is a youngish woman passing me against the rules, and I move slightly to the left to give her room for this rude maneuver. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, her husband has slipped past me on the left, tangling my front wheel and taking me down with the bike on top of me. When I look up, I see that the man has an infant in a little seat on his ebike and all I can feel is grateful that the baby is ok. “You drifted to the left,” hubby says accusatorily. His wife says nothing. Neither of them had made any indication of passing.

Barry and David pull up. They right the ebike and then help me stand. Each of them has a story about being incorrectly passed by this same family before I was. The adrenaline keeps me going for the rest of the 6 miles, but my left knee is sliced and bleeding, I have the start of what will be a half dozen large, ugly bruises on both legs, and both knees are swollen. I am 75 and have opposed the institution of the nuclear family since the late 1960s. I have successfully avoided being part of any nuclear family since I was 17. I did not foresee, in my dotage, that I would be ambushed by one in such enchanting surroundings on such an agreeable trip.

I am dealing with the injuries using a combination of Epsom salt baths (thanks Barry), Arnica cream (thanks Vicki), frozen moist washcloths for icing (thanks former days in Tae Kwon Do), and a cane for walking. I will elaborate on the attractions of Stanley Park when I publish my Vancouver travelogue.

The 10th Anniversary of Boston's LGBTQ Elders of Color

 

My piece in the revived Z Magazine that I wrote for many times in the past. Now revisioned as ZNetwork and online.

 

Read it HERE.

 

 

 

 

"Somebody Somewhere" – Review of Season Two in 270 words

I was excited when Season Two of "Somebody Somewhere" dropped (HBO Max). But I could barely watch the first two episodes. Season One had been all about alienation, exclusion, and then finding community. It was nominated for a plethora of queer and general television awards and scored 100% on the Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer. As Rebecca Nicolson (Guardian) said, “This is television that asks big questions on the sly.”

In Season One, Sam (Bridget Everett) returns to her small Kansas town to take care of her sister who dies. She is left grappling with her ailing parents and a judgmental married sister. Sam feels alone and alienated until she hooks up with a gay workmate Joel (Jeff Hiller), who introduces her to his choir of freaks, characters, and queers of various ilks. She re-discovers that she can sing and builds a new chosen family with Joel and his friends.

I knew Season Two had lost its way when Sam and Joel attend a singing concert at the middle school, and laugh and snicker at the recital of an awkward adult male. This contradicts everything we have learned about the friends. These two – having been bullied and ridiculed all their lives – turn around and act shitty to another “different” person?

When they get food poisoning and we are treated to the two of them having loud and explosive diarrhea while they talk on the phone to each other, I turned it off.

My conclusion (completely made up out of thin air): The first season was written by saavy cool women. The second season was written by adolescent boys drinking their first six-pack.

Season Two Official Trailer

Book Review: Cheating at Canasta by William Trevor

I’ve just come back from a trip to Ireland, and perhaps the biggest thrill along the way was my purchase, in a second-hand bookstore in the seaside town of Kinsale, of a collection of short stories Cheating at Canasta (2008) by William Trevor, who is considered one of the all-time greatest Irish short story writers.

William Trevor (24 May 1928 – 20 November 2016) spent much of his adult life in England, but identified as "Irish in every vein." He wrote novels as well and won the full array of literary prizes.

The first story in this collection, “The Dressmaker’s Child,” haunts me still. It combines elements that run through many of his stories, but does it with a deep grey brilliance. There are troubled characters who become entangled inadvertently. There is trauma that lingers unspoken. There is human connection that is as painful as it is sustaining. There is a cloudy environment expressed with mastery prose.

Many of these pieces, not the least the title story “Cheating at Canasta,” plumb alienation and a sense of difference that perhaps only an emigrant or a person in mourning can convey. There is love, but too often it is lost, even squandered. Writing in the third person, Trevor creates a novel’s-worth of a world in each of these short stories, and, as a voracious reader of short fiction, I leapt hungrily into them.

AAMARP (African American Master Artists in Residency Program): Incredible talent!

Housed in a large warehouse building, AAMARP is a collective of photographers, artists, and writers who are devoted to representing “the world as seen through the eyes of African-Americans.” A remarkable photographer I follow, Hakim Raquib, had posted about the collective’s latest show, and I went last week to see it.

This working space is full of studios in which artists are actively creating. I met the brilliant photographer Gloretta Baynes Cook, AAMARP Chair Emeritus and both an inspiration to and a pillar of the collective. She was kind to spend over an hour taking my friend and me around the two floors, introducing us to the breathtaking work of multiple artists, including the impressive photographic work of Hakim Raquib. The work of individuals in the group has been widely exhibited. For example, Gloretta and another AAMARP artist, Susan Thompson, have a joint show at JP Licks (Jamaica Plain) right now.

As a very special treat, Gloretta generously took us into her own studio to explain some of the processes she uses in her powerful, hard-hitting photographic creations.

Gloretta also described some of the background to the long-running campaign to hold onto the space, which is owned by Northeastern University. It is a shame that instead of basking in the pride of housing so many insightful and commanding artists of color, Northeastern seems to be more concerned about grabbing back this building.

This outstanding resource is located at 76 Atherton Street in Jamaica Plain, just a block from the Stony Brook T-stop.

Below are two images by Hakim Raquib on display.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REVIEW: “Seven Guitars” by August Wilson in Boston

Boston area people: If you want a superb theatre experience, see if you can score tickets to “Seven Guitars” by the Actors’ Shakespeare Project, appearing at Roxbury’s Hibernian Hall.

All the best elements are here: spot-on direction by Maurice Emmanuel Parent, seven remarkable actors, perhaps the finest 20th Century playwright August Wilson, and an intimate community theatre in which every seat is a good seat.

One of Wilson’s ten “Century Cycle” plays set in subsequent decades, “Seven Guitars” starts with the funeral of Floyd “Schoolboy” Barton and then looks back at what led to this budding musician’s death. All the action takes place in the backyard of a house in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, where both August Wilson and I (two years later) were born.

This production perfectly catches every nuance and complication in Wilson’s incomparable writing. Hurry to experience this reasonably affordable, accessible night out (there’s an elevator and plenty of free nearby parking); this show ends March 5th.

REVIEW: The Oscar-Nominated Live Action Shorts (2023)

The Live Action shorts are my favorites. There are also Animations and Documentaries, which are a treat as well. I always assume that the people involved with making shorts are less likely to have resources and support, and more likely to have a point of view that hasn’t been fully explored by big filmmakers.

In past years, I’ve been aggravated by Live Action shorts because they were violent, vicious, war-themed, crime-themed – in short, same ole, same ole.

This year, all five films have a humanity to them that made for both easy and interesting viewing. After I turned 75 I decided that I would allow myself not to finish a book or a film that did not have a single character I could give a shit about. I found myself empathetic to each of these stories.

THE ONE I THINK MIGHT WIN
Eirik Tveiten’s “Night Ride (Nattrikken)” takes place on a Norwegian tram that has been hijacked by a Little Person when it was too cold to wait a half hour for the driver, on his break, to let her in. What starts as playing “driver,” ends up in a mad ride. She stops and picks up passengers, but when a transwoman rider is attacked by some dickheads, she has to make a daunting decision.

THE OTHER ONE THAT MIGHT WIN
The Luxembourg film “The Red Suitcase,” directed by Cyrus Neshvad, is the most gripping of the films. A head-scarfed young Iranian woman stands alone at a baggage carousel watching her small red suitcase go around and around. She is terrified to exit into the main airport where an older man with red flowers is awaiting her. Her hesitation draws the attention of security and they search her bag which is full of drawings and art supplies. The man outside is getting increasingly pissed off as she attempts to escape him. This is a gripping, emotional film with little dialogue, but a plethora of punch.

THE MOST EXQUISITE AND PAINFUL ONE
“Ivalu,” adapted from a Danish graphic novel by director Anders Walter, counterposes exquisite Greenland landscapes with excruciating abuse. Ivalu, one of two sisters, goes missing, and the other, Pipaluk, searches all of their private play spots – across fields of ice, craggy mountains, and dangerous fjords. Her terror for her sister dredges up memories she has been trying to exile. So many sweet girls around the world are experiencing the same devastating childhoods.

THE ONE I DOUBT WILL WIN
Two Irish brothers, one with disabilities who has lived on the family farm with his mother, and one who is making a life for himself in the city, meet over their mother’s ashes in the country in “An Irish Goodbye” by Tom Berkeley and Ross White. This film is funny and fun, as the rural brother tries to convince the urban brother to stay on the farm with him, during their challenge to complete the mother’s 100-item bucket list.

THE ONE I DON’T WANT TO WIN
Set in an Italian orphanage for girls during the 1940s, Alice Rohrwacher’s “Le Pupille” centers around the struggle between a little girl and a stern Mother Superior who dangles a luscious Christmas cake in front of the kids and then makes them “volunteer” to forgo a piece. The whole thing is rather predictable and in light of the heinous crimes of the Catholic Church to the children in their care, it’s a bit silly. I wasn’t surprised that Disney was behind this film. And that it was produced by the award-winning Alfonso Cuarón.

Book Review: “American Sirens” by Kevin Hazzard

American Sirens: The Incredible Story of the Black Men Who Became America's First Paramedics (2022) by Kevin Hazzard is the inspirational story of the invention of street medicine, of medically-equipped ambulances, and of the profession of EMTs (Emergency Medical Technicians). What made this history especially resonant for me is that this medicine-changing first initiative took place in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, home of playwright August Wilson, the jazz pianist Mary Lou Williams, the Negro League’s Pittsburgh Crawfords baseball team, and me in my early years.

The idea of creating an ambulance service in an area of town where the police and fire departments’ makeshift “ambulances” wouldn’t go to because of racism, was the brain-child of an acclaimed white Austrian immigrant, a Holocaust survivor, Dr. Peter Safar, an anesthesiologist. He was opposed by the other first responders, who had at most six hours of first-aid training and basically just gave a rough ride but no life-saving care to those in need, and by the local Pittsburgh government, particularly the white mayor Peter Flaherty, a nasty, racist piece of work.

Dr. Safar connected with the local activist non-profit Freedom House and they scraped together a way forward, recruited often uneducated, unemployed, sometimes unmotivated, but ultimately brilliant Black men from the community, and put them through the most rigorous medical and social training imaginable. Twenty-four men graduated. From their first calls during the uprising after the 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., the Freedom House service was a huge success from every point of view – except financially.

Their initial funding came from President Johnson’s job creation funds, but once Nixon came into office, that all dried up. A young white doctor, Nancy Caroline, took over the training of the medics and the running of the service with a fierce determination that kept them afloat until their betrayal by Pittsburgh’s politicians and police. She ended up writing the EMT textbook that would be used for many generations of students.

The author, a former paramedic himself, has researched this slice of progress and its roadblocks with remarkable detail, following certain of the players from start to end. It reads more like an action script, with valiant medics performing beyond their own expectations and the imaginations of all who were offended that Black people were spearheading an amazing new service.

For those with a connection to Pittsburgh, most especially the Hill District, you may feel, as I did, a special thrill to read of the familiar streets and institutions, to learn of yet another amazing moment in Pittsburgh’s hidden – or repressed - history. This non-fiction book has it all: challenges overcome, fascinating characters, heroes and villains, and adrenaline-fueled action from start to finish.

Postscript: In researching photographs, I discovered this 2023 Pittsburgh PBS program on the Freedom House ambulance service.

Film Review of “Elvis” in 100 words

This is a review of the first hour of the choppy, repetitive film Elvis. Within minutes I was wondering why they hadn’t budgeted for a film editor. And was curious which accent Tom Hanks was aiming for. His makeup was cringe-making as well. Austin Butler is pretty, but the choreography was nothing like Elvis’ movements. There was no one to love; I felt no emotional connection amidst the multiple overlaid fragments. The jerkiness of what my friend called a “fever dream,” reminded me that life is too short for an unsatisfying movie that stretches to 2 hours and 40 minutes.

 

Here is the trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBDLRvjHVOY&ab_channel=WarnerBros.Pictures

 

 

Photographer Hakim Raquib: YESTERDAY, TODAY, AND TOMORROW

If you are anywhere near Boston before January 30, bust your ass getting to the Midway Gallery (15 Channel Center Street, Boston MA 02210, everyday 8AM-8PM) to see the exhibition of Hakim Raquib. Titled YESTERDAY, TODAY, AND TOMORROW, it includes selected works of this sensational photographer, spanning 50 years. Luckily it’s run has been extended until January 30, so you have time to rush there. You can thank me later.

Hakim Raquib’s sublime Egyptian landscapes blew me away. I once spent two weeks on a camel tour of the Sinai desert and viewing his desert work was like returning there in emotional technicolor. His compelling manipulated images flashing back to the Civil Rights Freedom Riders, to the Black Panthers, to Spike Lee, moved me, reviving my own memories of that period. Click here to view his project on Winter.

As Michael Thierry, a senior art Director, said on Raquib’s Linked-In page, “Hakim is an amazing photographer of a scale beyond imagining. His work transcends and transforms the viewer.” I fully agree.

 

P.S. I took these photos myself, so they don't do the work justice!