Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Wordsmith and Rebel

Both my novel Lillian in Love and my collection Lillian's Last Affair and other stories are now available on CreateSpace and Amazon.

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.

 

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.

Buy Lillian's Last Affair and other stories in paperback on Amazon and in ebook form on Amazon and Smashwords.

 

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On Facebook? 'Friend' me at Facebook.com/sue.katz. 

Rear-Ended by an Entitled Driver – Again

I was just a few blocks from my home last night, stopped at a red light, when I was rear-ended. (I'm okay so far.) It had happened to me once before, a dozen years ago, with dire consequences: wretched whiplash problems that keep me in the permanent care of a chiropractor. Then it was a privileged young man driving his father’s huge Volvo station wagon. He told me: “I didn’t notice you.” I drive a Toyota Corolla, not a miniature toy. I spent many months in physical therapy trying to reclaim some measure of health and many, many years in litigation trying to reclaim justice.

The 24-year-old women who hit me last night jumped out of her car immediately. First, she looked closely at the bumper of her own car. Then she glanced at the bumper of mine. Then she climbed back into her own driver’s seat and seemed to be waiting for me to get on with my drive. I put on my hazard lights and slowly drove over next to the curb. She understood that she was to do the same.

I got out of my car and in a minute or so she got out of hers, puzzled as to my problem. “Human beings first, property second,” I said to her, ire in my voice. Still she was clueless. “You rear-ended me,” I stated the obvious.

“But I didn’t have any damage to my car so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Why did you hit me?”

“I guess I may not have pressed my brakes as hard as I thought.”

“Give me your paperwork, please,” I said.

“What paperwork?”

I took a photo of her license plate, which seemed to scare her. I asked and received her driver’s license and she only had a photo of her insurance on her phone, and I photographed that. I asked for her email address as well. At this point she realized that there could be consequences, a concept with which she seemed to have only the slightest familiarity.

“I never rear-ended anyone before,” she said, as if that settled the matter. I did not respond that in 55 years of driving, I have never rear-ended anyone – or hit another car at all, although I have been hit numerous times.

Only as I was returning to my car did she finally say, “Oh, I’m sorry.” It took her 10 or 15 minutes for that insincere coin to drop.

Later, talking to my friend Barry, I still could not understand her behavior. “It could have been her parents’ car,” he suggested, “and all she was thinking about was getting in trouble at home.”

There are a lot of issues here –about her training as a driver, about her abysmal lack of concern for me, about her ignorance of procedure after an accident. Perhaps there is a singular explanation: It seems her sense of entitlement places her at the shielded center of the universe.

Film Review (brief) Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Well god-damn: Melissa McCarthy’s acting chops are something to behold in Can You Ever Forgive Me? For writers and readers, this film will charm the pants off of you. Based on the memoir of Lee Israel, a biographer of celebrities, we meet the exasperated agent (played by Jane Curtin, once of SNL fame), the publishing world that thrives on showy white men, and Lee’s one human friend, Jack Hock (Richard E. Grant at his best), an aging gay man who joins her in her desperation. Add two facts: one, she is a lesbian whose ex (played by Anna Deavere Smith of West Wing, The Practice, and Nurse Jackie fame) is sick and tired of her bullshit, and two, her best friend is the obligatory ill cat. Lee turns to crime and booze when her literary career is as moribund as the job she is fired from when she tells her boss to fuck off. Follow her life of forgery and fall in love.

The trailer:

Women of Hollywood: Cut it out!

The women of Hollywood are all about Times Up! and Me Too! and let’s have 50% of all crews be women and all that. Welcome to my world (one we feminists have inhabited since the late '60s).

However, as long they are wearing shoes that cripple them and dresses that don’t fit into limousines and need men to help them up a god-damned half flight of stairs to the awards stage, then something just doesn’t ring true. We know they are walking advertisements for diamond dealers and couture designers and plastic surgeons. But if you’re going to talk about justice, even if you’re only talking about equality and parity (modest goals), then wear stuff that allows you to get from A to B on your own.

I remember when the women’s movement was at its height, there were many stars who turned up in pant suits and jump suits and were actually able to ambulate. Even if the garb is silly and over-the-top like Streisand’s outfit at left, at least she can walk on her own. Cut the crap with all this foot binding and body squeezing and humongous skirts. Otherwise, we don’t believe for a second that you will walk your talk.

Very brief reviews: The Favourite, Bohemian Rhapsody, Roma

The Favourite

A parody period piece in which two women court attendants (Emma Stone & Rachel Weisz) vie for the sexual and political favor of Queen Anne (Olivia Colman). Lots of giggles. Lots of girl-on-girl rumpy pumpy, but a very bewildering ending.

 

Bohemian Rhapsody

Those who didn’t know Freddy Mercury and the music of Queen may find this illuminating. I totally “get” the criticisms of the gay press on how nastily the gay male party days are portrayed. I couldn’t stand the teeth prosthesis they used; Rami Malek seemed so slight, unlike Freddy. The only part that moved me was the Live Aid concert at the end – very powerful.

 

Roma

A slow-moving, intriguing film that gives insight –on the visual and narrative levels – into Mexican life of both the bourgeois and the poor. The lives of women of different classes intersect in this Black & White nominee for Best Foreign Film. Gorgeous cinematography and strong acting.

When a homeless person asks you for money...

I recently read an article about giving “directly and unconditionally to homeless people” in the UK – something I did when I was living in England and something I do now. For those who aren’t clear about how to respond to folks asking you for money on the streets, here is my take on the matter – including how to decide to whom to give.

Why are people homeless? Here are some theoretical examples:

Lindsay’s husband drained their joint bank accounts before leaving her and their infant twins. She could not pay the rent, so she and the children have become homeless, basically living in her unreliable car.

Timmy’s father threw him out of the house and disowned him when he found out that Timmy is gay. Without any resources, Timmy lives on the streets in a tent he shares with several other lads in a similar situation.

Maryellen only had catastrophic health insurance when she developed early onset Parkinson’s disease and her medical costs drained every cent of her savings after she could no longer work as a waitress. After crashing at one friend’s apartment after another, she has exhausted her list.

At 79, Aliya received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder but as English is her second language, she has been unable to navigate the complexities of Medicare. Without prescription coverage, she is unable to get her meds. Sometimes she gets taken into a hospital for a few days but doesn’t get ongoing care and lands back on the streets.

How I give money

When I got to London to live, at the start of the 1990s, I was blown away by the number of homeless people on the street. My work was in King’s Cross, at that time the center of drugs, homelessness, and petty crime. Every day, from the minute I got out of the subway car, I was being asked for money by people who needed it. I had to figure out how to manage the situation, how to balance my limited ability to give vs the huge need.

My friends were divided between those who said they did not give to individuals, but rather to non-profits serving homeless people, and those who did offer people money on the assumption that organized help was not reaching them.

My feeling is that people who are standing around in the cold (or heat) begging you for money are not on a lark and they are not stupid. They have run into the endless roadblocks to government or charity assistance and may simply not qualify. Homeless shelters are notorious for theft and assault and are often only open certain hours of the day. Services have been cut back and are difficult to access.

I made the decision in London – and apply it here now that I’m living in the States – to decide on a certain amount of money per day that I could part with. I was working a steady job in London and so I put aside £5 per day to give away. I got a ton of £1 coins and each morning would load 5 of them into my coat pocket.

I also decided to prioritize women and people of color, on the assumption that other givers might well overlook them. When my £5 was gone I would just smile, say hello, and say sorry to others who asked.

Here in the States, I am less frequently walking around, but people ask me for money while I’m in my car, stopped at red lights. I keep a bunch of dollar bills in my car to give to those who ask. I do not see very many other drivers doing the same, and almost never someone in a luxury vehicle.

My final word: Don’t be judgmental. Don’t be rude. Don’t make assumptions. If you’ve got a lot more than someone else who is asking the world for a dollar, just give it to them. Once given, it’s their money and not your concern about whether they’re going to buy a drink or milk for their kid. Naturally we want to make revolutionary changes in this country so that the majority of people are not impoverished while a few are unspeakably wealthy, so that people’s basic needs are met by the State when necessary, so that there is affordable housing. But until we succeed in achieving that, reach into your pocket if you are able.

Invisible Nation

I learned a great deal about homelessness, particularly among women and children, from this brilliant book by the author Richard Schweid. If your library does not have it, insist they order it right away – and they will. As one of the most captivating, skilled non-fiction writers in America, Schweid opened my eyes to the unseen impacts – especially on children – of this scourge of homelessness.

https://www.ucpress.edu/book/9780520292673/invisible-nation

Jake Katz: May, 1927 - November 2018

My Uncle Jake (Jacob) Katz has died. He is the last family elder of my parents’ generation. My dad, Saul, was always so proud of his "kid brother," who was born in 1927, exactly 10 years after my dad. My uncle was able, with support from the GI Bill and his older brothers, to go to college where he studied engineering and invented one of the first devices to improve the industrial environment by cleaning the emissions from the smoke stacks of the steel mills. (I think I have that right.)

Before he was born, the family looked quite different. My grandfather, a deaf immigrant cobbler,  was married to his first wife and together they had three sons named Harry, Ken, and Saul. When my dad, Saul, was a toddler, his mother bore twins, who quickly succumbed to the influenza pandemic. His mother died right after them. My widowed grandfather needed a second wife and so within a couple of years he married a newly arrived immigrant from the Ukraine, who embraced the older sons in varying degrees and gave birth to Jake.

Jake was a star in high school (Photo: high school newspaper about Jake) before he served in the Navy, got his degree, and began traveling for his work on electrostatic precipitators during the early 50s. While in New York, he met his future wife, Estelle, at a dance and brought her home. They were an outstandingly handsome couple. I remember the moment this show-stopping beauty showed me her diamond engagement ring and I asked breathlessly, “Is it real?”

A wonderful neighbor named Bess down the street made me the first new dress I ever remember owning (I always wore hand-me-downs), so that I could be a fancy flower girl at their wedding. It had a velvet ribbon that tied around my waist – quite the luxurious touch, I felt. The wedding was all the way in NYC, which explained the exotic accents we heard from Estelle and her family.

Jake was one of the few members of my family, along with my father Saul, who wasn’t outright homophobic towards me when I came out. He was a philosophical guy, generally reluctant to talk about anything resembling politics. He wrote a book about smart investing after his early retirement and encouraged me to follow his suggestions when he gifted me his volume.

He was the reigning prince of puns and I’m not sure anyone else will be able to scale those heights. Jake was one of the few relatives who always stayed in touch with me, and whenever I’ve been in Pittsburgh, I’ve never missed lunch with him in Squirrel Hill. In between those infrequent trips, we’ve talked on the phone, at least a couple of times a year, and always with mutual affection. (Photo: From left Jake, Saul, Ken)

It is sobering to lose the WWII generation. It is sobering to now be amongst the elders of my family. It is sad to have lost Uncle Jake.

Film Review: The Hate U Give

When I saw charming, smart Amandla Stenberg interviewed on a talk show, I knew I wanted to see her moving, powerful film, The Hate U Give. Stenberg plays Starr Carter, a teenager who lives a life of code-switching. Home is an impoverished Black community suffering the violence of the police and the violence of the drug dealers. School is in a posh white neighborhood where, to counteract her isolation, she must adapt her speech, behavior, and most of all her reactions.

Her lifelong friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is murdered by a white cop for no reason at all during a traffic stop, and she is the only witness. One male authority figure after another – her powerful, devoted, ex-prisoner father (Russell Hornsby); her loving uncle, a cop (Common); the local drug lord – tells her what to do about testifying or not at the upcoming grand jury. The advice from the two adult women – her mother (Regina Hall) and the community organizer (Issa Rae) – is given less emotional weight, although in the end, it is the community activist who most impacts Starr’s direction.

The cast is simply sterling – one fabulous performance after another. The action and the emotional punches are non-stop. I cried many times. Apparently meant as a Young Adult film, I recommend it to everyone.

This is the trailer:

Remembering Doreen Gordon who has died at 93

My friend Doreen Gordon is dead at 93. I met her when she signed up for my senior fitness classes at the Brookline Senior Center and she rapidly became the keystone to our community. Not only did she find ways to connect otherwise isolated seniors with each other, she inspired the personality of Lillian, the protagonist in my short story in the collection Lillian’s Last Affair. Well, in one sense. The old-woman-talking-like-a-sailor sense. More about that below. (From left: Doreen, Yolanda, me)

Doreen came from quite a posh South African background, lived a cultured life in New York with her late husband and two incredible daughters Jenny and Amy, and then moved to Boston to be close to one daughter and granddaughter after she recovered from being hit by a damned bus. Doreen was such a petite and put-together woman that between herself and the bus, it was not a fair fight.

To build connection among my students, Doreen began hosting high teas in her fabulous apartment, taking us group by group. Her closest friend from the class, Yolanda, often attended all the groups. We’d have finger sandwiches with salmon and the most luxurious selection of pastries known to human taste buds. I was often tempted to steal the leftovers – friendship be damned – but in fact she often made me up a care package with my favorites: the mini-scones and the crispy almond cookies. (Tea Party: Doreen third from right, laughing)

She used her baking skills to bring joy to every occasion we could find to celebrate, refusing to take money for the ingredients. She picked out the movies for us to see on senior discount matinee day. She told me privately when I was being too hard on someone in the class, or too soft. Doreen and I had what amounted to a secret consultation phone relationship behind the scene of our group. We talked about everyone and everything. She hooked me up with her daughter Jenny when I went to New Orleans for the first time, and Jenny pointed me to all the right places. Doreen invited me a few times to join her to watch the Boston Marathon on the sidewalk in front of her daughter Amy’s house, which is on the route. Amy would have oranges to peel so that we could hold sections in the flat of our hands for the runners to grab. It was on the way home from one such afternoon that my train was stopped at Kenmore Square and we all had to get off and run upstairs. The Marathon bombs had just gone off at the next stop. (Marathon day: Doreen and Amy in center)

But I digress. How did she inspire the character of Lillian? One day in the run-up to the 2008 election, we went to Trader Joe’s together (something we did a number of times). As we crossed the main intersection of Brookline at Beacon and Harvard, there was a man holding a huge sign, a large poster of Barak Obama with a Hitler mustache. Doreen walked right up to him, looked up to his face a good foot or so above her, and hissed, “Fuck You!”

I’m sure this man had already put up with plenty of abuse in that spot in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood, but he never anticipated such a curse from this tiny lovely white-haired woman. Later she told me that she had spent her whole life being prim and proper, but at this point she no longer felt the need to restrain herself. And with that sentence, the character of Lillian was born in my imagination, a woman who perfected swearing late in life.

Life is full of losses as we age, and this is a biggie. I’m only sorry that Doreen, with her love of humans and music and art and travel and good food, had to spend her final period under the regime of tRump. Many in the community which she built among my students pre-deceased her, but next Saturday I will be able to connect with dear Yolanda, with Doreen’s precious family, and with those of us who are lucky to still be around to mourn her.

Gina Ogden: August 9, 1935 – November 2, 2018

My friend Gina Ogden has died at age 83 of stage IV lung cancer at home surrounded by her long-time lover Jo Chaffee, her daughter Cathy and son Philip, and her close friend and nurse Tina, who came from Sweden to care for her.

After her diagnosis in January, Gina consulted a variety of medical and healing folks and decided to forgo traditional Western treatment, so that she would live out the time she had left as joyfully as always. She used complimentary medicine to build herself up for this last period and palliative care to get her through it. We went swimming this summer at Walden Pond. We met for our traditional bi-weekly teas at the Porter Square Independent Bookstore. She gifted me her most sparkling shirt so I’d have a new outfit to wear to the holiday party we always went to together.

Gina and I were writing buddies: she did close readings of my manuscripts and I did the same for her. We met through a mutual friend, a very successful writer, the late Sarah Wernick. We were all in a writers’ union together, although I did not then know Gina. Sarah and I had an additional connection: she was a student in my senior fitness group. Sarah offered to help me with my proposal for a non-fiction book in exchange for my working privately with her husband, who had Parkinson’s Disease. Even after he no longer wanted to train, Sarah continued to mentor my proposal, right through her diagnosis and treatment for cancer. When she became too ill, she asked Gina to take on me and my proposal for the last round. Gina read the entire proposal and sample chapters that very night – she was a super-fast reader – and we immediately began a tradition of mutual support.

Although we both wrote about sex, our approaches were as different as our personalities – but somehow it all worked brilliantly for us. Once we finished getting out her last book, just weeks before her death, she told me that she had said all she had to say and was ready to go. 

Gina was an award-winning pioneer in the field of sexology and a tireless advocate for everyone’s right to sexual well-being. For her 1994 (blockbuster) book Women Who Love Sex, she conducted qualitative instead of quantitative research. What that means is that instead of asking, as male sexologists always had, How many orgasms did you have? Gina asked, What gives you the most pleasure? Even Oprah Winfrey was curious about Gina’s groundbreaking work and hosted her on her show.

Gina went on to publish 13 books and countless articles, and to create a unique therapeutic system called the 4-Dimensional Wheel. She built a large international community that supports its teaching and growth, the 4-D Network (www.4-DNetwork.com).

As soon as she died, her closest people performed a ritual that Gina had arranged with them in detail, and then several others of us were invited to come break bread, listen to the gentle drumming of her drumming circle, and look at her body. She was wrapped in the expensive linen sheets she and Jo had splurged on decades ago, only to discover that they weren’t comfortable. Jo pulled them out of storage for the occasion and the linen wrapping was closed with several of Gina’s favorite scarves. This was the first time I was ever in the same room as a dead friend, chatting with others who loved her, and it seemed just right.

To learn more about Gina and her work, visit her website here: www.GinaOgden.com

2 Film Reviews in 100 words: A Star is Born & Tea with the Dames

I pretty much hated “A Star is Born,” although I agree that the acting was strong, not the least Lady Gaga. I could not stand the privileged, condescending, petulant dickhead that Bradley Cooper played. His surprise introduction of her to his audience was aggressive if not abusive. His role in life was to disrupt her upward career trajectory (as his fell) with drunken sloppiness, public scenes, and excessive pouting. Kinda reminded me of Kavanaugh. Meanwhile, she enabled, excused, and absorbed his bad behavior. Mostly I wanted him to take a shower, scrub his sweaty face, and wash his slimy hair.

(Scroll down for the next review)

The trailer:

 

The fundamental flaw in “Tea with the Dames” was that it was directed by a man, Roger Michell. He raised the (wrong) questions and topics. This documentary shows four of Britain’s most delectable old actors – Dames Eileen Atkins, Judi Dench, Joan Plowright, and Maggie Smith – in conversation over cups of tea, apparently shot in a single exhausting day. Michell never asked what it was like to try to find meaty roles for women over the decades, nor did he ask about harassment or pay discrimination. Rather, he was most interested in their relationships with their (often famous) husbands. Missed opportunity.

The trailer:

 

Brief Film Review: Gilda

Short summary: “Gilda” is strangely lacking any emotional impact – I got neither big laughs nor tears. So much was missing (some important voices, an engaging narrative arc) – but most of all her work was missing (except very short snippets out of context.)

I remember the first year of Saturday Night Live. Endearing Gilda Radner had been the very first staff member hired for the show – and for me and many other fans she was at the heart of show, even as she was fighting writer-room sexism to get herself into the skits. She was a total riot!

I remember watching as she got thinner and thinner, although we didn’t know the words for bulimia and anorexia at the time.

I remember when she got cancer, when she came back in remission, and when she got ill again.

I remember when she died. It was shocking. It was painful.

You’ll find very little of the magic of Gilda in this documentary. It’s stitched together in jerky bits and pieces, with many of the talking heads being current SNL comedians who never worked with her or even knew her. I appreciated the childhood photos and commentary – that part of her life was new to me. Unfortunately the tone of the film is distant, dispassionate, more like a resume than the gushy love letter Gilda deserves.

Trailer

Brief Book Review: A Whole Life by Robert Seethaler

A Whole Life is not at all the type of book I usually read – I’m a 19^th Century literature freak. Set in the mid-20^th Century, it was written by the Viennese author Robert Seethaler and translated from the German by Charlotte Collins.

Dark, humid, dank, it tells the story of one man’s life as he lives it – mostly alone – in a wooded mountain valley. He is a man both simple and profound. Despite physical disabilities and injuries, he is strong and resolute, always finding ways to support himself, no matter the obstacles.

The language is unpretentious and rich, dripping with hard labor, and yet the narrative succinctly describes a whole life in just 151 pages. With empathy and benevolence, we meet a man who chooses an utterly solitary life, who adapts to each new impediment, and who teaches us how to face an unwelcoming world. The word in my head as I read the book slowly and over a couple of weeks was “Deep.”

Postscript: Thanks to whoever it was who talked about this book on Facebook. I have a running list of books that have randomly been recommended and this was on that list.

Only Two Micro-Aggressions and One Irritation over a Whole Dance Weekend!

 

I think I’m going to start keeping a count of the micro-aggressions I receive at various dance events. Summer Hummer is my “home” event: it is local, it is run by my own dear teachers, and I know many of the other dancers and teachers, so they’re used to me. As the only 70+ out-dyke leader, this event is as “safe” and fantabulous as any I attend all year.

Here’s the count.

1^st Micro-aggression: At my very first workshop this weekend, one woman follower who rotated to me (we change partners every minute or so) flashed me a big, condescending smile and said, “It’s just adorable that you’re trying to lead.” I didn’t respond – didn’t give my usual answer that I’ve been leading partner dance since the late 80s. After we did the exercise, in which she realized that I was an experienced leader, she got completely uncomfortable and the smile was gone. I suspect she was furious that she felt ridiculous in her own eyes.

I would estimate that this same thing, more or less, has happened to me 150+ times in West Coast Swing, but somehow it still drives me mad.

2^nd Micro-aggression: We are lined up in the room off the ballroom waiting for our competition to begin. The followers are in one line; we leaders are in another. There are four more followers than leaders – generally the case. Some stranger man standing behind me pushes me sideways, saying, “Get over there and follow. The numbers aren’t equal.” I brush his hand off me (restraining myself from breaking it) and say, “Why don’t you follow, if it concerns you?” He can’t even comprehend what I am saying, and replies, “I just think you’ll have a better chance that way in the competition.” I’m starting to boil. “How long have you been leading partner dance?” I ask him. He refuses to answer. Just then we are led out on the competition dance floor where I am expected to do my best. Which I don’t.

What can allies do while I’m dealing with these things alone? Ask me to dance. So many dance friends purport to care about me but never ask me to dance. It’s all about the opportunities to dance, no?

Irritation: I have written about this before. Some male leaders experiment on me. They ask me to lead them. These guys do not ask male leaders. Are they repressed homophobes with secret desires to submit on the dance floor? Are they unwilling to publicly expose this desire by dancing with another guy? With me, it’s safe. I’m a woman. Inevitably for me it is like leading a truck with flat tires. They don’t know which hand to give me; they don’t know which foot to step out with; they don’t follow. Sometimes they’ve never followed before. They waste my time. They think I’m there to serve them. Afterwards, they’re just as pleased with themselves as can be: “Hey, I didn’t do half bad!” This happens most nights at least once or twice or thrice when I’m in a venue with strangers.

I shouldn’t have to add this disclaimer, but I will: There are many men who enjoy following and who also follow other leaders – and they are great to dance with. Some of my fave followers are men – because their aim is to improve their following and to enjoy the dance. They’re not acting out a subtext on my dime.

I shouldn’t have to add this disclaimer either, but I will: Summer Hummer was a major blast!

Now I have to ice my knee, soak my feet, and catch up on sleep after dancing until about 3:00am Friday and Saturday nights. I have another dance weekend coming up on Friday, this time in DC and focusing on queer dancers!!!

Film Review: Blindspotting

With just three days left on a year’s probation, after serving time for a felony, Collin (Daveed Diggs) is doing everything he can to follow the rules and make it out of these last days without trouble. However, his best buddy since they were 11, Miles (Rafael Casal), is pretty cavalier about the situation and is raising all sorts of hell. Collin is black; Miles is white. They are both in turmoil over the gentrification of their city Oakland, California.

Trigger alert: There is male-on-male violence, fueled by fear, anger, injustice, and testosterone – although no woman is a target in this film. Made by these two real-life friends and strongly directed by first time director Carlos Lopez Estrada, this film examines with brutal honesty the volatility of the intersection of race and class and masculinity.

The oppressive ever-hovering threat of the police is palpable. The desperation of the women trying to protect their sons is tangible. Patter, slang, and the spoken word weave a verbal tapestry of their pain. And nothing is simple or straight-forward – just like our real lives. The acting is superb. Blindspotting is funny, scary, and humane. It will leave you with a lot to talk about. I very highly recommend it.

The trailer:

 

 

Postmodern Jukebox Disappoints Bigtime

 

First let me declare that I love the Lowell Summer Music Series held outdoors at Boarding House Park, 40 French St. You come early to set up your chairs in a spot where you might be able to see well – the locals are permitted at 7:00am to set down blankets and chairs. Friday there were such torrential rains prior to the performance that when we got there only two hours early, we were able to snag a great location.

I’ve seen some great acts at this Lowell event – notably kd lang. And I was excited about seeing a Postmodern Jukebox concert, having only seen them on YouTube, which is where their founder, Scott Bradlee, made his mark. He’s taken to applying a 1940s styling to songs from many eras. When I think of Postmodern Jukebox I think of standards or songs that will become standards, such as “It’s All About the Bass.”

This concert however, was a major disappointment. The songs were unfamiliar, they had no beat, they all kinda mushed together. There were a series of attractive singers with various vocal tricks – one holds a very long note, another a very high note – but what were they singing? My bestie described them as “flattening down” every song. Not a single solitary song was danceable and I do know danceable. Moreover, outside venues like this always attract those irritating people who crowd the stage, blocking everyone else’s view with their wildly waving hands and the peculiar foot movements they themselves call dancing. The M.C. repeatedly invited people to just get up and dance and – as proof that there was no rhythm or pulse to their music – not a single person stood up.

Postmodern Jukebox has become a homogenous package of various touring groups all dressed up in 40s outfits and singing, well, singing porridge. I’ll just add that the tap dancer included in this cast was fun, but his spins left this audience member wishing he’d come take some West Coast Swing lessons.