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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Film Review: From Ground Zero

I have had the honor of seeing the innovative, revelatory film From Ground Zero. It is the critically-acclaimed Palestinian entry to the Academy Awards for Best International Feature Film – although it did not get selected – and is now playing in cinemas. Palestinian filmmaker Rashid Masharawi curated 22 short films by different individuals (documentary, fiction, & animation) made inside Gaza in late 2023. These works highlight both the devastation of Israel’s genocidal attack on Gaza and the refusal of the imagination and longings of the people of Gaza to capitulate to despair.

We follow a man who is literally buried under rubble three times in a 24-hour period. While he survives, he is physically surrounded under the house walls by family members who were killed in these bombings. We see the everyday struggle of a beloved professor trying to find a way to charge his cell phone, trying to find water and bread for his family. We meet a young girl who has saved her school book and climbs over the rubble to the makeshift grave of her teacher to sit and read. Artists pursue their art; musicians entertain the children; Jad loses the love of his life Natalie to Israeli violence. In many films, the seashore – where tRump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner apparently wants to build a resort – provides a bittersweet horizon in a land otherwise bereft of comforting views.

The Palestinians themselves, whose voices have not been given a mainstream platform even in the midst of a digitally streamed genocide, convey their experiences with an engrossing range of emotion and artistry. Together, the 22 films make for a seamless cry to go home, albeit a home that has been pulverized.

Masharawi’s anthology presents an array of filmmakers. Middle East Eye tells us: “A notable proportion of the films feature female leads and seven were directed by women. “For me, showing seven women making films in this situation under bombing was very important,” says Mashawari, “because in society, women are more active than men - not just in cinema, in reality!

“They protect the family, they take care of food, they’re making fires all the time. They are saving the lives of the family. They are strong, powerful. I know this myself because I was in Gaza during many wars, many intifadas… So women's stories were important for me.”

In a land where more than half the people are under 20 and nearly 40,000(!) kids have been orphaned, children are naturally central figures in many of these films. One child shows us his arm as he says, “Our mother wrote our names on our limbs so that we can be identified after the bombs come.”

Make no mistake. While the films teach us a hell-of-a-lot about the actual lives of actual Gazans under this heinous siege, we also learn the depth of their love of art, music, the sea, and the people around them. They are now not sure what dreams to dream – but then, neither are we.

I 100% recommend you see this evocative compilation film.

Here is the trailer:

Don’t Buy That! Buy This Instead!

Buying gifts? Take it from me, as someone who had to move at age 77 (because of a highly unreliable elevator), “stuff” is your enemy. Your people do not want more things, even if they don’t yet know it. Don’t give anything that will have to be packed and moved. Get things that disappear.

First, let’s get this out of the way. If the recipient is an adult who is having trouble meeting their basic expenses, don’t give them money for a holiday/birthday gift. If you are in a position to do so, give them money when they need it because they need it. Save special days for treats.

My top gift suggestions are:

• Donation to their favorite cause, such as Doctors Without Borders or the ACLU
• Food treats – from chocolate to a restaurant gift card to baking their favorite pie
• Body treats like massage or time at a spa or dance lessons
• Homelife relief: an evening of babysitting or help painting a room or a year’s subscription to Brit Box / Netflix / Audible / Babbel
• Travel vouchers like a pre-paid subway card or an open round-trip train ride to a destination they love or a plane ticket to visit you
• Socks (they disappear)
• A favor

My top recommendation is a favor. I had a friend who was also a neighbor and we exchanged favors as our gifts on all occasions. What is the value of a favor? The fruit and vegetables in her fridge had sat so long that they turned into liquid. Every time she opened the fridge, she was revulsed. She used a favor to ask me to clean it out. In return, I needed an author photo and she was an excellent amateur photographer.

What a favor is not: Don’t ask someone for a freebie in the area of their work. Don’t ask a dentist for a free implant; a lawyer to sue your errant landlord; or a martial arts instructor to beat up your ex.

What not to get: widgets, gadgets, knick-knacks, doohickies, gizmos, baubles, tchotchkes, or trinkets. Not unless they’re really, really cool.

What I am grateful for...

Abby Glazer Robinson has died

Abby Glazer Robinson, my college roommate at Boston University in 1965-66, has died. Abby and I were assigned to a shared room; we figured it was because we were both Jewish. We were each 17 years old – and this year I turned 77 and Abby didn’t quite make it. Although we were always very different, we bonded right away, and she really saved my sanity.

She was a bit more worldly than me and much more cut-and-dry. I was coming off several traumatic months after having been caught as high-school seniors with my girl lover of two years. Those were the days of dire consequences for queers.

In Boston, my mental health was threatened by my attempt to become heterosexual, while adapting to a college full of wealthy students 1,000 miles away from my hometown, and compounded by my taking the brand new and dangerous birth control pills (which were illegal and I got by slipping a $5 bill through a window). The pills then had such high doses of hormones that the side effects were drastic. Today’s pills have a tiny fraction of that amount. Abby bore the brunt of the side effects, not the least my frequent tears. With her warmly brusque manner, she would settle me down.

Abby gave me the first cup of coffee I remember tasting, having grown up in a tea-drinking household and having just drunk pop out in the world. She would brew it in the room and feed it to me, promising that it would calm me, and because of the power of her conviction, it did.

The opening chapter in my (as yet unpublished) memoir tells how Abby and I navigated the Orientation Week which, unbeknownst to us, attracted predatory grown-up men who cruised the freshwomen. We started going out with a pair of non-student friends – Louis and Everett – and although I lost my hetero virginity to Louis (wearing a nightgown Abby lent me since I only ever wore my dad’s cast-off pjs), Abby kept Everett at bay. This photo is of that night: We were out at the famous Blinstrubs nightclub, seeing The Supremes in person. The photographer insisted Abby sit on Everett’s lap in order to get all four of us in the shot.

Abby transferred to another college and ended up with a brilliant career as a photographer and professor, as outlined in this obit. When I moved abroad in the ‘70s, we lost touch but she remembered my father’s name and that my parents lived in Pittsburgh, and she found me again in the ‘80s. We have stayed connected since then. When I was living in London in the ‘90s and traveling for work, it happened that she was going to be in Seoul, Korea on the day that I was landing there for business. Just a couple of hours after I arrived, I found myself meeting her in a Korean market and being dragged, jet-lagged and exhausted, for a wonderful mini-tour of that odd town.

She had a violent heartbreak after being betrayed in a ghastly way by a man she thought she’d spend her life with, and that experience changed her. It brought a bitterness into her otherwise straight-forward view of the world. It was the only time that I really worried about her.

I generally stayed in her amazing Tribeca apartment on the rare occasions that I visited NYC, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the entryway. In the last few years, after her best friend and life companion, Barry, moved into the apartment below her, she gave me her bed if he happened to be away and she slept downstairs. The last time we were together, we went to the opening of the photo exhibit of my friend Donna Gottschalk. 

Abby’s work was eclectic. She did a lifelong series of fearless and fanciful self-portraits, she did copious street shots in Asia, and she did complex projects, including a fake medical office, which she explains in this clip.

Abby wasn’t one to chit-chat weekly on the phone. Although she traveled the world, she didn’t want to come to Boston and I rarely went to NYC. When I did, we would talk for hours. But she never ever missed my birthday. We always talked on the phone in October for mine and in November for hers. This year I didn’t hear from her on my birthday, but I put it down to the fact that I had just moved and wasn’t getting all my communications. But I sent a card and left a voicemail, and through that Barry was able to track me down to let me know that Abby had died in July! I am grateful to Barry and her sister Joyce for looking after Abby to to the end. It is hard to get my head around the truth that this woman who has been part of my life for 60 years had died four months earlier. And so, in lieu of her comfort and coffee, I write.

Rest in Creativity, Abby.

Toronto Travelogue May 2024

May 23, 2024
Trying to take a vacation in the middle of a Genocide is a challenge. We never thought the assault on Gaza would go on so long when we made these plans. And I felt the tension between having fun and wanting to be fighting for a ceasefire most minutes of most days. But here I am, in Toronto. I haven’t been here since 1966 and wow have things changed. I saw immediately why Toronto brags about being a city of creative skyscrapers. The Uber ride from the airport to our Airbnb confirmed the mind-blowing height and visual individuality of each skyscraper.

But before I move on, I should mention that we flew into the Billy Bishop City Airport – a five-minute drive to downtown – which can only accommodate propeller planes. Unfortunately, we were seated in Row 6, directly next to the propellers and they are loud mutherfuckers! So all my plans of listening to my audiobook were chopped up by the rowdy blades. It made for some cool video clips though.

Our Airbnb was a nice place, but only the décor could be called sterile: unfortunately they hadn’t changed the sheets, dusted the crumbs off the toaster, or dusted anything else for that matter. So we had to. For those who know me personally, you will understand that I celebrated having, just a block away, both a dollar store and a hippy but humongous grocery store, Farm Boy. And in the other direction, a cannabis dispensary.

I had hoped to make it to the University of Toronto Gaza encampment that first night, but was too wiped out by the travel. Instead, we went food shopping and laid out the exorbitant amount of $80 at Farm Boy for dinner makings and some fruit and this & that. It’s not a cheap city – although the exchange rate quite favors the US currency. And, apparently, the housing prices are on a par with the US East Coast.

Back in Boston, this day was the Harvard Commencement and I missed supporting the over 1,000 people who walked out over Genocide and over the viciously punitive approach Harvard has taken to the protesters, even depriving over a dozen students of their diploma. My comrades of Arlington4Palestine were there in force, bless ‘em.

May 24, 2024
Toronto used to call itself a checkerboard (as opposed to a melting pot) but now it uses the term “mosaic” and everyone justifiably brags about it being the most multicultural city in the world. Over half its folks were born outside of Canada. And in that sense, it is a very comfortable place to be. With 6.7 million people, Greater Toronto is by far the largest city in Canada and fastest growing city in N. America, and often compares itself (favorably) to NYC. As it sits on the western end of Lake Ontario (one of the deepest and the smallest by surface area of the Great Lakes), it has been the home of indigenous peoples for 10,000 years, and only became the City of Toronto in 1834.

It is proud of its skyscrapers, each one of which is unique. I must say that many are gorgeous, but in the parts of the city we’ve seen, there are almost no regular houses left. Everything is either high-rise condos (with balconies) or high-rise office buildings (without balconies). Turns out that the Ontario Heritage Act restricts the destruction of designated building fronts. You can tear down a designated old building if you keep the façade, so there are all these odd combo structures where 70-story towers shoot out of stone church fronts.

As of January 2023, Toronto has constructed 81 skyscrapers – many with 50+ or 60+ floors and a number with 70+ – and has a further 36 under construction. Toronto also has 92 skyscrapers that are either approved or in the proposal stage.

May 24, 2024
On the advice of various travel YouTubers I watched, we decided to do the On/Off double-deck tour bus the first day in order to get an overview of the city. It was not that illuminating. If you had a decent guide on the bus (as we did) and you got off, when you caught another bus, you might have a kid trying it out on his first run (as we did).

Kensington Market was fun, not the least because I found a great bakery called Sleepy Pete’s and bought a delish biscuit. For lunch we actually tried the Peameal Bacon sandwich, a Toronto specialty – which I didn’t find particularly special other than it was a treat to have some bacon after years of deprivation.

The Kensington area was first settled by British workers and then Jewish immigrants. They opened stores on the ground floor, setting tables out on the sidewalk with their goods. But is now the hip “bohemian” area. For example, all the telephone poles had leaflets posted for someone offering “Anarchist Piano Lessons” and another leaflet from a queer & trans BIPOC group called Bottoms Only! presenting their “Summer Solstice Rave.” As for shopping, it is a vintage clothing heaven for those not old enough to remember with strong distaste everything 50s. I bought nothing but the biscuit. But admired the Gaza graffiti we saw in a number of places there.

We got back on the bus until the CN Tower – probably the #1 Toronto tourist magnet. Built in 1976, it is “the tallest free-standing structure on land in the Western Hemisphere.” I do not recommend it at all. It does a poor job when compared to the observation tower in Vancouver, which not only had a downloadable guide, but displayed plaques all around the circle of windows telling you what you were seeing and some interesting facts about the buildings. The CN Tower had zilch. Not one sign or sentence.

But that wasn’t the worst part. It was unspeakably crowded and one’s whole experience consists of standing for 20 or 30 minutes in a line only to pass through a couple of doors in order to spend 20 or 30 minutes waiting in the next line, leading only to line after line after line. You were trapped and it was torture. And the tickets were so expensive that one wondered how so many people could afford it. Truly, the glass-front elevators up & down were the most fun part, even though you were jammed in with other exasperated people.

Because of the never-ending winding lines, I was forced to walk more steps than I probably walked in the last 20 years, only to return to the Airbnb to ice my complaining knee and my feet. Sigh.

May 25, 2024
Our first stop was the Bata Shoe Museum, which my friend, Charles Coe, had once recommended with an enthusiasm that I remembered a decade later. We discovered that it is “Doors Open” weekend, in which lots of places are open to the public for free – often buildings that are otherwise closed to folks. So we got in free to see everything from prehistoric shoes that looked like a bird’s nest sitting inside a leather envelope to the first Pride sneakers. The collection is extraordinary but the commentary on the plagues is oddly neutral – with no critique of the practice of foot-binding, for example, just a show of the disconcerting shoes the women’s feet were tortured into.

We went on down the street to the First Peoples Gallery at the Royal Ontario Museum. This is a remarkable and illuminating collection, not to be missed in Toronto. I learned so much, not the least the roles native women played. The crafts, too, were amazing, not the least the display of moccasins down the ages. However, the most stunning object was a huge carved wood bear, which served inside the home as a foundational pillar. It was a picture just waiting to be taken.

As we left, we passed one of the entrances to the University of Toronto and I asked some students about the location of the encampment, but once again it was too far for my suffering feet and shrieking knee.

We googled and found a restaurant which turned out to be one of a chain of three. I limped all the way. The food was forgettable but the service was delightful. To get home, we had our first ride on the subway – and got in free because of the sweet woman employee whom I stopped for a quick tutorial. It is clean, on time, and the cars are wide. It was rush hour but not crowded, but there are only two subway lines.

The high point of my evening was discovering online that the Ontario Federation of Labour told the University of Toronto administration that if they want to bust up the student encampment, they’d have to go through the workers. I posted it to my group back home.

May 26, 2024
We took a streetcar down to the harbor area to pay an extra $10 for a boat ride, part of the On/Off Bus service. However, the address they provided was inaccurate and once again we were pounding the pavement and abusing my body. Suddenly the fog rolled in so thickly that we could not see any building around us, even the CN Tower, which just moments before had been looming over us. The ferry guys told us to wait an hour. One hour later the fog lifted and we had a relaxing, interesting ride that included views of the distinctive skyline and a winding tour of the islands of Toronto.

Close by was The Power Plant Contemporary Art Gallery so we walked there – more walking! Of the two exhibits, my mind was blown by the work of June Clark – Harlem-born but Toronto-based. Her exhibit “Witness” displayed installations and assemblages that combined photo and fabric to explore personal identity and artistic lineages. My feet and knee were shot by then, so we headed back.

May 27, 2024
On my last day, I reunited with a London friend who lives now in Toronto. We haven't seen each other for a quarter of a century, but just picked up where we left off as we settled into her local café, a 30-minute Uber ride away. Gillian Rodgerson has a long and impressive history in the publishing/editing field. It was great to get out of the downtown / entertainment high-rise district, and into one of the many actual neighborhoods of Toronto with homes and yards and stores. I learned a lot about this city - the kind of things you can only glean from a local. Altogether a lovely morning - not to mention the delish croissant. After the gruesome news from this weekend's fiery massacres in Gaza, this was a welcome break

My final treat was a super-tasty (but devastating digestive-wise) take-out dinner from Momo Loco and ice for my knee.

"I Am Not Sidney Poitier" – book review in 150 words

"I Am Not Sidney Poitier" is written by Percival Everett, author of the novel "Erasure" on which the film "American Fiction" is based. Like “American Fiction,” this novel is less the intersection and more the crash site of Everett’s themes of race, confusion, double-takes, and the impossibility of communication. The protagonist is named Not-Sidney Poitier, despite looking convincingly like the actor. He inherits a ton of money which has no meaning for him, is overseen by Ted Turner after being orphaned, and studies under a professor who rightly teaches Nonsense. A bit of the supernatural and unwanted blow jobs are tossed in to further cloud personal (dis)connections. A trip to the South where Poitier is arrested twice, for being Black and clueless, ensures further discombobulation – in a tornado. The narrative is simultaneously dire and witty. Everett keeps a cool distance from the shenanigans of his protagonists, but we sure don’t.

My Tiny Reviews of ½ Dozen of the Oscar-nominated Best Films

American Fiction: It’s smart. It’s funny. It’s about a writer and the contortions writers suffer in order to get attention in this broken publishing world. Jeffrey Wright does a great, almost understated job as Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, who whips up a “blaxsploitation” novel in place of his usual literary fiction. Instead of making a point as he intended, he makes a gazillion dollars when the “fake” book strikes gold. I relished this film on multiple levels.

Anatomy of a Fall: As my viewing partner said, “French films haven’t changed much over the decades, have they?” I fell asleep after an hour.

Barbie: See it on the big screen, although it’s probably too late to see it with a theatre full of ecstatic tweens, as I did. I had a great time watching it. Director Greta Gerwig has been robbed of nominations as Best Director by most of the awards shows (I watch them all), considering the amazing and complex job she did.

The Holdovers: Curmudgeonly towards people but sentimental about the elite prep school where he attended and has taught most of his life, Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti) gets stuck “babysitting” the one student who has nowhere to go over Christmas. The third person staying there, the cook Mary Lamb, is played by Da'Vine Joy Randolph, who has rightfully been scarfing up the award wins for a fantastic performance which is full of attitude and emotion. The movie is not unpleasant, but quite predictable as it proceeds to humanize the friendless teacher.

Maestro: Although I’m generally not a fan, I thought Bradley Cooper gave a powerful performance which kept me engaged from start to finish. I join those who felt it was a shame that the gay side of his life was underplayed in the film. Yes, he had the kind of purely sexual experiences included as rather grubby betrayals, but we are given insufficient mention of his long-time lover, who was a key part of his life. Nonetheless, I really enjoyed this one.

Oppenheimer: I do apologize but I could only do one hour of this loooong film, even though I paid $5.99 to stream it. There is only so much I can take of self-important white men going all profound on me. If it starts to stream for free before the Oscars night, I’ll try again – but only out of a sense of duty since it has been winning winning winning.

Rustin: Although it was not nominated for Best Picture, I am including “Rustin” for it was my favorite film this year. I could not believe it was dissed. However, Colman Domingo has rightfully been nominated for Best Actor as he gave us a mesmeric performance of Bayard Rustin, the legendary organizer of MLK’s March on Washington and a galvanizer in the Civil Rights Movement. Colman is apparently only the second gay man playing a gay man to receive a nomination. Rustin was mistreated and excluded by the more conservative leaders of the movement, but eventually gained his rightful place next to MLK, and pulled off the amazing gathering we celebrate annually.

"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